"Love´s Last Stand" by Inger Marie Hognestad

LOVE’S LAST STAND

“The traitor is back!”  The whisper came almost unnaturally clear through the noise from the street, but Samuel ignored it, as so many times before, relying on the Sergeant’s routine to do the same. Their job was to ensure the peace, enforce it if necessary, not to get riled up by a mob. Carefully he stepped around the droppings in the lane, wrinkling his nose at the smell permeating the native quarters of the city, adding to its disrepute. The Sergeant to his right swore quietly as he was less lucky.

            “What a dung heap! A good airing is what this place needs.” The sergeant’s grunt was audible, but not too loud. His round face was contorted with disgust, but he knew better than to provoke a crowd that outnumbered them thirty to one. 

As they approached the square with the jail-shrine of Earth, another murmur, louder than the others, reached him: “That’s him! The one in the mage cloak.”  Samuel pretended not to notice the glances thrown at his back. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces, seeing none. Routinely, he cast an imperceptible web of air, angled so it would carry any whispers to him. It was important to get a feel for the mob today; what they were saying and what they were planning. Next weeks celebration of the King’s 500^th anniversary required vigilance.

Another whisper: “The Dark Mage is here.”  It was carried on the wings of the softest of breezes. Samuel smiled cynically. Dark indeed. How little they knew.

Then, almost at the edge of his hearing, something caught his interest: “They’re coming! Quickly, scatter! We’ll meet in the afternoon.” Samuel halted the Sergeant and nodded toward an alley. The routine was so well practiced; no words were needed. The Sergeant dispatched three of the guards down the passage while the rest of them waited in the street. With hardly a conscious thought Samuel readied the air bond spell in his mind, keeping an illusion at hand, just in case. He felt the resentment from the crowd as a perceptible wave, washing over them.

They waited patiently, and eventually the soldiers returned, swords sheathed, hands empty. Samuel gave a mental shrug, and gestured for the sergeant to continue.

Samuel fell into step with the Sergeant of the Kings Guard as they proceeded down the street. They were nearing their goal and the throng of people grew more dense. Mysteriously, the path in front of them was clear, as if an invisible chisel went ahead of them. It had become so normal to Samuel that he hardly noticed any more. He recalled his first forays to the jail-shrine when he was accompanying one of the more experienced air-mages. The whispered comments had stung then. It had been hard to reconcile with the scorn from those who were his native people. He was an air mage. It wasn’t as if he had chosen it. The fact just was. Apparently facts, which belied the common beliefs, were resented as per default. Acceptance was beyond the scope of most.

The street opened into the square. People scurried busily across the market, bartering at the stalls and minding their own business. Samuel was hot, but the heat didn’t hamper him. That was a trait he shared with the crowd in the square, setting him apart from the sweating and quietly cursing soldiers who were accompanying him. It was almost midday, and the glaring sun beat down on the cobble-stoned Plaza of the Princess like a blacksmith’s hammer. To call it a plaza would have been too grandiose if it weren’t for the domed building in the middle. It rose elegantly up from the cobblestones, its clean lines and structure daring the smell and dirt to challenge its beauty. A colonnade cast a blissful shadow onto the white platform surrounding it. Oddly enough, the only creatures taking advantage of the shadow were dogs and birds. As far as Samuel knew the square got its name after the last, long dead Kakatthe princess, but now there were little to put one in mind of royalty about the place.

Taking it all in, Samuel shook off his gloom. He had a job to do. He led the way and entered the jail-shrine, heading as usual to the right. Taking a moment to dissolve the listening web, he followed the colonnade with measured steps, glad to be out of the sun. The Sergeant and the bodyguard followed at a respectful distance so as not to interrupt. Every few steps he paused, checking the wards and strengthening them when necessary. They were fine as usual, except those at the western wall, as usual. He stopped there, taking the time to shift his eyes westward, toward the memorial on the hill just outside the city gates. It gleamed in the sun. It was an exact copy of the jail-shrine he was guarding, but for reasons lost to history, it was called a memorial. His lips quirked in the imitation of a smile. History was as amnesic as your next ancestor, and less kind.

