Sigrid’s Song
written by Sosiqui for Sabin & Kamiki’s Art Contest, 2005
It is said that nothing flies swifter, in all the world, than a story.
Tales of great deeds, whispers of scandal, rumors and gossip – even the largest of dragons and quickest of fae cannot move as quickly as these. And in places where the monsters and beasts are real, more than just fodder for nightmares, the stories fly all the faster. They bring more than adventure; they bring hope, the thought that somewhere, someone triumphed over the common darkness.
Nothing can catch nor stop that sort of story, which is probably what the bard who wrote it was counting on. No doubt he intended to weave his name into history that way, by penning a tale of such grandeur, adventure, and triumph that it would fly through the whole world, never to be forgotten.
It was such a simple tale, really, appealing to every archetype imaginable. It used common themes and simple words, easy to remember, easy to retell – designed to resonate in the heart and fly from person to person, town to town, with incredible ease. A story of a young man venturing against darkness and succeeding in a blaze of glory, a tale to bring hope to the hearts of people… and always, always with the bard’s esteemed name attached to the end.
He was overjoyed when the story was finished and told one night in the halls of his lord, where all the guests and servants could carry it away and let it out into the world. His fortune was made, surely… and really, was it such a bad thing? He’d written a tale of triumph over darkness, and no one could fault him for that. Hope penned and spread in his name was still hope.
The problem with darkness is that it has a way of twisting things. Especially powerful things.
And this story was very, very powerful.
And very, very fast.
…
“Hmmmm.” The old woman peered closely at the carving, her runny eyes squinting as she tried to examine the detail. “I suppose it’ll do,” she said, finally, enfolding the small wooden bird in one wrinkled hand. “What d’you want?”
“Five stalks of dried nettle and a handful of aniseed,” Vastella replied, opening her leather pack. “And oak shavings if you have any.”
“Hmmm.” The woman retreated into the back of her shop, which was dank and smelled of rotting plants. Once she was out of sight, Vastella made a face. If this hadn’t been the only herbalist in town…
“’ere y’are,” the woman wheezed, depositing five crackly nettle stalks in front of her. “T’aniseed’s under ‘ere, and I got oak… you ‘ear what ‘appened to our Piet, child?” Leaves rustled as she dug about under the counter.
“Ah… no.” Vastella looked away. She really didn’t care about this village’s gossip – she didn’t even know its name – but there was a crone like this in every town or village she’d ever been, always ready to force local news on any unsuspecting person.
“Ah, ‘e’s run out,” the old woman said sadly, putting a few large dried leaves on the counter. “We reckon ‘e ‘eard the tale what’s been goin’ fast as wildfire. That ‘Sigrid’s Song’.” She shook her head. “I ‘eard the lord what ‘ad the bard who wrote that ‘ad ‘im put under the sword. Chip, chop, ‘ead’s lopped off.” The woman wheezed out what seemed to be a laugh. “But tale still lives. Some reckon ‘e put magic in it, but I know nowt of that save that our Piet ‘eard it and now won’t speak of nowt but slayin’ beasts, and then other night ‘e was gone… took father’s sword from the fireplace, and gone.” The oak shavings clattered onto the counter, and Vastella hurriedly folded them up in the leaves just to move things along. “’im and untold others. Tale steals your thought, they say…”
“Thank you,” Vastella said quickly as the woman paused.
“And cover up yon ‘illocks,” the crone said, sternly, pointing one wrinkled finger at Vastella’s ample cleavage. “Shameful, tis.”
She sighed. “Farewell, grandmother.” Vastella could hear the old woman muttering about “young folk these days” as she made a hasty exit, pausing a moment outside to take a deep breath of fresh air.
That story, she thought as she walked briskly to the edge of the village, where her horse was tethered. That damned story.
It wasn’t so much the bit about young men hearing it and falling under its influence, driven to emulate the hero Sigrid and go forth to battle beasts and demons, often resulting in a real-life bloody ending. Although that was unfortunate, it didn’t really affect her. The only young male near her now was her horse, and he was gelded.
