Author's Note: Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write a chapter where you need your main character to be heroic, intelligent, and proactive, but he's stuck in the depths of despair? Getting Dafydd to focus on this chapter was next to impossible. I mean, I have characters that excel in brooding and do so as if it's going out of style, but… goddamn. He was impossible.

Tarrant, however, I had a lot of fun with. I've been looking forward to this chapter ever since I started writing this story. It's a big one for him, and something I've been building towards for a really long time. I was planning on writing more for this chapter, actually, but decided to push it back to the next chapter so we could focus on this moment for Tarrant. As usual, it went in a very different direction while I was editing; and as usual, I think the story is stronger for it. I adore this chapter.

Original Character Face Claim: Rhonwen Nazar is portrayed by Maggie Smith. Because I love the idea of McGonagall being around to be her sassy self.

Disclaimer: This chapter is unbeta'd, so all mistakes and flaws are mine.

Special Thanks: While I was editing this chapter, my good friend Sandra helped me rethink and rewrite pretty much everything Tarrant-related. She's really great about getting into Tarrant's Mad mind and getting him to make sense. Which is contradictory, but brilliant. Also, a million thanks to Thirteen Thorns for all of her help with this story during her tenure as my beta. Due to technological difficulties, she has to retire, so again, thanks so much for everything you did!

The sun always dawned red in the Outlands; a red sun rising over a dull, sometimes cloudy, blood-red sky. Some mornings, it was almost beautiful; the sky would look like it was on fire with oranges and yellows, with the faintest tinge of blue over the Border Mountains if one was close enough to see it. But most of the time, it was like this; intimidating, barren, and unforgiving.

Dafydd had never given much thought to the sunrise before. He had taken the dawns for granted; the only reason they meant anything was because it signified the Nazari were one day closer to reclaiming what was theirs. But today, this sunrise… this dawn was the most depressing he had ever seen. This sunrise marked the first day that Regina wasn't seeing. She wasn't kidnapped or misplaced this time; it wasn't a matter of finding and fetching her safely back. She was dead, and she was never coming home. Time was marching on, leaving her behind in the past- the one place where he couldn't follow her.

Could he, perhaps, follow her into Death? He wouldn't be the first to attempt it. What did life hold for him now? Yes, there were the Fearail, his family, his clan… but he had no idea how much of that would still survive after today. If it came to war between the Nazari and Witzend, Dafydd could lose the Fearail, and his only chance to return to Tearmunn. If he managed to avert war, he could lose his family. If he followed Regina, he wouldn't have to worry about any of it.

But then again… did he want to die? Even though he wasn't sure he had anything to live for, how could he be certain that Death would be any kinder to him? What if he couldn't find Regina on the other side? Or worse, what if she didn't want to share Death with him? Or perhaps worst of all, what if there was no afterlife? What if Regina wasn't waiting on the other side of a thin veil? What if she had ceased to exist entirely? If he followed her into Nothingness, he wouldn't even be able to share Oblivion with her, because he wouldn't exist either.

No, better to live. At least in Life, she survived in his memories. He could keep her safe in his mind; there she would be forever young, always beautiful, perennially happy and healthy and safe. He would live, and keep her alive in his thoughts.

Yes, he would live. And while he lived, he would not rest until he had fulfilled Regina's dreams. He would see the remnants of her family reunited if he had to sew them together himself, and he would see her homeland safe from the threat of his family. After that… he had no idea. Yes, he was grimly determined to live, for her sake. But what kind of life would he have? He had survived perfectly well before her… but how could he manage without her?

He had no idea how she'd become so central to his identity. Ever since his Manhood Rites, he had never wanted for female company; in fact, he had resisted getting married so that he could enjoy the companionship of as many women as he liked. How was it that this wee slip of an Upland-raised girl had blinded him to every other woman in Underland? The women he had met in Underland, the girls he had known in the Outlands… none of them mattered any longer, because there had been her. Regina had existed, and he had loved her. How could any of those other women ever be enough now, since none of them were her?

He winced, closing his eyes. It did no good to dwell on any of this. Regina was dead, and he had a quest to fulfill for her. That had to be his focus.

