(1)
"You didn't have to come," said Toran.
Matriarch Gwendalyn smiled at him. "No, but I wanted to. I can leave if you'd like."
Toran grunted but didn't say anything. They were sitting in a ready room in the King's Arena, listening to the crowd above screaming and cheering. He could feel the vibrations as the crowd stamped their feet and roared for the fighters currently occupying the arena. Soon, someone would come to collect Toran for the final bout of the day.
The truth was that he was happy to have the Matriarch there. He was actually fond of the old mother hen, though he'd never admit it. The last thing he wanted was to become a sentimental old man.
"You know, it's been years since my last bout in the arena. Longer still since I managed to win anything. For a while, I thought I'd lost my edge."
"Since your wife died, you mean?"
"We were never married. Should have been, gods know it would have made my life so much better, but no, Alira was never my wife. But I think you're right, when she died I lost my will to fight."
"And now you fight for your son?"
"Aye."
The Matriarch nodded. "It seems there are many people putting their faith in Roran. Do you think he can accomplish what it is that he intends to do?"
Toran chewed on the thought. He knew he was biased towards his son but he wanted to give an honest answer.
"Do you know what it is that he intends to do?" asked Toran.
"He's never told me directly, but I believe he intends to challenge the Kings. I don't think he wants a crown, I think he wants to destroy them and destroy this world they've built."
"You'd be correct. You'd also be correct for saying it's a childish dream. For a boy to challenge the gods...who in their right mind would put their life on the line for such a silly dream."
"From what I can tell, there are many people willing to make such a gamble. Kell believes in him, and so does Darling. Even Sarah, a specter of death itself, seems to support him. Why? What makes him special? Why do you think he's capable of changing the world?"
"He's not," said Toran. "At least, he's not capable of doing it on his own. I don't know why the others believe in him, but I have my own suspicions. His mother was capable of...strange things. She was able to influence things around her, change them. Honestly, she was probably one of the most influential people in this world and so few people knew she even existed. I think Alira's influence put Roran in a position to do what needs to be done. I think she twisted the fates themselves so her son could achieve greatness. Too bad he's the one paying the price for his mother's choices."
"Is that why you're so set on him reading his mother's journal?"
Toran sighed. "No, I want him to read his mother's journal because he needs to know what kind of person she was before she became his mother. He needs to know that, despite everything he's done, despite every person he's killed and every life he's inadvertently destroyed through his actions, his mother would never think less of him. It would be hypocritical if she did, and Alira was no hypocrite."
"What do you mean?"
Toran waved the question away. "It's not something I'm willing to share. Maybe Roran will tell you once he's read the damn journal himself. That reminds me, if I die, make sure he gets my swords, will you?"
"Of course. I must say, it is strange seeing you whole again."
Toran rolled his eyes.
"See, you even have two eyes to roll at me. I'm surprised you'd risk your life now that you have your health back."
Toran looked down at his hands. His new sword hand had already started to look like his old one. He'd needed a few days and some healing salve to build up enough calluses to fight again, and then another day of etching to fix his markings and bring himself back to full strength, but he'd made it. He may not have been at his peak, but he was close enough.
"I didn't get my health back," Toran said. "I bought it in exchange for my freedom. If I hadn't started down this path, I'd still be a maimed old man. This arm and this eye are chains binding me to King Tasos. But they give me what I need to help my son."
"May I ask, what is your end goal? What can you do as the King's Chosen to help Roran?"
Toran grinned. "Honestly, nothing. But I can kill Mentass, and then Roran doesn't have to. Based on my conversations with Roran before he left, I don't think Ahndor is coming back from the war. That just leaves Destra. Once he's gone, those kids will have a clean shot at the Kings. That's what I'm after. Even if I can't kill Mentass, I can maim him and that will give them an edge."
"What if you do win and obtain a crown of your own?"
"Then I get Destra alone in a dark room and see if I can't kill a second Chosen."
Matriarch Gwendalyn pursed her lips. "After everything I've been through, you'd think I would have gotten comfortable talking about murder, but it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth."
"Good, that means you're still a good person. Roran will need that sort of influence when he gets home. Between you and Sarah, maybe he'll turn out alright when this is all over."
"One can only hope."
There was a knock on the door. Toran rose to his feet as a clerk entered.
"Carrick, good to see you again," said Toran.
"And you," said the old clerk. He gave Toran a once over and cocked his head. "For some reason I thought you'd be using a sword and shield like your son."
