The Death of The Last Druid

The Death of the Last Druid

                The grunts of men exerting themselves ended in a thunderous crack and a cheer as the massive oak fell to the ground like a wounded giant. It crashed into the dust at the edge of the encampment, raising a cloud that shrouded the hundreds of tents and thousands of soldiers amassed at the edge of the Great Wood.
                 “Alright, you dogs! You’ve knocked it down! Now get to chopping it so the real carpenters can shave it! This one ought to build half a wall for the new fort, too! Get to work!”
                The crowd of soldiers groaned, many throwing down the water jugs or rations they had just picked up in anticipation of a break. A single man, standing a full head above the crowd, rose uncomplaining from a squat on the ground. He wore the full equipment of an Imperial soldier: a breast plate, helmet, and flowing purple cape. His spear, unlike many of his comrade’s, was across his back, while theirs lay rusting for more than a year on racks covered in dust. Rather than follow the orders of the Task Master, this man, in full adornment, strode across the work site, into the circle of tents, and directly to its center. He pulled aside the flap of General Veringian’s tent, the grandest in the entire compound, and smashed his helmet down against a map of the Empire and its surrounding territories. The General, who had been eating a prodigious meal of pheasant, snorted, drowning briefly in the fine wine he had imported from the Capital. The spilled goblet rolled, staining the Western Plains a permanent purp
le, as the General’s shocked gaze rose to that of the infuriated soldier.
                “Yes, Captain Dorimus? You have spoiled my meal, so I might as well hear what you have to say.” The General was a softer, fleshier version of the one Marcellus Dorimus had served under in the birth of the Empire, but he still had the same silky, whining voice that had inspired laughter in his men.
                “Sir, I humbly request a transfer. You know I am a man of good standing, of honor and duty, and you know my skills are better applied to combat than to this... carpentry!” Marcellus was the picture of the perfect Legionnaire, a fact that prompted many historians to use him as the model for illustrations in text books or battle reports. Brown hair cut short, he kept a neat beard and mustache, even if blood and gore covered the rest of his clothing. His stern grey eyes spoke of a strength that ran much deeper than his taught muscles, while the scars that crisscrossed his entire body revealed a toughness earned through hundreds of battles. Standing with his hands braced against the table, it was easy for Veringian to see why men had followed Marcellus into the hell of battle without a second thought.
               “Request denied, Captain. You know there is no place for you any more. We’ve conquered the world! You did your job well! Only a few miscreants remain to oppose the mighty force of the Empire, and they are so pathetic local magistrates just throw them in the stocks. You’ve killed them all, Dorimus. Now is the time to build and prosper from what you have gained for us all!”
                “I see that some of us have prospered more than others. None of the commoners playing soldier are quite as wide as you, good General.” The scowl on Marcellus’ face deepened till his brows were touching.
                 “Mind your tongue, Captain. You may not respect me, but you are in my command, whether you like it or not. Your time of usefulness has passed, and I’m sure no one would shed a tear if you were hung as a traitor!”
                Marcellus remained quiet, his anger simmering just below the surface as thoughts of throttling the toad before him played through his mind. Then he just sighed, releasing his distaste and fury in a single, long breath.
                “The world has moved on. The ideals we fought for are wasted now that we have them, buried under layers of waste, corruption, and dishonor. All the men who died, fighting for land for their families and friends, died in vain if all the land goes towards is these bureaucrat’s ambitions. It makes me wonder if what we fought for mattered at all.”
                 While Marcellus’ head fell, deep in thought, a young soldier raced inside the tent, breathing heavily.
                “I hope this is important, peon, or I will personally file papers to get you sent to the Northern Wastes. Unless you have a taste for blubber, explain yourself.” He wiped his mouth, taking time to clean the grease from his large, rosy lips.
                 The messenger’s knees shook slightly. He was little more than a boy, pressed into service in the “glorious” campaign against the savages. A week ago he had been threshing wheat in a field, and now he was expected to fight, kill, and die if it was deemed necessary. Marcellus again shook his head at the sham his army had become.
                “S...Sir! Captain Glavius reports unusual activity four miles into the Wood at the first out post. He says the animals are stirring.”