Sighing tiredly, Dafydd returned his glance to the sky, judging the time from the sun's position as he wearily rubbed his face and scratched along the scruff of his two-day beard. He hadn't slept a wink last night; he'd been too busy talking to the Elders. Honestly, he was a little amazed that the Elders had listened to him, let alone agreed with Gregan's assessment. Perhaps it was optimism on their parts, or unawareness of Tarrant's nature, but Dafydd couldn't agree with their hope that they would be allowed home. Not after what their clan had done to Tarrant's beloved daughter. Still, it was their only chance to avert a war. Fates, Dafydd didn't want this to become a war; and very soon they would have their only opportunity to avoid that particular disaster.

He wondered, though, if he'd be able to make it through the next several hours without simply falling over dead of exhaustion. Niall and his army were marching out this morning. Before they made it to Tearmunn, Dafydd had to somehow get Tarrant to the Elders, then double back, cross over the mountains and rendezvous with the Deuces and, if he was very, very lucky, round up the Club army from Berserka, and somehow get back to Tearmunn in time to stop Niall. And he would be doing all of this despite the fact that he hadn't slept in over three days, and was running on Madness.

Yep. This was going to be an interesting Day.

Still, there was nothing for it. The day was going to progress no matter what he did. One way or another, this debacle was going to be resolved today, and nothing he said or did could stop it. All that remained was to go through with it.

Forcing himself to straighten and stand tall, Dafydd strode through the Nazari camp, to his brother's tent. He walked in, finding Niall clustered around the table with two of his lieutenants and Ioan. Tarrant was still tied to the central post, and Dafydd had to use all of his control to keep his face neutral as he glanced at the Hatter, on who so much depended.

The first thing he realized was that Tarrant had Aged. His hair, which had been such a vibrant electric orange, was now stark white. His skin was almost grey, deeply incised with lines at eye and mouth. His eyes were cloudy, his gaze world-weary. Oh, this wasn't good; what if Tarrant had simply lost the will to live? What if he was Aging himself to Death? He was still Mad, if his topaz eyes were any indication; that didn't bode well at all. If Tarrant was Mad while he spoke with the Elders, they didn't have a Hope of persuading him to agree with their supplications. He sagged listlessly against the ropes binding him; Dafydd wondered if Tarrant had slept at all last night. Fully half of his face was bruised and swollen, which was entirely Dafydd's fault. His head must be pounding… Dafydd promised himself that at the first available opportunity he would do something about that. But not just yet. The charade still needed to be played; he hoped Tarrant would understand.

"How could they have vanished?" Niall snapped, glaring at his men. "They were tied up!"
"Thes is whit ye gie fur underestimatin' th' Alice," Tarrant drawled, sounding almost amused. "Ye shoods ne'er try tae cage a spyug, it'll aye fin' a way oot."
"Someone shut him up," Ioan drawled, with the briefest glance at Dafydd.

Dafydd quirked an eyebrow at his cousin and second. What was Ioan doing here? Hadn't he had some master plan to rescue Alice and Lily? Shouldn't he be focusing on that, instead of lollygagging around Niall's tent?

"What's happened?" Dafydd asked, helping himself to a large mug of bitterroot coffee.
"The Adamasi whelp and Alice have disappeared," Niall snarled, glancing over his shoulder at his brother.

Oh. Well then. Apparently Ioan's plan was going swimmingly; better, at any rate, than Dafydd's plan to save Regina had gone. He glanced at Ioan, silently quirking an eyebrow at him; all the congratulations he could offer his cousin, surrounded as they were. One corner of Ioan's mouth rose in response, and Dafydd nodded slowly, as if in thought

"Mmm," he hummed noncommittally, sipping his bitter brew. "And she didn't take her husband with her? Odd."
"You'd know better than I. And where is Taran?" Niall asked impatiently. "He should have reported back long before now."
"No one's seen him, m'laird," one of the men reported. "His bed wasn't slept in last night. Nor has his Bird come back."

Dafydd's heart lurched at that, and he gripped his mug tightly. Taran had been the one to take Regina to the Gulges. He wasn't home yet? Had something happened? Had Regina struck back at Taran before he killed her?

"Dobber got whit he deserved fur crushin' mah butterfly," Tarrant said darkly, tilting his head back towards the Nazari.