Toran laid a hand on the second sword riding his waist. Alira's shortsword, Pathfinder, sat opposite his Sentinel's blade.
"I figured I could use every bit of help I can get in this fight."
"Well I hope it serves you well. Are you ready?"
Toran glanced back at Matriarch Gwendalyn. He debated giving her a hug then thought better of it. It was best not to say goodbye in these scenarios. That was too close to giving up.
Nodding, Toran said, "Aye, let's get this over with."
(2)
Carrick led Toran from the ready room towards the arena. Toran felt a sense of nostalgia as they passed through the halls. The hum of the crowd above them, the anxiety brewing in his gut, the anticipation of crossing blades with another skilled warrior. Toran had spent his life learning to fight and learning to kill. He was the last Sentinel of Aurandale and he was ready to lay his life down to protect his home, even if all that remained of it was one overly ambitious boy.
Neither the Champion nor the clerk spoke as they walked, which Toran was grateful for. As they reached the double doors that would lead him to his fate, Toran paused and said, "Thanks for looking after the kids."
"I'm looking after my kid, just as you're looking after yours."
"I hope she appreciates it."
"Probably about as much as yours does."
Toran grinned. "Cheers, old man."
"Good luck, old man."
Carrick turned and left and Toran pushed through the double doors.
The roar of the crowd assaulted him. It was deafening and overwhelming. The announcer's voice echoed through the arena high above.
"Ladies and gentlemen! This is the fight you have all been waiting for. This is history in the making. We are witnessing two legends clash. One will rise above as a King's Chosen and the other will fall into the pages of history."
Toran had not missed that. He'd hated the announcer from the very first moment that he'd stepped into the arena. Oddly enough, that had been over a decade ago and the announcer never seemed to age or change. It was always the same voice, always the same intonation, always the same moronic prattling that made Toran want to strangle the man. If he survived this, he may very well do just that.
As was typical for these types of bouts, a platform had been raised in the center of the arena. It was large, spacious, and perfectly flat, with two staircases leading up to it. Toran climbed the stairs and found that Mentass was already waiting for him.
Mentass was wearing his usual attire, covered from the neck down in loose clothes that looked like they belonged on the deck of a ship rather than in the center of an arena. He held a harpoon in his hand and carried two more slung across his back. Toran had dressed simply in trousers and a thin shirt, with a pair of swords nestled on his hips. For supposed legends, they were scruffy and underwhelming.
Despite their rough appearance, the announcer continued his spiel. "We are seeing a battle against King Tasos's Chosen Champion, Mentass the Kingfisher, not for a chance to challenge the King, but for a chance to serve him. Toran the Last Sentinel, the wielder of the flaming blade, is after the Kingfisher's position. Should he claim victory, he will stand tall in his place as our glorious King's new Chosen. Before these fierce warriors do battle, King Tasos himself shall give his blessing."
High above, at the very top of the stands, a small platform disengaged from the colossal coliseum and began floating down towards the arena. As it lowered, King Tasos came within view, standing in the center of the platform. He regarded first Mentass, then Toran. Then he smiled his sly old smile and began to speak.
"Mentass and Toran," he said, his voice ringing loud and clear throughout the entire arena. "You have both served me well. Mentass, you have been by my side for decades now, carrying out my will. Toran, you have proved yourself competent and capable time and time again. You have surpassed all of my expectations.
"I give my blessing to this fight. Mentass, should you overcome this challenge, it will prove that you are as strong and capable as you have always been, and that you remain able to serve as my Chosen Champion. Toran, should you overcome the odds stacked against you, then you shall become my new Chosen and be blessed with all the power and gifts that I have to offer. Then it will be your turn to serve as my left hand and carry out my will. You have both served me well and I'm sad to see one of you fall, but the one that remains shall be even stronger than before. Fight, now, with my blessing and my best wishes."
The platform began to rise, floating up and away from the arena. Tasos looked down at Toran and winked. Toran simply scowled back. Mentass appeared to be doing the same.
"Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?"
The crowd roared back, the whole arena vibrating with excitement.
"Champions, are you ready?"
Neither Mentass nor Toran so much as acknowledged him.
"Then let the battle begin!"
The bell began to ring. That damned cursed bell that had doomed so many people to death, and now would doom another. The bell rang over and over again, filling the arena with its death knell.
Mentass moved first, walking slowly towards the center of the arena. Toran followed suit, not bothering to draw his swords. The crowd swelled, then deflated as the two came to stand across from each other, neither making a move towards violence.
