“Love is the flame; its dance spread by the manifold winds of feeling.”
Paulom Kines, Sage of The Order of The Krael, Wind-Cycle 772
DEATH OF WORDS
And so, the Star-Slayer and the Goddess of Gale began their adventure. Galloping on the strength and speed of Destiny, they charged hard down the banks of the Beredrin River and into a verdant open land known as the Gruten Weald. After crossing the Sacred Stones of Barag-El, they rested at the humble Laralos Inn. Eventually, they reached the famous merchant Jiaheal in the Keledon Salt Mines. Many traders came to him for his famous hell-sand. If you wanted to spark fires or perhaps cause a little trouble, his product was your cheapest option. Deralius purchased a bag of it for their journey. It was not only used to start bonfires but also was a popular deterrent against the stray brigand, which seemed to be on the rise recently around those dark and dangerous quarters.
The rush of the impending death of Elezir forced Eloria to focus only on one thing. She said nothing for several hours; a steely silence that was as cold as it was cruel. Deralius did everything possible to serve her, killing several flying gibra snakes in the nearby forests of Garamul with a bow and arrow. He would not even look her way, for he knew those eyes. It was the look of grief made worse by the weight of fear.
Deralius guarded her as she slept, noticing her twitching eyes and stirring body. She would mumble a new name in her sleep every night. He wondered if she was dreaming of other lovers. Were her memories returning to her? Were these dreams of the past proof that the spell of his brother, Zulion, was wearing off?
When the muttering began at night, he would enter her dreams and tell her of his great love for her, often as a dove, a butterfly, or in the comfort of a breeze. He knew how pathetic it was to disguise himself in dreams, but it was all he had left. When she would awaken from her sleep, she would say nothing, offering only long glances at him when he was not looking.
The days of silence continued until just a glance was all she could muster his way. He gladly took it. Like a vagrant in the desert finding a bubbling brook, so were her furtive glances toward him. When the rain came, Deralius made a tent for her out of branches and offered his cloak to shield her from the storm.
He had food and fire ready for her when she would awaken in the morning. He barely ate, busying himself with the service of her every need. Eventually, there was a crack in the dam; a “thank you” from her. He dared not speak, for he knew her mind was not ready for anything other than saving her father.
After breakfast, Deralius rode Destiny harder until mountains appeared in the distance. Taking the bag of hell-sand, he tosses a pinch of it, sparking a quick fire. Gathering stones and branches, he hoped this was the time for her to break her fearful silence.
OF SCARS AND PAIN
Eloria gazes at the horizon overlooking the vast stretch of the Woodhalm Ranges. The view from the high shoulder of the mountain is mesmerizing; a mixture of scattered valleys and hills, singing rivers reflecting splayed moonlight, windblown dancing trees, and the torches of adventurers and farmers blazing from tent and barn.
Reclining on a tree near the fireside, Eloria’s heart goes back and forth from worry over her father’s health to her most recent good fortune of finding Deralius. The rush of the salvation of The Four Towns now competes with the commanding presence of the young and rugged warrior-mage. There is no time to talk but she cannot keep lying to herself, for she desires to acquaint herself with this man of magic.
“We are only two days away from reaching your home,” says Deralius, trying to warm her up to conversation.
Eloria, fumbles for words of meaning amidst a sea of churning emotions, “Why didn’t you come back? What happened?”
“You happened,” says Deralius with a cheeky smirk.
“What do you mean?” asks Eloria, leaning in.
Deralius walks around the dancing fire, rubbing his hands together, “Do you remember what happened when I healed you… the power that flowed out of you? You unearthed many treasures nearby. They caused powerful people to come and claim what was ours. It caused a. . .”
“. . . war,” says Eloria, her heart dropping; the knot in her throat thickening until the compulsion to heave subsides.
“It wasn’t you. It was your power. Your gift. There is a difference between the two,” says Deralius with a glum and guttural tone.
“What do you mean? Spare me your riddles and speak plainly?” says Eloria.
Deralius removes his black cloak and sits down next to her. He points to his waist, asking, “What do you see?”
Eloria looks at his waistline but sees nothing. She nods, “Is this supposed to be another magic trick?”
“You cannot see it. Few can. It is my bane. My curse. It is bound to me and I to it. It is the Black Chain. It came from the Eternal Scar. . . a prison at the end of the universe.”
Eloria stands to her feet, feeling the presence of darkness, stepping back, and asking, “You’re a warlock, not a god. I feel something heavy and dark around you.”
