CHAPTER XXIV

A PARTING OF WAYS

For long that to their minds seemed well near to years, not one of them spoke. They merely stood, silent and thoughtful, feeling neither pain nor weariness, and thinking upon what had now passed: the evil was dead; the world was free. Into their hearts leaped such joy and peace mingled as no other mortals have ever known. They could feel it echoing throughout their spirits and filling their hearts. The shouts of unchained freedom that all the living things of the earth now shared overwhelmed them as a brook of purest water, bringing an end to all evil. To their ears it seemed as if the very angels of heaven sang in jubilant choirs heralding this new born freedom, such was the joy of that hour.

"The enemy is dead," Schala said at long last, speaking what they all felt.

"Oh, blessed morn of freedom, Crono spoke truly in prophecy! You are come at last, and you are more glorious than near any that has arisen since the dawning of the world!"

Even as these words escaped her lips, as if in final testament of what had then chanced, the chamber began to crumble.

"Let us leave these accursed halls," Janus said glancing upward. "And let them lie buried forevermore."

The stones that the roof was built of now began to fall, rending pits into the earth where they struck, and casting splintered shards about.

But the four walked through this unworried, bearing the body of their dead comrade. They knew that it was not their fate to perish to such stones, and heeded them no more than leaves falling in an autumn forest. Even as they stepped from the hall the last of the arches, with a mighty sound of rending stone, crumbled inward, sealing that place for all eternity.

Staggering through the crumbling passages, the weary group came at long last upon higher halls, and thence to the open sky. They stood upon the topmost height of the steps of the senate hall, those which overlooked the forum. From far afield they heard the sounds of a battle still fought upon the plain, but cared little for it. Surely their own battle had been long, but now it appeared that, to the eyes of the world, not long had passed: in the far distance the sun was now fallen to below the horizon, and only the last touch of dim dusk remained. Perhaps a single hour since they had begun.

"A fair dusk, Serge! A sign of better times now upon us!" Schala cried.

Serge looked out over the distant sea, knowing the truth of the matter with dread: it was sunset on the twenty-second of April.

"For some, maybe,"

"Serge," Schala began, but he turned away, not wishing to face any words, even those of comfort. Naught had changed, and his one hope had been cruelly cheated. Lavos lay dead, his spirit banished out of the world forever, but the last marks of his hands still lingered. They had been so near! But no, near was still late, and so Leena was dead. Cursed fate! He had failed in his task.

Schala placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He smiled sadly, and bowing his head shook it.

"Why, Schala? If you know, tell me. Why do things always have to be like this? Can love and peace never last?"

He turned, and the light in his eyes was both sombre and mellow, as one supporting a great grief only with effort. For he indeed did so, and had lately come through great torment and struggle; surely he could not have been unchanged.

She shook her head in reply to his question.

"No, all my knowledge does not avail me in this matter. Even Lavos did not know all things, and some truths are fated to remain mysteries in shadows for ever. But a curse is laid upon us, that is sure. One that ever turns our toil against us, and spites our victories. An ancient evil, not of Lavos, but of ourselves. All I may do now is quell some of your grief by reminding you to hope in better times, as you once did."

"But will they ever come again, Schala? How can they now, at least for me?"

Janus glanced upward from where he sat wearily, near on the ground beside the body of his friend.

"Do not think such thoughts now! You make the victory yet more bitter. This should be a day of feasting and glory."

Serge shook his head. He now saw things with wiser eyes.

"Victory...yes. A great victory. And bitter, too, like you say. We're the ones who've suffered to win it!"

Schala nodded in agreement.

"True enough, Serge. That is the price that fate has laid upon us, perhaps. The cost by which the world found salvation. It certainly seems bitter now, but is it not a small price in exchange for what we have gained? We have redeemed the future, and overthrown the ancient tyrant! Yet not merely for what we have done will we be remembered, but by what we were willing to lose, and did indeed lose, in this immortal struggle. Is that not the measure of strength, and of heroes?"

"Maybe," Serge murmured. Her words rung true, as ever. And yet they did nothing to relieve the profound loss that now swept his heart.

"Leena," he whispered with a tear, remembering all days he had spent with her, at home.