It was tedious work, having to recharge so many wards, and time consuming as well. One of the soldiers approached him with a water bottle, and he took it with gratitude. The heat was scorching even in the shadow. Looking over the crowd, he rested against a pillar. The stone felt cool to his touch. He knew that if things had turned out differently he could easily have been one of the people milling around in the market, seemingly oblivious to the muggy heat. He had to admit to himself that he did take the heat better than not only most of the soldiers, but most of the mages too. It was his heritage. The ancestry he shared with the crowd set him apart from most of the King’s mages by virtue of his skin color, just as the color of his mage cloak set him apart from his kin.

It wasn’t all to the bad, he mused. The squad of guards that followed him around served more as a sign of the King’s authority than as actual bodyguards. Unlike some of his fellow mages, the local populace acknowledged his ancestry and passively tolerated him, even if he wasn’t liked. At least he’d never been personally attacked.

He nodded cordially to a man on the other side of the square, recognizing him as a local shop owner and a distant relative. He got a genial nod back, and the man turned toward his assistant, saying something. Samuel didn’t catch the words. He was surprised when a young boy turned up just below the stairs that surrounded the jail-shrine, offering him a fresh pie. He took it with a smile, lifting his water bottle as acknowledgment to the shop owner. The owner didn’t notice; he was engaged in an argument with two young men, who were scowling. Samuel wondered briefly if he should listen in, but decided against it. He had better get back to work.

The recharging of the wards took the better part of the day, and when he was done, he dismissed the Sergeant and his men. He had business of a personal nature to attend to and the job was done; there were no reasons for the soldiers to hang around any more. They seemed relieved to get away, offering him only perfunctory greetings before they hurried back to the Palace. It might have been his imagination, but the crowd seemed to relax somewhat when the soldiers left the square. He knew the city well enough to realize that the impression was etched on the surface only. On a different level his own presence was a far greater provocation than anything the King’s soldiers represented. He also recognized the unlikelieness of any immediate action based on that provocation. His people were hogtied, muffled and subdued, and it was all based on history and it’s shadows.

            Taking a moment on the stairs to rest, he gazed westward. The sun was setting, causing the memorial in the distance to shine with a pink glow, a brilliant contrast to the dry grass on the hill. It was beautiful. He closed his eyes, feeling the power emanating from it, washing over him like waves on a beach. Its eroding force ate away at the sand dunes left by the blowing wind like an ocean battling a continent, just like it was eating away at the wards of the jail-shrine. As it had been doing for the last 450 years.

            Reluctantly Samuel let go of the sensation, rose, dusted off his cloak before he removed it and tucked it under his arm with the inside out. Not a disguise, exactly, but it helped him blend in. He walked leisurely over to the shop-owner who had offered him the pie earlier, and found a seat at an unoccupied table. He sat quiet for a while, enjoying the thin illusion of being an ordinary customer taking a well-deserved break at the end of a long day. He managed the feat of seeing through his own self-deception and its reasons while still enjoying it, and he smiled thinly at himself.

            Unbidden, a plate of sweet meat with the spicy sauce like his mother had used to make, landed in front of him, with a mug of ale accompanying it. He looked up in surprise. The waitress was already hurrying off to another table, and he was about to call after her when he caught the eye of the shop owner. An almost imperceptible nod with his head told Samuel all he needed to know, and grateful he dug into the food, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. Then mayhem broke out.

            Without warning Samuel’s chair tilted to the right while the table wobbled to the left, and the next moment he was lying on his stomach, clutching the quaking ground with his hands while screams and upheaval ran like wildfire through the crowd. Samuel shook his head, trying to grasp what was going on. He collected his wits enough to summon a cushion of air around him, allowing him to rise and stay upright, while the quaking ground sent everybody to their knees. Straining to see and hear what caused the commotion, he threw tightly knit webs of air in random directions, hoping to catch anything useful. The only thing carried back to him on the dense currents of air was screams, wails and fear. Then he heard it. Close.