No, it was the rest of the story. The other bits that damned bard had seen fit to include. She could recite one part of Sigrid’s Song by heart, now, though she cursed the day she’d heard it – the part where, driven by A Sense of Destiny and The Encouragement of Fate, Sigrid had sought out a Vistani in search of a prophecy of his future.
And now, blindly tripping down the path of the story like sheep to the slaughter, dozens of young men under the story’s sway were doing the same thing – and while she might be a Vistani exile, she still had the unmistakable look and accent of her… former… people. And that, to a deluded youth with a brain full of tale, was enough.
Her horse nickered at her as she approached, then snorted and stamped as someone moved behind him. Vastella froze immediately, eyes narrowing. “Who’s there?”
“’And then the heathen maiden spake to Sigrid, saying, ‘On you I feel the touch of Destiny; truly you are Marked by Fate. I will read the Taroka, the Cards that Tell All, and lay forth the path before you, that you may have Guidance.’ And he was rapt before her beauty, though she was wild and spoiled…’” The words were recited in a dreamy singsong, and a young man with tousled blond hair slid out from behind a nearby tree. His eyes were unfocused, a look Vastella had become all too familiar with lately.
“You are not Sigrid, and I will not do as you ask,” Vastella said firmly, walking right past him and untying her horse, clucking softly to the gelding.
A look of dazed panic crept into the young man’s eyes. “Not… must… must follow the path, must go… monsters, beasts!” He had a sword, Vastella realized, though he was waving it around clumsily. “Tell me!”
“No,” she said, simply, sidestepping his awkward movements
and slicing through her horse’s tie rope – no time to fiddle with the knot now.
The man was sweating now. “Come back! Come….”
Vastella spoke sharply to the horse, and he veered aside and trotted rapidly into the trees. She could hear the man stumbling after, wailing desperately, and urged her steed faster, as fast as was safe in the forest – which was swift enough that the man’s cries soon fell behind and disappeared.
When she judged herself far enough away, she let the gelding slow his pace with a sigh. How many times had this happened in the past week alone? Three or four times, at least. And while Vastella was used to running, this… this was different. Running because of her exiled status, or because of anger against the Vistani was all but normal. This was… it was wrong in a way she couldn’t describe.
She’d seen far too many dazed men begging her to send them further into delusion.
The horse shifted underneath her and whickered softly, then snorted. Vastella stiffened. That usually meant there was something around… hopefully not dangerous, but she slid one hand to rest on the dagger sheathed at one side.
Someone was coming towards them, moving through the underbrush, and swearing occasionally. For a moment, Vastella thought it was the deluded man from before, but the sounds were coming from entirely the wrong direction. The noises slowly got closer and closer – until she couldn’t stand it any more.
“Who goes there?” she called out, voice firm and clear.
There was rustling, then a hand – a human hand – slowly crept around the edge of a nearby large tree. “I am called Alten… can you help me?”
“What aid do you need?” Vastella called back, warily, not dismounting just yet. Her gelding shifted and stamped one foot.
“Directions back to my village.” Slowly, the man – Alten - crept around the tree, his head down; Vastella could not see his face, but his hair was graying and his clothes were simple. He wore a sword at his side, though, and a fine one at that. The weapon had the feel of long and careful use, and his movements indicated that he was well-used to the sword’s presence. No jumped-up youth, then…
“Tell me the name, and I may be able to point you to your home, sir,” Vastella replied, keeping her voice level and calm.
And then he looked up at her.
And screamed.
“NO! Oh gods, no, get away from me!” Alten dropped to his knees and clutched at his head with both hands. The horse took several steps back away from him, and Vastella frowned. Was he another who hated her… former people?
“If you won’t accept aid from my kind, you may well wander forever,” she told him, “and may you have pleasure in it.”
She had almost ridden away when she heard the words he was mouthing.
“’And then the heathen maiden spake to Sigrid, saying, ‘On you I feel the touch of Destiny; truly you are Marked by Fate…’ NO!” And then, with startling speed, Alten was by her side, one hand curled up towards her, beseeching. “I beg of you, lady, help me go back… but by all the gods, whatever I say, however I plead, do not read me your cards! Abandon me if you will, but do not read your cards!” He was sweating and trembling, but the look in his eyes was anything but dazed – it was bright, almost wild. Fighting.
