CHAPTER XIV

AFTER-TREMORS OF BATTLE

The battle was now over, and twilight was fast approaching. From where Serge sat under an oak tree on the outskirts of the war camp he could see well the battlefield. It sickened him to see the carnage that was laid bare before him. Everywhere lay the bodies of the dead, broken and ruined from a manifold array of weapons. The darkening crimson blood of both friends and enemies lay mingled together in the field, a terrible sight in the final rays of the setting sun. Many hundreds lay dead there, their fleeting lives having ended in such harsh anguish as the darkness of death had closed in about their dimming sight.

'Curse this!' Serge thought to himself, wondering if the freedom of Guardia was truly worth this. Can one place value on either freedom or life, or seek to compare them?

And now he wished only to be back in the peace of his village, where the ordering of the seasons and events was far simpler than the choices brought about by wars and the destinies of ancient kingdoms.

"Well, now, Serge! Don't look so gloomy. You'll depress everyone."

This was Schala, speaking in an unusually light tongue, who had walked up behind while he had been clouded in thought. She sat down on the earth at his side, following his morose gaze out to the field. Serge shook his head and closed his eyes from the sight, though the memory of it would not depart. And his arm still stung him bitterly; the wounds had been healed some by Schala's sorcery, yet still they burned, not willing to allow his thoughts a moment of peace apart from the memory of battle.

He sighed greatly at this fate of his, touching tenderly at the wound, then shying away from it when he found it only caused him greater pain.

"We won. I know we won. But all the same, I don't feel it," he said at last with an ever heavier heart.

Schala, in reply, looked compassionately upon him and said:

"That, I would think, is a common feeling, even for the oldest of warriors. It is not fully a cause of your conscience, however; it is your own strength that betrays your heart. It saps the will to be so enflamed with fury as your were during the battle and now, in the aftermath, the peace is deafening in your heart. Next to the power and fury that it felt but hours ago, it feels hollow and full of sorrow. I should not think that it has ever been any different for warriors since the dawn of time. But now you begin again to question the justice in war, eh?"

Serge nodded silently.

"What justice is there in the world?" she said. "Need we expect it in war? Humanity is both twice blessed and thrice cursed. We can feel love and joy, and put our mind to such beauty that even God must be well pleased. But so too do we war, slay, and do evil; what tears must God weep for this. And most bitter is that we cannot see the end of what we do; we march to war with hope and reason, and thus say it is not evil. But how damning this must seem to the eyes of heaven, for we are fools treading paths dark before our very eyes. We cannot see the future, and hope that the war we embark upon is destiny and justice. But in the end it is the lot of man to hate, and to succumb to greed, and fall prey to our own curse of sin. So have things always been."

Her words trailed and she stood, casting her mellow eyes on the terrible field.

"...someday we'll look back on this day with bitter reminiscence and think about these things Serge without worry or care, and perhaps understand them with more clear eyes, seeing beginning, middle, and end, rather than the start only. But for now we must follow where our hearts lead us, and trust the counsel of our minds, though it is likely to fail us. Is that not the best we can do?"

"Yes, I know, I know," he muttered sullenly.

"Do not think so much on the dead, Serge! They are beyond the thoughts or cares of this world. Leave them their peace, so that you may have yours." She paused, then, and continued: "I am famished, and have not eaten since early morning. I must eat. Are you coming as well?"

He shook his head, and he watched her wander off to the rest of the camp alone. He wondered greatly about how she could be so unconcerned about all this. She was Schala, though, and maybe that was answer enough. Maybe those born of Zeal were hardier to the uncertainties of the heart and mind as well as to pain.

