Grief had hollowed him out, made of his heart a tomb-full of dust and shadow and a longing so deep it reached to the very marrow of his bones. Marissa was dead, yet the half-elf no longer felt anger or bitterness over his weakness, the brokenness that had caused her to die. He had become a true bladesinger now, a master of his father's art-his own art. The red-hilted blade given him by Aelrindel hung comfortably at his side. In the storm-wrought demesne of an evil witch, Taenaran had finally become true forged, made whole for the first time in his life.
At what cost?
Behind him, he could hear Roberc's dour muttering and the answering rumble of Borovazk's voice. Taenaran's two companions had remained with him during the long months spent in the witches' care, and they had followed him here, offering their strength and friendship for the final leagues of his journey. In truth, the bladesinger remembered little of the aftermath of their battle with the witch. His memory of those final moments lay in ruins. From what Borovazk and Roberc had told him during time spent resting by the hearthside, Yulda's own power had consumed her in those last moments, burning away her body-and the half-elf's flesh would have followed had Borovazk not pulled him free.
The two had tried to awaken him, plying him with healing potions, salves, and other unguents, but to no avail. He was, according to Roberc, deader than a Cormyrean soldier after a tenday's furlough." They had resigned themselves to braving the mountains in winter when a contingent of witches had appeared in the cave. The breaking of the Staff of the Red Tree had caught their attention, and Yulda's death had shattered the arcane barriers surrounding her demesne. Within moments, the witches had teleported the wounded and tired group back to the Urlingwood.
Despite the severity of his injuries, Taenaran had begun to heal under the watchful eye of the hathran assigned to watch over him. In the days and tendays that had followed, physical pain receded, leaving only the emotional scars of his loss. Even so, Taenaran had known that Borovazk and Roberc were grieving as well, and when the numbing emptiness rose up within him, the bladesinger took to the deer paths and hidden trails crisscrossing the Urlingwood, not wishing to inflict his own grief upon his companions.
Tendays had turned into months as winter vented its fury upon the land and the first bright moments of spring burst forth from the snow-covered earth. Still, Taenaran had stayed within the thickly forested Urling, not really sure what held him there, and Borovazk and the halfling remained with him. They drank and diced, hunted and fought as friends will, but by some unspoken agreement they stayed by Taenaran's side.
Finally, as the snow cover began to melt in earnest, Mahara, leader of the wychlaran, had approached Taenaran with the two fragments of wood that were all that remained of the Staff of the Red Tree.
"Please pardon my interruption," she had said softly. "You and your companions are welcome to remain in the Urlingwood for as long as you like. It is the least of the kindnesses we can offer you. Deep though I know your grief to be," she had continued, "I was wondering if you would do us one last favor?"
There was little Taenaran could have said at that moment, so conflicted was his heart. Instead, he had simply nodded his head.
"We are humbled once again by your kindness," Mahara had replied and had reached forward, offering the burned wooden fragments to Taenaran. He had reached out gingerly, as if the splintered ends would blister his fingers. He had tried not to think of Marissa as he held the ends in his hands.
"These fragments must be returned to the Red Tree," the witch had continued. "Normally one of the hathran would make the journey. However," Mahara had paused for just a moment, "the telthor have asked specifically for you to return the remains of the staff."
So Taenaran now stood in the center of the Red Vale, with the elemental tree looming ahead of him-pushed once again on a quest not of his choosing. He drew in a deep breath then sighed it out before turning to his companions.
"Well, my friends," he said, "thank you for making this journey with me, but I would ask that you let me carry the fragments to the Red Tree by myself."
The half-elf could see Roberc's frown deepen. Both the grizzled halfling and the hulking Rashemi ranger exchanged a look, but both ultimately nodded their agreement.
"Well, you are pretty damn close to the end of the journey, so I suppose we can let you go," the halfling began with a throaty chuckle. "Not even you could mess this up, Taen!"
The chuckle became a hearty laugh as Borovazk slapped the bladesinger's back with a meaty hand. Despite the grief and sadness of the past few months, Taenaran felt a smile begin to creep upon his face.
"I'll shout if I get into any trouble," he replied good naturedly then set off down the path.
Mirth and good humor vanished quickly as he drew nearer to the Red Tree. Its ancient profile interrupted the broad swath of piercing blue sky and warm spring sunlight, brooding over the surrounding landscape like some elemental giant. Taenaran could feel its power emanating from each branch and leaf tip, a deep strength that flowed from its ancient roots, tapping into a magic deeper than any he had ever experienced. It was as if the mystical Red Tree were somehow more "real" than anything else around it-including him.
Long, thick branches blew softly in the wind, enveloping him in its vernal embrace as he walked beneath the Red Tree's cool shadows. A surge of anger crested through him, and it was all he could do to keep the memory of Marissa kneeling beneath the Red Tree from overwhelming him. Taenaran hated this land, loathed every mile of its rugged landscape, for what it had taken away from him, yet he also loved Rashemen fiercely, with a strength that nearly stole his breath away. This land and its people had given him something he had never hoped to receive-himself.
Tears ran down his face as he knelt finally beneath the boughs of the Red Tree and laid the remains of the Staff of the Red Tree against its ancient, splitting trunk. A stiff wind blew up, sending broad leaves fluttering at its touch. Taenaran felt for a moment as if he were surrounded by giant serpents.
"There," he said through clenched teeth. "I have done my gods-damned duty."
He was tired of fighting the grief and the sadness, tired of the emptiness that he felt inside. With this last request of the wychlaran completed, Taenaran knew that it was time to leave Rashemen. Where he would go next, the bladesinger hadn't a clue, but he suspected it would be far from here.
He was about to stand up when the wind blew hard again, this time nearly knocking the half-elf to the ground. He closed his eyes against the sting of dirt and pebbles brought on by the strange wind, and when at last the air stilled and he opened his eyes once more, Taenaran's vision swam before him. He struggled to his feet, reaching out to the gnarled trunk of the Red Tree to steady himself. When the bladesinger's hand touched the bark, he felt a stinging shock. Instantly, his vision cleared, but what he witnessed nearly drove Taenaran to his knees once more.
Marissa stood before him, windswept hair blowing wildly in the wind, gazing at him with her eyes slightly squinted. He remembered that look upon her face, but he never recalled her looking that beautiful. Everything about her radiated joy and contentment.
"What is going on?" he asked of her in a voice that shook with emotion.
Marissa didn't respond. Instead she lifted her hands and brought them toward Taenaran's face. The bladesinger took a step toward her then stopped suddenly, as he realized that something was definitely wrong-the druid's lost hand had somehow regenerated.
"What are you?" he asked, suspicion tingeing his voice with a harsh undertone. "Does the Red Tree mock my grief? Have I not done enough for this gods-blasted land?"