“You have heard the tale,” Vastella said, still not dismounting, but looking down at him in some confusion. “I have seen many men come to me begging the very thing you ask me not to do… younger than you, though…”
“Hah. This old squire - never was knighted, never – has enough dream left in him, enough fairy-tale-hunger, for it to feed on… that tale, that tale.” Alten slowly got to his feet, every muscle tense and tight, as though all his will and being were involved in fighting away the compulsion in his mind. “Doubtless it drove me to you, Vistani.”
“Do not call me that,” Vastella said, sharply, and Alten’s ice blue eyes widened in surprise. “I will help you, sir, but do not call me that.”
“Thank you,” Alten said fervently, bowing his head to her. “The tale has me but only halfway, I can fight it… perhaps a priest can bless it from me. I heard it on the road from a wandering bard, eyes clouded with stories, while returning to my family… I don’t know how long or far it has driven me. I feel it trying even now…” He closed his eyes and stopped speaking for a moment, concentrating fiercely, then sighed. “I have beaten it back, for a time. I am no addle-pated youth, lady.”
And then, when Alten opened his eyes and looked up at her, was when she felt it – the pouch at her waist twitched ever so slightly, and she could feel a soft, gentle warmth emanating from within.
Her cards. Her trusted Taroka cards.
She frowned, and turned to investigate; sure enough, the cards were warm in her hand when she opened the pouch. It was absolutely unmistakable.
They had never done this for any of a dozen pleading, sword-waving youths - and yet here was Alten, begging her not to read the cards, and they were here, warm, waiting. Ready.
“Gods,” Vastella breathed.
“My lady?” Alten was watching her, still tense and fighting somewhere inside that she couldn’t see, his eyes still bright with hope in her assistance.
“I… I will guide you tomorrow, Alten. I will take you to your village if I can. But it’s growing towards nightfall. I will share my board with you – can you gather wood?” Finally, Vastella slipped down off her horse; the gelding stamped but made no other movement. So he didn’t think she was making a mistake either. It was strangely reassuring.
“Thank you, lady,” Alten said, bowing deeply. “I can, and I’ve some few apples in my sack to share, though it’s scant repayment.”
“Do it, then, before the night creatures come out – fire will keep them away.” Alten nodded assent and drifted off into the trees; Vastella sighed and began unloading her twin packs and bedroll from the back of the horse. She could still feel the heat of the Taroka at her waist.
….
Alten had tried to insist on taking first watch, but Vastella had made him rest first – the man was bone-tired from fighting the story’s compulsion, and she wasn’t sure she trusted him enough yet to sleep while he was awake, even with the apparent approval of both her gelding and the Taroka. He was curled on one side of the fire, sleeping deeply – Vastella wondered if the story haunted his dreams as well, or if he had some freedom there.
The sense of wrongness was overwhelming.
Vastella slowly took the Taroka cards from her pouch and fanned them out in her hands. Their insistent warmth had not abated any; in fact, it seemed to be more intense now. “Why?” she whispered, looking at the cards in the firelight. “He doesn’t want you.”
The cards didn’t answer except for a brief flutter of heat that beat against her hands like a moth’s wings.
Shaking her head, Vastella slowly laid the cards down before her, selecting cards and laying them out in the pattern for a reading. If he didn’t know – and yes, a quick glance confirmed that Alten was still asleep. It was right for her to do this, the cards insisted. Surely it was right.
Then why did she feel so nervous about it, as she hadn’t since… since Vasile…
No. Alten was nothing like Vasile. She forced her hands to stop their quiet trembling and began flipping the cards over to reveal their meanings, the sound of them quick in the night.
And she read them, by firelight. And quickly gathered them up again, and looked over at Alten only to see him looking right back at her, a look of pain in his eyes.
“You said you wouldn’t,” he whispered, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with being cold.
“They wanted to be read,” she whispered back, refusing to bow her head like a cowed child who’d done something wrong. “They hadn’t wanted that with anyone else, Alten. Not anyone who’d ever come to me begging for it. There had to be a reason.”
She watched him carefully as he bowed his head, all his muscles tensing again. “Is it stronger?” she asked, calmly as she could manage.
