Ashsong
Fires always died, rivers always dried, and every sun, no matter how bright, always had to set.
It had to be a special kind of arrogance, Firesong thought as he paced the spacious room, that made me think that I could be separate from the cycle.
He was still beautiful. His skin was unwrinkled, his hair still rich and soft. Even among the naturally attractive Tayledras, Firesong had always been a wonder.
But what use was beauty or charm when he had no power?
Firesong paused in his pacing, clenched his hands into fists.
His power had been stolen.
No, Firesong reminded himself, resuming his pacing.. Not stolen. Given. Given to the cause. From each, the same is taken, the prophecy had said, power taken from the light will be match from the dark. Balance must be restored. If he, the most powerful amongst the ranks of white, gave up his magic ability, the same would be stripped from the most powerful in the solid lines of black. Falconsbane would fall.
But how could he ever have guessed that his magic would leave such a hole in him?
Ever since he had been a boy, magic had been what set him apart. Being a mage was what had earned him respect, earned him status, earned him all the little luxuries that simply being a beautiful Tayledras would not. You could make beauty. A mage must be born.
Falconsbane had fallen.
And Firesong couldn't help but wish that none of this had happened at all.
He was the only one in their circle of friends that was not happy. The only hero that had won a victory but had lost himself. Elspeth and Darkwind—Songwind once more—lived in Haven, parents and still so much in love. Skif and Nyara lived in the country, content with the simple life, happy with each other. Even the gryphons returned to their homeland as heroes, respected and honored.
And he lived where no one would ever expect him to go.
The ruins of Falconsbane's castle.
Firesong stopped in front of one of the wide windows, bathed in the sunlight cast through blood-red glass. Oh, they had expected him at the vales, expected him to come home happy and victorious, just like all his other heroic friends. They knew of his sacrifice, knew of his loss, but they didn't realize the extent of the damage. He could not even sense the ley lines now, could not feel the power of a Heartstone. He was broken.
They expected him to return and behave as he always did, winning lovers, breaking hearts, laughing merrily all the time—but what man would want to kiss a broken husk? Who would want to love a man that was weak?
Weak.
His fist slammed into the glass, shattering it into jewel-like pieces as the bright sunlight came in, blinding him. He stepped back into the familiar shadows, his mind still echoing with the single word that represented everything he despised, everything he hated, and, ultimately, everything he was.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
I'll show them weakness, Firesong thought, his mind raging like a whirlwind, broken like the bloody window, shattered by the strength of that single word: weak.
Weak.
I'll show them all, he thought. They won't have a chance to realize how far I've fallen. They won't have a chance to realize the extent of my pain. I will show them all that I was, I am, I will never be weak.
And with a single, graceful gesture, a piece of glass was in his hand, across his neck, on the floor.
His blood didn't show on the colored shards.
And as Firesong died, he felt no regret. At least now, in these last moments, he could remember the time when he'd been a hero.
All things come to an end. Every river dries. And every fire dies. Dies, and turns to ash.