“You are incorrect, M’lady,” says Deralius. “I am who I say I am. I have told you already, but you are not ready to understand it yet. I am a Child of The Flame. The seed of Mother-Light Anutheryloth. You came from Aethern The Ancient, Father of Eternity. You were born between eternity and time. You are forever living and forever dead. Finite in your infinity. A flower that blooms and then fades, only to be reborn again and again. Many lives and in many iterations, even many souls, but only one spirit… one galactic gale.”
His words overwhelm her heart. She searches for an answer but feels a rush of far too many emotions at once.
“When you remove the veil, you will find yourself in the gale,” adds Deralius, noticing the winds stirring around her.
The leaves twirl, forming a swirling bowl of wind at her feet.
Deralius steps back but Eloria catches her emotions and calms herself down. The wind fades away… the leaves rest their rustling and lay still at her command.
“I do not understand your words with my mind,” says Eloria, “but somehow my heart feels something that my soul cannot explain yet.”
“It is not magic, M’lady,” says Deralius. “The wind is your essence. Your life-force. Your nature. It is who you are and what you will always be.”
“So, you believe I’m more than a mortal. But clearly, you are not a Dawn-Rider. You’re something more than that. Have you forgotten your lie to me and my father?”
Deralius lowers his head. His cheeks redden in shame. “You still remember those blasted words. You are right. I deceived you. A woman will always remember that more than any good deeds.”
The words were like a sword straight to the heart. Eloria looks at the black scar on her knee and suddenly finds humility, “I don’t care who you are or how you got here. All that matters is what you do. What you do will tell me who you truly are.”
Deralius is aroused by the strength of her words of wisdom. Ancient passions simmer between the crevices of his jittery emotions. Despite the dirt on her dress and face, she has never looked more beautiful in a million years.
He touches the scar on his left cheek with his fingertip. Eloria pets the scar on her knee with the edge of her finger.
“I have my scar, and you have yours, says Eloria, cracking a wry smile. “Tell me how that ugly purple blotch came to adorn your handsome face… and why you don’t just simply heal it.”
He did not expect such fearlessly forward words. He takes a deep breath for the goosebumps to subside. No more chicken skin. Smooth. Calm again. The perfect segue.
“Scars are markers in time,” says Deralius. “They are narrators of our greatest defeats and victories. When I look at a scar I remember the pain, the fight, or the cause that led me to such boldness. They are my stories. My books. Healing hides these tales, masking only what can be seen. It cannot fix that which is within. There are scars inside that never leave, M’lady. What good is the gift of healing if you cannot heal the spirit? Healing the flesh may bring temporary relief but the scars of the spirit go with us into the Eternal Scar.”
“What is this Eternal Scar?” asks Eloria.
“It is the place where the dead go… a black hole at the end of the universe. It is the portal between eternity and time. It is far beyond what mortal eyes can see. And whether you remember or not, I saved you from it. And your sweet memory saved me from it. Now I go to save Elezir from it.”
Eloria stands to her feet and walks away from the fire. She wants to understand what he is saying but his strange words escape her memory.
“I wish I knew what you’re talking about,” answers Eloria, “but I do not remember anything. Yet you speak of it with such conviction that I wonder if something is wrong with me.”
Deralius stands and strides towards her. Looking into her eyes, he gently touches the edge of her cheek, “Nothing is wrong with you. Absolutely nothing.”
Eloria feels fire filling her chest, fighting the desire to kiss him. She turns away.
Deralius is undeterred, brimming with hope, “I can heal that scar on your knee.”
“No,” answers Eloria rather quickly. “I need this. It reminds me of where I came from. It’s my memory of you.”
Deralius steps closer to her, wanting desperately to feel her touch.
“I feel the same way about mine. I want others to know that I fought. . . that I strived. Those who see my face will know I will die for what I live for. These scars are the closest things I have to family. To heal them would be to kill my loved ones.”
Her heart sings. She breaks the clumsy hush, saying, “I’ve always healed mine but not this one. I have a potion for nearly everything. Ladies are different than men. We must present the best of ourselves and not the worst. If not, we would never get married.”
“Is that why your fingers are ringless?” answers Deralius, snapping a wink at her.
“No,” answers Eloria, bumbling for words. She grazes the scar on her knee with the tip of her finger once again, “I was waiting for the right man. This scar reminds me of a foolish yet good man from long ago.”
“Why is he a fool?” asks Deralius.