“No,” he said, to her surprise. “It is… manageable. No worse, no less.”
“Do you want me to tell you what I saw?” Vastella said, bluntly, and he looked up at her quickly. “I will, but only if you ask.”
Alten closed his eyes and stared at the heart of the fire. “Yes,” he said, after a few minutes. “Tell me, but lady, lady, if the story seizes me against my will, I beg you to kill me. I would rather die here than be torn by this sorcery.”
Vastella took a deep breath, and pictured the cards she had seen in her mind’s eye. “Nine of Swords, the Torturer –“
Alten cringed.
“…reversed. Redemption is possible,” she finished, her voice quiet. She heard Alten’s soft murmur of surprise. “The Prison, again, reversed – a pattern broken, freedom at hand. The Six of Stars, reversed, a return from madness to sanity… and the Ace of Stars, the Transmuter, reversed – a long-awaited ending.”
Alten was silent for what seemed like forever, before he finally spoke. “It is
laying me a different path.”
“Than the story? I would say so,” Vastella replied. “And my cards always tell the perfect truth. Of this, I am certain.”
“Will you…” Alten took a deep breath. “Will you do a reading now, lady, but for… for the story?”
Vastella looked up in surprise, but simultaneously the cards flashed hot as fire, and she gasped. “I do not know how to do this thing, but… but it seems my cards do…”
Alten watched her avidly as she removed the cards again and began to lay them out, though he did not try to come any closer to her. “And…?” he breathed, as Vastella finally looked down at them and the message they contained.
“For… for the story, yes, or perhaps for the author?” Vastella’s voice sounded as though it were coming from somewhere very far away. “The Broken One; the spirit is broken… the Torturer, not reversed this time, so violence, darkness, insanity… the Eight of Stars, power turned against itself, self-destruction… the Marionette reversed, powerful forces controlling a pawn… the Innocent, a defenseless person needs aid… and…” She frowned. “The Four of Stars, the Abjurer, reversed – inspiration.”
“What do you make of it?” Alten said quietly as Vastella quickly gathered the cards up again.
“The story is… alive. Used by a power, malevolent… but it seeks to be destroyed? I don’t understand…”
Alten’s eyes were bright in the light from the fire. “I do, oh, lady, I do. I carry the story within me, and… I can see it now. The paths are not so different after all.”
“They aren’t?” Vastella looked up at him, startled.
“No… no.” Alten looked dazed for a moment, and Vastella stiffened reflexively. “It is self-destructive. It is being used… it wasn’t intended to be like this, but there is power in stories that can be manipulated… and this one was.”
“They put the bard who wrote the tale to death,” Vastella breathed. “Or so the news in the last village told me.”
Alten laughed, a harsh, mocking bark that had nothing to do with humor. “And when, my lady, has death truly stopped the darkness of this world? No, they didn’t do it right, they couldn’t have. The story has changed. It… yes, I can see it now, by the light of your Taroka. It wants to be finished in truth. All those young men were chasing the wrong monsters. Ogres, dragons, feh… no, no. The story itself wants to die. The will of the Bard holds some sway over it yet... My lady, I can stop this thing.” There were no clouds in Alten’s gaze now; rather, there was a firm and steady resolve. “The young will not have to go out and die fruitlessly, driven by a contagious madness.”
“So you will step into the story, then,” Vastella said softly. “You will be Sigrid, and the great beast will be…?”
“The bard. The story keeps him alive, I am sure of it now… and that life in turn keeps the story’s power strong.” Alten’s hands clenched into fists. “And it only grows as it eats the lives of the young. But I can see it. I can see it… will you help me?”
Vastella blinked. “What?”
“Will you help me?” he repeated. “The tale of the Vistani in Sigrid’s Song doesn’t end with the reading, you may know.” There was a sad smile on his face. “She came with him. She fought alongside him. Lady, you did for me what the story demanded, and did it freely… you are part of this now, whether you will or not, I think. I may not be able to do this thing without you.”
She groaned and leaned backwards. “Gods, Alten…”
“The young men will pester you no further, if nothing else,” Alten said with a sigh and another smile. “I will not force you, lady, but I will ask. That’s all.”
“I will consider it,” Vastella said, reluctantly. “I can promise nothing.”