But her spirit was gone from the world forever now, to lands un-trodden by living feet, and never more would her eyes look upon either a setting sun or upon his face in love. Nor he upon her face. Twilight had now fully descended, and a still peace filled with melancholy came over them.

"An end has come for many things, now, haven't they Schala?" Serge asked.

She nodded softly.

"Yes, that may be, though only the future will tell us with certainty. But perhaps the ancient tale is at long last over. Many countless ages it has spanned, but in my spirit I believe its ending is right here, at this very moment."

Janus nodded in agreement, smiling. And for the first time Serge saw neither a hint of malice nor hate in his eyes.

"Zeal is now at long last avenged, for I feel a peace I have never before known. My vows of old are fulfilled, and I am no longer bound to them."

Schala looked to Serge and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, peered into his eyes. She saw he held back his tears.

"Ah, this is a time for such things; courage is no longer needed, for it has fulfilled its purpose today. Weep now, my friend. The tears will comfort you. We have fought hard and long, and had much slip away."

They stood there for long unmoved, looking with changed eyes upon a changed world, until the last of light had failed, and a peaceful darkness took all.

A week later they had returned north to Guardia. With the death of Lavos Porre had lost its governing will, and their armies had scattered in fear. The legions of Mystics had marched in triumph into the citadel of Porre the morning following death of Lavos, and none to barred their way. Though they had not been without loss, the battlefield outside the city being scattered with hundreds of dead, it was still a joyful victory by most accounts. It was seen to it by Azarel himself that the armies of Porre were utterly disbanded and, with much effort, the guns and steel swords of Porre were destroyed so that they might never make war or seek to conquer their neighbours again. What ships remained in the Home Armada were taken north to Guardia, where they were harbored as war spoil. The government of Porre, it was found, had been overthrown by the military some time before and so, in final guard against any treachery, Azarel assumed the title of Emperor. The senate of Porre, however, was given freedom to govern their land in whichever way they might, and Azarel only ruled so that there would be no chance of war again.

But all these doings for the most part fell to the Mystics, who Sigurd hailed as allies and brothers, and to whom he swore everlasting oaths of comradeship. The company, now but four, began for home on the eve following the victory, and did not care to partake of the victory feast that Azarel prepared in honour of them all.

Little enough chanced on the way. They were not slowed in any wise by any in Porre, but two days into the journey a sudden thought came to Serge, one that the victory and later grief had driven from his mind.

"Why can't we use the Time Egg again, Schala?" he asked. "To save Leena, and Crono?"

"Time's gates are closed now," she answered solemnly. "If not forever, then at the very least until some great need once again

unbars them. Such a time has now ended, and behind us they are fastened shut. The Time Egg will not avail us if fate rules against such measures, as I can feel it has. Now, as not before, we must live with the past and know it to be unchangeable."

And Serge knew with those words that any hope of seeing Leena again was vain. He did not weep, but spent much of the remainder of the journey in silence, keeping to himself and his thoughts. She was dead, but he was not. What was this, now? He wondered what his path should be, and where it would lead him.

Upon their arrival in Guardia they found things vastly better than they had left it. The armies had fought valiantly and, though outnumbered, they had held the victory in the end. Two thousand of the enemy had surrendered themselves willingly, but these Sigurd commanded to be set free after swearing solemn oaths never to join in any war of conquest again. As for the armies of Guardia, some few of the captains found it strange when they attempted to recall when or why their lords had left them. All they could say is that they were certain that they had departed on some dire errand, and had left the battle in their charge. But none could recall precisely what was said, or even when. Needless to say they were most amazed to hear of the deeds performed in the south, though not one of them could comprehend how all this had come to be. But neither, for that matter, could Serge, nor even Schala. And so things were simply remembered as they were, and not as they had been. But certainly not all was joyful. For Serge, it was a hard blow, as Leena remained dead, and all their strong-willed hopes had failed to save her life. Schala said it to be the will of fate, and those things that were destined to change had done so, and those that were ordained to remain were unchanged. It was a most likely truth, but was little comfort to Serge's heart that fate should will the death of his wife, and wresting her away allow him such a cruel hope, but with no true chance of saving her. And then there was the second lamentation, that which touched them all: when things were in order again, and the last of the remnants of Porre sent back to their own lands, they went to the east by the shore to bury the body of the fallen king.