Eloria leans in, looking into his eyes, “Because she is far too dangerous for any man. Far too powerful. Too destructive.”
“But what if he is not a man at all?” asks Deralius, touching her cheek with the edge of his hand.
A memory of Elezir coughing out black sludge out of his mouth invades her mind. Suddenly all feels like a cold and damp rag across her heart. She steps back, dismissing the verbal jousting, “I’m sorry but it is late and we need to sleep for the night. I cannot delay any further. I fear my father’s life is already hanging between death and life.”
Deralius realizes the error of his ways and backs off, biting his lip nearly bloody from the frustration, “Yes. Get your rest, M’lady. Good night.”
Eloria lays down near a soft bed of grass near the fire. Deralius lays down as well, but he cannot sleep. He had tried everything to spark the fire within her, but in the end, it seemed that another fire took priority over his long pursuit.
While he tosses and turns in his bed, reviewing his failed rapport with her, her clever parries and sultry gaze, Eloria asks, “Where did that scar come from? What is the story behind it?”
Deralius turns around and smiles, “To the scoundrel one scar on his cheek may confirm to others that he is a thief but to the ranger who fought against him, it is different. It reminds him that he stood up for what is right. For justice. And when the thief is released from jail, seeing the scar he caused on the face of that ranger, he will remember that there are still noble people out there who will not allow the evil of his heart to go unchecked.”
“Are your scars those of the thief or the ranger?” asks Eloria.
“What does your heart tell you?” asks Deralius.
“The Ranger,” answers Eloria with a smile.
He turns around and lays down on the grass, “I hope to not disappoint your expectations. I pray you will not judge me for my scars. I will not judge you for yours. Good night.”
She lays down but now with a smile and a small measure of peace in her heart. She breathes in the cool mountain air before closing her eyes to sleep.
Deralius’ torment has begun. Being so painfully close to her now is far more torture than a million years in the prison of the Eternal Scar. She is so close yet so far. His heart hurts but he takes solace that at least he is next to her, perhaps not aware of herself or even aware of who he is… but at least he can smell the intoxicating tease of heather laced in her white hair. At least her presence is near.
LOVE-DANCE
The night is rough for both. Not even three hours have passed. The darkness is still strong, but the moon conspires against them, burning with a brilliant glow. . . accentuating their fidgety and restive states to each other with each toss and turn on the soft bed of grass underneath them.
Deralius does not dare move. He had opened his mouth and removed all doubt of his desperate and eager folly. He needs to show more restraint but how could an immortal who had waited for so long show any control? He waits for her to awaken from her feigned sleep, but he gives in, standing to his feet.
Eloria awakens just as he nervously paces back and forth.
She steals the first word, “So you’re helping these fighters in the south, acting as if you’re a Dawn-Rider. Why?”
Deralius sits down next to her, adding wood to the flame, while answering, “I’ve lived in this wretched world for 1,000 years. Many lives and lies. To a certain extent, I feel like I’m no longer Deralius, the Star-Slayer, but a collection of souls from disparate lands, cultures, and races. I no longer know who I truly am. All is a blur. Like too many wet leaves over a never-ending autumn chill. All I have left is your memory. It keeps me going in this ever-living death called life.”
He gently lays hold of her hands with his calloused warrior’s fingertips.
Eloria huddles closer to him, now hiding in his broad shadow. Her pulse quickens. Her mouth dries but her words foolishly go ahead of the guard of her feminine honor, “You are a wonder to me. Usually, warriors don’t feel love but only hate. How is it that you bear a lyrical spirit in such a battered soul? You’re quite the contradiction.”
He gently lets go of her hands, laying them down upon her lap as if two newborn children, “Warriors are the greatest lonely lovers. We leave our wives, kicking off to some distant land to fight a foe threatening those we love. In our travels, we carry trinkets that keep the memory of that wife alive despite the pain of distance. And then when we return with her trinket, with the fire of that love burning so deeply within, we realize we loved only a shadow. The wife, overcome by despair and distance, breaks faithfulness with her warrior-lover and leaves a man to himself and the flickering wick of love. This is the winter of the soul. This man then goes back to war, this time desiring the axe or the arrow to ease his pain.”
“It sounds like someone left you. Who is this foolish woman?” says Eloria, finally getting to the answer she most wanted to hear.
“My wife is short, very sharp at times, and full of fight indeed. She has not left me yet. She stands by my side still, until this day,” says Deralius.