He too was hungry, but too sick at heart to eat. He looked at his hands. They bore no blood now: that he had washed off in the grim rally at the end of the battle. But they seemed stained to him even so. How many had he killed by them? A dozen, maybe? Perhaps two dozen? He could not rightly remember now, but their blood was on his hands regardless. Had he been right to take their lives? Certainly, yes, for would they have not done the same to many another without qualm? Ah, but there was the point of the matter. They were, even as he, not heartless. Driven to war through the desire for glory, or through greed, or even hope for honour and valour, they would near certainly have felt even as he did now. Sitting in some place with a doubting heart. Yet it was his hand that had denied them all such chances. Denied them their very lives. Was he some god to decide by his power who should live and die, and order the goings of the days of men? Certainly not; he had not chosen those who should die. It had been their fate to die by his hand, and so it had been God who had judged their deaths apt at that time. He, Serge, was then a pawn to the avenging sword of Almighty God. Was this, then, the purpose in his existence? To be the executer of the judgement of God? But was he himself not as deserving of such harsh justice as those dead on the far plain?

Serge shook his head in a feeble attempt to dispel such thoughts.

To continue to wonder and muse on such thoughts would surely drive him mad. He would simply have to trust blindly that fate was taking him down the correct course and that his deeds were fulfilling the grand plan that was laid out unseen.

He stood weakly, for the day had taken its toll heavily on his limbs, and they were weary. His slight wounds still burned as well. He looked at his arm, where the blade had cut him. A scar would linger, without a doubt.

He looked out to the red setting sun in the West. Somewhere, beneath its dimming rays, a thousand leagues away, Leena too would be now watching it set, but without these worries of war. He missed her gentle company greatly now in the midst of this harsh and perilous land. Ever he wished to be home, a desire that grew more potent the longer he was away. He was not born to be a steadfast warrior, like Crono or Janus. And neither was he wise in sage counsel as was Schala. In his heart he desired above all now to return to his peaceful home, by the sea.

But that was the heart of this matter, was it not? He was fighting so that his comrade, and the people of this vast land, might regain their peace and home. He could not simply abandon them to be wandering outlaws and people living in mortal fear, not while his strength could aid in victory. Yet ever to Leena was the greatest part of his heart given. To her would he joyfully return when at last his part had ended.

He wearily began walking, somewhat surprised that he did not falter to the ground. The day had been the most trying in months, and his legs cursed him bitterly for it.

He wandered to the encampment of tents, surrounded by a meagre palisade wall. The gate guard knew him by sight, and did not challenge him, so he freely went inside, glancing left and right at the tents. Most were empty now, and the people milled about, speaking in an odd meld of joy and sorrow about the battle. Those not there he could see wandering the battlefield, either seeking out loved ones lost to death, or stripping enemy warriors of their treasures and weapons. Tears would not be absent tonight, he knew.

He brushed aside the door to his tent and threw himself down on the mats that lay stretched out. They afforded him little comfort. Yet he felt slightly better inside, shielded in isolation from the outside world, where he did not watch the people. People very like to those he had so lately slain.

He slipped his fingers along the ever keen edges of the Masamune, the pale-gold sheen of which shone only dimly, as if lit by a faraway candle.

"Masa and Mune," he muttered in a low voice, "children of a sword of death, how can you stand this?"

"By the understanding of our destiny, master," the stern voice of Masa responded.

"Now then, are you alright?" Mune asked, some slight concern in his childlike voice.

"Me? Fine," Serge said, his words faltering uncertainly.

"Master, do not worry yourself so much over this day. How else should it have gone? Would you rather that you had died in the place of your enemies? Again I say, banish your concern."

Serge shook his head.

"I can't help it, though. I killed lots of men today. I took their lives, and destroyed whatever hopes and dreams they might have had. Banished their spirits to Zurvan, wherever that might be."

"You did it so that brighter hopes and the light could endure," Selinirë said in sage reply. "You did it not for your own glory, but to counter the domineering power of Porre. For life is choices, and those choices determine the future. True, you killed today. And you will kill again, so much I can foresee. Such is the life that has been set before you, child. Have compassion for your foes, but do not mourn them so much."

"But this isn't my dream; I don't want this! Am I a warrior?"

