Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The White Stag, Chapter 3 - Oran

There was a popular fable in Highwater about a tree and the river. The beautiful tree fell in love with the swarthy river. The tree was stable but was stuck in place while the river was wild and free. Theirs was a love that could never be. Still, when the wind rustled through the leaves in Highwater, it was said to be the love song of the tree to the river as it attempted to mimic the sound of rushing water.

Oran thought about the fable often when he heard the gentle hush through his mother's kitchen window. He sat with her, drinking a cup of tea and sharing a plate of potato scones. His mother smiled at him with the look of adoration only she could give. She reached for his hand.

"I like having you here," she said.

"I like being here," replied Oran.

"I know sweetheart," she said. "A part of you will always be here."

She gestured to the familiar, modest surroundings. There was a small ceramic bird on her mantle above the fireplace. Oran dropped it when he was younger; he had glued it back together with pine sap.

"You've touched the lives of so many people. I want you to know that," she said. "There's so much emphasis on the things we accomplish; what grand legacy we leave when we finally pass on. You know what matters most, though? It's the people. It's always the people we loved and cared for. The ones we challenged and made think. That imprint- it's not as valued as it should be. But I love you and knowing you has made me a better person. I knew I would have to teach you about the world, but I never knew how much you would teach me. That's sort of magic, isn't it?"

The soft morning light cast glowing shapes on the wall. Oran watched them drift with the movement of the sun. The hours were passing too quickly.

"It's almost time to go," said his mother.

"I can stay longer," he assured her.

"No, you can't. You can't be here anymore... or there... or there."

It was a curious thing to hear her say. She wasn't one to speak in riddles.

"What are you talking about?"

"Can't you feel it?" she asked him. She embraced herself and massaged her shoulders for comfort. "You're in every place, in every thing."

Oran closed his eyes and opened them. The room vibrated. The sunlight turned harsh and golden. He blinked again.

It was late afternoon on a hillside in the Firgladen Forest. Not just any hillside, Oran realized. He had lived there once; he had died there once. He recalled being so afraid of death, but now he wondered why he ever was. Death was kind to him. Death was peaceful. Life was full of hardship. Life, in hindsight, was much more worthy of his dread.

There was a dusting of snow on the ground. A charred potato was by his foot. It had been pecked at by crows. A bit further beyond him, a collection of pointed roots had erupted from the soil. A spider built her web within it.

Water dripped behind him. There was a young woman standing at the treeline. She was drenched. Her neck was purple with bruises.

"Must be nice," she said. "I don't get to go as many places as you do. I'm not special."

Her voice was hoarse from being strangled. She was the last White Stag Assassin, Oran remembered. She was the one that got away. But she didn't get away, not in the end. Eloise followed her. He saw a flash of her enraged face, the tight grip of her hands against his throat. He felt the riverbed against the back of his head and the cold water over his face.

"She wanted to avenge you," she said.

"I'm sorry," said Oran.

"She's sorry too," the young woman said with a shrug. "It doesn't mean I'm not dead. I'm here sometimes, when I'm allowed to be. If only I'd been born a mage. You get to be in the air and the trees. You get to bathe in the well of power. You get to choose where your spirit goes and how it is used. So much freedom in both life and death."