Her heart sinks, standing to her feet. A gust of wind kills the flame of the fireside, “Very well then. She must be beautiful. I'm beyond happy for you,” but her lie is not convincing for her tone is as bleak as a tombstone.
Deralius sneers, noticing the blast of wind, “She is with me today, M’lady. . . the only love of my life. Unlike other soldiers, my wife comes with me to battle.”
“What?” asks Eloria.
Pulling out the rusty sword from his scabbard, he shows her off to Eloria, “Not the looker she used to be, but I still love her, nonetheless. Forgive her appearance, she is not used to guests.”
Simpering, she hogs the air with a deep sigh of relief, “Good graces, Deralius. She’ll never leave you. Who else would want her? She’s hideous.”
He smiles, enjoying the temporary fear of jealousy, “But she is faithful, unlike the wives of my company. Nearly all have deserted their men. Good men. Men of character and courage. They are faithful to their families, their order, and each other, but to a woman that has never known the horrors of battle, that only knows the harvest of the enemy’s plunder, and the opulence feeding her vanity, they are but tales and legends.”
“This is your view of women. You think them all faithless and selfish?” shoots Eloria defiantly.
“Not Arkhon. No. She is faithful and sure,” says Deralius, lifting the ancient two-handed sword, feeling the dents on the saw-toothed edges, seemingly hungry for another feed of flesh. “She has been with me from the very beginning. She helped me break free from the prison of the Eternal Scar. She is faithful in everything.”
“You even have a name for her. This is probably why you’ve never met a woman before,” fires back Eloria in jest.
Deralius grins, “I've lived this particular life in The Red Forests, M’lady. There are not many damsels who would dare set foot in these woods. I’ve seen you twice around these parts. You’re the only choice I’ve had this entire life.”
Eloria chuckles, combing her white hair with the edge of her hand, her eyes twinkling, “And so you saved and healed me only for lack of better options?”
Deralius bursts into another rare smile, “It is fate that I’ve seen you twice. And it is fate that I heal you twice… once from your legs and the other from that forlorn dream you’ve had for far too long.”
His words trigger her wild heart. She charges him. Tackling him upon the leafy forest ground, she presses her chest against his own, attacking his lips with ardent abandon.
He resists, holding her hands at bay until her pent-up passion washes over him like a torrent of fire. He wraps his legs around her waist, reeling her into his midsection. With a quick turn of the hip, he overturns her aggressive advance, straddling her – lording over her wild lust.
After several seconds, she topples Deralius with her strong hips. Perching over him, she sheds off his black cloak and casts it to the leafy bed below. His shirt and leggings are next. All the beauty, all the dainty mannerisms, all the batting of the eyelashes in one single feral advance are replaced with the unassailable strength of feminine passion . . . a force that no power can overcome.
He grabs Eloria’s legs, trying to disrobe her, but she is already pressing upon his bare flesh with her own, lost amidst moans and groans. Tossing and turning on leaf and twig, their love-dances become one with the music of their souls. Trembling fingers run through hair like small stones to overpowering rivers, crossing at their palms, becoming one . . . their lips tasting waves of desire and moist flesh.
Their souls are instantly bound to each other, willing slaves to the bright ember now burning in their hearts. After their night-long explosion of love, they lie bare in each other’s arms on the forest floor, beaded in sweat . . . the glistening steam off their exhausted bodies surrenders to the night glow of the moon.
Eloria begins to wonder about Deralius’ tall tales of the ancient gods. There is something familiar about this love, and as they rest from their blazing night, even their dreams speak to them of mysteries that would soon catch up to their excitingly new reality.
DESTINY’S DASH
Eloria arises from the grassy forest ground. Damp leaves cling to her naked body. Realizing the chill of the morning, she reaches for her white smock, noticing it is slightly torn on at the chest. . . proof of her ferocity last night. After slipping on her smock, she walks around, searching for Deralius. He is missing. Instantly thoughts of danger and abandonment grip her heart. She glances down the nearby dirt road. Nothing.
Deralius appears from deep within the forest, with four bloody coneys in his hands. He drops them near the tinder and wood.
She races towards him, suddenly stopping, unsure of how to address him after their night of passion.
“I thought you'd left,” says Eloria, with a whisper of fear in her voice.
He grabs the tinder and tosses a pinch of hell-sand on to it, sparking a fire, asking, “Why would I leave you?”
The tone of his question stills her fears temporarily.
“You would think after last night that there would be enough fire for a lifetime but alas, I must spark it again,” quips Deralius.
“I want to thank you for what you’re doing for my family,” says Eloria. “I went too far last night. I apologize.”