                 The General shook with laughter, his girth rumbling with motion. He snapped his fingers, and from the shadows of the tent a single soldier, much larger and with more skill than any of the men moving trees outside, appeared holding a long, bronze spear and a spiked shield.
                 “Tell Glavius that if he is scared of the beavers and bunnies I’ll send him a few soldiers, if nothing else then to ridicule him.”
                “B...but sir! He says the animals are led! By a great bear! He says it talks to them!”
                The General’s face paled at this. He whispered under his breath in hushed, frightened tones. “It couldn’t be... their all dead...” Realizing both the men in the tent were watching him, he stood straight again.
                “Dorimus... you’ve dealt with such... phenomenon before. If you want to be put to use, I’ll put you a use you’ve proven yourself at. Take a small party into woods and root out the problem. By any means necessary.” Veringian gave a small salute, touching his fist to his chest, before dismissing the messenger and the soldier with a wave. Dorimus, who had been still and silent as soon a the messenger arrived, grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of the tent. The General sagged into his chair, breathing heavily for a few seconds.
                “If Dorimus doesn’t handle it... I may have to evacuate. I can’t risk myself to such a dangerous savage.”
                He picked up a piece of bread and began to chew at it mechanically, though the very thought of what he now knew had erased all taste for food from his mind.


                 The messenger first complied submissively to the lead of Marcellus, but soon began to struggle against him. It did no good against the iron grasp that held him, so he began to complain.
                 “I am more than capable of walking myself! And what gives you a right to lead me like a dog! You don’t even wear a rank! I could have you flogged by the Camp Master! Who are you?!?” These words came out, each one in a more mewling, pathetic tone then the last. Marcellus physically threw the boy foreword, hurling him into the center of the small formation of tents that made up the barracks. He looked down upon the boy, who stared back up in awe and fear.
                 “I am Captain Marcellus Dorimus. I was slaying men in combat while you were still shitting your pants every time you heard the sound of thunder. I wear no rank, because rank only betrays to the barbarians who should be shot first. And if you get shot before me, it lets me find whoever shot you and kill them. I have personally saved the skin of the Camp Master at least once, and I have more respect for any of the savages I gutted then I do for a whining child like you. I drag you because if I don’t you would probably not even have the sense to lead me to Captain Glavius’ encampment. If you can tell me that your first thought after reaching the General’s tent was not to go get a mug of ale, then I will apologize right now.”
                The boy remained quiet, shame showing in his eyes.
                 “I thought as much. Now you do everything as I say, and if I say nothing you act with some common sense. You will do as I say, not because the Emperor says you must, but because if you don’t, my men may die, and then I’ll kill you myself.”
                This was all said in a hushed, gruff voice. His eyes betrayed no intimidation or deception, only hard fact. The messenger began to speak again, but when the Captain’s nostrils flared, he instantly shut his mouth. Marcellus looked around the tents, taking in the shape of his troops. Men were gambling, laughing. Someone even played a soft tune on a violin nearby. The Captain barked out, loud enough for the surrounding area to hear.
                 “I need ten men to accompany me and this Private into the Great Wood. Volunteers?”
                 A few of the soldiers whispered among themselves, but none stepped foreword. The Captain pointed his spear at a crowd surrounding a cooking pot.
                “Is that meal done, soldier?”
                The apparent chef stirred the pot, sampling a small amount of liquid on a wooden spoon. He smiled at the Captain.
                 “Yes, sir. Rabbit stew. Would you like some?”
                 The Captain smiled back.
                 “Yes. You can hand me a bowl after you and all your friends get your weapons together and  assemble here in five minutes. I suggest you hurry. If you take longer I’ll spill the pot into the fire and you all dine on acorns tonight.”
                 There was a rush of activity as the knot of men rushed into their tents. Marcellus walked over to the pot casually, lifting a spoonful up and trying it himself. He quickly spit the mouthful into the dust, leaned over the chef’s bench of ingredients, and sprinkled in a small amount of green herbs into the mixture.
                  “Damn farmers. Can’t even get stew right.”     