Though it had been much over a week since his death, it appeared that some magic lay yet upon his body, for it had remained incorrupt. Most marvelled at this thing, but for the four... had they not faced demons and passed through time? Such were greater things, and were too weary to care much for any wonders. It might be thought that for one so great as Crono a tomb of great size would have been fitting, that all might see it and remember the charmed life that he had led. But it was not so. He was laid to rest after the fashion of a dead king from a lesser age: placed in a hollow of stone beside the sea, covered with simple stones from the shore. This last duty fell to Sigurd, as the king's son, and it was twilight of the burial day when at last he placed, with trembling hands, the final stone upon the cairn. Far behind the changeless seas sounded upon the cliff-shore.

Schala said a space of thoughtful words and Sigurd, after his fashion, said a parting prayer for his father. Finally Janus drew his sword and knelt before the grave, shaking his head.

"Rest peacefully, my old friend. Yours was not the lightest of paths to tread, but now you may come into your rest knowing that you have followed it faithfully and well."

He brought out the shattered shards of the Rainbow Sword, such as he had been able to save from the ruinous hall ere they had fled, and placed them amidst the stones of the tomb.

"This weapon of yours will not ever be reforged. It was yours alone, and perishes with you."

Janus rose again sweeping his sword upward in final salute to his friend. Returning the blade to its scabbard he turned to face the others.

"What other words need I say? To the ears of the perished does no prayer come, so he does not need them. Let us not grieve, for we will only show sorrow for ourselves and those that remain. The dead need few tears."

He stole a fleeting glance backward at the grave, and a soft change came over his face:

"Even so I, and the whole world, shall miss him."

Schala nodded in assent.

"He was the friend of fate, and the Great Hero of the ages. Who deserves tears more than he, for who did more than what he did? Let us mourn, let the whole world mourn, for the one who saved it is now dead."

Serge merely remained quiet. His words were of little eloquence, and he would rather remain quiet than sound foolish.

They stood there in silence for a time, listening only to the sounds of the waves and gulls. At last they were joined by some others: people from Guardia that came to give their honour to their dead king, and place treasures of gold and silver upon his grave (as was the ancient custom of that land.) The four, not wishing to be among a throng, retreated down the cliffs a ways, and sat to watch the sun descend.

"Whose tale was this, Schala?" Serge said at last. "I was drawn into it unwillingly. You were, too. We all were, from Zeal to Guardia. Can this all have just been Lavos' story?"

Schala nodded at his words, thinking them over.

"Perhaps, yes. He was the only thing that remained unchanged. And with his death, it ends. What shall the world do now, with its freedom?"

"It will continue as it always has, Schala," Janus replied. "As you have said, our flaws our not born of Lavos' malice, and so we must live with them even now; we have but defeated one evil, but there are others in this world, and not the least dwell within our own hearts. And say not that the tale is over, nor even that it was Lavos' tale. Rather, I should think that this is the story of mankind that we weave, and it was Lavos who fell into it at its beginning."

"Unravelled it?" Serge suggested.

"Maybe," Janus answered. "At the least the tapestry of history is not as it was destined to be otherwise. And I wonder: what was the original design that was intended? Was it better, or has it been refined through strife?"

"Better or worse only the Great Weaver may say," Schala said. "But I should think that it is the way things are, not the might-have-beens, that are the true intent. But what is this you say: even though the chapter is over, the story yet continues? Interesting."

She turned her eyes to the sea. It beckoned her away to a far path. Perhaps the story was not ended yet, but her part here was, at least. She stood.

"But even as one thing ends, so must others. The time has come for farewells, Serge."

Serge started, not having expected this now of all times.

"You're leaving? Why do you want to now?"

"No, not because I wish to, but because I must. My fate still leads me on."

"Don't go yet!" Serge cried, standing suddenly. "Out of all my friends, you and Janus are the last! Crono is dead, and Leena..."

"Dear Serge," she said softly, in a voice of pity. "I must. This circle has not yet begun, and there are other things that I must yet do from the other world to effect it. But do not grieve overlong at this parting! It may be that we will never see each other again, yet this is how things must now be..." she said, and cast a strange look upon him, "unless, that is, you wish to return with me."

