Okay! The 'bad end' is here, with all the drama and suffering that entails. What, I cried myself to sleep for a week after I found out how HoT ends, I'm not gonna waste that emotion even if I'm going to fix it in the 'good end'! I may have gone too far in the future since I don't even know how PoF ends but I couldn't let my poor boy be shattered forever. If you're not here for sadness, skip to Chapter 44! :)

41: The Strength to Live: Tiachren

He woke to find himself lying upon damp earthen ground, and sucked in a heaving gasp of air. How sweet it was, after such exertion! Even down here, where it smelled of decaying plant matter. He had truly pushed himself to the brink and it was good to wake and rest.

But Trahearne! He sat up, a little woozily as his sap took a moment to adjust its flow, and then pushed himself shakily to his feet.

Rytlock stomped over, sheathing his sword. "You did it! Two dragons down, four to go."

"We did it," he confirmed solemnly, a huge smile suffusing his face. "Mordremoth is dead."

"Truly dead," Canach said. "I can't hear its voice in my head. It's completely gone."

"And we Sylvari are still here, still... us," Caithe said in a low voice of wonder. "I wasn't sure..."

Caoilfhionn ran to Trahearne, saw with concern that his eyes still glowed red. "Are you all right? Are you badly hurt? Tell me what to do."

Trahearne took a deep breath, seeming just as weary as he. Well, with good reason. "Caoilfhionn... I... My sword... Caladbolg... Only its power can free me from this. Please, bring it here."

Damara was closest, and she had to tug strenuously to free it from the vine it was buried in, and brought to them.

Trahearne took another breath, pain creeping back into his face. "Quickly, now: use it... on me. Kill me, Caoilfhionn."

"NO!" Caoilfhionn's cry rang through the tunnel. "Mordremoth is dead! We destroyed its mind! I will not-" He choked. He'd lost his brother and his friend – and many more besides – he could not lose his beloved as well. Not after all he'd fought. He flung himself at Trahearne, impacting hard into his chest, his face buried in his neck, and felt Trahearne gasp and clench his teeth.

Slowly, his arms closed about Caoilfhionn, returning the embrace. "But I still hear its voice. Mordremoth is alive. One last hateful vestige... a terrible seed planted deep in my mind. You must kill me, Caoilfhionn. Before that seed grows... before Mordremoth reclaims what it has lost."

Caoilfhionn shook his head, tears already running down, wetting Trahearne's neck. With horrified despair he realized his Wyld Hunt called him still. His task was unfinished. "No. No. Please, no. I... I can't. Please... Trahearne!"

"If you cannot, then let one of the others do it," Trahearne said gently. "It must be done. Caoilfhionn..." And Caoilfhionn pulled back enough to look at him, into that face so beautiful though half-frozen into wood, into those eyes so gentle even through the corruption that made them glow red. "Fear not this night-"

"NO." Caoilfhionn sobbed, clutching harder at him. "That's not fair. You can't-"

"...you will not go astray." Trahearne was running out of air, his voice weakening and breathy, fading and wilting before his eyes. "And you... will always be strong..."

Caoilfhionn shook his head, tears pouring. "Not without you. I... I can't go on without you. The dawn can't exist without the dusk."

"You can, beloved – my love – I love you. And you must. Please. Quickly. I can't hold on any..."

There was a rumble, and Trahearne's whole face changed, and a shadow rose behind him – a shadow with malevolent yellow eyes, and a blast of magic knocked them all back a pace, even Caoilfhionn. Trahearne thrashed, and from his mouth came horrible words. "I am the future. I am this world. You cannot destroy me. Run while you can."

Everyone yelled, with anger and fear. "What do we do!?" Damara cried. "Do you want me to-"

"I'll do it-" Rytlock said.

"No!" Caoilfhionn said. "Give- give it to me!" No one else but he could do this – he would wish if their places were reversed that it be like that. He could not see through his tears, reaching out blindly, and Damara pressed the long hilt into his hand. "Trahearne – I – I love you – forever!" He stabbed forward, and the broken shards pierced Trahearne's body right through.

And he let go, reaching up to Trahearne's face, pulling him down for one last kiss, deep and passionate and wet with tears.

After a moment, Trahearne's arms closed once more about him, and his love sighed into his mouth.