"I always forget how annoying this is," said Mentass.
"Regret not taking your ship and sailing away?"
"Yes, actually. But we're here now, no choice but to get it over with."
"Aye."
"For what it's worth," said Mentass, "I enjoyed working with you."
"And I you. You're a decent fellow. Under better circumstances I would have liked to drink with you from time to time."
"Cheers to that." Mentass stuck out his hand. "Best of luck, grumpy old man."
Toran shook the hand. "The same to you, salty old dog."
They both turned and returned to their respective ends of the arena. Overhead, the announcer was screaming and yelling. Apparently shaking hands was worth half a poem to the idiots watching. Toran tuned them all out. He had better things to focus on.
Mentass hefted his weapon and shifted so the other two were easily accessible off his shoulder. Toran already knew that Mentass was skilled in ranged combat. He guessed that Mentass could probably summon the harpoons back to him if needed, meaning he'd need to destroy them.
Toran drew his swords. With a simple exhalation of breath, the black blade in Toran's hand was engulfed in flames. When he inhaled, the shimmering white sword in his offhand became as light as air. The crowd exploded at the sight of Toran's flaming sword. Mentass was much less enthusiastic. He responded by throwing one of his harpoons.
(3)
Toran raised his flaming sword to parry, hoping the heat would weaken the weapon's shaft. Just before the harpoon made contact, it swerved. The damned thing swerved around Toran's sword and aimed directly for his shoulder.
Toran snapped Pathfinder up to block, throwing himself off balance and barely managing to dodge the sharp barbs as they whistled past him.
The harpoon stabbed into the ground well behind Toran. Not taking any chances, he backed away from it. Mentass made a gesture with his hand and the harpoon snapped out of the ground and flew back towards its master.
"Well that explains a lot," Toran mumbled. Mentass had vaguely explained how he had defeated his predecessor, and now Toran had enough information to fill in the gaps. The man was clever and dangerous.
Realizing he needed to close the gap between them, and quickly, Toran broke into a run. He sprinted straight for Mentass, his flaming sword trailing behind him and Pathfinder held out before him.
Mentass threw another harpoon. Toran ignored where the harpoon was heading and focused on when it would get there. As the harpoon reached Toran, it twisted, trying to catch him off guard. Toran responded by sweeping Pathfinder in a wide arc. He caught the harpoon just behind its head, Pathfinder's razor sharp edge slicing cleanly through the wooden shaft.
The sharp tip hit Toran's shoulder, but without the rest of the harpoon to give it weight and mass, it wasn't able to pierce his protective etchings. As Toran kept running, he refocused his gaze on Mentass and realized his mistake. Mentass was holding his hand out, fingers spread. The Kingfisher clenched his hand shut and the broken harpoon exploded.
Toran was lifted off his feet and thrown forward. Shards of metal shredded his clothes and shrapnel tore his skin. His defensive etchings held, but he was covered in small cuts and his ears were ringing painfully.
Snarling through the pain, Toran forced himself back to his feet and kept pushing forward. Mentass already had another harpoon in his hands. Toran rushed him before he could throw it. He closed the distance and whirled on Mentass with his flaming sword.
Sparks flew as sword met harpoon. This one was made entirely of metal, likely specialized for close range combat. Mentass pushed the flaming sword back only to have Toran strike again with Pathfinder.
Mentass moved to parry the smaller blade, his motions reserved and confident. Then Toran flooded Pathfinder with energy and it hit Mentass with the weight of an anvil. The impact surprised Mentass, throwing him off balance. Toran pressed his advantage. Pathfinder, once more as light as a feather, snapped back towards Mentass and hit him like a boulder, knocking him off his feet entirely.
Toran lunged at Mentass, going for the kill. Mentass rolled out of the way just as Toran buried his flaming sword into stone. Mentass rolled back to his feet and brought his harpoon to bear, now dented from the intensity of the impacts. Toran wrenched his sword out of the ground, leaving a smoking hole in the ground.
"That little blade is something else," said Mentass, his eyes wide and sweat dripping down his face. Even in the heat of combat, he had a crooked grin hanging off his face.
Toran gave Pathfinder a flourish, dialing in its weight. "So was the woman who wielded it."
"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that when you join her."
"Why don't you tell her for me when you see her."
"Oh you're an ornery bastard," said Mentass, grinning. "They may have loosened my etchings but I'm still wearing a crown. I'm stronger, faster, and better protected. This isn't going to end well for you, old man."