She spoke the last words quickly, from her heart and with little forethought. And for this her mind begrudged her at once: she had spoken too much. For in these words Serge saw her hidden longing and unspoken hope that she held near.

Schala turned quickly, shifting her eyes from his all too keen glance. It seemed to her that Serge had grown, not in bodily strength, but in that of his mind and spirit. Through sorrow he had learned wisdom and understanding, even as had once been her lot. And his eyes were more keen than before. At the very least she could not meet them, for it seemed he could read her the very desires of her heart written therein.

"Schala," he began, yet halted as she raised a hand commanding him to be silent.

"Serge, do not reply. I charge you as a dear friend to forget that I ever spoke it."

"My sister," Janus said, rising slowly from the ground, "if this is indeed your last parting, will you leave while he does not know all that is in your heart? Shall you go when secrets lie yet between you?"

But Serge dismissed his words. It was not necessary that either tell him. He could see it well enough of his own sight. In the distance the surf broke gently upon the beach, and a warm wind swept in from the sea.

He walked to where Schala stood, back still to him. But he walked around to face her and, clasping her hand in his, looked upon her with a slight smile. He now understood.

"Ah, I can see now what you've been hiding, Kid. You love me, then?"

She sighed, resigning her secret that she had so long kept hidden from all but her brother.

"Yes. Yes, I most surely do. Though I attempt to deny it!" she added bitterly.

"Kid. Schala of Zeal, my most loyal and beloved friend: that wasn't very wise. You can't hide a thing like that forever, and expect it just to fade away."

What irony this was: each had taken the place of the other. Always it had been she counselling him in amidst his doubts, speaking to him of what wisdom she knew. But now it seemed that, at least for that moment, he was the wiser.

"And," he continued, "it's not entirely unreturned. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel a little of the same towards you also."

She smiled sadly, knowing beforehand what words he was about to speak.

"But this can't be. At least not now. Things are different, in some way. There's no place in my heart anymore for that kind of love. A melancholy has fallen on it, and before it lifts I have to find some peace. I can't follow you where you're going."

She nodded silently, but small tears coursed down her cheeks as he continued, for the words, though truly spoken, stung her heart dearly.

"But I can't go home, either. Crono once told me that someone has to live where their heart rests; that was once by Leena. But with she being dead my heart is unchained and lost. For a long time my home will be as lost as my heart."

Schala fought to keep her countenance noble and unmoved, and struggled against her tears. But when she saw that Serge, too, wept somewhat, she let it be. She closed her tear-ridden eyes and turned.

"And so I must leave now. We must not see each other again, not till we are both changed with years. I shall return to you, if you so desire it. Call for me. I will ever listen for it, and will hear it, be it tomorrow or upon my deathbed, and will find some way to return. And mayhap you shall hear from me again. But alas you speak truly, and foresight tells me this: we will not look into one another's eyes again for many years. And, though I pray that it is not so, perhaps never again. Janus, come! The quicker we depart, the less the grief."

She looked once more to the unchanging sea, now silhouetted in the faint light of the unseen sun. She drew out her long-wielded dagger.

"And for this, I have now little need! I will gladly rid myself of it at last, this trophy of bloodshed, war, and woe-ridden fates. Will you keep it Serge, in remembrance of all these passed things, and of me?"

Serge shook his head.

"I don't need a knife to remember you by. Memory will last longer and clearer."

"Very well. But then rid me of it, I pray. Throw it out to sea, and let it rest there. A symbol of the ending of toil and battle, at the very least for us."

She placed it in his hands the hilt of her knife. Her queenly dagger, which she had carried for many long years of toil. But now its time was over. With as great a throw as he could bring his weary arms to give he hurled the metal blade spinning far out to sea. It flickered like a falling star for a moment, then vanished into the waves.

"And there let it lie till these seas are withered. We now disband, for our task is done, and our journey complete," Schala said gravely.

"Truly," Janus said in reply to Schala. "But come now, my sister! Let us not depart yet. Here you may well find rest."

The words were neither lightly nor unwisely said, it seemed. Though it had ever been his way to speak rashly and in pride, such things had now departed from him forever. The dark sorcerer was no more, for he was robed in garments of shimmering white, traced with weavings of gold and silver that reflected the sheen of the sun. He seemed as a cloud behind which the sun hides, yet even as the heavenly light burns at its verges, and flames from behind in hidden glory, his power could not be fully veiled. Truly here was the last prince and lord of Zeal, and his words were as the wisdom that brings low all foolishness.