"Neither was it the dream of Melchior when he forged us. But what in this vast world is incorrupt? All bonds between living things are long since shattered and near irreconcilable. Between God and Man and beast there are walls that have, through ill choices, been raised. They are the consequences of the pride of Man, and Man's desire to forge their own destinies. The very dreams of your race are clouded with evil. But in them find solace. Wield us with confidence, and trust Schala and her wisdom. I tell you she and her brother are the last of the old world which had a deeper understanding of these things. Mighty were the children of Zeal, in all parts of soul, body, and mind. The wisdom of Schala sees far, further than you can comprehend; though she veils it, and appears not older than a maiden, she is mightier than aught other who walk the earth in these days, unless it is her brother."

Serge nodded, yet his doubts not allayed in the least. He dropped his head to the pillow, drowsiness sweeping over his mind.

"Serge?" A voice called out to him, startling him out of the sleep he had begun to fall into. He rose wearily, not a little upset over being denied sleep so, even as it had begun.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Crono has called a meeting of the captains..." the voice of Schala replied, "...in the commander's tent.

Curses, he had wanted to and needed to sleep. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he stumbled out of the tent, his head yet in a swoon over having being roused so suddenly out of his rest.

Schala was awaiting him, looking scarce less tired than he himself.

"Truly sorry, Serge. Crono insists on it. You alright?"

"Tired..." Serge said, pacing out into the cold air of the twilight. It cleared his head somewhat, and some of his weariness left him.

"Likewise," Schala said, then sighed. "But friendship and duty call. Come!"

She wandered off towards the large tent that served as the command post, Serge in her trail.

Inside were gathered most of the captains, seated at a great oak table. Crono himself, Janus, and two scarred warriors with grey streaked hair. These were the leaders of the archers and spearmen, the fourth and fifth legions of the army. Sir Hadrian, the captain of the knights of the first legion, was not there however. Neither was the leader of the third footman legion.

"Crono," Schala said in greeting as she walked in, for formality bowing slightly. She herself was the commander of the second legion of footmen.

He nodded to her as she sat, but said not a word. His eyes were sorrowful as he glanced about the table where they sat. Once Serge, too, had found his place at Schala's side, he began speaking.

"It seems that even our leadership has been ravaged by death. Lord Hadrian will not be joining us at this council. Neither will Lord Alakuret of the Tower."

The two commanders looked at each other with heavy hearts. It seemed that they had been old friends with the Lord Alakuret.

"Let us not weep for them. There will be time enough for tears if we win this war."

"If?" Schala said, frowning. "Let not the men hear such lack of faith from their leader."

Crono shook his head.

"I merely speak of what I see. Look out upon that field," he said, sweeping behind to where the battle plain lay beyond the tent, out of sight. "Tell me how many lie there dead."

He paused as another entered the tent.

"Ah, Sigurd, greetings," Crono said, welcoming him. His mood seemed at the least a little livened by seeing the boy. All the people had hailed the child a hero for his deeds, Crono not the least.

"My Lords," Sigurd replied, bowing deeply to each in turn.

"Take a place," Crono commanded. "Your actions this day ascribe you this much honour, at the least: to have a place in our council."

Sigurd quietly took seat next to Janus, who took a keen look at him. He was unsure as to why the child was to be part of the counsel. His feelings of enmity had been quenched with Sigurd's heroism, but he still felt some disquiet about him. Sigurd, for his part, could not quite understand the reasoning behind his presence, either. But no time was left to wonder at this, for Crono took up his speech again.

"My dear friends. In hindsight I see now that I have been acting somewhat foolishly, and against all my old wisdom."

Schala was about to speak words in counter to this, but Crono continued.

"Yes, Schala. We most definitely had the victory in the field today, and yet..." he paused, sighing, and dropped his weary hands to the table.

"...and yet many of my countrymen lie dead on that plain, strewn in the midst of their enemies. Their blood runs in red strains across the grass of their own fatherland!"

Schala spoke at that moment, interrupting even though Crono attempted futilely to continue.

"We all feel that way. Speak to Serge regarding this if you doubt me."

Serge nodded in agreement. But Crono shook his head.