Blue light shone from the wound – Trahearne gasped against him in agony – and then he dissolved into magic, floating away in blue sparkles from Caoilfhionn's empty arms. The Dragon's spirit was gone. His Wyld Hunt fell silent.

Caoilfhionn stared blankly.

He screamed. He screamed a terrible scream of loss and heartbreak, so loud the others flinched away, and his throat burned and he tasted sap. Then he knew no more.

He woke. How much later, he could not say. His throat was agony but it was nothing compared to his soul. He could sense by motion and scent and sound that he was on a ship. Eithne was slumped over the side of his cot, her head pillowed upon her arms, fast asleep.

Annhilda bent over him. "You're awake." Her voice was soft, trying not to wake Eithne.

He looked at her, but could not answer.

She made a sympathetic face, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

He turned away.

"Caithe picked up his ring," Annhilda said. "It's on your finger next to yours. Forgive the liberty, but we didn't want it to get lost."

His eyes burned.

"We're going by ship to the Grove," Annhilda said. "We made it to the coast and got a fleet from Rata Sum to pick us up. We already stopped by there, to let the Asura off, but I figured you'd need to be home as soon as you can. Your sister Eithne hasn't left your side."

He lay still. He didn't really care. There was no reason anymore.

She patted his shoulder one more time and withdrew. "Rest. We're here for you."

He was strong enough to walk when they docked at the Grove, and he walked calmly and steadily forwards. He ignored Caithe and Eithne – ignored Cathaoir and Blathnat – he kept moving forwards until he stood in the Omphalos Grove before the Pale Tree.

She was looking better, and it was good to see her as she truly was, for the last time he had 'seen' her was as a Blighted illusion in Mordremoth's mind. She bent to him with grief of her own to meet his. "Oh, my son. Come here."

"I couldn't save him. I failed. I'm sorry."

He fell forward into her arms, weeping into her petal skirts. She held him gently. "You did not fail. I know your pain, dear one. You are not alone." And he was not, he could feel her comforting presence all around him. "Your poor voice... I fear it is gone forever. I cannot mend that tear."

It didn't matter to him. He didn't need it anymore. He didn't need life anymore. Why did he yet breathe? The rest of him was already dead with his love.

"Oh, my child. I know you have nothing but despair right now. All I can offer you is rest. Come. Rest in my branches." There was a soft sound from behind him, and he turned to see an empty seedpod waiting. Within... yes. He could sleep a long, dreamless, Dreamless sleep, forget the world for a time... forget he existed for a time...

He shed his clothes – there was no need for them in a seedpod – except for the rings, and climbed in, letting himself curl as a newborn into the enveloping, comforting nothingness of sleep.

It was a long time later that he stirred again, that he became aware of sound and touch. The seedpod peeled open as he lifted his head from his knees, and he looked out to see the upper branches of the Pale Tree. He took a deep breath and sat up, pulling himself up and out. He had nothing to live for – but he might as well see what was going on.

His eyes met Tiachren's, and the other knight gave him a grave nod. "Welcome back, Caoilfhionn."

He nodded in greeting, but still could not say words.

Tiachren gave him a hand in getting out of the pod. "I came when I heard. I have been waiting for you. And many others wait for you, too... but I am the one granted this honour."

"I am glad to see you," Caoilfhionn signed. Sign language was one thing Sylvari picked up from the Dream, along with spoken language, but it was far less common to need. But he needed it now.

Tiachren gave him a soft, sad smile. "We have sadly much in common." He embraced him, and Caoilfhionn leaned on him, finding comfort in his touch, from this man who knew exactly what it was he experienced, what he had lost.

He pulled back to sign again. "How long has it been?" He could not tell how much time had passed since he had killed... Mordremoth. The Grove looked the same as it always did, sounded the same, smelled the same. The sun was passing through the afternoon.

"Nine months, more or less. Events have been moving in the world, though perhaps I am not the best one to tell you of them. Your guild friends have split up to pursue separate quests, the human god Balthazar has risen, and Canach is free from his sentence."

Caoilfhionn nodded. It was good to hear Canach was doing well, at least.

"Was the time healing?" Tiachren asked softly. "I know no time can be enough, but physically, you are healed, but for your voice?"

