A/N: Written for the Temple of the Toad Sage Literature Drabble Tag. This piece takes place in Terry Brooks' Shannara Series- more specifically, in The Wishsong of Shannara. The prompt was, obviously, water.

It had been some time since he'd been there. Looking at the murky black waters of the Hadeshorn, even the indomitable and imposing Allanon couldn't but feel insignificant in this place.

It was in this place that Bremen had met with the shade of the first of the High Druids, Galaphile, for council on how to defeat Brona and where, later, the same man had brought the now famed Sword of Shannara so that the deceased members of their order could bestow upon it the last bit of themselves they had left to them in death.

Their truth.

Allanon remembered the first time he'd visited this place. Several years had passed since the Second War of the Races and yet the Druid's battle was far from over. Jerle Shannara had failed and Brona, the Warlock Lord had survived to fight another day. His adoptive father, the last remaining Druid, Bremen was dying, his health failing, old age at last taking its' toll.

And yet the man's work was yet unfinished.

As the aging Druid had made his ways into the bubbling, black, poisonous waters, condemning himself to an eternity of half death, Allanon had vowed then and there to not let his father's sacrifice be in vain. He would see the end of Brona. The Warlock Lord would be destroyed.

As he and his charges approached the currently still waters, which began churning more and more as they approached, as if the cursed lake could sense their presence, he remembered the times he'd returned since.

Those instances had brought chills to him every time he thought about them.

How could he not when dealing with foreboding visions of despair and depravity that would surely come to pass if events were not set in motion that would prevent the end of all things as they knew it. How could he not when each time he would commune with the dead, most particularly his own adoptive father, to seek his council.

He spared a brief glance at the young woman next to him, the elder of the Ohmsford children with magic that far surpassed his own, descended from Elven bloodline of Shannara and the only hope for the Four Lands continued existence. The one, though she was unaware, that he would mark as his heir, the heir to the Legacy of the Druids. It would be through her blood that his order would survive, long after he himself had turned to dust with the passing of time.

He then moved his subtle gaze to their other companion, her self appointed protector, a man who cared for the young woman more than either of them realized- though these feelings were becoming more apparent as the continued to travel. Those feelings, though reciprocated, where held back by the wall of her burden. A burden of magic, one that the Highlander would never truly understand without outside intervention. A wall he was about to tear down.

Allanon couldn't help but feel saddened, guilty and vindicated all at once. Saddened by the burden he was about to place on the Highlander, guilty for not being able to fully prepare the young man for the curse of magic he was about to bestow upon him, yet vindicated that the Highlander would at last realize the burden of keeping the young woman safe while dealing with the cost associated with using such magics that were required to do so.

"Highlander, dip your sword into the water," he commanded. The Highlander was his last hope. Despite the young man's penchant for annoying the rapidly aging Druid, he knew he would not see the quest to the end. It would be up to the Highland Prince to see it through and protect the young woman at all costs.

He watched as the Highlander did so, dipping the sword to it's hilt into the black waters, careful not to touch the water himself. The waters churned furiously as they were seemingly trying to claim both sword and man. When the Highlander pulled the sword back up, the black waters dripped from the blade.

The Druid muttered some incantations and blue fire surged from his finger tips, engulfing the blade. When the Druid Fire subsided, the now ebony blade gleamed with power. The Sword of Leah had become of magical weapon against other magics. The Druid could see the astonishment and wonder in the eyes of the Highlander, who despite many warnings on the dangers of magic, did not truly understand. He hoped the price wouldn't be too high when the Prince finally learned his lesson.

As the trio left the Valley of the Hadeshorn, Allanon paused to look back at the still waters. As he gazed down at the black waters of the cursed lake where only the spirits of the dead could safely traverse, he couldn't help but think back to all those times he'd visited this place. His memories vividly reliving them all, including this most recent visit.

While Brin Ohmsford and Rone Leah were speaking in quiet tones, unaware of the unpleasantness of his thoughts, Allanon could help but think how much he truly hated this place and the price he had to pay for being the Four Land's sole protector for so long.

As he turned away from the black waters, he pondered his own mortality knowing his end was fast approaching.

Prompt: Wind