"Yes, yes, I am certain. But what I am saying is that had it not been for the timely strike of Sigurd," he looked shortly over in the child's direction, "we may well have lost. Doom hung by a hair, and no prowess of men could undo it; it was only chance and fate, guiding the swordhand of a child, that saved us from ruin. And even should we not have been utterly destroyed, I would have surely perished, and the line of the kings of Guardia been broken as never before!"

Schala again spoke, much angered by Crono's light reckoning of their victory.

"Crono, you did all you could and much, I think, does Porre rue your sword this night. Moreover, not one of your people has lost any faith in you."

Crono shook his head sadly.

"No, I failed them this day. More died than should have; victory might have been swifter. I was cautious, planned out my movements, and acted with restrain. I thought to so do things carefully, averting heedless battle, as I had never done before. And this day is what it has brought to Guardia!"

He pushed his fist hard to the wooden table so that his knuckles paled, and anger showed on his face.

"You were correct, friend Janus, in what you said to me before, when we first came to Guardia. Once I was fearless. Foolish perhaps, and yet fate was ever on my side, protecting and blessing my efforts. But not so now! With my loss of courage..."

"Your valour is in no way lessened!" Schala cried suddenly, shaking her head in disdain of his words.

Crono hardly saw, and continued speaking in despite of her.

"With my loss of courage and recklessness fate seems to have left me to my own. My hesitation had cost me the life of my beloved Marle, wounding me more deeply than any sword. Now it has nearly ruined my land; if I had struck first we should not have been surrounded by their accursed sigaldry. From this day forward I will not await them, but thrust forward my assaults with twice my old zeal. You say Porre rues this loss; then bitterly indeed will they speak of the coming days."

He spoke the last words so loudly that Serge started. He had been on the verge of drifting off to sleep, for he was spent with the day's fighting. Schala still attempted to restrain Crono, however.

"Crono, it might still be advisable to yet exercise some caution," she softly admonished him. But Crono dismissed her words with a sweep of his hand, and continued. Serge looked over at her, and saw that she now scowled bitterly, unhappy at Crono's tirade and unwillingness to but listen to her counsel. For in Crono the reckless fire of his youth had begun once more to burn, and he did not care for any wisdom, thinking it all to be folly. He cried:

"But in what manner did I do things in my youth? Did I pause to contemplate my past mistakes, or wonder on future days?" he looked over to Serge and Sigurd, "And in youth there is a zeal that can overcome great obstacles, as Sigurd proved this day. And Serge, I have heard, showed the same time and again in many a battle."

Serge admitted silently that he did feel slightly eager now, despite his many qualms about war. He would have to try to silence that dark excitement. He did not need his mind warring with itself.

Crono looked over to Sigurd and called:

"Sigurd!"

He turned to face Crono and nodded in respect.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"The captain of the third legion perished on the field today. You must take his command for the coming days of the war. Now..."

But Sigurd interrupted, much amazed by this, for he was still unsure even as to why he was in the council.

"Crono, my Lord, I do not think that I should. I am far too young and unlearned for this duty. There are many who are more apt to this than I. Lord Janus, for one, is far more accustomed to the commanding of men than I."

But Crono replied:

"No, Janus is my right hand and herald, and I wish him by my side. Together we are thrice as mighty as each alone, and so I would not gladly have us part in battle."

"What then," continued Sigurd, "of the other lords? Surely there is another. Serge, is he not a hero?"

At this Serge spoke for himself and said:

"I'm no captain or commander. "

Then Crono continued.

"Sigurd, I saw you in the battle today. You fought even as though there were a fire in your heart, and I would not have faced you lightly in that mood. Show me another of my people who can wields such sorcery as you, and I would make him captain in your stead. I can well see what you can accomplish, even if you cannot, for it seems that the same blood flows through our veins. You and I are of like spirit, and I know that if you deem yourself unworthy now it is but a passing thing: it is how I would have felt twenty years ago, before my adventure came upon me. Not till I understood my destiny did I rise to take command of the Seven. So I tell you that you have greater skills and worth in this than you understand; you are, after all, a sorcerer."

