1369, Marpenoth 17

Anomen and Brindhal had developed a habit of going off from the rest of the group under the pretense of picking flowers during their time together, but no one believed them after several weeks and though they kept up the pretense, their activities were generally ignored. Jaheira had always frowned upon flower picking anyway, politely but firmly announcing that the plants needed their blooms more than they did. Still, every few days or so in the warmer months, Anomen and Brindhal would use the transparent excuse to get some time alone, away from the rest of the group. They would be gone for a couple of hours, and return with pollen in their hair and a small bouquet or two to pass around.

Suldanesselar had been particular good for flowers when they arrived, and the elves had been given advanced warning of their off-time activities. When they arrived in their room they found a good supply of nararoot and cassil sitting on a bedside table – a gift from Jaheira. At the time Anomen had been irritated – they certainly did more than what Jaheira implied. Brindhal, however, simply laughed it off.

"Well, it's ours," she had said, bemusedly looking at the bundled wraps of herbs. "Might as well use it." So they did, among the weeks that they spent in the elven city following the defeat of Irenicus.

"What do you think?" Brindhal asked, as she placed a daisy chain over her short dark hair. The Watcher laughed and looked down at his own hands, which were worrying the stems of some colorful wildflowers – daisies and poppies and buttercups.

"Lovely, my lady," he answered honestly, putting the flowers aside. "Come here."

"Mmm, what for?" the paladin asked, smiling at him coyly from the patch of clover she'd been sitting in. Anomen gave her a serious look and her smile subsided a little – she stood up and, trampling the flowers underfoot – kneeled next to him. "You look serious – what's the matter?"

Anomen wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. "Nothing," he replied, burying his face into the fabric of her blue tunic. "I am simply painting a picture."

Brindhal laughed, and he could hear it rumble through her stomach. "A picture of what, Sir knight?"

"Of you, of course," Anomen answered, releasing her, looking up into her eyes. "Rather, of us."

"Oh, now you're being ridiculous." Although the words were harsh, they were spoken gently and there was a slight smile on her face.

"I'm but a man, my lady. Allow me my flights of fancy, eh?"

Anomen's comment was meant lightly, but a heaviness had fallen over the the two knights and they faced one another uncertainly for a few moments, their dark eyes searching each other's face. It was Brindhal that looked away first, and a slight flush crept onto her dark cheeks.

"In a tenday," she murmured, fidgeting with the daisy chain. "We'll leave at the start of Summer."

"To where?" he asked, watching the yellow petals flutter in the air as they fell from his lover's dark hair onto his tunic.

"We're docking in fifteen minutes," Brindhal said quietly, plucking them off of him. She held them up into the breeze that seemed to permeate the late spring air and watched as they floated up and away – to Anomen, the young knight next to him seemed statuesque - goddess-like, with the sun behind her and covered in the late spring wildblossoms. Except…

Anomen wrinkled his brows in languid confusion. Something was most definitely off. "What did you say, my love?"

Brindhal leaned in close to him, and Anomen could smell the scent of the wildflowers in the air, and the feeling of the cotton tunic on his hands and arms. Although the paladin was not a strikingly beautiful woman, she had an earthy charm that the Helmite found appealing, and when she brushed her lips against his cheek and the lobe of his ear, he closed his eyes and sighed in content.

"I said," she murmured provocatively into his ear, "that we're docking, you thrice-damned sluggards…"

"– and you! Helmite!" An angry voice called, rousing him from his sleep. He sat up suddenly as a large, barrel-chested man – the captain of Gilded Summer – burst into his room and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Out with ye, we're dockin' in fifteen minutes an' the clouds ain't going ta wait for ye to get yer arse out of bed!"

"Wha—?" Anomen murmured sleepily, turning over to face the open door. The jolt of his awakening had dulled the lines between realily and his dream world, and he felt foggy-headed.

"Get out there an' help wit' tha cargo or I'll be tossing ye off tha sides!" the portly man bellowed, slamming the door behind him. Anomen blinked in the darkness of his quarters for a moment before climbing off of the bunk, hastily throwing on his clothing, and joining the sailors upstairs.

