What Should Have Been, Could Have Been, and Might Have Been.
A/N: This is something I started to write a while ago. Reviewers of my piece entitled "Moving On" were horrified at the abrupt ending, and so I give them this: three possible epilogues to the story. As you can guess from the title, one is the most probable situation, one the least likely and one somewhere between the two extremes.
It is very important that you remember that "Moving On" was written before Lady Knight was published in England (a long time ago, I know), so please don't review saying things like "this would never have happened", "Alianne didn't go to Shang", "the Copper Isles were in civil war at this time" etc. And please don't tell me I need to read her books, apart from being just down-right rude, you're quite wrong in assuming I haven't read Pierce's work. The only book I haven't read is The Will of the Empress and that's because I have to order it over from America so it costs more and I'm a student with little spare money at the moment.
Enough with the moaning, I'm sorry. On with the story. Yes, three parts, three possible epilogues. Enjoy, and feed back please.
Disclaimer: You know the deal, it belongs to Tamora Pierce and not me. Only the plot belongs to me, as with the story it continues from, "Moving On".
Part One: Autumn.
It was the end of autumn. The havest had been collected long ago, the wheat cut from the fields and stored away for the winter. Fruit had been dried out and preserved as best as possible, and the wood sheds had been prematurely stacked high.
Outside, the floor was enshrouded with the natural litter associated of the season. The trees hid their feet in leaves of all colours, their arms nearly bare, and the earth was a carpet of golden browns, reds and yellows. Around the Royal Forest, the squirrels had been seen busy with their own havest, as they now began to hibernate.
The days were starting to get colder. Winter was coming, and would soon be upon them for another year: the cycle that kept them all together, the cycle that never stopped, the cycle that united life.
The nights were turning clear and crisp again, every star plain to see on the night sky. Every farmer knew when he smelt that crispness of air that he would wake up to a frost upon the morn. And they did: Jack Frost was returning again, touching the golden carpet of leaves and making them sparkle with the promised onset of winter.
The men worked in the fields still, preparing them for the next year, and for the planting of the winter vegetables within the next month. Their labour kept them warm, but their breath still misted in the air and their lips still cracked in the dry wind. The sky was beginning to change to the crystal, delicate blue of winter.
And those that did not have to work in the fields til their hands were numb and bleeding; or on the fishing boats on a sea that grew angier every day autumn left; or in the houses, slaughtering those animals that would not survive the first sharp frost, cooking, salting and preserving the slaughtered beasts, and preparing the homes for the cold; -the people that did none of this, they bought warmer gowns, and thicker fur-lined cloaks and ordered for taller fires to be built in their hearths.
They drank more wine and spirits to warm their blood and to make their souls merry. They laughed, and danced, and feasted. They adapted easily to the changing seasons and weather, preparing to settle into their winter homes, for some of the passages would be blocked come December, and some roads would be too icy and rocky to travel.
The last day of autumn was different, however. It was a special day in Tortall, where everyone from the dirtiest ragamuffin to the King himself and his great mages remembered and paid their respects to those that had passed into the care of the Black God.
It was a day for grieving, a day of loss, a day of remembrance. But it was also coincidentally a day of celebration, a day of forgiveness and a day of peace. Part of paying respect to the dead involved remembering their lives, and celebrating them for what they were and what they achieved. It was a celebration quite removed from those of other festivities of the year though, like the Midwinter fesitval, or Beltane. This was a much more subdued event, with quiet music, little dancing and much talk. Pain and grief was shared on this day; no-one was to stand alone.
Domitan's soft boots made the golden carpet of leaves sigh, whisper and finally crackle into silence as he limped towards the temple. It was a simple, small place, but Kel had loved it because of that. It had been built in one of the further streets in the Temple District not so long ago for any Yamani's, either visiting or living in Tortall. It was not very grand but it was promised to be expanded upon once the realm had enough money to get a Yamani architect over to design it better.
The temple was built of white stone, with two carved pillars supporting an arched entrance way. The carving was of vines and flowers, with animals and birds entwined within the strands, and it continued up across the archway where it culminated at the apex in an ornate image of a half-sun, half-moon.
Dom paused and ran light fingertips over the carved white vines on his left hand side. A scar across his finger caught his attention: a painful, inescapable reminder of what had happened; a scar that mirrored the one deep within him.
A sigh slipped half-heartedly through his lips as he passed under the arch, his head bowed. It was dark inside and dressed all in black, Dom blended well into the shadows caused by the flickering candles.
Small shrines to the many various Yamani dieties were placed at regular intervals in niches around three of the walls. The floor, ever so slightly uneven, was paved of coloured stone in a simple inter-weaving pattern. A single coloured-glassed latern hung from a long chain in the middle of the room, where the arches of the ceiling met in a point, but its feeble light did little more than the candles to deflect the deep shadows of the temple. The white walls gave a cold feeling to the room, and there was a lack of incense which would have otherwise made the air warm, rich and fruity.