But she shook her head.

"Farewells have already been said, and my heart is set upon this path. What more do we find in this world now, but sorrow?"

"Guardia may need you, my Lady," Sigurd offered hopefully.

"Guardia does not need me, King Sigurd. Not any longer. Through war it has been reborn. Through sorcery it has been saved. A king it has lost, but a new king now reigns in his stead."

She looked over to Sigurd, who smiled sadly.

"Yes. I am left with a high and difficult duty, and I pray that I do not fail my land in it; I shall do my utmost to live to my father's mighty example. Alas that our great castle is fallen; time and fate has dealt us a hard blow," he looked to the sea that beat upon the shore. "But I do not curse it! Let it signal the rebirth Guardia. A new flame springing from the ashes of the old."

Serge smiled at these words, so like to those he had heard Crono once say.

"So much like his father," he said. "Yes, Guardia will live again. And I'll swear to you that if you ever need me, I'll come to your aid, and the aid of your people."

Sigurd bowed shortly in thanks.

"Upon this shore, where my father is buried and companions depart, shall be built the new fortress of Guardia. Tel-Astera shall it be named, 'the castle of the Heavens': a citadel by the sea. White will be its walls, and silver its banners. I shall make its towers of marble: greater and fairer than any of stone before it since the days of Zeal."

"That, Sigurd, is your journey," Schala said, casting her lazuli eyes upon the youth. "May you meet with good fortune in it, and in all your days and deeds. Farewell, friend, and may God smile upon you and what you put your hand to."

She turned to the sea yet again. Reaching with absent fingers into her pack she brought out the Time Egg. In her hands the last rays of sun were reflected on its brilliant pearl-like shell, dancing and weaving with an immortal glow.

Upon her palm, seemingly at no bidding but only of its own will, the Egg began to spin, slowly at first but gaining in speed. The many colours that shimmered upon its shell now flashed in flickering light.

"To the other world, and whatever may follow," Schala said, looking hard upon the Egg. And the thing did not deny her this wish, for it was in accordance with the will of fate. A whirl of azure light broke in the air before her: the gate that crossed the worlds.

All at once a dazzling burst of sun-like light shimmered from the depths of the doorway, and for a half moment Serge shielded his eyes from the brightness.

As his eyes regained their sight, he saw Schala give one last nod of farewell to him, with a half-smile of bittersweet melancholy upon her lips.

She placed the Egg into the hands of her brother and, without so much as a glace backward, but with her head bowed in grief, stepped forward through the door.

Almost Serge reached out to stay her departure. Nearly his voice called out to halt her. But he checked his will and heart, knowing with some wisdom that things were happening as they should and must.

Even so Serge wept a small tear as Schala stepped through the enchanted doorway. It may well have been the very last he would see her. And now Janus also turned, as if to step through. Yet at the last he returned his gaze to Serge. His countenance bore none of the rage, neither the hate nor pain that it had carried in all the long years of his life before. A joyous peace had descended upon his mind, and it shone like a starfire in his eyes. He was his true self once again, such as he had not been since before his memory could recall. And in his eyes Serge read both compassion and pity. He raised his right hand with open palm outward in the ancient salute of the Zeal High Court, and bowed low.

"Farewell, Serge, twice hero and beloved friend! It may be that some day the paths of my sister and you may cross once again, but I foresee we shall never meet in life again. This is our final farewell, and I wish you the best. I shall pray that you find that which you seek."

Serge did not know in what way to reply, but to this uncertainty Janus smiled softly, pity in his eyes. For while he knew that his journey was over, he saw a great road lay yet before Serge.

"Do not forget my sister, Serge. She has always loved you, and she shall never give up hope in seeing you again. Know that she spoke truly when she said she would ever wait for you alone, yea, even unto her deathbed. She would hold her life complete with no loss to only see your eyes one last time ere death. For such is her love for you, though you see naught of it till now. I beg you, do not spurn her promise!"

He reached into his robes, and drew out a small ring.