            He swiveled, just in time to witness something he had never thought he’d see inside the city walls. Something was burrowing its way to the surface from within the earth. The ground lifted, heaved, like something below pushed against a crust, cobblestones being forced apart with such might that they flew through the air, adding to the peril of the crowd in the square. The throng was quickly thinning though, as it dispersed into the alleyways between the clay houses, running as quickly as their feet would carry them over the wobbling ground.

            Samuel was stunned. He dodged a cobblestone, but didn’t react until he saw what was burrowing its way toward the light. An Earth Wyrm! Gaping beaked jaws tearing at the earth, scales as solid as granite covering a body as thick as two horses, paws with iron-like claws, viciously curved and deadly as scimitars. Somehow the Earth Wyrm had managed to burrow its way into the city! It was immediately obvious what the wyrm was after. The wards. It was being drawn toward the magic in the wards! And Samuel had been the ward master that afternoon. Never mind that the watch was over, he was there and the wards were his responsibility. There was no time to hesitate.

            He immediately started to weave a web to wrap the wyrm in it, but it sensed him. Glowing yellow eyes turned in his direction and malicious intent glared at him from less than thirty feet away. Samuel forced the web over the wyrms head and paws, only to see it dissipate as it touched the hardened scales. The wyrm threw back its head and snapped with its beak at something Samuel couldn’t see, then amazingly, it ignored him and turned back toward the dome with its wards.

            Even amidst the heat of the battle Samuel realized that the wyrm’s behavior was strange. Then he felt it. A disturbance in the ley veins! He couldn’t tap into them, but this close he could feel when they were being manipulated. Somebody was guiding the wyrm, no, compelling it, to attack the wards! The wyrm at once became irrelevant. As long as this earth mage was controlling it, and it was an earth mage beyond doubt, he wouldn’t be able to stop it. He had to find that mage.

            He smiled grimly to himself, acknowledging the irony in that he, being traitor to one party and a dark mage to the other, would put a stop to the attack aimed at the King’s symbol of power while at the same time saving the native quarters from havoc. Or attempting to, he added silently as he clumsily sidestepped an overturned table.

            Samuel searched for the fine threads of power connecting the Earth mage and the wyrm. It had always been easier for him than for most, to sense them, something his fellow-magi-in-training had sneered at, referring to it as his inferior ancestry. It served him well enough now, he thought coldly. He found the pulsating lines intertwined with a mental compulsion and followed the power-flow away from the wyrm. Yes. A cloaked and hooded figure, its face in deep shadow, stood calmly at the edge of the plaza, ignoring the commotion while facing the wyrm.

Samuel was certain the mage hadn’t discovered him. Quickly he readied the bond spell he used to capture renegades, and deftly threw it at the earth mage. The hooded figure startled, then found itself completely immobilized by invisible strands of air. A furious outcry, quickly muffled by more air, and then Samuel created an air fist. He hurtled it toward the mage and heard it hit the cowl with a thud. The figure went limp, while remaining upright trapped in the bonds.

            The second the earth mage was knocked unconscious, the wyrm let out a blood-curdling cry, and started to thrash wildly about, knocking over several market stalls with its long sinuous body. Samuel turned his attention toward it, and made a second attempt at catching it in his air web. It was difficult staying focused. He had to dodge and run to avoid being hit by the muscular tail that swung violently back and forth across the plaza, but without the interference by the earth mage is was merely a matter of time before he had it ensnared and secured.

Samuel felt exhilarated, despite the state the market was in. Market stalls were upturned, chairs and tables littered the place, some were unharmed, some were smashed by flying cobblestones or the wyrms body. A few of the buildings had lost their plaster in spots, covering the ground below in a fine layer of dust, and a few dark blotches on the ground revealed that the upheaval hadn’t gone past without causing human injury. But right now, the place was empty. 

