Chapter 21
Breaking of the Fellowship Part 1

Oh!

I am exploring...the inside
I find it desolate
I do implore...these confines
Now as they penetrate
"Recreate me"

I'm hovering throughout time
I crumble in these days
I crumble, I cannot – I cannot find
Reflection in these days

If you listen
Listen, listen
Listen close
Beat by beat
You can hear when the heart stops
I saved the pieces
When it broke
And ground them – all – to – dust
-A. F. I.

Mark sighed heavily as he looked at the dying land around him. "You know, I had somewhat imagined that the further south we went, the more sunny and warm it would become. It seems that the opposite is taking place."

Strider looked back at him from the front of the boat, partially smiling. "We haven't gone far enough south, yet. As we travel farther, it'll be more like you described. Farther down, near the Bay of Beradum, it is warmer and would be a happier place, if not for Rowell. Here, we are looking southwest across the north plains of Norr-on. Ere long we'll come to the mouth of the Goldlight and the Sax Mountains near the Norirrim. It's a great land, but they do not tread heavily here anymore. Orchs can shoot their bows far and some have dared to cross the river and raid the herds, when their chances come." Strider shrugged as he looked back forward, carefully directing the boat.

Mark simply looked to his sides, fearful of anything he hadn't noticed before.

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"Marisa! Marisa," Mark hissed in bated breath. It was night out and Mark was casting his eyes in every direction as he tried to wake the sleeping Clarinet from her slumber.

Roughly, Marisa turned over, though quickly changed her movements to being lighter after shifting the boat slightly. "What is it, Mark?"

"I had a bad dream."

"What? What're you, five?" It was her turn to hiss.

"Wha- no, that's not what I meant," he quickly corrected himself. "I meant, I thought I was dreaming." A look from Marisa made him promptly try again. "Okay, here's what happened.

"I was trying to sleep, as we all were, when I thought I noticed a floating case on the water. It looked to be of a trombone – but I swear I've never seen a 'boner with eyes."

Marisa jerked awake in the boat, causing it to slosh some more. Groaning, Melissa muttered groggily, "Stop shaking the boat," and weakly tried to hit the other two.

"Would you like to repeat that last sentence again?" Marisa asked Mark in hushed tones.

"I could have sworn I saw a trombone case trailing behind us. I was tired, and I wasn't thinking straight, so I just assumed that some idiot dropped his case in the water somewhere and hadn't noticed. But then it looked at me. I had seen it traveling behind us for a while, but it soon seemed to be catching up with us. The eyes were almost like humps, on either side of it. And they seemed to glow of their own accord. And there were arms and legs too, paddling it with paddle-feet, like a swan's almost, only they seemed bigger.

"I got up to yell or something but it was gone when I looked again." Mark sent a rapid and timid look in Marisa's direction, as if cautious of how she might perceive him.

Marisa, on the other hand, just sighed. "I don't know, Mark." She was too wary to catch Mark's look of dejection.

In the boat with the Clarinets and Saxophones, Andrew Jennings watched the sides of the forest. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something crawl from the water and dash into the trees further into the mainland. "What? What's going on?" he thought to himself. "I must be dreaming," Andrew thought aloud. "Quick, Jon, hump me." Jonathan naturally complied. "Nope, definitely not dreaming: we'd be naked by now."

As the night wore on, Marisa couldn't sleep. She scanned the water readily, keeping watch. As it grew darker, she noticed what Mark had mentioned before: two eyes approaching forward. She unsteadily stood up and unsheathed the dagger Nick had given her. As soon as she faced the eyes head on, though, they seemed to spot her and disappear as quickly as she had spotted them.

Strider moved slightly in his sleep, waking shortly after. He rose, looking towards Marisa. "Why is your dagger out?" he asked; it wasn't the still ready calm that had shown during Mornia – it was an almost stricken fear that didn't belong in the frame or demeanor of Mark Brask.