Clenching his jaw, Niall strode over to Tarrant, clubbing him over the head with the hilt of his dagger. Tarrant groaned, slumping against the pole, still conscious but silent now. Nodding in recognition, Niall walked back to the table, sheathing his dirk.

"I can't wait on Taran," he decided. "Our plans must go through now."
"What about the prisoners?" one of the men questioned.
"I'll track them down," Ioan volunteered, folding his arms. "They can't have gotten far."
"Good," Niall nodded. "Our avian-catcher friends have promised to have a herd of Animals for us to ride over the Mountains into Witzend. We'll ride straight for Tearmunn. Once we've secured it, we'll take the capital. By tonight, we'll be feasting on the Brae."
"Th' Brae willnae ken ye," Tarrant predicted in a singsong voice. "She willnae lit ye anywhaur near 'er."

Why was it that in his Madness, Tarrant had no sense of when to keep his mouth shut? Was he trying to get himself killed?

Actually, that could be his exact plan, Dafydd admitted to himself. If Dafydd felt like he had nothing to live for now that Regina was gone, surely Tarrant's feelings ran even deeper. From what Dafydd had heard- was it two days ago? Less?- Alice would be no comfort to Tarrant; indeed, if they met face to face again Dafydd couldn't guarantee there wouldn't be blood. What if Tarrant was actively trying to shuffle off the mortal coil, to escape it all and be reunited with his child in the only way left to him?

Niall growled, glaring at the Hatter and snatching his knife again. Dafydd restrained his brother, catching his arm before he had time to attack Tarrant.

"Leave the Hatter to me," he said grimly. "I'll take him to join his daughter in the Gulges."
Niall considered for a moment, then nodded. "Be quick about it," he acquiesced.
"Of course," Dafydd nodded. "What's your plan for our non-combatants? Leave them in the Mountains or at Tearmunn?"
"Until we've secured Tearmunn it won't be safe to bring them over," Niall said. "And without the White Bitch's whelp to use as a bartering chip, I can't get her to lift the curse on the Mountains. They'll have to stay here."

Dafydd nodded, silently thanking his brother for feeding him the perfect excuse to remain behind.

"Why don't I stay here?" he suggested. "I can organize our crossing as soon as you've secured Witzend."
"Are you sure?" Niall frowned. "I know you hate to miss a fight."
"Taking care of the Hatter will satisfy me," Dafydd shrugged, grinning darkly at his double meaning.
"Yes, I can imagine," Niall said. "Very well. I'll send a few of our men into the Mountains when we've won, and they'll build you a signal fire."
"We'll be waiting for it," Dafydd nodded.

Niall held out a hand, pulling Dafydd into an embrace. It took all of Dafydd's control not to break down in tears as he silently told his brother goodbye. He hated that they had been made enemies; he had spent all of his life looking up to and emulating this brother. Niall had been as much a father figure as a brother since the death of their da. And now he was the man that Dafydd had to thwart and defeat. What would happen between them, if Dafydd's plan somehow miraculously worked and Tarrant and the Elders came to an understanding? Was it possible for Niall and Tarrant to co-exist? Could there be a reckoning between them, or was Dafydd about to lose his brother?

Fates, he wished this could go differently. This choice was tearing him apart; he didn't want to have to choose between his family and his home, between his brother and the memory of his love. He had hoped so hard that he could avert this exact fate, that he could have both. Yet, what could they do differently? Dafydd had sworn to avert war and avenge Regina; Niall had sworn to retake Tearmunn and destroy the Blue Royals. There was nothing they could do but fulfill their destinies, even though that meant pitting brother against brother.

He forced himself to step away, to walk outside and set the plan in motion.

"Fetch me our horses, Gregan," he ordered his nephew.

He gently pushed his nephew towards the stretch of tough windgrass where the horses had been tethered upon Dafydd and Tarrant's arrival. As Gregan dashed off, Dafydd walked back into the tent, ignoring his brother and his lieutenants as he squatted behind Tarrant and began untying him.

"You have to trust me," he murmured, low enough that no one would overhear.
"Aye, laddie," Tarrant said softly. "I've trusted ye thes far."