 Samuel drew his breath. There was certain satisfaction in proving to his people, the very ones who scorned him, that he was capable of handling a threat of this magnitude, and that he would do so in order to protect them. Far from all supported the renegades in their violent actions. Having moral high ground of sorts would perhaps not make him popular, but it would speak loudly against the contempt he was shown for being in the King’s service. Those thoughts and more raced through his mind while he was walking slowly around the captured wyrm. Wyrms were magnificent beasts, and not without intelligence. What had prompted the earth mage to call it?

The wards! The thought hit him the moment he felt a new shudder in the earth. Another wyrm? No, this was different. He looked wildly about, feeling for activity in the ley lines.

He was almost deafened by a loud CRACK, which reverberated throughout the plaza. Then the ground heaved and sent Samuel sprawling again. What in the name of the elements was going on?

He got his answer when he looked toward the jail-shrine. He didn’t need to be there to realize the wards were almost gone. Another earth mage was standing under the colonnade, arms outstretched, head cast back, and with a triumphant expression on his face.

“NO!” He didn’t realize he said it out loud until he heard the word echoing in the sudden silence.

“Yes, traitor,” the earth mage threw back at him, triumphantly. “The days of your King are numbered! Behold the ancient power of the Kakatthe!”

Bewildered, Samuel stood watching the last of the wards wink out of existence. He could perhaps take out the earth mage, but to what purpose? What would happen now that the wards were gone? What were the wards warding, for that matter? As far as he knew, only the King held that knowledge, and King Dwemer II was not known for being forthcoming. 

Another CRACK rang between the houses, and the jail-shrine started to shake. The earth mage standing under the colonnade went to his knees, unable to remain upright from the vibrations. Samuel saw the look of fear on his face as pieces of plaster started to drop from the ceiling. A fissure opened in the ground, only a few feet away from Samuel. It seemed to originate where the jail-shrine was planted in the square, racing westward out of the city. The fissure disappeared among the houses; only cries of fear and commotion revealed that it was making quick progress through the densely built native quarter. A cloud of dust rose above the roofs close to the city wall, possibly a collapsed building, then the fissure had crossed the city boundaries and streaked toward the pink-glowing edifice on the hill to the west. Toward the memorial! The only sign of its progress was a line of dust rising from the ground in its wake. Then the fissure broke the memorial’s perimeter, a stone wall patrolled by the King’s Guard every night and day.

Suddenly everything seemed to happen at once. A faint cry carried on the breeze from the memorial, and without warning the faraway building was under assault by a band of people apparently sprouting from the ground. Renegades? Immediately Samuel connected the current events with the fleeting remark he had caught earlier the same day. There were no coincidences here! This was a well-coordinated assault. A coup! Torn between his duty to the King and the loyalty to his kin, he turned back to the jail-shrine, and stiffened.

The jail-shrine was shimmering. That was the only word he could think of. It seemed to hover on the verge of existence, halfway there and halfway not. The mage under the colonnade had fled down on the ground, staring in stupor much like Samuel did. Then the western façade started to dissolve. From the ground and up, it simply turned to dust. When the shimmering faded, it left the jail-shrine with only three walls inside the colonnade, the fourth was gone, leaving the ceiling supported only by the roofed walkway on the west side. Beyond where the wall used to be was only a gaping dark hole, the shadow unnaturally deep compared to the soft white marble of the building.

Something moved inside.

An almost naked woman stepped out from the darkness, onto the colonnade, shielding her face with her hands as if the now weaning light was bothering her. Her skin had a deep bronze tone, like Samuels and the rebels’ that now quietly gathered in the square. It seemed like her hair fell all the way to the ground behind her, no, she had wrapped herself in her hair, and yet, impossibly long tresses still trailed behind her on the ground.

Samuel stood as if hypnotized. Not a sound was heard in the square.

“Milady!” The voice belonged to the earth mage closest to the colonnade, and he fell to his knees. As on cue, the quiet crowd around him also knelt, and a knock between his shoulders sent Samuel stumbling too.

“Traitor,” an angry voiced hissed in his ear, “be quiet and do as you are told, and you might live to see another day.”