Sigurd sat back once again and remained quiet, not certain what would become of this, nor why he merited such service and honour from his lord.

And now Crono continued.

"I have decided we press forward our assault at first light tomorrow. We strike for the castle of Guardia at once, while the enemy is still fearful and on the retreat, for we must not lose this precious chance and zeal we have gained from victory."

Schala now stood, shaking her head so that her crimsoned hair shifted in among the gold as the flames of a fire; the clothes she wore, steeped in mud and dyed with dry blood, made her appear the more terrible, and at her rising Crono stopped to let her speak, for he could see well that she was angered with him.

"Crono, this is not youth. This is foolishness. What of the wounded who must be attended to?"

"We leave some to care for them; our army will still number three thousands at the least."

"So that is your master plan, then? To strike for the greatest fortress in the north undermanned and weary? Think on your youth more keenly, and you will remember that speed did not always avail you. Need I recall to your memory the day upon which you assaulted the Ocean Palace of Zeal? Use caution, I warn you, or else..."

Crono scowled in vehement anger.

"Else what, Schala? Do you think I fear death?"

Schala nodded grimly.

"If you do not, then you are a fool, for only they are utterly fearless. Know that you should fear, for surely this time there will be no chance of fate to resurrect you, as was your luck before."

Schala had now crossed her arms, and her eyes showed her flamed anger at his words. But he continued heedless of her mood.

"My life is worth no more to me than what I can accomplish with it. Sit, Schala, or leave this council if that is your choice!"

At this Schala clenched tight her teeth and fists in anger.

"You deign to order my coming and going or spurn my counsel? You who do not even claim lordship of that which is your right. Oh, you forget your precarious place, my friend. And speak not so lightly of me, child. Do not forget who I am, and address me as your servant"

To these words he replied:

"Am I a fool, Schala, that you think I have forgotten this?"

But she would not allow him to speak more, and raising a hand said in return:

"Yes, your heart bleeds. But think not in your pain that you are alone, and that you suffer more than many another. As you yourself have said, look upon the far plain of battle. Now take note of those who find their beloved perished. Mark their tears, and tell me if they are of lesser worth than yours. And do you not think that I, too, know the pain of death? Do you think that I do not know darkness of despair?"

"Schala," he began, but his words had lost their former strength, whereas her tone had begun to heighten to one of regal command.

"Silence!" she cried. "Crono, you are falling prey to your grief and anger. Look at me: I may appear as one young, but you know well that I am no youthful girl. I was once the eldest of the children of the Queen of Zeal. Did I not watch as my mother succumbed to the evil of Rothros, called Lavos? And was I not for the eternity outside of time joined with that selfsame darkness? It bore hate, and pain, and sadness as has no compare in this world, and I too had a part in its every grief! Ah, I ever curse that cruel day, when I fell into the vile Tesseract! What strange chance that was it that I, alone of all my kin, should have borne the judgement of God for the sins of my people. I, who at risk of my mother's cruel and terrible wrath spoke out against our unholy quest for immortal life. Yet I was the only one to achieve it, and finding that which I never yearned for, found it a curse beyond your reckoning, yea, beyond the reckoning of any mortal. For how can any of you comprehend a suffering that is eternal? You know only the finite; yet to me that eternity of sorrow I suffered yet echoes. So do not speak to me, Crono, Frey, even you hero of time, of such matters. I know them only too well, child! For that is what you are in my eyes; never forget! In that prison from which I could not escape it tortured and corrupted my very soul, bent to a will stronger than death."

"Yes, yes, Schala, but that was long ago; even as you so call it to be an eternity in time, so too was it an eternity ago, and surely you have forgotten it by now. Do not, in this council, recall things that happened so long ago. Do I need advice from the former princess of a downfallen kingdom that now is but a shadow and myth?"

