Merentha, Year 1252 A.S.
one year after the Forest burned

Gerald stepped out into the night. The core had long set, and out here above the galactic plane, at the very edge of the galaxy, the sky was very nearly empty. Of the three moons, only Casca was visible, a narrow crescent casting next to no illumination on the land. Any actual light for humans to see by came from street lamps, not the sky. It was barely a sliver of light away from True Night. Almost immediately, a cloak of darkness began to wrap itself around him - dark fae clinging to him as to every surface, purple tendrils twining around his legs, his body, slowly seeping into him. He wondered what it would do, now that its malignant power was no longer directly affected by the human mind.

The speculation occupied him while he made his way through Merentha's narrow alleyways, and upwards to the castle. Andrys Tarrant had been buried that day. Gerald had had no claim to a place among the mourners, nor any inclination to place himself among the horde of curious onlookers, yet the man had been his descendant. Surely some acknowledgment was in order. And so a visit to the castle's graveyard late at night it was.

Gerald encountered few people along the way. None of them were afraid of the darkness, though. Gerald wasn't entirely certain whether or not they should be. The powers that came out under such circumstances were intimately familiar to him, of course. The dark fae, once the most dangerous power on the planet, was no longer affected by humanity as it had been, but was still there. What was it, in and of itself? What was it, with only Ernan nature to consider, humans unable to directly affect it?

Soon there were no other people around, and the illumination became sparser. No street lamps guarded the cobbled road up the small hill above the former port. But Gerald needed no artificial lights: the fae itself glowed brightly enough. To his eyes, the castle above shone, showing all the glory of the gothic design he himself had created. True, lightless darkness was alien to an adept; the closest Gerald himself had come to it had been on the sea, far from the shore, out beyond the continental shelf. When day faded into night there and the solar fae was no longer in evidence, any earth fae was too distant below the water to perceive, and on the small ship, even dark fae had not much room.

Once, manifestational response here would have been almost instantaneous for any stronger emotion - any fear would have come true immediately. Now, fear was merely that: an emotion, contained within a human mind.

Of course the fae didn't remain entirely untouched by humans, even now. Knowledge still floated on the currents. Naturally; no such force could course through the world and be unaffected by what it passed. Conversely, surely it must affect them as well. And yet, just in what new way Gerald hadn't been able to determine. Even as an adept, who could See it all, he still could not answer that very basic question: How did the fae touch them now? What was the relation between humanity and Erna's natural forces now?

His thoughts were beginning to turn in circles. Gerald shrugged off the futile speculation and made his way around the old castle wall, circling around until he came to the wrought-iron gates leading into the cemetery. He could no longer Work the lock, but there were other methods. And as it turned out, he did not even need those; the gate swung open silently at his touch. The day's mourners had not locked it behind them.

Gerald walked through the old gravesite with a curious feeling of melancholy; he'd known many of the people buried here. In many cases, he'd been the cause of their death. Now, the last of his descendants had died ... save for the child Narilka carried. If she carried it to term ...

He turned around the northern corner of the mausoleum, and came to a halt. There was a light ahead that was not of the fae. He was not alone.

Before him, Narilka Tarrant was turning away from her husband's gravestone, peering into the darkness from her small circle of lamplight. "Who's there?" she called, her hand clenching around a dagger.

Gerald hesitated. Then, not entirely certain why, he stepped forward. "I apologise, Mes Tarrant. I didn't mean to startle you. The gate was not locked."

She narrowed her eyes. "Mer Silva? What are you doing here?"

He came closer. "I thought to pay my respects. Forgive me; I often walk at night."

Narilka let go of her dagger, looking down at the ground. "Ah. I forgot - the world looks different to an adept. Of course it's not dark to you."

Most people couldn't seem to remember that simple fact. But Narilka had apparently not forgotten what he'd shown her once.

"I didn't expect to find anyone else here at this time," Gerald said, his voice deliberately inflectionless so she might take it as another apology if she chose, or an inquiry if she was inclined. He found himself curious why she was here alone in the dark.

"Too many people," Narilka admitted. "He was ... who he was, and people take an interest; I understand that. But it became ... more about them than him. I wanted to say good-bye in peace."

Gerald nodded slowly. "I will leave you to it."

He made to turn away, but she shook her head and held out a hand. "You came all the way here." The corner of her lip rose into a wry smile. "And my thoughts were entirely too morbid. Feel free to stay."

He would have left if the currents had given him indication, but instead he took the remaining steps into the light of the small lamp sitting on the grass at her feet, and looked at the fresh grave. The stone marker was set loosely at its top; it would have to be placed properly once the grave had set. There were small rocks placed on it in the age-old custom. Rocks, and a silver buckle.

Ah, yes. Narilka was a a silversmith, wasn't she? Or had been, at least.

He gestured toward it. "Bury it," he advised. "The good citizens of Merentha may have respect for the Neocounty, but the lure of silver is strong."

She nodded. "You're right. I'm not thinking straight."

"Your husband is dead," he allowed.

She made no response; merely took the buckle from the stone and regarded it thoughtfully. "I haven't done any silverwork in ... has it really been a year already?" she said eventually, clearly talking to herself. "This was supposed to be a gift ... Why did I never give it to him?"

Narilka went to her knees beside the grave. With her bare hands, she buried it in the fresh earth as he watched. There were no tears on her face, but he knew better than to believe that an indicator of her state of grief. Everyone grieved differently, and if she was not the type to shed visible tears, that was something he understood quite well.

They remained quietly for several minutes; she kneeling on the ground, and he standing, both of them contemplating the dead man. Neither of them spoke.

Standing still like that, it was quite cold. Gerald shivered a little, and thought wistfully of the time when ice and cold were nothing but comfort to him.

On the other hand, he didn't miss the burn of sun or fire at all. Now, when he stood under the sun, the sensation was almost pleasant. And he suspected the almost was merely due to its unfamiliarity. He would become accustomed. He had taken to undeath, after a period of trial and error, with verve; surely life could be no harder.

Eventually Narilka made to rise again, and he held out his hand, helping her up. He wasn't certain why he wasn't bothered by her presence, nor she by his. There was her child, of course, but surely that could not be all on his part. He'd appreciated her quiet strength before, hadn't he?

She turned to him, her expression unreadable. "It's cold. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? You have a long walk down the hill."