Toran grinned back. "Apparently your crown makes you more talkative too, let's quit yapping and get back to killing each other. I've got my son to worry about."
Mentass responded by lunging at Toran, wielding his harpoon like a spear. Toran parried the blow and nearly fell flat on his ass. Mentass wasn't lying, his strength was immense, far greater than any Champion he'd fought against in the past. Mentass followed up, striking again and again, keeping Toran on the defensive.
Relying on Pathfinder to parry the blows, Toran began back pedaling away from Mentass. He kept parrying and blocking until he had the attack pattern memorized. Mentass was a sailor, not a fighter. His close quarters combat was simple and repetitive. The advantage he had over Harlock would be his weakness against Toran.
As Mentass stepped in for another strike, Toran dove sideways, predicting the attack and reacting to it first. His flaming sword erupted into an inferno and crashed down on Metnass's harpoon, driving it into the ground. Toran laid Pathfinder over it and poured on the weight. The steel harpoon screeched and bent, folding underneath the heat and weight of Toran's attack.
Mentass dropped the harpoon and dove away from Toran. Toran kicked the harpoon away from him in case it decided to explode then chased after Mentass.
Mentass was no longer grinning. His face was red and covered in sweat. He was gasping for air and his hair was a tangled mess. He slipped the last harpoon off his shoulder and twirled it around in his hand. This one had a wooden shaft, meaning it was designed for throwing. If Toran could destroy that last harpoon, the match would be his.
Instead of throwing the harpoon, or attacking at all. Mentass raised his foot and slammed it down on the ground. Stone cracked and shattered under Mentass's demi-god strength. He bent down and scooped up a handful of debris and hurled it at Toran.
Toran threw up his swords before him, holding them across his body, but it was a meager defense. Mentass could throw boulders the way people threw pebbles. At this range and with Mentass's strength, the handful of rocks hit Toran like shot from a flintlock. His swords blocked the worst of the damage, but the few rocks that slipped by tore open his clothes and his flesh, leaving him bleeding.
Mentass followed with a powerful lunge, trying to drive his harpoon into Toran's chest. Toran was outmatched in strength, but not experience. He parried hard with Pathfinder, driving the harpoon away from his body and leaving Mentass wide open.
This was the moment Toran needed. His Sentinel's blade flared back into an inferno, burning hot and bright. He raised it high and cleaved it down Mentass's chest, slicing him from shoulder to hip.
The blade landed and it felt like he was cutting stone. He left a flaming trail across Mentass's entire chest, burning away his clothes and revealing the flickering crown underneath. With all his strength and all the fire his blade could produce, Toran had managed little more than cut across Mentass's chest. It was a wound, but it was neither fatal nor crippling. It was the best Toran could do, but it wasn't enough to bring down a demi-god.
(4)
Mentass roared in pain and swung his fist at Toran. Coming from anyone else, Toran would have laughed at the gesture. Coming from Mentass, it was lethal. Toran pivoted and took the punch on his shoulder. It was like being hit with a cannonball. Toran felt bone shatter and muscle tear. His hand went numb and Pathfinder fell from limp fingers.
Both fighters staggered back. Toran's arm was completely useless. Mentass was a burned and bloody mess but he was otherwise still functional. The flickering etchings of his crown continued to shimmer across his broken skin. Apparently cutting flesh wasn't enough to interrupt the markings.
Part of Toran wanted to panic, to fall into despair and give up, but his training wouldn't let him. He was a Sentinel, the Last Sentinel, and he would protect his home no matter the cost, even if that home had been reduced to one misguided boy.
Toran tossed away his Sentinel's blade, still smoking from the attack, and scooped up Pathfinder in his good hand. He already had a new plan for bringing down the demi-god, one that was probably going to get him killed.
Mentass shook his head and straightened his back. They were both ready to end this. There were no final words, no last minute quips. They simply locked eyes and lunged into action.
Mentass raised his harpoon and dove at Toran. Toran raised Pathfinder and braced himself. Mentass struck with his harpoon, trying to drive it through Toran's heart. Toran blocked with Pathfinder, but only enough to move the barbed point away from his heart and into his chest. He released his defensive etchings and the harpoon sank through Toran's flesh and out the other side.
A look of surprise crossed Mentass's face as he easily inflicted a mortal injury on Toran. Toran didn't hesitate. He moved before the pain had any time to set in, reactivating his etchings to pin the harpoon in place and ran Pathfinder up its shaft. He glided the thin blade along Mentass's arm and balanced it perfectly on his shoulder. Then he poured everything he had into the blade's etchings.