"Do you think that my torment is lost to my memory?" she cried in furious anger. "I assure you, nothing is more present in my mind! For how can one truly ever forget such a thing as that? The dragon magic of the Chrono Cross broke the chains that bound me, but that shadow of evil is ever there in my heart, a brooding menace that I can never shake!"

Serge shuddered to think of the memory of her during battle. Is that whence that power, her fury, came? She now paced the room before Crono, her arms crossed angrily across her chest.

"Live with such a burden for but a day, and then mayhap we could speak as equals!"

And at this Serge stood up, desperate to calm his angry comrades.

"Kid! Isn't this the one thing that you would warn against? Wouldn't you say that arguing amongst ourselves is the absolute worst thing we could do?"

Janus glanced about at both Crono and Schala, shaking his head.

"You know, Serge has a true point there. You forget your own wisdom, sister."

Schala sighed, frowning ever so slightly. Then she smiled at Serge, her eyes brightening somewhat.

"Yeah, you're right. I am truly sorry, Crono my friend. It is only that I swore to help the four of us unto death, remember? And, the way you're going, you're just looking to kill yourself. Remember, your people. You are their greatest hope, and last true leader. They need you, and this overshadows your own will and grief."

Crono took a step back, his mood softening for an instant. He then sat back in his seat, nodding with understanding at her sodden softness.

"Ah, you speak wisely as ever. It is my grief for Marle that is overcoming me. And, I begin to doubt this quest of mine."

"Yet I still think that speed is paramount. And as for my people...they could make do without me, if the need came, I deem."

Sigurd shook his head, finally speaking up once more.

"My Lord, I know otherwise. Those were dark years without a king. We need you very much."

"That is what you may think but, no, there are other hopes. If I were to die, others might rise to lead and command our people."

Schala frowned, a sudden understanding seeming to be sparked in her keen mind. She glanced about the others in the room, but they had not noted the words as she had.

"Whaddya mean by that?" she asked, her uncertainty betrayed in her tongue.

Crono looked at her with hollow eyes fraught with contemplation...

"Truly nothing," he said, seeing that he had spoken words he had not intended to say out loud. "It is nothing to concern yourselves with, and is only the worries of a captain. This war is a havoc in my mind."

Schala looked at him inquisitively, a small smile crossing her face. She could read more into his words and eyes than the others, and certainly more than he had intended.

"Hold for a moment!" she said. "What is it you mean by that. I beg you tell me; already I think I understand somewhat."

"Schala!" Crono cried, silencing her. "Neither here nor now, I beg of you."

She continued to smile however, her eyes deep in thought. Serge looked at her, his expression questioning her, but she said not a word.

Finally after a long while she returned her gaze to Crono, comprehension in her eyes, laughed lightly.

"Yes, it certainly follows reason. But I understand your uncertainty. Regarding this I will talk to you later. But take heart. I think you are correct in your assumptions."

Janus stood up from his chair, slightly angered by this enigma.

"What is this, Crono? Schala?"

But Schala fixed a stern gaze on him, and he sat down once more, scowling darkly. Indeed, Serge too wondered greatly about what had passed so mysteriously and wordlessly between Crono and Schala, and exchanged a mystified look with Sigurd. He shrugged as it eluded him. There was no use pressing the matter. Whatever it was, it wasn't its time to be revealed.

It was long before their deliberations finally ended. It was finally decided that the assault upon the fortress of Guardia would wait several days, both until the wounded were attended to, and until siege weapons were prepared. For, though Crono had at first thought to take the castle by sudden storm, he was soon swayed from such thoughts by the advice of his friends which he heeded wisely. When they at long last stepped from the command tent, the stars were already in full bright array, the moon glowing pale in the night sky. Though the day had been full of sorrow and pain, the people were rejoicing for their victory. A great fire had been made in the very centre of the encampment, and round this the people danced and sang, eating and drinking, attempting to find joy amidst sadness.