“I understand. Thank you.” And Alten lay back down again, although Vastella wasn’t sure if he went back to sleep or not.
She signed and leaned against the tree behind her again, closing her eyes,
feeling the soft encouraging hum of her Taroka cards, still in her hands. She
knew they always told the truth… always….
Vastella moved to put them back in the pouch, but one card slid free and landed in front of her, face up.
The Hero – a powerful
ally. A friend.
“Dammit,” Vastella swore.
“Hm?” Alten said, from the other side of the fire.
“I said I’ll go with you, damn you,” she hissed at him, and he grinned at her, a soft and genuine smile.
“Thank you, lady,” he said, simply. “Thank you.”
…
“I know where to go. Trust me,” Alten had reassured her
before they broke camp that morning, and he did. Vastella thought it had
something to do with following the story’s path, but Alten unerringly knew
which way to go and what path to take, even though he admitted to having no
conscious knowledge of who or what they were looking for. All they had to go on
was the name of the author attached to the end of Sigrid’s Song – one Camenley
of the
There were other things, too. Innkeepers always had a room open. Bandits missed them or passed them by. Even the tiniest twinge of thirst would produce a nearby stream, even if Vastella was certain one had never been there before – hunger would bring fruit on trees, even out of season.
Whatever they were doing, something, some power, approved of it.
But there was a cost.
“Alten. Alten?” Vastella called out to him. He was waking ahead of her, even though she was on horseback – he had refused her invitations to ride with her, repeatedly. “Alten!” He was no more than 10 feet away, how could he not hear-
She sighed. “Sigrid?” she asked, half-heartedly, hoping he wouldn’t answer.
He turned immediately. “My lady Valmira?”
Valmira was the name of the Vistani in the story, she knew that much now, and she cringed to hear it. “Vastella. I’m Vastella, and you’re Alten,” she said, in case it did any good. There was an odd light in his eyes now, since a few days ago, and it made her uneasy.
That light flickered, then. “Vastella…? Gods, did I do it again?” He stopped walking and buried his face in his hands. “It comes with the knowledge… the name… the change. Sigrid, I know him now… though he was younger than I, fairer of hair and with eyes like forest leaves, I know him as though he were my true self.” There was a tone of reluctant awe in his voice. “How could one man’s tale have such power, to bring figments half to life?”
“True skill will do that,” Vastella answered, coming up alongside him. “And true darkness will pervert any power it can find.”
“Aye, and so.” Alten sighed. “My lady, I may need to fall deeper into the tale. Will you follow?”
“I will,” she reassured him, and he gave her that soft smile again. She noticed now how it made the wrinkles on his face crunch up, when he smiled like that. His face was used to smiling. “Do you know how much more we have to go?”
His eyes lost focus again. “Not far. Not far, my lady Valmira…” He moved to walk in front of her again, confident, poised. Even his way of movement was changing, shifting to match who the story thought he should be.
For a moment, Vastella counted herself lucky that Valmira in the story had been so ill-described, that so much had been left to imagination. She felt safe from that sort of change, at least. But Alten…
“Valmira? Do you follow?” For a moment, she thought she caught a flicker of green in his eyes.
“I’m coming,” she replied, and urged the gelding on.
…
Vastella had expected something grander, really, when it came down to it. Stories tended to end in ancient ruins or grand castles, forests of towering trees, wild storms… anything dramatic.
But this… this was just a simple cottage, run-down, in the
woods. A quite normal woods, too, with the only thing of note being a pair of shining
waterfalls that flung themselves over the edge of a nearby cliff – the
Alten, however, was certain – or, rather, Sigrid was. She couldn’t ever get him to come back to his old self now, couldn’t ever cajole him into calling her Vastella instead of Valmira.
“Here we are; the monster lies within,” he called back to her from his position before the cottage door. His eyes were deep leaf-green now, with no trace of blue. “The end is near.”
“I fervently hope so,” Vastella replied, getting down off of the gelding and tethering him to a nearby tree before joining Alten. “The journey has been long.”
“Valmira, you will fight at my back, and we will defeat this creature,” Alten said, his voice full of confidence. He drew his sword. “Shadowsting’s blade will cleave it in twain, and your power will rend it. Now come!”