After hesitating for a second, Marisa said what was on her mind. "Bullom," she told Strider. "Or, at least I believe so."

The tranquility seemed to return. A vision of a figure in white returned to her and Marisa felt her heart sicken. "Good, that's all it is," Strider responded back, a smile forming. "That little bitch has padded after us all through Mornia. If I could get my hands on him, we might make some use of him. If not, we'll lose him soon as we can. Ignoring his undoubted intent to murder us in the night, he might loose some enemy onto our asses."

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At long last, the group came to shore. Upon reaching it, they proceeded by foot. After a few more days of walking, they finally decided to take rest. Strider cooked as the others meandered about, always close to the campsite. After they had eaten, Strider called a council and they gathered around.

"The decision has been forced upon us," Strider told them all. "It is now the time that we must choose which way we shall head. Do we head to the wars of Goldir? Or do we head to Miseri with Marisa? Or, even still, do we cease as a Fellowship itself and go our own separate ways?" Silence descended upon the group. After a moment, Strider looked towards Marisa. "It seems the decision rests with you," he told her.

At first, Marisa made no response. Then, slowly, she said, "I cannot choose. I know we are pressed for time, but the burden is hard on my heart. Give me an hour longer and I will speak."

Barimir shifted from where he sat in disgust. "We don't have the time for petty inconveniences," he told her swiftly.

Closing his eyes as if to concentrate better, Strider quickly said, "Seriously, dude, get a rib removed and do something with yourself."

Turning his attention back to Marisa, after calming down, he just nodded towards her. "Very well, Marisa daughter of Chriso. You shall have your hour and you shall be alone."

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She looked upon the open patch amongst the trees. The colder weather had given a harried look to the plants that populated the area. Yet the feelings of peaceful dying soothed a dull throb she felt flowing from her chest – one that was unexplainable yet always there, hurting and yet comforting at the same time.

She sat down and just thought. Her mind searched within itself to the words and thoughts Handal had expressed. Yet after half her time had passed, she had still not come to a conclusion. Suddenly, she was acutely aware that eyes were watching her and she was certain they were unfriendly eyes.

Marisa jumped up and turned around, but, to her surprise, it was Barimir standing there. His face was friendly, something she had not seen often towards her direction.

"I was fearful for you," he told her. "If Mark Brask be right and there are Orchs near, none of us should wander alone – you in particular. Perhaps I could help and ease you with your decision?"

Marisa sighed, backing up slightly to lean against a tree trunk. "I know my decision – it is a fear of making the choice of what's easier than what's right." She let her eyes fall downward.

"Perhaps you suffer needlessly," the Baritone offered. "I wish to help you. Can I not offer council?"

"I think I already know what council you would give, Barimir," said Marisa.

"You doubt your people," he said gently.

"You've left your people," was Marisa's only response.

The wind seemed more audible than the two's communication at that moment.

"I know not what you mean," Barimir responded, his smile no longer apparent. He tried to restore it but it was forced and false.

Marisa looked towards him and Barimir saw before him the eyes of one who has seen beyond his or her usual sphere. "It's dying," she said softly, embittered with the sorrow of one who has watched an empire fall or seen valor perish; she spoke not as a student, engaged in the memorization of facts, places, dates, and names, but as someone who had witnessed the very event over which they mourned.

"The tree is dying, and, yet, you do nothing. Do nothing but forget who you are. You speak of princes and royal and noble lines. Yet what would you do to the kingdoms of the Grendvall? You would strike down their very founding point and replace them for your own selfish endeavors."

Quickly enraged, Barimir jumped to his feet. With more agility, Marisa dashed behind a tree, staying away from his grasp. He stumbled up, determined to keep after her; she, on the other hand, moved quickly, though seeping in emotion.

