"One Last Refrain" Log Date: 10/23/00 Log Cast: Faanshi... Lyre? Log Intro: It is not the first time that Faanshi has suffered loss. Her beloved heart-mother Ulima, priestess of Ushas, passed on from old age not long after the Amir-al and his Favored, Kiera Khalida, delivered them from the Warlord Hashim. Her friend Craft died in the great plague that swept over Haven. And her friend StormBearer died a great distance from the city -- at the hand, or so Faanshi has heard from the Mongrel Nine-Fingered Rab, of the same dire monster that had once savaged his own people. Others who became Faanshi's friends have vanished out of her life, leaving her in the dark about their fates, like Thomas Murako and his chosen Hand, Milane. But Faanshi has never suffered a blow like the death of Lyre Talespinner, the Mongrel bard she loves. Her heart shattered, the maiden has struggled to make it through each day ever since she received the word of the unmistakable vision that struck young Delilah, ward of Clan Messala. FallingStar, her teacher in healing and the closest thing to a mother the young shudra has, has applied what pragmatic care she can, keeping Faanshi under her watchful eye and as busy as possible in the relative peace and safety of the herb-shop. But at the same time the Varati -- what few among them concern themselves with the state of a halfbreed shudra healer -- have attempted to offer her what consolation they can. Even though she is kshatri, young Delilah, staunchly grateful for Faanshi's rescue of her from Haven's streets, has proclaimed herself Faanshi's friend and visited the grieving young woman... and also turned to her for comfort in her own troubles, giving Faanshi a chance to pull herself out of her own grief. And Delilah's guardian, the Warlord Sumai, has given the young healer the stark but strangely bracing pronouncement that because she is part Varati, she _will_ have the strength to pull through this death. Faanshi desperately wants to believe the Imphadi Warlord. She has prayed each day to the God-King and his Holy Mother that she might find enough strength within her to continue her own existence even if that of her beloved has ended. In the middle of the night, as the bereaved maiden sleeps, an answer comes to her prayers -- though it is perhaps anyone's guess whether it is the product of her own dreaming mind, working to forge a new resolve out of what is left of her soul, or something more.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Monday, April 15, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: New Season: Spring Weather: Wind Temperature: Cool *==========================================================================* A Moment in Thyme - Haven A multitude of smells mingle in the air of the small shop, combining from plants hanging from the ceiling or sitting on the shelves, or concoctions simmering over the hearth set into the side wall, or any of a number of sources. The wall opposite the hearth appears to be a work area of some sort, with a scarred table covered with tools, containers, and partially finished projects. The back of the shop is where all the finished goods are kept, it seems, judging from the full shelves - all organized with careful precision, despite how full they are. In fact, the entire shop is kept clean, the wooden floor well-scrubbed to an almost glossy shine. A set of chimes hangs near the door, jangling softly whenever the door is opened. Contents: Lyre Kosha Obvious exits: Private Quarters Out Faanshi's last day was another in a long line of recent harrowing days -- and this past night one in a line of nights broken by troubled slumber. In the darkest, smallest hour of what passes for her rest, the shudra lies huddled on the cot that FallingStar has set up for her in the corner. Kosha lies on the floor beside her, a large furry wall of protectiveness; off and on again the maiden has thrown her arm over the hound, and thus she lies now. Her sari is off, carefully folded and resting at the foot of the cot. Atop it lies her veil. But in the dark refuge of the herb-shop, there is no one to see the grief-pinched, haggard features of the young woman fretfully dozing beside her loyal pet. The room is curiously light for the dark of night, or so it seems. Despite this it's hard to see, the vision of daylight distorted by whatever reality, whatever dream, this is. "Faanshi. Wake up, little dove." Cool fingers, a breeze, brushes across the young shudra's cheek. A warm voice and a familiar one, the voice of a bard. The voice of a dead man. His smile sweetens his tone, despite the roughness that he can never quite banish. "Faanshi." More than once has Lyre's voice haunted her, both dreaming and waking -- and a little whimper sounds in the back of Faanshi's throat as it falls now upon her ears. She stirs, sungolden brow crinkling in consternation. With effort her eyes open, though for a moment or two their green gaze is unfocused and frightfully, achingly lost. "L-Lyre?" she whispers, part of her mind beginning to register the strange level of light within the room. What time is it? The middle of the night, or the middle of the day. Time has no meaning for him, not anymore. Lyre leans down and brushes his fingers across Faanshi's brow, smiling, "Hello, my love." Gently chiding, "You've been crying, haven't you? Didn't I tell you not to cry, sweet?" Faanshi freezes in stark, utter shock, eyes going round as coins -- and with her veil off, her expression of absolute surprise is more than visible. So are the lines of strain and