                


                The forest seemed to physically resist the soldiers as they marched into the dark, vibrant Wood. Branches overhung the path, snagging capes and ripping hair, and roots, hidden under the carpet of leaves, tripped at the men’s ankles as the small line of twelve made their way into the wilderness. The messenger lead the way, followed by the Captain, who slid through the underbrush with much more ease than the conscripted group of soldiers who blundered behind him
                “Why are we even in this hell hole?” The chef swatted a fly from his cheek, leaving a thick red dot of blood.
                 “Animals are stirring deep in the wood. Could be druids.” Marcellus chopped a branch out of his path with a hand axe he had picked up.
                “Druids? I thought we killed all of them in the Southern Forests? In that last big barbarian uprising?” This time it was one of the soldiers farther back. He was huskier than the others, and so had fallen to the rear.
                 “Aye, we thought we did. But there have been strange events all around the Empire ever since that battle.” One of the men was a scarred veteran, a man Marcellus knew to be a good asset in any fight. One eye was patched, a souvenir from the battle he spoke of. “Most of us who fought there think some of them escaped. Probably as birds or some damn mole. We had enough trouble killin the bears and wolves that most of the little beasts fled.”
                The messenger turned back, his eyes wide.
                 “The savage’s shamans can really control animals? I hear they can call down lightning and fire, too. And make trees walk and talk.”
                The veteran smiled. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Those damn tree kissers fell well enough to a blade. Funny to see ‘em in the end, covered in the blood of their beastie pals. Some cried.”
                Marcellus halted the march. “They fought with honor for what they believed in. There’s no shame in that. I wish half of our soldier today were as loyal as those druids were to their people and their animals.”
                A scoff from the veteran. “The important bit is they died, while we took their land. It’s stupid to stand in the way of progress. If I didn’t know better from seein you cut them down, I’d think you admired the dumb savages!” He laughed, and the rest of the company picked up the laugh “The Captain here killed more than any other man alive!”
                Marcellus just started walking again, leaving his thoughts his own.
                “Progress they call it. I could do with a lot less “progression” if it would bring back the time when this Empire stood for something. Now we just expand like some fat beast, eating itself to death. Progress... what a joke.”
                                                                                                                                                           

                The rest of the march was silence, interspersed with a few short, lame attempts at conversation. As the forest grew darker, thicker, and more wild, the group seemed hushed by the shadow of the massive trees. Occasionally a bird sounded like a sharp knife through the trees, but the forest was eerily silent as they drew nearer to the outpost.
                “Strange...” The messenger dashed ahead now that the trail was more worn and marked. “We should have met a sentry by now.” He looked around, and was just about to cry out when Marcellus grabbed his arm. He shook his head, signaling to be silent. Swiftly, but without a single sound, he led the group foreword, his shield and spear at the ready, walking with cat-like agility. They all came around the corner to a grisly scene.
                Armor and weaponry lay strewn about in bloody heaps. Most were broken, with shattered handles or dented plates, but all were covered in nearly dried blood. However, there were no bodies. All the piles of equipment simply lay as though the entire encampment had stripped naked and fled. All the tents were ripped down, their contents strewn throughout the camp in shredded messes.
                 “Quickly! Make a defensive knot!” The Captain rushed into the center of the clearing, his spear raised and planted into the dirt. When none of the men moved, fascinated by the wreckage, he swore under his breath. “NOW! FORM A CIRCLE, WEAPONS RAISED LIKE MINE!”
They scrambled foreword, handling their weapons like they were new recruits instead of career soldiers. Once they had fallen in, the chef looked around, confused.
                “Wait... where’s Broden? He was in the back a minute ago...”
                With that a shadow flew from the tree line, landing with a wet splat before the chef as though in answer to his question. All the men turned their eyes at the half-eaten corpse of their comrade, his once regal cloak now stained maroon with blood. A low growl sounded from the forest, and a massive bear slowly padded into the clearing. All of them stared in awe at this beast, except for Marcellus. He simply watched it with a deep sense of respect for his adversary.
                The bear reared up on its haunches, easily standing ten feet tall. The thick, brown coat that covered it was laced with silver, making it shine slightly in the dim forest light. Rolls of muscle built up the monstrous animal, all the way to its thick neck and face. It stared down at the terrified soldiers with large brown eyes, reading them like they would read a book. The bear stood, mighty and quiet, waiting for them to make a move. When none of them did, the it charged.