Dafydd nodded, tethering Tarrant's hands and leading him outside. Gregan was waiting for him, holding Arturias and Windmare's lead ropes. Dafydd sighed in relief; the horses looked well cared for, at least. Perhaps a bit dusty, but that couldn't be helped. Tarrant, scorning Dafydd's help with applaudable contempt, lifted himself onto his horse, looking every inch the disdainful monarch as Dafydd tethered him to his Mare. Nodding in satisfaction at Tarrant's performance, Dafydd swung himself onto Arturias, tying Tarrant's reins to his own saddle.

"Come along, your Majesty," he announced. "Your daughter awaits you."

That had been cruel of him, and he fought back a flinch. Tarrant didn't respond to Dafydd's jibe; didn't even glance at the younger man as they left the camp behind, heading south towards the Death Gulges.

They rode in silence. Dafydd glanced over his shoulder every once in a while to ensure that Tarrant hadn't fallen off his mount, but apart from that the men didn't look at each other, or attempt to speak. Soon enough, the camp had faded to a dark blur on the horizon. Dafydd reined in his horse under the shade of a few scraggly trees, drawing the animals to the bank of the river so they could drink while he swiftly untied Tarrant and stepped back to let the Hatter jump off his horse.

"Whit noo?" Tarrant asked, rubbing his uninjured temple gingerly. "Ah presume ye hae some sort ay plan 'at doesnae involve killin' me."
"I do," Dafydd nodded. "We just need to wait here until I'm sure Niall and his army have left."
"Ah thought ye an' th' Fearail waur th' army," Tarrant frowned.
"We are. The standing army, at any rate," Dafydd explained. "But all Nazari men are trained as soldiers, and in times of war they're all drafted into service. Even the women are taught to handle weapons and defend themselves."

He withdrew a small pack of food from one of his saddlebags, spreading the contents on the ground. There was a hunk of bread, some tough Siren-meat sausage, and sharp horsemilk cheese. Tarrant withdrew a teapot, cracked cups, and a handful of leaves from one of his many pockets, and bustled about preparing tea. Now how on earth had Tarrant managed to keep a full tea set with him through the last two days?

Actually, why in all the kingdoms was Dafydd questioning this? It was the Mad Hatter; of course he had tea on him.

They ate quietly, leaning against some boulders. Dafydd glanced at Tarrant as the older man balanced his teacup on his leg; the swelling on his face had yet to go down, and the bruises had darkened to ugly shades of purple and yellow.

"I'm sorry about that," he said contritely, nodding towards the bruising.
"Ye waur keepin' yer cowre," Tarrant shrugged. "Cooldnae lit yer brither ken yoo'd changed. I've hud waur than thes."
"And at my hands," Dafydd said ruefully.
"Aye," Tarrant nodded, smiling faintly. "'at Ah hae."

Dafydd nodded slowly, looking out over the horizon as his mind drifted back to his and Tarrant's first interaction, when Dafydd served as Ilosovic Stayne's bodyguard. He had tortured Tarrant mercilessly for hours in the dungeons of Salazen Grum, and felt no remorse in doing so. In fact, he'd felt a grim sort of pleasure in the knowledge that he had the Hightopp in his grasp at last. He had never imagined that he would actually come to the Hightopp's aid, that he would defy his brother and everything he had ever wanted to help Tarrant keep his homeland. Tarrant was right; Dafydd had changed. And he had Tarrant's daughter to thank for it.

It was ironic, really; bards told stories with this exact premise. Two factions warring for generations, until the heirs of the thrones meet and fall in love, a love grand and deep and true, beautiful and strong enough to overcome the years of animosity, a love powerful enough to turn the tide and end the hatred.

Dafydd sighed. As far as stories went, his was turning out to be not so much triumphant heroic saga, but rather a tragedy. The woman he loved was dead, killed by his own family. He would never know if she had loved him in return, if she had even thought of him as anything other than her captain of the guard. He was about to betray his brother in order to help his clan's enemy. He had no assurances that any part of his plan was going to be successful, and either way he had no idea what he would do with himself when this day was over.

But he didn't have the time to ruminate about it; it was time to throw the dice and let them fall as they may.