The lines were verbatim from the tale, another thing Vastella had come to be aware of. Nearly everything Alten said now was actually a perfect quote.
“I’m here, Alt… Sigrid.”
“Then let us go!” And he pushed open the door.
It creaked quite mundanely and moved to reveal the one-room interior, simple as any peasant’s hut would be.
Except for the man in bard’s clothes who was curled on the pallet, the rushes decaying around him. His skin had the pallor of death, and he was literally clutching his head in his hands – it had, as the old woman had said, been chopped off. But his eyes were open, blank and staring, and Vastella could feel as well as see the dark halo of power that danced around him.
So it was the source, truly. The story was both sustaining him and feeding off of him, as was… whatever had perverted it.
“Camenley of the
“Alten,” Vastella whispered.
“-and I am come to do battle with the darkness.”
The bard’s mouth moved slowly, torturously, and no sound came out – but Vastella could make out what he was saying by the movements of his lips.
Please, gods, set me free… kill me… kill it… set me free.
Alten raised his sword.
And then all hell broke loose. The dark power surrounding Bard Camenley’s body surged upwards into a tangible form that lashed at the walls of the cottage and broke them away in an instant, and reached up to the sky outside to finally produce that dramatic storm that Vastella had been waiting for. A bolt of power struck just next to Alten, who swore and jumped back.
“You would defy Our power, Our prize? Never. Oh, never.” The voice bubbled and hissed at them, full of hate and rage.
Camenly’s mouth moved again. Sigrid, come out of the story to save me… the gods are good… set me free, I beg of thee…
“Alten!” Vastella yelled, even as she felt the Taroka cards at her side heat up again.
Camenly’s eyes flicked over to her. And Valmira, too… such power. Why?
Alten slid into a battle stance that Vastella was sure he never could have done without the story’s guidance. “Come, then.”
Vastella ran forward, then, taking up a place behind Alten – it felt right, somehow – and removed her Taroka cards from the bag. They were blazing wildly, almost angrily, at the roiling mass of darkness that towered above them.
And then, suddenly, the darkness shrank down into a physical shape that was all wings and legs and lashing tail and claws-
“SIGRID!” Vastella screamed, knowing that Alten wouldn’t hear her if she called his true name. “LEFT!” He dodged just in time to avoid a strike by a viciously clawed hand, his reflexes quick like those of a far younger man, then wheeled to chop at it with his sword.
And then there was no time for anything but reflex, for anything but frantic dodging and the working of power. Alten whirled like a dervish, chopping and slashing and parrying, and Vastella helped as best she could, calling out the power in her cards to help her, but…
...but…
Alten frantically swung to the left, then shrieked as a claw lashed at him, cutting deep into his shoulder, so deep that for a moment Vastella was sure it had cut right through. No matter how much they fought, how many claws they severed or wings they destroyed, there were always more, more, more, far more than they could handle.
It abruptly occurred to Vastella that she could die here.
But the cards are never wrong…
There was supposed to be an ending…
Vastella glanced quickly over at Camenley’s body; it was surrounded in a nimbus of roiling shadow. In fact, it seemed that all the shadows were anchored there –
And that was it.
“SIGRID!” she screamed, and ran towards the bard, riffling through her cards as she did so, casting aside the ones she didn’t need. Ending, ending, ending… and then Alten was next to her, running, turning every so often to slash at the enemy and keep them away. She could feel the blood from his wound rubbing off on her whenever they touched.
Vastella knew the card the instant she found it; it was blazing so hotly that she could barely touch it. “An ending, an ending – the Transmuter reversed, a long-awaited ending. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she gasped as they neared the bard.
His lips twitched, barely visible under the shifting haze of shadow.
Yes.
“Then TAKE IT!” And Vastella flung herself forward, with Alten right behind her, and forced the card through the haze. The Taroka card was now burning with a power she could see, a power that cut through the darkness until finally it rested on Bard Camenley’s skin. “NOW!”