Dom paused but he didn't make a move towards any of the shrines; he had seen them on previous visits and knew they were ornately carved and heavily jewelled. Instead he hesitated a moment to catch his breath, then continued towards the wall on his right hand side. There were small doors put in amongst the shrines and Dom opened one of these and went through, closing it quietly behind him.
The chamber he was now in was not much bigger than the last one, but it was much brighter here. Large windows on the left let in the early afternoon sun, and it streaked through the diamond-paned windows to fall in pools on the grey flagstone floor. The walls were still white, yet somehow they seemed warmer here- more peaceful, perhaps because of the natural light. The ceiling was higher than in the last room, giving an airy feeling of space.
There were a couple of chairs by the door Dom had just came through. He rested his reluctantly-used crutch against one of them and looked up the room.
Ahead of Dom, at the far end of the vault, was the main feature. The sergeant began to limp towards it. It was a stone table, carved out of the ground itself. Across it lay a white cloth, plain except for an edging of simple lace. There were several items on top.
In front of the table was a plain red rug, with some simple straw-filled cushions. When he reached here, Dom used one of these cushions to kneel on before the table. He studied the items that lay there before him, even though he already knew exactly what he'd see.
Propped up in a plain, simply-made pine wood frame was a portrait of Kel's head and shoulders. Above her right shoulder her crest was painted; above her left the general symbol for a knight of the realm, be they male or female.
The portrait was to the far left of the table; next to it sat a little porcelain minature of a cat. The creature was painted delicately in green, and was holding its one paw high in the air: a Yamani good luck charm. Dom knew Kel had possessed a number of these, but it seemed her luck charms had not been enough.
Across the main stretch of the table lay Kel's sword, Griffin. The blue tempering shimmered every now and then as the wind shook the trees outside of the windows and made the light shift. Dom reached out a finger and delicately touched it. Behind the table, propped against the wall, was Kel's shield and her glaive, her best weapon.
At the back, right hand corner of the table lay a landscape ink sketch Dom had seen the few times he had visited Kel, be it in her rooms at the palace or her tent while travelling. It portrayed a beautiful scene from the Yamani Isles, of a waterfall descending into a pool of water, hidden deep within powerful, rich trees.
Around the rest of the table lay small items her close friends and family had laid there, things like pieces of jewellary or other little charms and nick-nacks.
In front of the sketch lay a small, ingraved plaque. Dom felt his eyes instinctively dart towards it, regardless that he could recite the words blindfolded. It succintly read:
Sir Keladry of Mindelan,
Knight of the Realm of Tortall:
A Tortall by blood,
A Yamani at heart,
A faithful and true warrior and friend to the end.
She will be greatly missed,
But never forgotten.
She has left her impression on everyone she knew.
It ended with her birth and death dates. Dom could never quite decide whether he felt it was sufficient and would be ruined by further addition, or unsatisifyingly short. It surely did no justice to all the good she had done in her life, and all the bad she had stopped or overthrown.
There was also a candle on the table. The wax was nearly spilling on to the white cloth, the flame did not have long to go before it would be guttering, spluttering and dying.
With a bit of struggle, Dom clamboured to his feet and limped around the table. Behind one of the pillars guarding the place of remembrance was a small crate with spare candles. Dom took one, brushing the sawdust off the cream-coloured wax, and returned to his position.
He lit the new candle from the old and placed them together on the table, one small flame and one tall, new flame.
'Kel...' he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.
Why had it happened? Why had she been taken so unjustly from the Mortal Realms? After everything she had struggled through, after all the noble and righteous deeds she had done, she had been so untimely snatched away.
And it was all because of him.
The pain was almost unbearable. It ate away at him, day and night, and awake or in sleep his mind had no rest. His heart was splintered and his shoulders were heavily weighted. He was aware of the watchful eyes of the healers on him, for his body would not heal if he wallowed in this melancholy for long. But now everything was over he was stuck fast in the brown mud at the bottom of the fast-flowing river and no-one was there to pull him onto safe land again.
He wanted to live, he knew he did. How could he reward Kel's work- her sacrifice- if he went to the Realm of the Dead? How could he make sure she was remembered duly and respected accordingly?
It was not from selfish desires he wished to live, but because he was wise enough to know that Kel would not want it any other way. If positions had been reversed and his body was now an empty shell, she would not have batted an eyelid- at least not in public. Life would have continued, as regular as it was able to. No doubt she would have given up her short-lived spy career, leaving the divergence to return to her shield.
Yes, he knew all this, but it did not stop the pain. As Neal had so helpfully offered, only time would stop that. And until time deemed it right for the pain to subdue, Dom would have to learn to deal with it, he could not let it distract from his duties and his own life.
He knew, also, that he was not the only one suffering. Many others grieved the loss of their loved ones, from illness, old age, childbirth, and wars- particularly on today; and he was not the sole mourner of the lady knight.