"Time to go," he said, standing.
"Whaur ur we gonnae?" Tarrant asked, still reclining, his eyes closed against the harsh sun. "An' when ur ye plannin' oan tellin' me exactly whit yer plan is?"
Dafydd sighed. "We're going back to the camp. The Council of Elders would like a word with you."
"Fa in th' nam' ay blessed Underlain is th' Cooncil ay Elders?" Tarrant frowned, cracking his eyes open.
"Advisers," Dafydd replied. "The keepers of tales and history and lore. When the ceann-fine needs advice, he goes to the Elders."
"An' they want a wuid wi' me?" Tarrant asked confusedly. "Fur whit?"
"A favor," Dafydd said. "It's better to let them explain it."

They mounted their horses and rode hard, hurrying back to the camp. To Tarrant's surprise, no one was bustling about in the business of dismantling the camp and preparing to leave, as he had been expecting. There was a hush to the camp, a kind of breathless anticipation that caused fissions of anticipation to rush along Tarrant's limbs. His suspicions were only aroused further at the way the Nazari were reacting to him. They stared up at Tarrant as if he were their savior, their Champion. And it made him distinctly uneasy; just what sort of plan was Dafydd hatching? These people hated him. They called him a usurper and a traitor, and that was to his face; who knew what they said behind his back. Only hours ago they had been planning to kill him; why were they now watching him as though he were their only hope of salvation?

Tarrant slid off his horse as Dafydd did, following the younger man as he approached the ceann-fine's tent. Dafydd turned, holding aside the flap and silently motioning Tarrant forward. For a moment, Tarrant frowned, uneasy. What was going on? Why was Dafydd being so mysterious? Was this a trap? He certainly hoped not, because he couldn't bring himself to believe that Dafydd had deceived him. Tarrant had seen the Look on Dafydd's face when they learned of Regina's death; he had been utterly devastated, destroyed, damaged. He had seen desperation and despair in Dafydd's eyes, and finally disgust. No, if Dafydd was planning against anyone, it was the Nazari. Bolstered by this knowledge, Tarrant adjusted his Hat and stepped forward, walking past Dafydd into the tent.

He found the tent to be empty but six elders huddled around a low-burning fire, all wrapped in cloaks and blankets against the chill of the morning. Three men, their hair long and white and hanging loosely around their wrinkled faces; three gaunt women, their hair loosely braided, spindly fingers clutching clay mugs of steaming tea. They looked up at Tarrant with eyes that seemed ageless, eyes that had seen hardship and hunger and hatred and hope. It was this last that lit them all up now.

"Welcome, Laird Hightopp," one of the ancient women intoned, her voice gravelly. "We welcome you to this Council of Elders."
"Ah thenk ye," Tarrant burred. "Dafydd said ye wanted a wuid?"
"We did," the woman said. "Please, sit with us."

Tarrant's gaze swept through the tent again, looking for any hidden soldiers or potential traps. Upon seeing none- and reassured by the knowledge that Dafydd stood just inside the tent flap- Tarrant slowly sat down, wincing as he irritated various bruises and aches and pains. Fates, he felt old; as old as these Elders. Idly, he wondered exactly how old they were. He himself had stopped Aging ages ago; so long ago that to be honest he wasn't sure what his Age truly was. Was he, perhaps, just as old as these people with whom he sat?

"You don't trust us," the old woman said, observing him. "I can't say I blame you, given all that has been done to you in the past two days. Perhaps it would ease your mind to know you are among friends. I am Rhonwen," she said, before pointing to each of the others. "This is Cefin, Dylis, Gethin, Gruffudd, and Gwawr."
"Kennin' yer names doesnae make us friends," Tarrant said. "Whit is it ye want wi' me?"
"You know the history of our clan, Laird Hightopp," Rhonwen said. "You know that our people are your people, that we are the same. That your homeland is ours also."
"Aye," Tarrant said warily. "An' Ah ken 'at yer ceann-fine was willin' tae kill me an' mah dochter tae tak' mah lain frae me."
"He was," Gwawr spoke up, smoking from a long-stemmed pipe. "But do not mistake us, we were not supportive of his actions. We wish to return to our homeland, but we have no wish for further war."
"That's rich," Tarrant scoffed. "Yer ceann-fine is marchin' oan Iplam reit noo, wi' a whole battalion ay soldiers behin' heem."
"We do not wish for war, Laird Hightopp," Dylis stated. "We only wish to return home. To rejoin our clan."