"I was not badly injured when I returned," Caoilfhionn told him. "I destroyed my own voice, but all else is well." Even his leaves had grown back, the way they used to be, more or less. He paused, then asked slowly: "How... do you... continue...?"

"One day, even one hour at a time," Tiachren said, looking into the distance, his own pain in his eyes. "Not a day goes by that I not think about Ysvelta. I know I am not alone. Mother loves us all. But I wish... for her... next to me, that I may hold her and protect her as I failed to do. Always."

Caoilfhionn swallowed hard. "But then why live at all?"

"'Tis a question I ask still too often. There is naught I can say that does not sound trite and hollow. I struggle. You will struggle, as much as I, for your temperament, your love is like mine. But... take hope in that, too, for I have won so far, and you may too. We must press on through the grief. We do not know what else our destiny holds."

Amaranda the Lonesome's words came to him. "You will know great sorrow... and great victory." "A more glorious vision I could not ask for. I will accept both this great sorrow, and this great victory." "You do not know..." He hadn't known. No victory was worth this sorrow. The only thing that kept him standing was the thought that if he had not acted, then everyone in Tyria would have died. He had sacrificed his lover and his light for everyone else's safety and happiness.

And that, in the end, by cold logic, was worth it. If only he had died too! He should have slain himself with the shards of Caladbolg while they were still slick with Trahearne's sap, and be with him in the Mists, and then he could have been truly happy, to have saved everyone and still be with his love-

But he was not. He had not. And while he had no reason or will to live and fight, he could not simply leave of his own accord. Such was Tiachren's lesson to him.

He took a deep breath and straightened. "Did my sister leave me clothes?"

Tiachren gave him a sympathetic smile, no doubt sensing the feelings passing through him. "Yes, they are below. Do you want to see her, or shall I fetch them for you?"

"I will see her... later. Only clothes, for now."

"Of course. Follow me."

He adjusted slowly to active life, staying away from everyone but his closest siblings. It was hard for him to spend time with others, when every moment and sensation reminded him his love was gone, and those who did not understand were intrusive and indelicate with their words and attentions, even when they tried to be; awkward, as most Sylvari were in their ignorance. They saw his grief as beautiful, he guessed – the last remnants of a love that had been famed throughout the Sylvari, as Tiachren and Ysvelta had been, for its purity, constancy, and passion. It was so like his people to romanticize it, and he could not blame them, for he had done the same before he knew what it was.

And they had lost Ruadhan, too, he and his close siblings. The Briar Baronet, they'd called him laughingly for his leaves and not his personality, he had been the most cheerful fellow, the most teasing of all of them, always ready to help. Bereft of him, they were weakened together, and Caoilfhionn could not find his heart for the wounds in it.

Tiachren became very close to him, and they went about everywhere together, so much so that he heard it whispered that they had found love again in each other. But it was not so; only that they were so close in age and circumstance, and both waiting for the day they would see their own lovers again. They held hands often, they embraced more than most, but Tiachren was not Trahearne, and Caoilfhionn was not Ysvelta, and if everyone else misinterpreted it, that was not his affair.

Caithe was another who understood, in a different way. "I cannot tell if I am more grieved or glad that I was not present for Faolain's last living moments. But she brought it upon herself."

"We could not stop her... and we failed you, when we did not look for her body."

"You could not know what Mordremoth would do with her. I do not blame you. I blame myself, as I always have."

"And now that she is gone?"

She glanced at him, seeing that he only sought guidance. "I am... glad it is over. As he said: I am free. While she lived, I was a prisoner of a futile hope. I had been mourning her for twenty-six years already. Now I can turn my hope towards better things. Like Aurene."

"How can you have hope when it was so cruelly crushed?"

"Our Dreams inspire us, Caoilfhionn. We must never give up hope, or we give up on the Dream itself." His own words, said to her as she doubted Destiny's Edge, as she doubted in Tyria's unity against the Dragons.

He turned away. He had believed those words once, with all his heart, trying to bring her to believe them too. Now... they were still true, but truth could not penetrate his heart, not now. He had not left the Dream... but he no longer felt in tune with it. He was a dull, dissonant note in it, no matter how the others romanticized it. And hope... hope was not his to hold anymore. Might never be again. His bright, innocent youth was over, and now he was old.