“I will not,” answers Deralius, “. . . it was the will of destiny. . .”
She interrupts, “I was out of control. I . . .”
“. . . You were showing the power of your strength, the flame of your love,” says Deralius. “I certainly felt it for it warmed my heart. I want to thank you for giving me that night. It was more magical than all the powers of the deep. I shall not soon forget it.”
Whispers of fear remain. She must ask, “Where do we go from here? How do we continue? I don’t want to stand in your way. I don’t want to interfere with what you're doing with your life?”
“I’ve lived many lives but I have never felt more alive than right now. I don’t know what may come of the next day, but I know I want to spend it with you,” says Deralius.
Eloria runs into his arms, embracing him with a gentle kiss and a soft stroke of her hand upon his rugged and scarred face.
“I found my light. . . my fire. . .,” says Deralius, “I’m in a dream I hope never ends.”
Deralius hears a melody, but he cannot discern what is the source. He stirs about, alertly walking back and forth, not with the gaze of danger but of wonder.
“Is everything okay?” asks Eloria, standing to her feet, wondering what it is.
“It has returned. The music,” says Deralius. His face hardens for a moment, but his voice breaks up from the weight of realization, “I can hear it again. The music of my soul. I haven’t heard this in a million years. . . since the early days of the universe.”
“Music?” asks Eloria.
He walks behind her, smelling the intoxicating hint of heather in her hair, whispering into her ear, “This is the music of my heart. This is the song of my soul. Each being has it, but few can hear it with their natural ears. My true essence is returning, as in the days of old. Your flame has awakened The Flame inside of me. . . that light that my mother gave me long ago.”
Eloria inclines her ear to his chest to listen. She sways her head back and forth as if riding waves, lost by the complex beauty of the theme— hearing a choir of uniquely layered harmonic voices and stringed instruments.
From within his chest, she can hear the deep voice of Deralius singing with the heavenly harmony of lyres, flutes, and voices. The lyrics flow like waterfalls from the mountains, equally beautiful in both voice and their poetic depth. She covers her mouth with her hands, moved to tears.
“Let us hear the music of your soul,” says Deralius. “Let's see if your heart sings for me as much as mine does for you.”
She kisses him ever so softly on his scarred cheek. Deralius gently puts his hand on her chest. A distinct melody emerges, different from the beautiful complexity of his song. There were no heavenly voices just her voice with the sound of many violins.
“Ah yes,” answers Deralius, beaming with joy. “This is the song of your heart. The Flame is allowing us to hear it. Listen.”
Somehow she hears her voice intonating these words:
“My dream, I’ll love you far beyond forever,
And I will wait much beyond eternity
For you are all that my heart has ever yearned for
One day I’ll wake in your love’s reality
And I would go much beyond the stars searching for you
My dream, I’ll search much beyond what eyes can see
For you’re the only one that I desire,
For you are my past, my present, and my dream. . .”
The music of her heart fades away into the morning song of the hummingbirds and cardinals. Gazing into each other’s eyes for what seems to be a thousand eons, they embrace each other, continuing the song of their hearts only now guided by open displays of affection.
Hand in hand, Eloria asks as they walk down the leafy path, “Teach me how to remember who I am.”
The sound of desperation in her voice concerns him, kissing her on her forehead, “You have taught me to remember who I am. Just your presence has done that. Perhaps mine will do the same for you, love of mine.”
“Love of mine,” answers Eloria with a wide grin. “I like that. I like it very much.”
He hugs her one last time, gently stepping toward the fire. He skins the coneys and prepares them in a broth full of herbs. Stirring the stew, his fixed gaze upon her is unrelenting in its intensity.
Eloria looks up to the heavens, lost in the memory of their steaming bare bodies making wild love on the forest ground.
“I noticed something,” remarks Deralius, interrupting Eloria’s explicit memories of last night, “You removed a white cloth with a brown stain wrapped around your thigh. What is it?”
She smiles, reaching into the bottom of her smock, holding the cloth limply with her pale fingers, “This? It’s the cloth my father brought with me into the Red Forest on that fateful day I saw you. The brown stain is the blood from my legs from five years ago. The sores always worsened in the summer. This was the last cloth I used before you healed me— my reminder of where I’ve come from— and more importantly of the handsome healer who freed me from my pain.”
“And what an exchange it was; your deliverance from it and my introduction into your father’s fat fists,” remarks Deralius, now with a full and brilliant smile.