There was silence for a moment, and Tarrant wondered uneasily what exactly the Elders were going to demand of him. That he give up his claim to their land? Never! He would pick up his claymore and kill, if he had to, to protect what was his.

"We are asking you to reclaim us as your people," Rhonwen said, her voice ringing with finality. "Accept us back into the Hightopp clan."
"Whit?" Tarrant exclaimed, shooting straight up, his head reeling.

He stared at the Elders, stunned. Accept the Nazari back into his clan! To open his arms to the traitors who had killed his daughter? Never!

His daughter…

Tarrant turned away from the Elders, staring into space as he exhaled tiredly. His daughter. His beautiful, laughing, singing, dancing child… She was gone now. Still and silenced. Was there some kind of afterlife, some place where she was now dancing to the Hightopps' Song with the rest of their clan? His brother Emand had been a brilliant dancer; was he now teaching Regina the finer points of the Futterwhacken? Was she singing with his mother Silyna, their voices blending and rising into the heavens? Had she met her many cousins, and were they chasing each other around some heavenly rendition of the Brae in an elaborate game of Tag?

Regina had been the one who wanted him to restore Iplam, he thought dully. Tarrant had spent years running away from his homeland; he had allowed the charred remains of the village to remain and be overgrown. His clan had been murdered, and he had wanted to leave it all in the past. It wasn't until Regina had been restored to him that he had agreed to begin rebuilding. And even then, he had been doing it more for her than for himself. She had felt the shades of their clan dancing around her, she had felt the Song in the depths of her soul, and she had wanted a way to connect with them. She had wanted to resurrect the Music of the Brae; she had wanted it all to live again. And she had begun to make him want that, too.

But now Regina was dead, finite, as far away as the rest of Tarrant's family. Slipped through his fingers, to a place where he could not follow. What did keeping Iplam matter now? It wasn't as if he could restore the Music, not without Regina. And it wasn't as though there were anyone to share the Brae with. Alice had clearly given her opinion about the importance of reviving the Heartland when she refused to come with Tarrant and Regina for their daughter's birthday party. Iplam was his birthright, but he couldn't return there, not alone. Not without his child.

But the Nazari… they still loved their Tearmunn. It had been hundreds of years since they were banished, and their sole aim was still to return to their homeland. Tarrant might abhor the Nazari for what they had done in their quest to return home- both in allying with Ilosovic Stayne and in killing Regina- but he could respect their yearning for home. Iplam meant nothing to Tarrant now, not without his family to enjoy it with him. Why not give the land to people who clearly cherished it?

"Ah cannae accept th' idea ay Niall as ceann-fine ay Iplam," Tarrant said heavily, the words coming slowly, not moving to sit back down or even to grace the Elders with eye contact. "Nae efter whit he's dain tae me an' mine. If Ah waur tae allaw ye tae return haem, Ah wooldnae allow Niall tae rule Tearmunn. Whit dae ye say tae 'at?"

Dafydd's eyes widened, and he stared at Tarrant in shock. From the way the Hightopp was talking, it almost sounded as if he were actually considering this Mad idea. Was it possible that his clan was about to be allowed home? But… what? Why? Of course Dafydd would be floored and endlessly grateful, but… what possible motivation could be driving Tarrant to accept this?

Rhonwen considered Tarrant for a moment before answering. "You are the Laird of Iplam," she finally said. "If you could not abide the idea of Niall ruling after you, it does lie within your power to name your successor."
Tarrant nodded slowly, finally glancing back at the Elders. "Dafydd," he said.

This time, Dafydd froze, his jaw dropping. Tarrant couldn't possibly be serious about this. Him? Dafydd had failed Tarrant in the gravest and most grievous way; he had allowed Tarrant's only child to be killed, after swearing to give his life to protect hers. And Tarrant was naming him as his heir? Promising to give Dafydd what belonged to Regina? Why?

"Th' lain knows Dafydd," Tarrant declared, his gaze sweeping towards the stunned young warrior. "If mah dochter hud had 'er way, she woods hae sewed heem intae th' Music awreddy. Dafydd will rule as Laird ay Iplam efter me," he stated. "If ye accept 'at condition, 'en Ah will agree tae yer request. Whit say ye?"
"Tarrant, you can't mean this," Dafydd said, walking forward uncertainly.
Tarrant observed the younger man for a moment before speaking. "I've lost mah dochter," he said softly. "Th' only hin' 'at matters tae me. Withit 'er whit use dae Ah hae fur Iplam? But ye… ye loove Tearmunn. An' ye kent whit th' Brae meant tae Regina. Yoo'll build 'er lain back th' way she wanted it."