                 The veteran raised his spear, but it the tempered bronze may as well have been paper. The bear smashed the spear into pieces before backhanding the man so hard his head lay horizontal across his shoulder before he slumped to the ground. When Marcellus took a step foreword, the bear shouldered him back, knocking the wind out of him. A few feeble strikes deflected off the beast’s hide, only serving to anger it as it swung its massive paw back, raking the eyes out of several faces. As the men fell, one at a time or in pairs, to claw, fang, and pure might, the few survivors fled into the woods, their weapons abandoned in the brush. Marcellus, coughing, rose to his feet to face the bear, which now stood covered in the blood of his men.
                 But the bear made no move. Standing, with one face pointed up and one pointed down, the rage left both their faces as they breathed heavily, panting in exertion. He kept his spear raised, but relaxed slightly as the animal fell down to all fours. They watched each other, eye to eye, as the bear walked closer. In each other’s eyes they both saw something they respected: honor and honesty. The spear dropped to the ground as he reached out to touch the bear’s fur, wondering at its sheen and softness. For the first time in his life, Marcellus was at complete peace.
                  The bear surged backwards at supernatural speed, a roar cutting through the serenity of the moment. The Captain stumbled back, shaken, and picked up his spear, looking around as the animal thrashed at an arrow caught in its flank. It snapped it off with a paw before fleeing into the forest, letting out cries of pain with each rolling step. Marcellus felt a painful tug in his chest to follow the bear, but instead searched the clearing for the source of the arrow.
                “Close call there. The beast almost had you in its maw. Good thing I’m a good shot.”
                The voice came from a nearby tree, where a man softly fell to the ground. From where he had been, the man couldn’t have seen that Marcellus had touched the bear; had had some connection with it.
                 “Kelanus, at your service. The General thought you could use the expertise of the greatest hunter in the Empire. In case you had any “animal trouble”.” He was as tall as Marcellus, and just as strong, but his features were softer and more humorous, as though a laugh was always just about to fall from his smug smirk. His thick black mustache was oiled and twisted to fine points, which he twisted off handedly as he stood with a bow as tall as he was. A vicious looking sword hung from a scabbard across his back, covered in hooks designed to tear at flesh rather than cut it.
                “Captain Marcellus Dorimus. Are you the Kelanus that killed the Druid of the West Havens?” Hefting his spear, he walked toward the hunter. He instinctively hated the unchanging smirk on the man’s face. It was the same smirk he had seen on the faces of the Senators and Councilors of the ImperialCapital.
                 “I see you’ve heard of my work. This beast seems much larger, though. Means he’s more powerful. Stupid to turn his back to my bow, though. But they are just savages, no matter how much they fuss it up with talk of nature and balance.” The hunter met him in the center of the clearing, still smirking. They stood face to face, just as he had with the bear. But this time there was no respect. Marcellus saw open contempt in the eyes of Kelanus, and he returned the favor with his own glare.
                 “I heard you work for gold. No feeling of duty to your Empire?”
                 “I only have a duty to myself. This job will keep gold in my purse, ale in my mug, and women in my bed for years. Too bad the army doesn’t pay you a commission, or I’d ask you to join me in my fun.”
                Marcellus turned away, hiding the disgust he couldn’t stop from flooding his face. This man killed for money and fun. He was a child with a weapon, not a soldier.
                 “Look, Captain. You may not like me, but I was sent to help you. So the quicker we bag this brute and take his head the faster I get payed and you can go back to pulling down trees for the good of the people.” That same smirk. Only the eyes showed the man was dangerously intelligent. He walked to the trail the bear had left, examining it closely. “We need to hurry, or else he’ll change forms to something that can flee.”

     
                “No, he won’t. He’s waiting for us.”   
                The hunter turned, his eyes showing disdain. “And how do you know that, oh mighty hunter?”
                “Because he has something you will never understand: honor. He want’s this to end, either with our deaths or his.”
                 “His own weakness. I’ll snipe him from so far away he won’t even know what hit him.”
                Marcellus strode up to the hunter, then walked past. Stopping in the middle of the trail, he called back.
                “Have you ever killed a druid in human form?”
                The hunter stalked past him, bow ready, answering as he followed the blood trail left by his prey. “I don’t ever think of them as human. Something that brutish and ignorant is more akin to an animal than a man.”
                The Captain followed, his eyes to the ground, brooding over what had happened.

          The bloody trail wove through ferns and brush as the Forest grew more lush. Marcellus followed Kelanus as he, in turn, followed signs of spore through the undergrowth. The splatters of blood were thick and a darker red then most, revealing that the wound had hit a serious artery. The Captain grimly realized that the bear would be dead whether they found it or not: there was too much blood from a vital spot for any beast to survive. The fact that the druid had managed to keep ahead of them this long showed his strength.
                “We’re getting close! The trail is fresh!” The hunter called back over his shoulder as he jumped a small stream. Even his voice sounded pompous and arrogant.
               “So what are you planning to do when we catch the druid?”
                The hunter stopped and drew a nasty looking curved blade. His grin grew as his eyes followed the serrated edge.
                 “I’m going to cut off his head. I don’t get the bounty unless I recover his head.” He slashed at the air with the blade before returning it to his scabbard. “If I can catch him in human form, I’ll get my price and a half.”
                 Marcellus was disgusted at this callous view of butchery. His face must have shown it, because the hunter snorted at him.
                 “Don’t act so high and mighty. You’re a soldier. You kill men for gold, too. I just charge more for bigger prey.” He pushed past, ducking under a large branch. Marcellus watched him go, considering his words.
                “I killed for my country when we were in peril. Our people were dying. Those barbarians fought for their country, too. We all did what we had to do.”
                “And now?” Kelanus was busy hacking at a particularly stubborn thorn bush.
                “Now I don’t know... I may resign... this army isn’t what it once was.”
                 “Well, don’t become a druid hunter. I’ve been looking for a prize for a while, and I think this may be the last one.” The bush finally submitted to his knife, and he tore it up from the ground as they continued.
                “What will you do now that you have killed them all?”
                “Perhaps I’ll become an assassin. There’s never a shortage of work or targets for them.”
                “It suits you.” The Captain had been watching the trees ever since he had realized how fresh the trail was. He was waiting, his eyes straining against the green shadows of the wood, trying to catch a glimpse of the great bear.
                 They continued in this manner for a few more minutes, both of them combing the woods with their eyes: one excited and scared, another hopeful and sad. Soon, the woods began to thin again as the scrub around them thinned while larger, harder trees began to dominate the landscape. The stream they had jumped curved back at them, becoming deeper and wider. From the sounds further on, they were nearing some fast rushing water.
                 A loud roar broke through the trees. Kelanus peered past a large oak, turning back to his companion with the excitement flashing in his eyes.
               “It’s there. And it’s wounded heavily. Should be easy to take down after all the blood it lost.” He strode into the clearing without hesitation, with Marcellus trailing him.
               A mournful sight met the soldiers eyes. The bear lay on its side, too weak to stand or even sit upright. Blood pooled under the animal, soaking its once regal silver fur. It breathed heavily, its tongue lying in the stream next to its head as it took labored breaths.
                 “Yes, this shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t even think it will fight. Mores the pity. That’s half the fun.” Rather then use a blade to lay the final blow, Kelanus stood just out of reach, nocking an arrow to his bow.
                Probably too cowardly to risk himself, even with it wounded this heavily. Marcellus stood to the side, his eyes locked on those of the bear. Even though it was weak and dying, its eyes were still aware and full of intelligence. He barely even noticed when they changed from brown to blue. Then his jaw dropped.
               The druid had changed. Its once mighty body was now that of a small woman, though the arrow shaft was still lodged in her leg with blood slowly leaking from the wound. She seemed young, but her hair was a lustrous silver, cascading across pale skin all the way down her body to her waist. She wore a thin tunic that appeared to be woven from leaves from thousands of different trees, all woven together into a flexible cloth. Now that all her muscles were gone, she looked so fragile to him, staring up at him with those blue, beautiful eyes.
                Kelanus drew his arrow back farther, aiming it at the woman’s throat. Marcellus, shocked, shouted at the man.
                “Look at her! She’s no threat! At least let her die in peace, or make it merciful! That arrow will only prolong her suffering!”
                “ But it will make it easier to cut off her head once she stops moving. Once clean stroke will give me my prize!” He laughed to himself.