Mentass let out a cry of shock and pain as the blade went from weighing nothing to weighing as much as his own ship. Mentass tried to slip free but the blade had already dug into his shoulder, cutting through tendon and digging into bone. Toran was no longer pressing the blade in, he was merely keeping it balanced and pouring on as much weight as he could.
Changing tactics, Mentass wrenched on the harpoon, trying to pull Toran off balance. To Toran's horror, it almost worked. His body jerked and the immense weight of the sword nearly pulled it out of Toran's own grasp.
He had no reason to hold back. Either he killed Mentass here and now, or he failed altogether. Toran released every etching on his body except for the ones in his hand. Every ounce of energy he redirected into the blade.
Mentass dropped to a knee as the sword's weight doubled and then doubled again. In a final fit of desperation, Mentass ripped the harpoon out of Toran's body, shredding his torso. Toran didn't need to see the damage or feel the pain to know that it was a life ending wound. His chest was completely destroyed. But it didn't matter. Pathfinder had started working its way through Mentass's shoulder and into his chest. Both Champions screamed as Toran gave it everything he had and the shimmering white blade cleaved all the way through Mentass's body.
*********
When Toran opened his eyes, he was looking up at an orange and red sky. He was still in the arena, lying flat on his back on the hard stone. A kindly old man looked down at him and smiled. Toran took a deep breath in then let it out. He felt fine. He felt amazing, better than he had in decades.
"Am I alive?" he asked.
"Sadly, no," said the old man, still smiling.
Toran sat up. He was whole again. Not just whole, but restored. His arm and his eye were once more his own. A few feet away from where he sat was his own mangled corpse. He looked worse than he'd expected.
"By the gods, man," said Mentass, hunkering down over his own corpse. "You sliced me clean in half!"
"Sorry?" said Toran, still dazed and confused. "What's going on?"
"Well," said the kindly old man. "You two are dead, and so is he." The old man pointed to another figure standing in the arena. He was tall and heavily built, wearing the armor of a veteran officer from the King's Army. He had the face of a hawk and looked like he'd never smiled once in his life.
"Hey, it's old man Aegis," said Mentass. "Never thought I'd see you like this."
Aegis sneered down at Mentass. "Pathetic," he said, his voice deep and grating. "I knew you were a mistake."
"He was the fire for my crown," explained Mentass.
"I serve the Kings in death as I did in life. Begone you mongrel, let these black clerks take you somewhere you can no longer disgrace the Kings. I have work still to do."
Mentass let out a sigh. "Guess it really is over. Damn, I really should have sailed off, huh? I could be fishing right now."
"Yes," said the kindly old man, "you are dead and it is time for you to move on. However, dear Aegis, it is time for you to go as well."
Black robed figures began appearing in the arena. They were tall and ghastly, each of them with four skeletal arms. At first there were a handful, then a dozen, then countless more began appearing, all of them carrying a sword, a bell, a book, and a bag of coin.
"You and your ilk are not enough to take me," said the angry old remnant. "Begone, there is still work for me to do."
Toran realized that Aegis must have been centuries old if he had been fueling a crown for the Kings all this time. He must have been hand chosen specifically for this role. The other crowns were likely the same.
"We let you be in the past," said the old man. "But times are changing. We have a chance to be rid of your lot once and for all, and we're willing to pay the price to see it through."
Aegis snarled and drew a heavy two handed sword. The black robed figures took that as their cue to attack. They swarmed the old soldier, hacking at him with their blades. Aegis responded in kind, cleaving one of the black clerks in two. It shattered like glass and fell to the ground in a thousand pieces. Another black clerk stepped in for its fallen comrade and they continued mauling him. The dark figures pressed in thick and heavy, blotting Aegis out from sight.
(5)
"We should move along," said the old man. He motioned for Toran and Mentass to walk with him.
Hesitantly, they moved to join the old man. Toran looked back to see more of the black clerks being shattered by the ancient warrior, but none of them relented. Aegis's war cries turned to screams and then began fading out as more of the macabre beings swarmed him.
When Toran looked back to the old man, he was surprised to find that they were no longer in the arena. He hadn't even blinked but they'd left the world entirely and were walking on a familiar looking beach.
"This doesn't feel real," said Mentass, looking around them. "I feel like I'm dreaming."