"Your blood glints a yellow tinge in the sun!" she choked out, fiercely angry by now. "Wood no longer cascades through it!" She did not weep. History and general perception would cast her in such light. Afraid, shaking, hair a mess, and sobbing, she would flee from the scene, towering from the more impressive male; that is how the world would assume she'd handle the situation. Yet, she was not some incarnation of the mind, to play the petty roles that history had assigned her arbitrarily and against her will.

She might have preferred it though, than the stoic and defiant being she now was. She would not stand prettily and be candy for the eye, but she would suffer now, cold and distilled, distressed by the situation yet not having it in her character to back down.

She was not weak and she knew her duty. The easier path in life was not hers to choose, though history would say otherwise of her. Angry, she taunted the furious Brass.

"And they wonder why there is such animosity between Woodwinds and Brass!" he shouted. "Because the Woodwinds need to hold their tongue!"

Diving beneath a branch and charging behind another tree, Marisa looked him in the eye. Again, that far gone and perceptive look met Barimir's gaze. Leagues, it had traveled, and, of its virtue, he could not doubt. "It's not a question of Brass versus Woodwind," she shot back. "What were you raised on? Don't tell me you didn't grow fond of the clarinet! I've seen things." At this, her voice died, giving away that she had seen more beyond the fickleness of a childish boy.

Barimir stopped for a moment, aware for, perhaps, the first time of the burden she carried. However, seizing her moment, Marisa took off again, making Barimir quickly forget.

"You're a Woodwind by birth, a Clarinet by blood," she told him, his face cut off and shifting through the branches which she ran past. "Anyone can pick up more than one instrument. But to forsake one you accepted and practiced since a child?"

Barimir tripped as he was running, rolling a bit before getting back up. Again, they found themselves on opposite sides of a tree.

"Can't you see?" Barimir tried to ease out, attempting in vain to regain some of the composure he had at the beginning of their conversation. "It is a gift – a gift to the enemies of Miseri and Rowell! We can use it to fight back against them."

"No! No!" she shouted, all the more firm. "Whatever we shall do with it, it will strike us back far worse. Whatever good we in vain try to achieve, it shall turn it into tenfold worse."

Barimir pounded his fists into the trunk, breaking off bark in the process. Marisa did not flinch but gazed at him levelly. She would not back down. "It is by our own folly that the enemy will defeat us! How it angers me. Fool! Obstinate fool! Running willfully to death and ruining our cause. If any have claim to the ring, it is the men of Grendvall and not one from the Nyre."

Marisa went behind the trunk, away from his view. Quickly, Barimir dived behind it – to find nothing there.

"Miserable trickster!" Barimir bellowed. "Harlot! You sell yourself to the Dark Lord and betray us all! I see it now."

As if confused, he spun in circles. Finally, he collapsed downward.

Meanwhile, Marisa charged onward. The world was filled with war. Near the Stoic Mountains, Orchs charged and charged yet again, despite the best defenses from Brass and the Flutes of Soilwood. Directly in Soilwood, Flutes battled strange beasts, birthed in the darkness and lack of noise. And over Mornia hung a cloud.

Horses thundered in Norr-on. Wolves were trained at Miengard and sent out by Rowumell. Everything beautiful seemed to die.

In bewilderment, Marisa turned, seeing Mithnel Goldrenad. It seemed far away, though beautiful; many-towered and proud. But behind it, she saw the grinning gates of Mithnel Misernay, and the haunted Mountains of Shadow, and then to Miseri.

The gates rose before her, iron, black from suit, and great. All hope left her.

She could feel it probing, looking for her. It would find her. It always would have found her.

She heard herself crying out: Never, never! Or was it: Verily I come, I come to you? She could not tell. Then as a flash from some other point of power there came to her mind another thought: Take it off! Take it off! Fool, take it off! Take off the Valve!

For a moment, they vied in equality, so that she wreathed in torment. And then she could feel herself once again. In full thought, she slipped the metal from her finger. The darkness missed her and continued south. Sighing, she put the Valve away.