anguish etched into her delicate features. Indeed, she's been crying, and she begins to cry now even as she sits bolt upright on the cot, reaching to fling her arms about the figure leaning over her. "Merciful Holy Mother...!" This comes out of her in a high-pitched squeak, and the rest of her words escape her in between hiccuping sobs. "Are... are you here? Lyre... svaadha... I-I thought... I thought..." Lyre lifts his finger and places it against Faanshi's lips. The texture of it is not warm - the first indicator, if the unnatural light is not enough. His eyes are warm, but though there is no less love in them, the heat that once fueled them is banked. "No, my love. I'm not here. Only in your soul. I couldn't leave without saying goodbye, song of my heart. I need to know you're going to be all right." Even before he speaks the strange coolness of the form she's tried to embrace sends a warning shooting through Faanshi's system that something here is amiss, to say the least. She pulls back to stare pleadingly at the rugged visage before her, and as Lyre's finger brushes her lips, the maiden's face crinkles in a surge of crushing disappointment. A fresh flood of tears -- one would think she would have run out of tears days ago, but no, they keep coming, and they must do so all the harder now at those softly rumbled words. "H-how can you be here?" she groans, agonized. "If you're... i-if you're dead -- you should h-h-have gone on... Ashur Masad and Ushas... y-your next life..." Cool fingers brush her hair, very gentle, the whisper of texture trying to soothe. "I know, darling. But I couldn't go without knowing you'll be strong." Lyre dips his head slightly, index finger gently lifting Faanshi's chin. "Not even death can keep us apart, not forever." He smiles and leans forward to kiss the tears away from her cheeks, breath whispering against the moisture, "Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry. I can never bear it when you cry." It may be the hand of a spirit -- or the hand of a dream? a memory? -- caressing her ebon tresses, but it is enough to kindle a sharp stab of intermingled love and loneliness in Faanshi's breast. Merciful Ushas, he looks the same... mostly... he sounds the same. He's even wearing his vest, the vest with the shell buttons on it. Frantically willing warmth into the form before her, she runs one hand over his broad shoulder and then lifts the other to his cheek. "I-I've been trying," she whimpers. "T-to pray for strength... but... Lyre, w-why did you have to die too? E-everyone I love leaves me... why did you have to go too...?" Something that might be tears sparkle in the bard's eyes, if it is possible for the dead to cry. Though some might argue that it's not possible for the dead to visit the living at all. Lyre whispers quietly, "There is no why, darling. Only the truth. I would have come home to you if I could have, if it was possible at all." He looks over his shoulder, toward the source of whatever pale light that brightens the night-covered room. "Faanshi, my love, I haven't much time. I need you to remember this for me. It isn't how they say it is. None of them. It's good, and it's different. But know this -- I will never, ever, truly leave you. I'm here. We're all here, with you, watching. You're never alone, even when the night is coldest and you're most afraid. We're here. And we'll be here as long as you need us." He lifts his hand and cradles her cheek, gently. Always gentle. "I'm not the only one who loves you. There are others. Don't give up, darling girl. Don't give up. There's so much you need to live for. So much beauty and wonder in the world. Promise me you'll try, dove." "But you can't," the maiden cries, alarmed as he looks away. "You can't go -- I-I got the sword, beloved, I g-got the sword but they locked it away -- I pray for you, e-each and every single day! A-and your sister a-and your son..." Son. Children. Faanshi's face crinkles up sharply again, water dampening her entire cheek, but strangely warmer than the cool, rough fingers against her sungolden skin. The halfbreed girl concludes in misery, "I-I never got to tell you how I-I-I wanted to bear your sons...!" Lyre is perilously close to crying himself, now, though he cannot shed the tears. Not any longer. But he does break another rule then, a rule that's very old, for a reason - and yet no rule is strong enough to overcome the love of a man denied his fate. His voice grows rough for just a moment, and he wraps his arms around her, tightly. "You will, darling. Not this life, but the next. You will. But you have to promise me, you mustn't give up. You have to fight to live, to heal, to be your true self, or that will never be. I was not supposed to tell you, but darling, you mustn't be afraid. It will be all right. Hold onto life, dove, and I'll be here for you. Always." If the bard -- or rather, perhaps, the essence of him -- cannot cry, then Faanshi will cry for him. That his lean frame no longer holds the warmth of life does not deter her from burying herself in his embrace, or for that matter running her dainty fingers all over the planes of his features when she comes up again in an urgent need to emblazon them into her memory. A look of dark, frenetic despair flashes across her big liquid eyes for a moment, broadcasting how close she is -- how close she has come, more than once, to taking the dagger Nine-Fingered Rab gave her and plunging it into her breast, or filling her pockets with stones and walking out into the ocean just south of the city. "Th-the Warlord