"So that you do not forget, receive this token. It was once my signet ring, as a prince of Zeal. Never have I worn it since my childhood, deeming it to be a bitter reminder of all that I had lost. But now may it serve as a reminder for you, of my sister. A symbol that, wherever your journeys may take you, her goodwill and love are with you; though your hearts are separate, her prayers will be upon your path. As for me, my eyes are unclouded from the night now, and I can see things clearly that were once hidden. From this day hence I will live the way of peace over war, of love rather than hatred. And I say to you to live for the same, and always remember that you have the love of the most mighty and noble of mortal women. God's speed, Serge."

He placed the ring into Serge's hand. Serge held it up, straining to look at it in the dim twilight. It was a small true-silver band, set with a lone crimson stone.

He placed it onto his finger with a smile of thanks.

"Tell her, I will always remember."

Janus nodded, and with a low bow and sweep of his cloak took a step backward.

The whirling blue light engulfed him, and he disappeared.

"Two more valiant and mighty children of this earth there have never been." Sigurd said at Serge's side, "They were truly the greatest of all."

Serge nodded, and turned to Sigurd.

"Send word out if you need me, and I'll come."

Sigurd frowned, stealing a fleeting glance to the doorway, even as it faded into the air.

"Where are you going? Surely you are not returning to your home so soon!"

Serge shook his head.

"No, not home. I have no home, anymore," he said sadly.

"But, can it not be here, then?" Sigurd replied brokenly. "This land is forever indebted to you, and you will always find a gracious welcome here."

But Serge again shook his head shook his head, stealing a glance to the grave. A few people had now gathered about it to show their respect to their one-time king; how few knew the truth of his great deeds, or how noble a man lay beneath it. An old hooded man smoking a pipe knelt before the grave, whispering unhearable words to the cairn.

"No. I can't find peace here. I can only hope to allay my grief in wandering. Farewell, and may I see you soon again. But you have my word: I will return before next winter."

"But till then, where will you be?"

Serge looked across the distant plain to the forests beyond. And far past that, a near boundless world.

"Wherever my path takes me. More than that, I don't know."

And so saying, he turned.

But even as he did so a voice called out to stay him:

"Are you so quick to depart, then?"

Serge turned to see the old hooded man that had been kneeling at the grave.

"Why do you say that?" Serge asked. "You have better advice to give me?"

The man looked up slightly, but his eyes remained shadowed.

"I merely take notice that you are swift to continue your journeys," he replied, returning the pipe to his lips. "You do not tarry in this place and time, as many would do after so harsh a journey."

"But what choice do I have in that? Time found him. It will find me, even if I try to hide from it. But what's this, or I, to you?"

"Ah," the man said, drawing deeply from his pipe and letting the smoke drift slowly from between his lips. "I, if you have not already guessed it, am a one-time friend of the one that lies perished beneath that cairn."

"That is cryptic, and my mood is not for riddles, old man," Serge said crossly. "I have..."

"You have lost all that you hold dear. You have been most wickedly undone, even amidst a glorious victory."

Serge returned his words with a curious glance.

"What do you know of me?"

"You are the hero Serge Masamunë. And in scorn of what appeared to be a fate of woe and grief, you have risen again in hope, and in so doing have shown your truest strength."

"Who are you?" Serge asked, glancing thoughtfully at the old man. Now that he contemplated him more nearly, some memory came to his mind. "Are you the one called Gaspar?"

"Ah, so you guess it, do you? Yes, I am the third of three: the latest of the Masters of the Ancient World. Or perhaps I might be accounted the first; it is a most uncertain thing to say. Such orderings are from the standing of the eyes that see them, and to live within time was not my destiny. I seldom leave my abode that lies at the End."

Serge nodded with recognition, remembering this prophet of time from tales told to him long before by Schala.

"Why are you here, then?" Serge asked, taking a piercing glance into the darkness that hid his eyes. "If what's said is true, then all the ages are open to you. You come here, to this day of sadness? Why?"

"To bid a late farewell to the Great Hero, as he will be known for a long span of years," he replied with a smile. "Do not think me pitiless in my knowledge, and that I did not weep tears when I saw his feet first tread upon this doom-ridden path."

"You knew this was his fate, lord Gaspar?"

The man nodded softly.