                In a rage, Marcellus shoved the hunter. He fell back, his arrow flying wildly into the trees, as he landed on his backside in the rushing water. The druid watched the scene, silent except for her wet breaths. Kelanus sputtered, flailing in the shallows.
                “What are you doing?!? You would dare strike me to help this savage?!? Whose side are you on!” His smirk gone, he look scared as the man towered over him, his eyes full of passion and his face set in conviction.   
                 “I’m certainly not on your side. This is your last chance. Get the hell out of these woods. You’ll not make a profit off of her head this day.” He kicked the man, rolling him deeper into the river. Kelanus stumbled to his feet, giving the soldier a look of supreme confusion before crashing into the woods.
                 Marcellus turned, kneeling on the bank and pulling the druid into his arms. He stared into her eyes again, fascinated by the life and freedom within them.
                “Do you speak our language?”
                She nodded, grimacing as he accidentally shifted against her leg.
                “Is there any chance that I can save you?”
                At this she only smiled. One of her hands shakily reached to her lips, pressing against her fingers against them. Then her eyes flashed past him. Marcellus felt something punch him in the back, and looked down to see an arrow jutting from his chest, seeming so out of place against the red flesh of the wound. He turned, a look of shock on his face, to see Kelanus standing on the opposite bank, soaked to the bone. But his smirk had returned, this time accompanied by eyes that shone victoriously.
                 “Thought you’d won, did you? I think this proves who the better man is.” He began stalking foreword, drawing his serrated sword. “And don’t think I’ll make it quick for either of you.”
                Marcellus tried to rise, but suddenly he felt very heavy and tired. He managed to rise to one foot and a knee, but his effort overbalanced him and he fell, twisting back onto his side. The impact was so painful it startled him.
                “What? That was only a foot or so! What’s wrong with me?”
         He tried again to rise, but his hand slipped in a pool of water. Looking down, he realized his hand was soaked in his own blood, not the water of the stream. His chest hurt as well, and he knew he must have a collapsed lung. All this time, he heard the sound of Kelanus walking across the stones towards him, and try as he might he could not turn his head up to see his foe.
                 “I guess this makes me the best hunter in the wood, soldier boy.”
                The corners of his eyes began to grow black, and the darkness began to slowly ink its way through his vision. He suddenly realized he was about to die, as surely as the druid he had saved from dishonor would die from her wounds. For the first time in his life he felt fear. But it was not fear of the end, which he had long ago conquered. It was fear of dying without seeing her again. He tried one final time to roll over to her, but he could not summon the strength. He fell back, the sticky blood covering his chest as the hunter knocked an arrow only two feet above him. He lay, spread eagle, staring up the shaft that would being his demise.
                “At least I can die with the most unique person I ever met.”
                He reached out blindly with his gory hand, trying to at least feel her skin before he died. Instead of warm flesh his hand closed around cold metal, and strength began to flood back into his body. The darkness in his eyes receded, and he managed to turn his head to her, his face, once weak and resigned, now filled with surprise and vigor. See lay, arm outstretched, handing him his spear, still smiling. He smiled back, understanding.
                 With a roar he urged adrenaline through his battered body one last time. Rotating towards the hunter, his spear lanced out at Kelanus’ face before he could react. The man tried to let his arrow fly, but the shaft of the spear pushed the bow aside as the head to fly into his face  His smirk, along with his entire face, collapsed like a cloth bag under pressure as the head of the spear crashed through his features. Marcellus held the spear briefly before pushing the dead weight away. Kelanus fell into the stream, which quickly began floating his corpse down into the Forest.
                “That’s better than he deserved.” Marcellus managed a wheezing chuckle before falling back onto the stony bank. Again his hand reached, and this time he felt a small, soft hand meet his in friendly embrace. He rolled over to his side, wanting to look into those eyes one more time.
                 “I suppose this is it. I wanted to tell you... that I was sorry. For killing your kind. You all fought bravely... for something you loved. I did too... once... but now I think... I may have been... on the wrong side.” He coughed, hacking blood onto the pebbles. She squeezed his hand harder, smiling at him. He instantly knew that he regretted nothing in saving this woman: even his own death. He opened his mouth to speak again, but she silenced him with her own words. 
