The figure of Marissa shook her head sadly and reached out her hands once more. Taenaran didn't resist as slender fingers stroked his cheek. Her touch was light, like the kiss of a soft breeze. He felt the slightest shock as her fingertips made contact with his skin.
You are not being mocked, my Taenaran. It really is me-well, mostly me anyway.
The bladesinger's eyes widened in wonder as Marissa's voice echoed in his mind. He thought about what she had said, and it became clear to him-especially given what had occurred on their journey through Rashemen.
"Somehow you've become a telthor, haven't you?" he asked.
She smiled. Yes, my dear Taenaran. The spirit of this land has accepted my service. Imsha used the last of her essence to travel to the Urlingwood and see if she could detect the traitor among the othlor. I have taken her place.
Grief for her passing warred with the happiness that came with knowing somehow Marissa had found a new kind of life.
Please do not be sad, Taenaran. I don't regret a moment of what I had to do in order to save you and the others. I would offer myself again in a heartbeat. Now I will always be here to protect and serve a land I have come to love as deeply as I loved you.
Taenaran fought back tears and reached up to clasp the hand Marissa still held to his cheek. He nearly sobbed as his own hand met no resistance, passing through her form as if he had reached out to grab the wind.
Please-shed no more tears. My time with you is drawing to a close. There is much work that still needs to be done in the wake of Yulda's treachery.
"Perhaps I should remain here and help the wychlaran tie up loose ends," Taenaran suggested.
Marissa reached out with her other hand and placed it softly upon Taenaran's shoulder. Rashemen owes you a great debt, but there are other places in Faerun that need your help.
He wanted to protest, to explain that he could do the greatest good here in Rashemen, but he knew deep down that it wasn't the truth. He was a bladesinger now-a vessel for the art of his people. There were many elves who would need his help and perhaps-one day-he would even find himself returning home, so Taenaran simply nodded in response.
Please watch over Roberc and Borovazk, Marissa continued, and make sure they don't drink too much firewine!
The bladesinger laughed at that, but his laughter soon caught in his throat as Marissa's figure began to fade before his eyes.
I must go, Taenaran. Please know that I will always be here when you need me. Thank you, my love-for everything. With that, Marissa disappeared, fading completely from view.
Slowly, Taenaran turned toward the Red Tree and bowed profoundly. "I love you, Marissa."
He rose up once more, wiping a few stray tears from his eyes before turning back toward the path that would lead away from the Red Tree and ultimately away from Rashemen. As he walked forward, Taenaran felt the hollowness of grief begin to fill with gratefulness and with the warm memories of Marissa's presence in his life. It was as if a stone had rolled away from the dark tomb of his heart, letting in sunlight and air. It was enough that Marissa's life hadn't ended in darkness and pain. It was enough that he had seen her once more-and she was happy.
It was more than enough.
Slowly, