There'd been a bit of a breeze on the first day of Robin's memory. It had danced across her face as her eyes had opened, as the faces of those who'd found her shifted into focus. When the young man pulled her to her feet, the wind had picked up the edges of her robes, and sent strands of hair into her face. It had seemed almost welcoming, somehow.
Many times, she'd taken the wind in her hands and bent it to her will in battle. It wasn't her weapon of choice – the power and precision that lightning held was more her style – but wind magic had its advantages. You could pull it into a spiral around yourself, letting it whip at your clothes and make you look formidable when you pierced the wings of wyverns and sent them crashing to the ground.
Her husband had never understood the first bit. "Showing off will just get you killed," he'd insisted. "You're a tactician – you should know better!"
She'd known that he was right, and so she'd stopped…except for once in a while, when he wasn't looking.
There'd been no wind on the day of their wedding. It'd been perfectly calm, if a bit chilly. But afterward, as they'd ridden away together, it certainly seemed like there was. They hadn't gone off into the sunset – just into the midday horizon where the clouds were gathering. By the time they returned to town, they were both soaked to the bone. Neither one cared. The day was already perfect, and no amount of rain could ruin that.
Peace didn't last forever, and eventually, they were both plunged back into conflict. When the time came to face the Felldragon, the wind was everywhere. There was nothing friendly about this raging gale. It tore at Robin's face and those of her comrades, stinging their eyes and pushing them away from the robed figure at the dragon's neck. But it couldn't hold them back forever. And after Robin dealt the final blow, she faded into shadows and the wind carried her away.
The next time she opened her eyes, the air was perfectly still, and her friends' embrace was all the welcome she needed.