"Many feel that way," said the old man. "I think it's easier for some to think of this as the dream in between. It's the dream after death, and at the same time, it's the dream before life. It's the moment in the ebb and flow where everything pauses and you can catch your breath before falling back into motion."
"It's nice," said Mentass. "The sun is a bit bright though."
Toran looked up at the starry night sky above, then over at the old man. He gave Toran a sly wink before saying, "I was under the impression you liked hot sunny beaches. It gives you an excuse to go swimming."
"A swim does sound lovely," said Mentass, sounding younger than before.
When Toran looked at him, Mentass was no longer an old sea dog but a man in his prime. There wasn't a single gray hair on his head and only a handful of scars dotted his hands. Even those were small, like scars gained while fishing.
The old man pointed towards the water. "I'm sure someone else would like to go swimming with you."
Mentass's eyes went wide. "Siren!" He let out a yell and a laugh. "By the gods, boy, it is you!"
Following Mentass's gaze, Toran looked out to sea and saw...nothing. Mentass grinned back Toran and cuffed him on the shoulder.
"Well that was a nightmare of a fight, no hard feelings though. See you in the next life."
Mentass ran out into the water and began swimming towards his unseen companion, calling his name and laughing until he was out of sight.
"The ebb and flow looks different to all who see it," explained the old man.
"So that was just a mirage?" asked Toran, watching the waves where Mentass had disappeared.
"No. What he saw was very much real, just as what you see is very much real."
"Then...this really is the afterlife."
The old man shook his head. "Afterlife is the wrong word. The before-life would be more appropriate but it doesn't fully sum up what it is. There's no real way to describe what it is. I've been doing this for centuries and I still can't comfortably put words to it. It is the ebb and flow, it is what it is."
Toran licked his lips. He was dead, and yet, he felt just as alive as before. He knew that Mentass had ripped him apart, he had felt the pain of his body being shredded and his life's blood spilling out. But that was like a distant memory now, like an old and fading wound.
"Who are you?" asked Toran.
"I'm Rathanael, though most people just call me Rath. I look after the others."
"The other lyhlim, you mean."
"Indeed, and those close to them. Your son specifically."
"What do you want from him?"
Rath scratched his chin. "That's a difficult question. Really all we want to do is help him. His success is our success. Ultimately, there's very little we can do, at least until the Kings are made mortal again. For now, all we can do is encourage from a distance and help him out if he falls."
"I could stay, help you help him."
"You could...but let's be honest, there's very little you can do that we can't, and you've already done so much. I think it's time for you to rest. After all, someone else is waiting for you."
Rath tilted his head, gesturing out towards the water. Standing once more in the flotsam was Alira. She had her hands on her hips and her lips were pursed in a suppressed smile. She was just as beautiful as before.
Toran took a step towards her then paused. He looked back at Rath, torn.
"There's nothing more you can do for your son," said Rath. "But, if you'd like, I can pass on a message."
Toran shook his head. "There's nothing left for me to say. I already said it. His mother taught me that."
"You don't even want me to tell him to read his mother's damn journal?"
Toran barked out a laugh. "You're an ornery old man, aren't you?"
"I'm the caretaker of death itself, if I wasn't ornery I would be depressed. Don't worry, we'll look after your son. You can rest now."
Hesitantly, Toran walked out towards the water. Alira stood patiently, watching him approach. When his feet hit the water, he felt a calmness start to spread through him. It was the feeling of coming home after a long journey. It was the feeling of a cup of tea in your favorite mug. It was a hug from the person you loved most.
"You got sloppy, old man," said Alira, walking up towards him. She stopped just inches from him, smiling up at him with her warm eyes and a playful smile.
"I didn't have you to keep me in line," said Toran.
"Well, I suppose that's fair. You always did need someone to look after you. How's our boy?"
"He's just like you."
"Constantly getting into trouble then?"
"More than you can possibly imagine."
Though they hadn't moved, they appeared to be further out to sea. The waves had reached up to Toran's waist and showed no signs of stopping. Toran didn't care. Gently, he reached out and took Alira in his arms.
"By the gods, woman, I have missed you."
Alira reached up and stroked his cheek. "I missed you too, my love."
"There's so much I want to say, so much I want to tell you. So much has happened. I...we...everything-"
Alira put her finger to Toran's lips. "Hush now, there is plenty of time for you to tell me everything. We have all the time in the world now."
"What about Roran?"
"I'm afraid we can't do any more for Roran than we already have. I'm worried about him too, but our part in this story is done. The rest is up to him."