Serge smiled at this display of hallowed tradition, for it reminded him much of his own home where things long remembered were looked upon with reverence. And so it quelled some of his ever present homesickness. The people danced to the lively tunes of wood flutes playing the ancient songs of Guardia, remembered through the generations from ages long past, perhaps even from old Rome herself. Though it was different from his own land, Serge had no trouble joining the people in their merrymaking. He amused the people with the quick seaside dances of his village, most certainly ill-placed alongside the sorrowful notes that echoed from the Guardian flutes.

Crono, too, was there, as were Schala and Janus. Crono and Janus did not join Serge in the revelling, for Crono was content to watch, glad to see the people so enlivened, and the wizard was never a man who cared much for celebration. Schala, however, mingled with the people as much as she might. She shared dances with the people in the Guardian tradition, but often continued on her own with light steps that seemed to flow like a tongue of fire about the space. To those who watched she appeared to be an angel, descended and veiled, for her eyes were like stars. These graceful dances, remembered by her from her ancient days as princess of Zeal, caused all the people to pause in wonder, for no such dances had been seen for thousands of years, being born themselves of some magic. Finally she moved alone about the fire, her silhouette a haunting ghost of some ancient time, long lost in the shadows of history. Serge too was entranced by her, for he had never seen her enchantments put to any other use than war, and for a time his heart forgot its disquiet.

After a time she paused, and stood still before the great fire. Then all thought she had ended, and began to rise. Yet now she began to sing, in such haunting tones that all the people once more sat rivetted, for her voice was as though it were of the very muse of heaven. She sung of ancient days, of Zeal in its peace and glory. Her voice echoed through the clear night, calling to mind a time without war, and the people that heard her were consoled in their sorrow.

Upon hearing of his ancient home, sung of by his sister, Janus too smiled. And, to Serge's certain amazement, he joined her, and sung his own lays and idylls of Zeal, his dark and deep voice an opposite to her softer and lighter singing. Yet they flowed together as but two parts of a whole, and it seemed to those gathered that they saw Zeal appear once more before them in the night. Noble lords of magic, fair ladies of enchantment, and wise masters of knowledge. The images flowed in their minds as a recent memory, and not a few wept out of love of its beauty. For Zeal above the clouds was more fair than any land either before or after, and the lore and wisdom of its people was great.

And so they sang far into the night, of the shining citadel of Zeal, where the Queen sat in her majesty, ruling over the eternal kingdom. And they told tales of the city of Kajar1, where the greatest of the minds of Zeal did experiments to further their knowledge of the world. And of the city of dreams, Enhasa, where rest cured all.

And yet, long though those tales lasted, their end came at last, though all were sorry to hear them end. But the two were not willing now to recount their land's fall into darkness, and so ended.

As they left the space before the burning fire the people parted to let them pass, though not a few called out to them, thanking them for their tales. For they now saw that these two were not merely warriors of might and skill, but also magi of great wisdom and forgotten lore. When at last they broke from the people, and wandered out into the clear darkness away from the fire, Serge rushed up to her.

"Hey, Kid, wait up!" he called and she turned, hearing his approach.

"Ah, Serge. It is you. That was a thing well done, dancing in celebration among them. It endears you to them."

"Well, likewise," he answered. "I've never seen you sing or dance like that. That was from Zeal?"

She nodded.

"There is some part of me that is drawn to things of ancientry yet. The part that is Schala, that is. The second was song a melody I have long remembered from my childhood, and I have ever loved it above all others. In ancient Zeal it was called Melraset Selinetha; that is Radical Dreamers in our tongue."

Janus turned to Serge, looking down on him from his towering height.

"As for you Serge, you made a fine fool of yourself."

Serge did not answer, but laughed a little to himself at the wizard's harshness; that was simply the man's way.

"Zeal must have been wonderful, though," Serge said.

Janus breathed heavily into the chill night air, sending fading pillars of smoke into the air, scarcely visible in the pale moonlight.

"Yes...for a time. Until the darkness."

And he spoke no more, and neither did Schala. But such reminisces of the past were soon put aside, for they all knew that tomorrow would bring enough toil of its own. For though the battle was won, they were victorious for but a day, and the war was not over yet.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)