Epilogue: The Forest that Weeps

S.R. 313, 100 years after the fall of Mountainkeep.

Silovar strains through the soil, determination to get through overwhelming all his better senses. He does not remember how he got here. He does not know how long he has been trying to dig his way out. It feels like he has only been here for a few minutes, but, he knows he has been here before. Many times.

Cold, damp stone slams against him in retaliation of his running assault. Silovar does not take note of how the dungeon wall bruises his shoulder, he must get out. He must catch her. He must save her.

Silovar backs up, clenching his fists as he stares down the dark, blank stone wall before him. He does not know how long he was fruitlessly running at this wall. He does not remember how he got here. But he knows he has been here before, many times.

The wall tells him to stop. It tells him that he must wait. Silovar roars in frustration as he breaks into a run, launching himself at full force against the cold, unmoving stones once again.

Silovar twirls a knife in his hand as he stares at the infinitely re-growing tapestry before him. He does not know how long he has been slashing at the threads. He does not remember how he got here. But he knows he has been here before, many times.

He lifts the knife, and slices through the fabric once again. And again.

Silovar strains through the soil, determination to get through...

He has been here before.

Silovar looks up, a thin sliver of light shining down through the layer of sediment that encompasses him. The soil itself screams at him to stop, to stay, to wait. Begging him to leave well enough alone.

Silovar does not listen. He must get out. He must save her.

The light grows brighter, but not nearer. He strains taller, higher, his branches desperately grasping at the light, hoping to pull it closer. The confines of himself constrict him, his wooden limbs threaten to still him forever.

The soil whispers that it told him so. The dungeon walls voice their disapproval. The tapestry laughs at his misfortune.

Silovar reaches, straining to touch the hope that beckons him in the darkness. To no avail. A tree cannot move unless the wind wills it.

There is no wind here, and the smug soil, disapproving walls and mocking tapestry are all liars.

Silovar is no tree.

What is he?

He loves Osthryn. That is who he is. The one who loves Osthryn.

What is he?

Something that can get out and catch her.

The wind groans like a storm through a forest, and the tree splits apart at Silovar's final rebellion. The wind catches him, and he becomes it, his will and desire sharper than any knife as he easily slices through the tapestry once and for all.

The otherworldy scream of a Dragon's spirit breaching the Henge pierces the still night air. Stars fill the sky above him, and the moonslight watches with keen interest as Silovar emerges among the great Glasswood trees.

Silovar does not see them, not truly. For a moment he is ecstatic at his found freedom, his awareness finally returned. Then he feels it. How the still night's breeze flows through him. The heartbeat he lost still missing. He puts his hand over his chest, drawing as deeply as he can. His breath still refuses to come to him.

He turns, and looks upon the remnants of the Silver Dragon of Mountainkeep. The last of his corporeal essence leeching off into his ghostly form, leaving a pristine, empty skeleton behind.

Oh. So that is what the tree was.

The Henge lies dead, the web flickering as it sinks to the ground, like spider's silk that has been cut.

He does not remember the Henge doing this when he brought Geolu back.

The Henge. He is at the Henge. That means she caught him, brought him here, and she is safe. Where is she?

Where is she?

The trees beckon to him, they know where she is. He does not question it. Even the sand dunes against the backdrop of oppressive desert heat spoke to him when he was looking for a way out. Each grain of sand with their own opinion.

Should he be questioning this?

The first tree, then the next, then the next. He becomes and unbecomes each of them as he travels through the strange forest in search of his love. Osthryn he calls to the shrubs, and they obediently show him the way. Osthryn he tells the red squirrel, and it leads him through the clearing.

Osthryn he calls, and the lake beckons him closer.

Her presence beckons him closer.

He emerges from the last tree, his feet not quite properly touching the ground, both sinking through the topsoil and floating above it as he runs to the water that calls him.

Osthryn stands on the shore of the lake, her emerald eyes fixed searchingly on the sky above her. She is barefoot, the mingled soil and sand clinging to her soles. Her blonde hair falls loose and wild to her waist, the ends flowing gently with the night breeze. Her silk chemise, white as snow, drapes easily around her.

She is beautiful.

As if her soul slowly begins to recognize his, Osthryn turns her head from the sky to look at him. She stands still, like the dead, her eyes glazed over in disbelief. Her body begins to shiver, like the cold has just sunk into her bones.

She opens her mouth to speak, hesitant, fearful. As if she will chase him away if she makes a sound.

"Silovar?" she whispers.

The tears that fall from her face and the anguish that floods him tells him that he was too late. That he took too long. He told her he would catch her. He told her they would be okay. He rushed in, and he left her. He left the one that would not leave him.

Grief overwhelms him as he tries so hard to tell her that he knows. He knows what he did to her. He felt this loss she had too many times to count, and now he did it to her. He broke his promise.

But the words fail. One night is not sufficient to atone for his mistakes.

"Wēs Hāl," he says instead.