The captain hadn't lied – the skies above were the color of charcoal and arcing lightning across the clouds and sea. Around him the sailors were frantically securing cargo and adjusting the sails, with the captain- stationed above once more- shouting orders to and fro. Anomen watched as the old seaman grabbed the ear of a younger man and pushed him towards the others, and for a brief moment, the Helmite contemplated sneaking below decks before the storm broke all around them. Unfortunately, the captain had spotted him and had other ideas.

"Helmite!" he called, motioning him over vigorously. Anomen swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he crossed the deck to stand at the old man's side, dodging the busy sailors. Around him the ship was swaying violently and he inwardly admired the balance of the other men – the priest felt ill every few steps and despite the long journey, a tolerance for seasickness had never quite developed. Standing on a raised portion of the deck, the captain calmly surveyed the scene around the ship and the weather's impending turmoil.

"If the Bitch Queen ain't spared us today, I'll be a Sahuagin," he said loudly, followed by, "Look there! Just in the nick of time!"

The weathered man gestured to the starboard side of the ship and Anomen turned his head – there, after almost five tendays of roiling sea and azure skies, was land. Rich, green land, so unlike Amn that Anomen was momentarily taken aback with the intensity of the colors in this part of the world. For that moment, the entire world consisted of Anomen, the sea, and the verdant land ahead.

"Maztica's a beaut, ain't she?" The captain sighed rapturously as the first fat drops fell from the sky above and the sailors scrambled below. "'S too bad ye won't be seein' Helmsport. That'd be a sight fer ye."

"What's the matter with Helmsport?" Anomen asked, putting a hand up to block the approaching curtain of rain. The landscape was growing nearer now, and he could make out the waving tops of palms and other trees, their leaves shimmering in the late summer rain.

"Plague, if ye can believe that! Me priestie got the Sending tha other day, tellin' us ta stay away!" he responded, gesturing to a man standing near the sails, with the sigil of Shaundakul emblazoned on lightweight robes. "Tha weather's made the sea so bad in those parts we couldn't pass anyway, even if there weren't no plague. We're goin' ta a nearby place, though, just a few miles northwesterly… ah, Hells…"

All around them the sky opened up, drenching everyone on deck to the bone. The captain flung a couple of creative curses towards the heavens then turned his attentions towards the sailors below – Anomen had gotten used to his tempestuous moods and short attention span, and shrugged it off as just another quirk of the ship, like the creaking wooden sides and stubborn doors. "Anchors down, lads! We'll wait 'til this is over ta get out the rowboats, aye?" He turned to Anomen, and inclined his head towards the men hauling the anchor – a not-so-subtle hint which the Helmite easily picked up on.

In spite of his nausea, the priest began to sprint away from the captain to help with preparations to drop the anchor. There was a palpable feeling of excitement in the air around him, and it was infectious – he felt invigorated, almost reborn in the gale, and wanted to bottle this feeling and enjoy it later, when the time came – and it would come, he was sure – that he regretted his decision to leave Faerun.

On land stood two figures loitering near a well that were engaged in a most curious and unique conversation. The villagers, seeing a storm coming, avoided them as they sprinted away to escape the wind and rain. These two strangers seemed almost unearthly, though, with their apparent disregard for the elements – one of them was as dry as a bone, while the other was soaked and didn't much seem to care. The first, an older man, was sitting on his haunches and surveying the road before them. The other, a young woman with long, coarse plaits and deep brown eyes, placidly stood next to him and held a large, water-bearing jug which was busily overflowing and sloshing in the rain.

"Thy timing is off," The old man said in a clipped voice to the dark-eyed woman, who looked wet, annoyed and worried at the same time. "Thou hast said he would be here by this time and thou hast misjudged."

"I didn't anticipate Umberlee opening the bloody Elemental Plane of Water on us," the woman replied back equally brusquely, sparing a glance at a retreating figure running away from the gale before turning her eyes back to the road. "If we're not careful, one of the villagers will hear us."