Samuel was too stunned to think of reacting. His gaze was on the woman ahead. The jail-shrine had been sealed for four hundred and fifty years. It was walled up. There were no doors, and no windows. Where did the woman come from?

“I am Princess Kouree of Kakatthe.” It was almost as if the woman had read his mind. “Where is Prince Jaral of Dansin?”

The voice raising the question was hoarse, as if being left unused for a long time. The tone of the voice was at the same time both fearful and jubilant, and the small figure seemed to gain confidence for every second it was standing in the light. It seemed like she was sucking up the quickly fading daylight, transforming it into authority and anxiety.

“My brothers are freeing him as we speak, Princess. They will bring him to us shortly.” The earth mage at the front seemed to speak for all. “Soon the two of you shall be reunited, commanding an army of Kakatthe soldiers against Dwemer of Dansin, throwing him and his air-cursed Dansinites out of Kakatthe!”

“No!” There was utter fear in the woman’s voice. “Jaral must not be touched!”

The mage at the front looked up in surprise, both at the words and the sheer terror in them. Then they were all caught unaware by a rough disembodied voice ringing throughout the plaza:

“Kouree? Can you hear me? Are you all right? Give me a sign if you can hear me!”

Samuel immediately recognized the thin strands of air that he knew magnified and carried the voice over a great distance. He seemed to be the only one catching on. The rest of the crowd startled, turning this way and that, searching for the source.

“Jaral!” The woman on the colonnade staggered in relief. “You live!” The disembodied voice repeated its questions, with more urgency this time: “Kouree, if you live, give me a sign!”

The woman looked at the earth mage at the front. “Quick, I request of you the assistance of an aeromancer to communicate!”

The man appeared to be too stunned to reply. A loud whisper went through the crowd, and a voice shouted: “Aeromancers are traitors!” A murmur of agreement spread between the rebels.

The princess looked in the direction of the one who had shouted. “Ignorant whelp!” The voice was full of scorn. Then she stepped forward, but stopped, as she was about to step down the stairs. “I shall have to give him the sign he asks for then.” She looked intently at the ground, lifted a hand and drew a pattern in the air, sealing it with a snap of her fingers. Samuel could feel the power she drew on from the ley lines in the ground. She was a very powerful earth mage in her own right, he realized with a start. A new fissure sprung forth from the base of the jail-shrine, streaking toward the memorial on the hill.

“Stop!”

Samuel surprised himself by speaking out loud. The woman’s gaze fell on him, and he continued: “Please stop, Milady. You harm the city and the people living in the close quarters.” He gestured behind him at the muffled sounds of cries and shrieks rising as the fissure cut through roads and under houses, wreaking havoc where it went.

“Why would I care?” The hoarse voice only underlined the hidden fear. “Jaral needs to know that I live. I don’t see anybody here inclined to help.”

“I will help.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Samuel, son of Bedda. An aeromancer, as you call it.”

“Then let my voice ride on the winds to him, the way Jaral sends his.”

Samuel nodded in acquiescence and quickly created a web of air, stretching it toward the memorial.

“Speak, Princess. He will hear you.”

He was rewarded with a grateful glance, and Princess Kouree spoke softly:

“Jaral, my love. I live. Are you well?”

The reply was almost immediate, and Samuel didn’t imagine the relief and joy in the hoarse voice that answered.

“I am. What happened? Have you been freed?”

“Yes. And no.” She added the last words so quietly that only Samuel who was tuned in on the web of air could hear them. 

There was a long pause where nothing seemed to move.

“He told you about the curse then.” Jaral’s voice seemed to drift in on the softest of breezes.

“Yes.”

No reply came.

Samuel looked closer at the woman. She was shaking. From exhaustion? Angst? Something else? He moved to step forward when he realized that his feet were caught in something. He looked down. His feet had sunk several inches into the ground, rooting him on the spot. The earth mages. He looked toward where he had left the one he took out with the rock, and saw he was gone. The other one, he who had finally dissolved the wards, was still kneeling in front of the Princess. Twisting his head he realized that the hostile voice he heard behind him earlier belonged to the first mage. He was outnumbered.