"Verily, I know all of what is fated to happen in this world, my friend. I knew this to be his destiny even before he first came to me. When he stumbled upon my abode, I marked his eyes and knew the hour and design of his last day, and knew every joy and sorrow that lay before him in his life. Many there are that might judge me harshly for not guiding him from it, but he would not be among them, I deem. He knew this, as do I: fate and destiny are born of a stronger will than ours, and those who attempt to fashion them to their own designs find themselves only ensnares all the more tightly, in the end. It is a dire curse that I am smitten with, to have the knowledge of woe, and the wisdom to let it happen in scorn of my human heart. And even now, I know the fashion of the final day of this world. Yea, I know what fate will befall you in the end."

He paused.

"If you wish it, I will tell you of your destiny, though it is contrary to my wisdom," he said, the smoke of his pipe tracing ghostlike fingers into the air.

Serge shook his head darkly in reply.

"A test, that's all your words are. And I'll pass it here and now, if it entertains you. That wouldn't be a wise thing; if I knew it and, knowing it to be dark, ran from it, it would only find me all the faster. But don't test me, Master Gaspar. Keep your own wisdom close, and don't try a man that's already so near breaking."

Gaspar smiled, drawing a deep breath from his pipe.

"Truly, I would not have told you had you asked, yet I knew that you would say even as you did, and thus I could speak without imperiling my wisdom. Ah, but I ramble, child. I keep you from your fate, and must shortly return to mine."

He turned to go, but Serge called out to him.

"But why do things happen like this? Why do we have to die to evil, yet never completely destroy it? Can't we ever escape it? That, at least, I'd have you tell me."

The man turned about slowly, lowering his pipe from his mouth.

"It is the Curse, Serge. Think not that folly began with Zeal, and that our race was not corrupt ere then. Ever and anon, when we think ourselves free from its clutches and revel in our glory, we are struck to the earth by such disaster. It reminds us of who and what we are, and that we are but mortals. And we ourselves have brought evil into the world, and so must abide with the judgement until the remaking."

Gaspar bowed low before Serge.

"Perhaps you may come to some understanding of this, in time..." he said, his voice trailing. And even as he did so his form faded, as if he were no more than a dream. And then there was silence, save for the endless call of the waves.

And then Serge nodded, knowing that the rest of his life was now at hand. Wordlessly he turned about, looking upon the road that he was fated to follow.

He walked steadfast and determined, as a hero at once victorious and defeated, undone by grief yet still cherishing hope. At his side he brandished about the Masamunë once, in a warrior's farewell to both the living and dead.

4

And so it was Serge wandered off alone into the wild. Though he oft returned to Guardia, and feasted at times of high festival with his old comrade the king, he never after had for himself any lasting home, save that which was given him by his journeys. He lived a wild and simple life, by both land and sea, but was a friend to all who would receive him. Indeed, as he often said to those whom he met, he knew too much of the joys and sorrows of the world, or things high and base, to ever be wholly at peace again. As he was oft heard to say: "Maybe, someday, I'll find rest for my spirit, and let my heart to love again; but I think that day will never come."

And in this manner it came to pass that, for many years after the rise of Guardia, Serge wandered his way around the world, east and west, north and south, and learned all that he could, seeking answers to questions that he did not know. It came to be that none in that generation were more learned in either lore or woodcraft than he, though some have said that this was greatly due to the power of the red ring of dreamstone that he ever wore. And also as a warrior he won much renown, for none there were that neared his might in battle, and even many lifetimes afterward a skald could be heard telling of the legend of the mighty wandering warrior who held the Masamunë. When the flash of his sword was seen upon the battlefields of Guardia, even the greatest of foes trembled in fear, and armies foundered. Some hold it true that, indeed, he never died, and continues to wander the plains of the earth in an endless search for rest. Yet die he did, as do all, though it is not known if any saw him perish, or marked where at last he fell, though all of good will grieved for him. And it is said in legend, truly or untruly, that those who by chance have wandered near his grave have felt in their souls the bittersweet strains of grief and joy mingled, the unquiet that haunted Serge through many of his years. Yet it is not told in any tale whether he at last found the peace he sought, and one may only guess if he was ever reunited with the one called the Princess of Zeal.

And so the greatest of the heroes of that new age became a legend remembered in song, until Guardia was no more, and all the lands were changed.

(Last Edited October 17, 2004)