Neal, Dom knew, had taken the death hard, and hidden it well. Dom sometimes wondered if Neal, behind it all, suffered the most. Who was to say whether the best friend of many years felt the loss sharper than the lover of short time, or the parents, loved well but little seen?
There were others, too. Kel had a large, strong family, a close-knit connection of brothers, sisters and their children. Although Kel may have been considered as somewhat the "black sheep" of the family with her urge to be a lady knight, she had done them proud and they still felt her death keenly; now a hole marred the patchwork that was their kin.
The King's Own, particularly those that had come into contact with her, mourned the untimely loss of a skilled commander and fellow warrior, as did the knights that knew her.
The King was said to be shocked and Dom was angry that if only he had agreed to help, Kel may not have been dead now.
Many of the courtiers and people of Tortall grieved too, if less intensely. The death of one of the new idols of King Jonathan's reign sent a shock reeling through the country as the people realised that they were as human as everyone else. Some of the conservatives muttered that of course it was the only one of the three great women not to have been touched by the Gods to die first, but their words barely formed whispers before they were cut off.
'Dom?'
Dom pivoted on his knees, looking at the owner of the quiet voice. It was Neal. Neal looked as pale and drawn as Dom felt. Every corner and inch of his body seemed to ache, both from weariness, sadness and the loss.
'It's time to go, Dom.'
The wounded Sergeant turned back to the little table, the little goodbye to a great warrior. Dom knew that people as true as Kel were hard to find, and one had blew out her candle for him.
Soft footsteps heralded Neal's arrival at his side. His cousin didn't kneel too, but remained standing. He looked at the table, almost as if seeing it for the first time, and picked up the little green cat. He rubbed his thumb roughly over its china nose.
'She really used to love these, you know. She had loads of them. They brought her luck, she said.'
'I know,' replied Dom, in a harsh and raspy voice. 'I thought she had one always with her. She didn't have one that day. It was in my pack, to help me manage the journey home.'
Neal squeezed Dom's shoulder and replaced the cat. There was nothing he could say, there was no comfort.
'They are waiting.'
'Yes,' Neal answered. 'Raoul is in the vestible outside. He says he would pray to the Yamani Gods for Kel's peace and stillness, not to the Eastern Gods today. I think Kel taught him somewhat of the Yamani religion, he says it is what she would have wanted. Perhaps now she is as still and silent and peaceful as the trees and lakes and sky around us.'
Dom's silence was answer enough: he wished not to think of Kel's current situation, who knew what happened to those that passed into the care of the Black God? But it comforted Neal to think that his friend that had always looked out for him before was perhaps still around him, everyday, in little pieces of serenity. Perhaps here, in the wind that tousled his hair as he rode home; perhaps there, in the river by this makeshift camp; perhaps in the tree under which he sheltered with his young children.
Perhaps Kel would still see the good he could do. He would eat his vegetables every day, and practice with his weapons too, and perhaps, if he had a little girlchild he would name her after his best friend. His best friend that had given so much and died, so young, for love, for country, for friendship. They were certainly morals his children would learn of, namesake or not.
'Let us go then,' rejoined Dom softly. Neal slyly helped his cousin to his feet and together they left the little chapel, knowing full well they would return soon.
Raoul was outside in the dim-lit vaulted chamber, somehow looking both marginally uncomfortable and pleasantly satisfied at the same time. His grief at his former squire's death had been plain for the court to see, plain and unbridled. He did not try to hide his respect for the female warrior and his regret at her unexpected loss. In his equally unbridedly anger, he had personally made sure all of the bandits were gruesomely butchered. This was an event King Jon would have seriously reprimanded him for, if Kel had been anyone other than Kel. As it was, no-one, not even the onlooking King's Own said a word. Few knew of the Knight Commander's anger, and none forgot it.
Not a word was said as the three men made their way slowly back to the palace. They were to meet Kel's parents. Dom had as of yet avoided them, but when they had requested an audience with him he had asked Neal to accompany. He might be brave, but he was not strong enough for that meeting alone yet.
The three men made a silent procession away from the Yamani temple. It would take time, but they would recover. Dom's wounds would heal and he would return to the Own and live every day to the fullest. Supporting each other they could keep Kel alive in their memories and love of her.
These were three men that had loved one of the greatest women in Tortall's history. All loved her as friends; one also loved her as a would-be husband, another as a father. The third knew that although she would never return, he would always see her. She would still accompany him in everything he did, and this was comfort indeed.
She was in the wind, she was in the stars, she was in the lakes still as ice and the seas full of anger. She was in the trees and her laughter was in the sun, and a small part of her was in every sparrow that graced the Royal Palace of Tortall.
P.S. A/N: For anyone that enjoys my writing and for more information on my future/current projects please read my bio and/or email me. Thank you.
Fyre Thief.