“Milady?” Samuel spoke out loud again, taking a chance. “I am a Kakatthe like you and the others on this plaza.” A quick glance confirmed that it was now filled with rebels. “I am also an Aeromancer. The last Kakatthe Aeromancer.” He half expected to get reactions from the crowd at his unabashed self-proclamation, but they were quiet.

“I am an outcast because of this. The only acceptable magic users to the Kakatthe are Geomancers.” He took a deep breath, plunging into the subject that had bothered him since the wall of the jail-shrine had collapsed.

“The very term “aeromancer” hasn’t been used for generations, Milady.” With shaking voice he continued: “The only Princess Kouree of Kakatthe or Prince Jaral of Dansin that I know of, were killed four hundred and fifty years ago when King Dwemer found out that his brother had betrayed him with this princess, and almost foiled his invasion plans for Kakatthe.”

The woman stood like a statue while he spoke. At last she whispered

“Four hundred and fifty years… It cannot be fathomed.”

“You are correct in your assumptions, Samuel, son of Bedda.”  The reply rung over the square, carried by the web he had cast toward the memorial. “I am prince Jaral of Dansin, and you are addressing Princess Kouree of Kakatthe.” Samuel had momentarily forgotten the web. Since he was holding it up, it carried his voice as well as the Princess’.

“Yes, I stole her from my brother. I couldn’t bear to see her bereaved of her powers and made to slave as…” the voice trailed off. “Suffice to say that my brothers intentions were ill, aeromancer, even if wanted to name her queen.”

Samuel swallowed. “Prince, Princess… how can we speak with you here, now, when you were killed so long ago?”

“But we weren’t.” It was the Princess who spoke again. “Dwemer walled us in, buried us alive.” She started to laugh hysterically. “Remember how I said to his face that we were meant for each other, for eternity, Jaral?” The laugh trailed off into a sob.

“I remember,” came the distant, but near, voice again. “You were always the dramatic one.”

Samuel felt like he was spying upon a private conversation, but he knew the whole square heard what was being said.

“Prince, Princess, don’t sully yourselves by listening to the voice of this air mage.” This came suddenly from the earth mage at the front. “He is a traitor for more reasons than one. He serves the same King that imprisoned you, and he has worked on keeping the wards of your jail secure for a long time, princess.”

Kouree lifted her head and looked straight at Samuel. Samuel felt his cheeks start to burn under her gaze.

“I did not know anyone was in here,” he said defensively. “I thought I was warding a symbol.”

“A symbol?”

The voice on the wind was indignant, furious. “So you have been responsible for undoing my work every afternoon all this time?”

Samuel suddenly understood. “It was you! You have worked every day on weakening the wards!”

“Yes.” The curt reply was almost s growl. “And if it weren’t for the fact that you are assisting Kouree in speaking to me, you would be sailing through the skies on a hurricane right now.”

“Peace, Jaral.” The princess has regained her composure. “Samuel, son of Bedda, I don’t care. The only one responsible for our misfortune is Dwemer. Are you loyal to him?”

Suddenly everything caught in Samuel’s throat. His service to King Dwemer had always been a matter of being alienated from his kin by circumstances he couldn’t control, not rooted in his moral support of a rule that left his people in poverty and despair.

At last he replied, weakly at first, then more firmly as he realized that he had found that core within himself where he knew with utter certainty that he spoke the truth.

“I am loyal to Kakatthe, Princess. If there is a better way for my people, then I will pursue it.” Awkwardly, since his feet were still rooted in the ground, he knelt and offered the princess his veneration. “What would you have me do?”

“You must tell them, my love,” came the distant voice on the breeze again. “This can’t be allowed to go on.”

From his kneeling position Samuel couldn’t see the princess, but he heard her draw a ragged breath.

“You are right, as usual,” she replied with utter sadness in her voice. “I forget myself.

“Samuel. All of you. Neither I nor Jaral can do what you request.”