And there was Alten’s sword, stabbing downward, piercing through the card itself, driving the power downwards along the length of the blade and into the corpse, into the shadows, into the darkness-
Something screamed, a long, twisting, bubbling shriek that hit them like a physical blow – and then the power shrank inwards in a wild blaze of sound and light that drowned everything out…
And then, so suddenly that that too was like a blow, was gone. Alten staggered into Vastella, and both of them fell down, stumbling into the mud in front of Bard Camenley’s body, with Alten’s sword still stuck in the corpse’s chest, the Ace of Stars still held there.
“Sigrid?” Vastella asked, barely able to breathe through the adrenaline and the tightness of suddenly screaming muscles.
“Sig… rid….?” He looked up at her, and his eyes… gods, his eyes. The green was leeching out of them, crumbling away to be replaced by ice blue. “No… no, no… another name, another name…”
“Alten…”
“Yes. That was it. That was it. Alten. I am… Alten.” He shook his head, and the last vestige of green vanished.
There was a sigh, then, and they both turned to see Bard Camenley moving faintly, reaching one hand to curl around the hilt of Alten’s sword. “An ending… at last… thank you. Sigrid. I did it, I made a story. You were… you were… real.”
And with that, the eyes closed, and the body simply crumbled into dust with a soft sound that seemed wholly undramatic, considering the circumstances.
Alten got to his feet and carefully pulled his sword free from the pile of dust, his hands trembling. “This is yours, Val… no, no, you’re Vastella. Gods.” He shook his head violently. “Vastella.”
“Yes,” she said, shaken, and carefully removed the Taroka card from the blade. It seemed fine, other than the vertical slash right through the middle.
“We did it,” Alten managed.
“We did,” she agreed.
“I need… to rest. And, gods, ale.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sheathed the sword, though it rattled in its scabbard from the shaking of his hands.
“Yes,” Vastella agreed, simply, and guided him towards the horse. Nothing more was needed - she’d had more than enough of long words, drama, tales.
Now, at the end, it was enough to simply be.
…
Vastella smiled awkwardly in the background as Alten embraced his wife, and she wept, and most of their children were weeping, and where was the place for her in such a reunion? Nowhere, just smiling in the background, waiting to leave.
Really, that was as it should be. She was no hero; Alten deserved all the praise he was due to receive, and she wanted no part of it. She had helped. That was all.
After a few moments of tearful kissing, Alten and his wife finally separated, and he beamed at Vastella. His wife wiped tears from her face and smiled back, although she did give an odd, stilted look at Vastella’s ample – and very visible – cleavage. She resisted the urge to snort at that. Women everywhere, just the same. Cover yon hillocks, indeed.
“How can we thank you?” Alten’s wife said, finally.
“You can let me go,” Vastella said, calmly, pulling back to the image of aloof mystic that was such an effective shield. “Let me go, and be kinder to the Vistani who come in the future. And I will bid you farewell.”
Alten’s wife nodded, obviously relieved that she didn’t expect payment of some kind. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Vastella said, formally, and bowed to them all before turning and mounting her gelding. Everyone watched her go, peering at her from windows and doorways. Come see the exotic Vistani, come see, come see…
She was nearly to the forest when she heard the footsteps behind her, the calls of “Vastella! Wait!” She reined in the gelding and waited.
Sure enough, Alten came around the bend in the path, panting and gasping. She raised one eyebrow at him, but he waved her off. “Not… as young…as I used to be….”
“What is it?” she said, bluntly, and he looked at her in surprise.
“I just wanted to say thank you. And goodbye,” he said, quietly. “That’s all.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “Thank you. Really.”
He grinned back at her. “And may such a thing never happen again. This old squire is ready to retire. And you?”
“And I? I wander. What else am I to do?” She smiled wryly at him, and shrugged. “It is my way. Perhaps I will come here again.”
“If you do, come. Marcella won’t trouble you.” He made a face. “I am sorry. She is a lovely woman, a good wife, but…”
Vastella snorted. “I understand. It’s all right, I suppose.”
“Well then.” Alten looked awkward. “This is farewell, then.”
“Yes. Farewell. And may I hear ta… no, wait.”
“What?” Alten raised one eyebrow at her, questioning her hesitation.
“May I NEVER, ever, for the sake of ALL the gods, hear tales of you!”
His laughter chased her down the roadway and back into the forest.