"Let them try, they're all heading into the woods," the man murmured, flicking a spot of mud from his knee. "Since ye have dragged me here to witness, though, I shall ask thee again: are ye sure about this?"

"I'm sure about this one, yes," the girl responded, hefting the jug and pointing to where the ship was anchored in the distance. "Just as I was sure about the last two. You're jealous because he's yours, aren't you?" She smiled a little at her joke, which the old man studiously ignored. The Lord of Watchers was as dour as always, and the rain wasn't helping his mortal joints in the least.

"Nay, that is not an issue at all. I feel that ye are letting thy personal matters interfere with thy decisions," he answered bluntly. "Aye, Delryn's a good sort. Aye, so were the other two. Ye have got a fine High Priestess in the making with that dark elf, but I ask thee again - are ye absolutely sure about this? Once ye have chosen, ye cannot go back on it. Perhaps it would be for the best if thou were to wait a while at the least, to see how his fates play out."

"Midnight didn't wait long and I shant either," was her only response as she poured out some of the rainwater from the jug. The excess water from the jug splashed cold against his bare feet, and he grimaced at his arthritis.

The Lord Helm sighed and sprang up, feeling the creak of old human joints and regretting his decision to accompany his young charge. "Midnight did not have much choice," he pushed. "I had been hoping that thou would be more like… Deneir in thine choosings."

His companion laughed, splashing more water from the jug in her arms as she began to walk down the muddy path. "Deneir's original choices had long since died by the time he got around to picking," Brindhal retorted, a smile coming to her dark face. "I'd personally rather be a Midnight than a Denier. Trust me, brother, I know what I'm doing."

"If thou sayest so," Helm called crossly, walkeding quickly to catch up. "Though I hold the most sincere hope that ye turn out to be telling the truth. For now let us hope that thy choice comes soon, lest my joints prevent me from changing back."

"Your mortality has made you cantankerous, did you know that?"

"Hush, girl, I cannot hear ye over Umberlee's tantrum," was the God's terse reply to her comment, followed quickly by a muttered, "Thrice damned mud!"

Despite her banter, the goddess was nervous – or at least as close to nervous as she had been recent memory. It had been a year (over a year, actually) since her ascension and she had spent the better part of it waiting for moments such as these. Watching Viconia's hidden-but-secretly-pleased haughtiness and Imoen's merriment at their reunitings, though, were light compared to this, a most auspicious of meetings. This was to be her third Chosen, and as the saying always went, the third time's a charm…

"Repeat not the tenets of heathen Tymorans and Maskites, child," Helm said in an irritated voice. Brindhal bit her lip both in embarrassment and in an effort to keep from laughing.

The two gods walked along in the rain, ignoring the storm breaking all around them. Elsewhere, inland, the Helmites were safely ensconced in their Fortresses and the Ilmateri passed out hot milk and mashed cornmeal under leaky roofs. On the ship, the sailors and priests heaved and sweated in an attempt to keep the vessel afloat.

"Heave, my boys!" the captain called to his crew from the sails. "Put your backs inta it! Ten lashes to the first one what shirks his duty to the Summer and her crew!"

"We watch because Helm bades us Vigilance and Ditifulness," a steely-haired priest called, holding a glass of wine aloft. "Our unblinking eye is a pale imitation of His own…"

"… and bades us to relieve the suffering of the weak, helpless and the hopeless, for we are the salve to the blows of the world and the poultice to ease the illness man inflicts upon his fellow brothers. Whilst these cords bind thy wrists, thou shalt never waver," finished a yellow-haired woman to her clergy, breaking open a loaf and passing the halves to either side.

"Almost time," Brindhal called to her companion over the wind and the rain. Ahead, for Brindhal, lay her path and Anomen's and the road for the Helmite's salvation. In front of the two Gods was the beach and its shifting sands, and the turbulent ocean spread out as far as the eyes could see.