Well, Dafydd couldn't argue with that. Seeing that Dafydd wasn't going to argue anymore, Tarrant nodded, before returning his attention to the Elders. He swallowed hard, feeling the Words hang heavy on his tongue. Words had Power; these Words in particular held the Power to transform his entire life. And despite the Madness befuddling his brain, he was mindful of how important they were, so he gave them his full attention as he opened his mouth to release them.

"Ah, Tarrant son ay Wendym, Laird ay Iplam, dae accept an' claeem ye as mah ain," he said slowly. "Whit ance was rent, Ah noo restair. Whit ance was cest aff is reclaimed. Ye ur nae longer outcast; ye ur Hightopp."

Tarrant swallowed hard, feeling a buzzing throughout his entire being as the Words bound him to these people, and tied them to him. It was as though they were pieces of cloth being stitched back together, and they were startled and a bit frazzled to feel their frayed threads joining once again, becoming whole. Their energies were changing, melding together and becoming something new. The discordant energy of the camp was beginning to feel familiar and soothing, as they recognized each other and became one family again.

"Weel," he said, clearing his throat. "That's 'at."

Dafydd nodded silently, looking around wonderingly. He couldn't believe this; had this really happened? They were going home? This had to be a dream. Actually, he wouldn't be entirely disappointed if this was a dream; that meant he could wake up and find Regina safe, peacefully dreaming just a few feet away from him. Was it worth it, to be allowed to return to his ancestral homeland, if Regina was the price he had to pay? Was it worth it to be a Hightopp again, when he would never get to dance with Regina on the Brae again? Would it matter that he could finally hear the Music she had so loved, when she wouldn't be there to listen to it with him?

"Dafydd, order th' camp dismantled," Tarrant ordered, jerking Dafydd out of his ruminating. "Let's gang haem."

Dafydd nodded, inclining his head to Tarrant before turning and walking out the tent. He stared at the barren, desolate plains where he'd been born and spent almost all of his life. He was never coming back to the Outlands, he knew. Well, that wasn't quite true. He was going to the Gulges, and he was going to find Regina's body. He knew Tarrant would want to bury his child in Iplam; Fates, Dafydd wanted to bury her there. But after he'd fetched Regina's body and brought her home, he would never come back to the land of his birth again. It was a strange feeling, to know that this was the last time he'd ever view this land again. Stranger still that he felt nothing for the land he'd known for his entire life. What did he care for the Outlands? He was a Hightopp; he belonged to Iplam. Home lay on the other side of the Mountains, not beneath his feet.

"Dafydd?"

Dafydd turned his head, watching his mathair as she left her tent, approaching him quickly, her entire being buzzing with tension.

"I've heard rumors," she said. "We all have. That the Council was going to ask the Hightopp to bring us to Tearmunn."
"It's true," Dafydd replied, seeing no point in keeping it a secret. "He's accepted us back into the clan. We're Hightopps. We're going home."

Gwynyth stared at Dafydd for a long minute, before her mouth slowly turned up in an astonished, wide smile.

"I can't believe it," she said, shaking her head.
"Neither can I," Dafydd admitted. "But it's the truth. Tarrant's ordered the camp dismantled. We're leaving now."
"Leave that to me," Gwynyth said, a moment before rushing off.

Dafydd watched her go, sighing. His mathair would spread the word for him; the clan would be ready to leave within half an hour. He needn't worry about that anymore. So he let his gaze drift towards the horizon, in the direction of the Gulges.

"I'm coming for you," he promised her in a whisper. "Just a while longer, dearbadan-de."

He hoped that, if Regina could see him from wherever she was, she wasn't angry with him for usurping her place. She was Tarrant's daughter, his heir; she should have been the next Lady of Iplam. He hoped that she wouldn't be angry that he would be ruling over her beloved homeland, that his people were coming to claim what had once belonged to her people. He hoped that wherever she was, that she knew everything. That their clans had become one, that he was fighting for her dreams… that he had loved her, and always would.