Darkness

-A Legend Fanfic-

*Written By Gale*

A/N - PLEASE READ: Yes, this is where the story really begins. Note that this chapter starts Ten Years after the events in the Prologue, so expect things to be different. This serves as the intro for the other main character of this story. Yes, it's an original character, and please don't steal.

Part I - Valley of My Birth

Well into the night, there lingered within the hut of wise-woman Medefey a torpid, sickly air that could only be looming death. Her labored rasping and coughing tore through what would have been the tranquility of the surrounding forest like a poison, troubling its inhabitants very little. The end was, after all, just a fact of life for every plant and animal there, and seeing as how the only creatures to roam the earth that feared their own mortality were humans, there was very little restlessness at all in the wood, save within the hut itself.

Medefey, at a clearer and more jubilant hour, was a crooked, wizened creature, the lines of her age carved into her speckled olive skin like the bark of the oak. Her white hair was stringy and untamed, but fine and soft as the strands of a spider's web; her granddaughter always strung braids and flowers into it to try and keep it tidy, but it seemed to have a mind and heart of its own. Like any old woman, be she grandmother or crone, her most brilliant feature remained her eyes; sparkling and so filled with the joys and aches of a life nearly gone but well-thanked for.

The last withering, dying petals of a few stray daisies still hung about her sweating, pain stretched face in her final hours, seeming content to go with their mistress. Despite her grave and ever-charging illness, Medefey did not look the least bit afraid in the light of the dimming fireplace. Her eyes, half-lidded from exhaustion, still gleamed, but with an air of sadness, now. She watched her near-equally weary granddaughter rush about the interior of the hut, struggling with the ingredients of a potion that, on any other day but her death-day, would compel her pains to recede. The old woman's displeasure came not from her own expiration, but for the sacrifices it was forcing the child to make.

Lidene was smart for her age and proficient in their craft, but she still had much to learn yet that the old woman could not teach her. She was outspoken, proudly so, but so detached from the wilds around them, which was probably why she was skilled at best in medicine-making and not an expert. Medefey had no idea how one of her own had come to give birth to a child who hated getting dirty, bathed only in the safety of their own hut, and bound her hair away to hide it from the caress of nature. She knew the songs of their family, their proverbs and traditions, could recite them all by heart, but her grandmother feared she might be too old and bitter with herself before she came to know their true meaning. She'd always been so confident in her own ways, and strong after the loss of her parents, but the last few weeks had been the worst for both of them, and late nights brewing potions and cleaning up after her grandmother had begun to take their toll. As it was Medefey's philosophy, everyone should know and understand the concept of death, but it was unfair to push her misfortunes upon one so young, one who had more to live for save caring for her in some boundless hope that she might live forever. For Lidene's comfort, she wished she could.

Medefey's eyes fluttered shut when she felt the girl kneel next to her, and she sighed gratefully at the feeling of a wet cloth brushing against her forehead. "Child, ye do too much for me," she murmured.

"It is my wish to," Lidene said simply, using her one and only answer for ending arguments, and really, it was all anyone of their family needed to say, being of the belief that if the whim pleased and caused no harm, then it should be done. This was hardly the case here, as it seemed the youth was more than bent over backwards with all her added chores. There was a little harm in it. But Medefey allowed that leaving her be would probably be worse on her, emotionally.

Silly willful girl, she thought. So much like her mother.

"Is that better?"

The old woman strained to nod. "Aye," she croaked, although they both knew it was a lie. "Ye best be getting to bed soon, dearie. Tis late."

"Not until I'm sure you're feeling all right."

"Child," Medefey said patiently, "I know this has occurred to ye, so ye be thinking on it a bit more, but I'm not going to get better." At her grandchild's frown, she lifted a creaking hand to silence her. "Don't ye be wollarin on my account, either," she scolded. "I've lived a long and happy life, and I regret little to nothing I done save going after me own babies. Now ye'll not be mournin after me too long, dearie. People come to this place from miles around for our aid, and ye'll not turn a one away."

"Grandmother, I don't think I'm ready to do that without you."

"Neever said ye'd be alone, child." Medefey tried to smile for her, and for an instant that same old sparkle came back to her eyes as she whispered, "I'm always with ye if ye believe." She touched a gnarled hand to Lidene's cheek. "Now, chin up, and don't ye be thinking of crying now. I'll be needin ye to do me one last favor, and I need ye to listen well."

Lidene appeared to think long and hard on these words, visibly choking back a few sad tears, and had Medefey the strength she would brush them away.

In her small attempt to be strong for her, try to be the adult she was turning into, Lidene looked all the more like the toddling babe she used to be when her mother and father were taken with the sudden winter: lost, afraid, but still trying to be a good girl, trying to believe the stories she'd been told, that they were still there with her. She supposed that was why Lidene was so detached from their profession, from the world around them. After all, why should a child long to touch what's living, bask in all that's around her, when she cannot be held by her own mother, when there was the fear that all that might be taken away, too? Faith was too deep a concept to instill in Lidene's mind at that age, not when what she needed was something tangible. Medefey had hoped she served that kind of purpose in her grandchild's life, and to the best of her ability, she felt she succeeded. However, she would not allow herself to think this girl failed to believe her parents still watched over her, nor could she bear the thought of her own essence being yearned away by some lack of devotion.

Finally, when both of them had lost themselves in their own thoughts, Lidene nodded, ready for her task.

Medefey wished she could get herself back on track so easily, but had trouble pushing those last inklings away. As it was, she was beginning to feel too tired to speak. "I do not believe I'll live through the night, child," she whispered, shushing the girl before she could get a word in edgewise. "When the morning comes, we've both got a journey to take."

"But --"

"Listen to me, child. No more interruptions." She winced and tried to choke back a threatening cough. "Ye know the cart I keep out on the other end of the garden. Where Lysander grazes."

Lidene nodded, for the first time not visibly scowling at the mention of her father's horse, practically wild now, that was constantly getting into their herbs, or frightening the living daylights out of her. "Yes…"

"Ye'll have to place me upon it. Harness Lysander, and take me to the valley of our birth, lay me to rest with our family." She cleared her throat, or tried to, with little luck. "Do you know the way?"

A distressed moan, "Grandmother, I am afraid."

"Ye don't have to be. I'll guide ye, dearie, but ye have to do it. No one else can. Now, do you know the way?"

"I-I don't remember, Grandmother." Rather, she probably did not want to. The last time the trek was made was in a world of snow, when she'd been far too small to know all that transpired.

"Then listen," Medefey sighed. "Depart at dawn, and for the day keep the sun at yer back…." Her vision swam as she spoke, thoughts retracing the old steps she'd taken many times in her life. To the valley, over the hill and the waterfall. To the family grounds. She'd helped to commit both of her parents to the earth, as well as any man she'd loved and had children by. Her son. Her daughter and her mate. Each had been placed with loving care, with her hardest work, in sections where she felt they might rest easiest. But one placing, one always stood out in her mind. The one she'd picked most specially. As it came to mind, now, she was not sure if her ailing throat had followed, only that it needed to be said. And as the words drifted from her mouth, she felt as though she'd done the one thing in life she'd been waiting to do forever.

And the pain stopped.

TO BE CONTINUED….