                “I saw you coming, Marcellus Dorimus. We Druids have more power than you know: we even read the streams of time. I saw this entire event play out. I could have stopped it. Killed you. Killed him. But it was my time. I didn’t talk to you before because I wanted to save all my energy for one last gift. A reward for the man I saw and fell in love with before I ever met him. I only ask that you use it wisely. Please, find my people. Tell them how I died. And use your passion in their service. Good bye, my love.”
                 Her hand squeezed his own, growing tighter as a glowing light passed from her hand into his. He felt that light fill him, enveloping every part of his being as it raced through him. He felt warm and happy, as though a life time’s worth of affection had been poured into him in a single moment. He buckled at the waist, bending into a fetal position as the arrow was spit from his body, his chest rippling and healing to the point that old scars disappeared. As the light faded from his mind, he was left as clean and smooth as he was the day he was born. His eyes flashed up, no longer cold but happier then he had ever been, to the woman who had given him this gift. But then they fell, saddened by what they saw.
                 She lay staring at him, smiling, but no longer breathing. She had pushed every last ounce of her energy into him, healing his wounds and his spirit. In the process, she had taken her own life. He reached over, closing her beautiful blue eyes, now glossy and without the spark of life he had loved so much. Planting a final kiss on her cheek, he left her there. Some animal would take her, completing the cycle of life. He knew she would have wanted it that way.
         Rising, he paused to wash the blood from his body. Staring into the dark trees, he felt a thought tickling his mind, passed on by her magic in her last moments of life. He marched into the Forest, a single memory, weak like a candle sputtering against a breeze, floating through his mind. He knew only a direction: north. But he would follow it. For her.
                                                                                                                                                           
                 General Veringian bundled against the cold, drawing his furs around him as the arctic wind blew across the frozen plain. After botching the druid situation at the Great Forest, he was given an assignment to quell a barbarian tribe that had grown surprisingly fast and aggressive on the Northern Wastes. He was in the middle of some god forsaken steppe, waiting for the barbarian chief to come and negotiate peaceful terms. A large army stood behind him, shivering in their armor, waiting to make peace with the savages and go home.
                 “Riders approaching, sir!” A blond haired boy stood next to the general, proud of the promotion he had received after he had described fighting the mighty druid in the forest, wounding it before it knocked him out and fled. The fact that none of the other men managed to find their way out of the hostile forest to attest to his bravery was a shame, but he had accepted the Emperor’s commendation with pride.
                 A small entourage on large, brutish horses rode over the grassland. The barbarians wore little, accustomed to the freezing temperatures, and many laughed and babbled in their foreign language as they trotted up to the General. Veringian snorted, wishing he was allowed to crush the rabble beneath the heal of the Empire. But this tribe was too strong to challenge outright. Once they were settled they could be dealt with, one encampment at a time. Until then, he would have to kiss their putrid feet and smile.
                 “The Emperor welcomes you, and hopes we can all go home happy and free of worry on this day.” He read the speech off a parchment prepared by his personal scribe, but stopped when one barbarian threw a bundle at his feet. He looked at it with a neutral face before ordering the former messenger to pick it up. The boy leaned down, pulling the leather hide bag open to reveal a purple cloak and an ornate helmet worn only by the elite soldiers of the Imperial army.
                 “What is this!?! If you beasts have killed a single soldier of ours, I’ll have you hung from the rafters of my lodge!” He stammered at the smiling savages, trying to act intimidating while hiding his fear. The leader bellowed out, his booming laughter causing his the Imperial soldiers to take a step back. When he finally calmed himself down, the chief looked up at the man he had once served.
                 Bright grey eyes peered out from under a thick hood. Whereas once they had been filled with resentment and rage, now they shown with something foreign to the General: a spark of life. “I am simply returning something I have no use for anymore. And I refuse your treaty. We attack tomorrow. Tell your men so that the farmers have a chance to flee home.” With that, the men turned their mounts and raced away, laughing and conversing merrily.
                 The General gawked, following the chief with his dumb stare until he disappeared into the falling snow, a shroud of swirling white concealing the entourage as they rode away, laughing again. The first thought that registered was that he needed more men, but that it would be impossible to gain reinforcements in a single night. The second thought that itched at the corner of his mind was that he recognized those eyes from somewhere...