of Messala... t-told me I would be strong b-because I am part Varati... but beloved, I don't, I don't know how I can live without you! I m-miss you so much, you were gone for so long... Lyre, I love you...!" Lyre pulls back slightly to meet Faanshi's eyes, looking at her with all the love he could not give her during his life. And then he leans forward and presses his lips to hers, oh so gently, and despite their coolness, it is a true kiss. It's so brief, and yet it might seem to some like an eternity. Finally he pulls back just far enough to say, softly, "I love you as well, Faanshi. I always will. But you have to be strong, for me. You are so much stronger than you know, darling. You have so much in store for you, so many good things, so much joy. Promise me that you won't give up on life. FallingStar needs you, and there are others. Your father's people, Faanshi. They will need you, too." Faanshi's breath stops at the cool brush across her lips -- though it starts again, in little fits and gasps, once the spirit-bard pulls back. The Sylvans. Faanshi swallows hard, and for once the flex of the delicate muscles of her throat can be seen without the veil in the way, the ghostlight casting strange glimmers across her skin. "I-I have to persuade the Amir-al," she breathes, almost half to herself... and then, as she stares into eyes of a deeper, clearer hue than the simple earth-brown she thinks she remembers, the black edge of despair ebbs out of her own. Something kindles up in its wake, not exactly happiness... but perhaps the beginnings of something like resolve. "I promise, beloved," she whispers. "I promise...!" Lyre leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of Faanshi's nose, smiling then. He is Lyre, and he is, perhaps, something more than just that now. And growing moreso by the moment. He murmurs, running his thumb across Faanshi's cheek, "That's my girl. I want you to sleep tonight." Something more there than a request, a gentle urge, a final gift. He's just a man passed beyond whatever lies upon the threshold of life, but perhaps there is a power in love that no mage can touch. "A good rest, and when you wake in the morning, sing to Ushas for me. But don't sing a lament. Sing joy to the dawn, and to me. I'll always listen. I love you, darling. And I'll be seeing you." She cannot quite stop crying, not yet -- but because this is _Lyre_, a tremulous wisp of a smile curls up the edges of Faanshi's mouth, so often hidden behind her veil, bared to the night and the spirit-glow that fills the room and the infinitely tender gaze resting upon her now. "I remember what you taught me," she blurts, "a-about singing... breathing from your belly..." She does, too. She has memories of more than one morning spent with him, while the Talespinner patiently explained how to sing high notes by thinking 'low' and low notes by thinking 'high', and pulling air into you to make each note strong and true. Loathe to break contact with him, the halfbreed maiden doesn't yet lie down again, but she does earnestly bob her head. "I'll sing for you...! Every morning...!" The light begins to dim, fading around the edges, the dark creeping up to reclaim what is rightfull his. Lyre smiles, that rough, lopsided smile of his. "I know you will, beautiful. And I'll listen, every morning." He rubs his forefinger beneath her chin again, tenderly, and gets to his feet. Quiet now, he whispers, "It's time to sleep, sweetheart. Curl up, and let me sing you into your dreams." Faanshi doesn't _want_ to go to sleep..! But as that protest begins to bubble up in her, the same darkness stealing across the room begins to lap across the maiden's senses. For a moment she frowns vaguely, not wanting to yield to the lethargy threatening to overtake her... and then, it seems to her that there is a sweet comfort calling to her from somewhere within it. She is tired, so very tired; her healer's senses know it. It would be good, the maiden muses drowsily, to let that treasured gravelly baritone coax her into sorely needed rest. And so Faanshi sways where she sits upon her cot, one hand falling down from the shoulder it had been clutching, the other one not leaving Lyre's cheek until he rises. "I'll sleep," she murmurs, sinking down to her pillow. But she does not close her eyes, not yet. Faanshi keeps them open as long as she can, gazing up into the lessening ghostlight and keeping those beloved features in sight as long as she can. Only when her eyes can stay open no longer does she breathe, "Goodbye, Lyre...!" The softly sung words of a familiar yet unplaceable tune, a lullabye, drift in and out of hearing for just a while, growing softer and more faded with every moment. Finally the song is gone, and all that remains is the lightest whisper upon the breeze of the maiden's encroaching sleep, "Goodbye, my dove." As the last echoes of the bard's voice drift out of her hearing, as the last glimmers of ethereal otherlight give way once more to the natural darkness of the night, Faanshi slips into her first effortless slumber in many months -- perhaps even the first truly easy sleep the young halfbreed healer can ever remember. A sublime tranquility settles across her exhausted features, the barest hint of a smile along her mouth... ... and when she wakes once more, to the true light of morning peeking in around the door and the edges of the shuttered window, it is with eyes turned clearer and brighter with the start of what she has prayed for to the God-King of the Varati and his beneficient Mother: Peace. [End log.]