A silent shock wave ran through the crowd. The turn of events was obviously not something the rebels’ plans had counted in. The princess went on before anyone could brook any arguments.

“Dwemer walled us in, but he did more.” She looked from one man to another, letting her gaze sweep the entire place. “We are cursed.” She said it almost like an offhand remark, but clearly, it was more than that. “His last words to me were that he meant us to rot in darkness for as long as he lived. He dabbled in necromancy… he put a curse on us, stopping our natural ageing while slowly leeching our life essence. I am not surprised to hear that he still lives. He has stolen our lives while keeping us alive, fueling his own energies.” She gestured to the remains of the jail-shrine.

“This building is his tool. It bleeds my energy off me as I stand here. I can feel it. And he said… “ She stopped, as if struggling to acknowledge the fact: “He said that our lives depend on this structure as well. For each step I take beyond this colonnade, I shall age with one year.” Her gaze left the plaza with its now deep shadows and came to rest on the memorial that was washed in the glow from the dying sun. “Jaral,” she whispered, and her voiced trailed off.

“Yes my love,” came the reply again. “Those were the words that he used to me too.”

“What do we do?” she asked again, fearful, looking to the prince for support.

“We can only do one thing, my dear.”

“Yes…” She paused and stared at the pink-glowing memorial on the other side of the city, atop its hill. “So many steps,” she said quietly. “So many wasted years.”

“Yes.” The reply was hardly more than an echo, now.

Suddenly the princess turned toward Samuel.

“Aeromancer, I request your aid.”

Bewildered Samuel looked from her to the mage behind him, and back again. The mage hesitated a split second, then with a gesture freed his feet from the earth trap.

Samuel walked up to the colonnade, and waited. It was shocking to see the princess up close. She seemed drawn, pale, despite her bronze skin; there was a lackluster tone to her hair.

“Your arm.”

It was a demand that prompted reaction without hesitancy. Samuel offered the princess his arm, and found himself looking directly at the memorial. The sun was setting behind the horizon, making the shadows on the hill slowly crawl up its walls and threaten to engulf the entire building. 

“Walk with me,” was the simple command. The mundane action of walking and escorting a woman, almost disguised the meaning of her words.

“Princess!” Samuel refused to walk any further.

“Samuel, I can walk alone or with your help.” She spoke as if she addressed a child. “But I will walk.” She looked him in his eyes. “This is the only way, you know.”

“It is,” the voice of Prince Jaral confirmed on the air. “As long as we live, he lives. As long as we live, we are walking dead. This way, we shall truly die knowing that we still can thwart him, that we face each other in death like we always wanted to face each other in life.”

Princess Kouree nodded imperceptibly.

“Walk with me,” she repeated. “I want to have your web so that we can speak with each other.”

There was no way Samuel could refuse. He followed half a step behind the princess as she put her feet on the ground. Her hair trailed behind her in a tangle. Four hundred and fifty years. It was all he could do not to gag on the thought of what it had to be like to be walled up, left as a living dead.

One more step. She didn’t look much changed. Another. Samuel started to hope. And another. After five steps he couldn’t avoid seeing it. Subtle lines around her eyes and mouth. Her breasts sagging just a fraction. Five more steps, and the change wasn’t so subtle any more. After ten more steps her hair was graying. Ten more, and she started to lean on his arm.

As they walked across the plaza, the rebels parted before them just like the crowd always parted before Samuel when he patrolled the streets with the King’s Guard, but this time was different. The looks they received were subdued, somber, and the rebels closed up behind and followed. So, I walk the last princess of Kakatthe to her grave, Samuel thought. Dark mage, indeed. If this is the price for freeing my people, it is a dear one.

“I never knew age was such a burden,” the princess whispered into the air at last. Samuel maintained the web of speech through blurred eyes. The wind seemed to merely sigh, then came the reply:

“Neither did I, my love. Neither did I.” The last words that were spoken were hushed, but seemed to come from all corners of the square.

“Rest, my dear. Rest with me. Rest with me for eternity.”