Eloria recalls that day, a breath of wonder lacing her voice, “I remember the pain, the cracking of the bones, the feeling of losing consciousness and vision… and then I could walk. What mercy. What compassion. What power.”
“Power?” answers Deralius. “Do you not remember your power on that day?” He tastes his handiwork with a large, cupped leaf.
Eloria’s tangled stare forces him to clarify, “Don't you recall the mighty wind that destroyed the trees around us? That was your power, not mine.”
Eating some of the bowled stew with another large leaf, she downplays his claim, “I remember the clouds and fierce winds. I remember the sound of the snapping trees, but I would rather not remember that such a gift is my power. It is a curse.”
“It should be a privilege. You can do so much good with power if your heart is right,” says Deralius.
“Evil as well,” laments Eloria, remembering the destroyed trees of the Red Forest.
“I suppose you’re right,” says Deralius, “In one of my past lives, I do not recall at this moment, I read of a fable that says that there was once a woman so powerful that she could control the seas, the clouds, and the wind. I believe that will one day be you, once you remember who you truly are.”
“Who am I?” asks Eloria.
Deralius puts his crudely carved wooden bowl of soup down, peering deeply into her soul with his fiery gaze, “You are a goddess among mortals. The Goddess of Gale. Never forget that.”
She stands to her feet, putting down the bowl of soup, shaking the wild statement off, “You go too far.”
“Far?” asks Deralius.
“It is more of a curse than a blessing. The power comes and goes with my feelings. It’s hard to control,” answers Eloria.
“I know what I saw. You can keep on denying the obvious truth or you can hone your craft and put that power to use,” says Deralius, his tone now slightly tetchy.
“This is hard to believe. All these years I thought of you as a god of sorts,” says Eloria. “I dreamed of loving a god, a healer, a man of great power and compassion. Now you speak what sounds like blasphemy to my ears. I’m but a mortal woman, who has a gift. I bleed. I hurt, and I fear.”
“Last night was a mistake,” says Deralius with force and a sudden sinister glare, “Your love doesn’t even compare to that of other women I've had in my journeys.”
Deralius is smacked with a sudden gust of wind and flung back into the edge of the underbrush several paces away.
Eloria sees the trees bending, the clouds swirling above her, as peals of thunder gain voice.
“Do you see?” laughs Deralius, “I insulted you and you hurled a gust of wind straight at me, without even being able to control it.”
“You didn’t mean that?” asks Eloria with such virgin gullibility.
“Of course not. I only wanted you to see your power. If you were to hone this gift you would become unstoppable,” posits Deralius.
Eloria creases her brow, fighting Deralius' wild assertion, looking unto the trees around her. She notices the direction the leaves are blowing, closing her eyes, breathing in the breeze, “I can sense the flow of the current. I can hear its life-force. It has music of its own . . . separate to the music of mortals. It has feelings. It is so free.”
Deralius stands and walks toward her, sensing power upon her, “I never knew this. Even the wind has a voice, a will, and a song. What is it saying?”
“Whatever I feel, it feels,” says Eloria. A current of wind eddies around her, just as Deralius comes from behind and hugs her.
Kissing the back of her neck, the current picks up speed, swirling around them. Multicolored leaves pirouette, spinning like ballerinas, flaunting their florid foliage. Fragrances of heather, rose, and jasmine fill the air. Petals ride the winds, showering the new lovers in a cascade of color: in a soft canopy of brilliant flowers and leaves.
“Are you doing this?” asks Deralius, smiling as he sees the wind moving with the waves of her feelings.
“I guess I am,” says Eloria. She turns around and kisses him, still unable to believe the command of her power.
“For years I was convinced that love was the illusion of fools,” says Deralius. He fights the smile on his face but then gives in, “I convinced myself that no woman could understand or appreciate my power. I now understand destiny, and how providence has given me both the most beautiful woman in all Zailar and the most powerful. We have more in common than just a chance meeting in the Red Forest, love of mine. I may have healed your legs, but you have done more today than I could ever have done to you. You healed my heart. Your love found me. Together we can bring hope to Zailar such as never has been seen since the times of “The Age of Utter Light.”
“Let's start with The Four Towns,” answers Eloria while kissing Deralius.
“And then 'The Footlands.' And then the world,” says Deralius.
Snorting and stirring his hooves, Destiny neighs loudly, begging for yet another adventure.
And so the newfangled lovers made one last dash toward The Four Towns, with love in their hearts, and salvation in Deralius’ powerful hands.
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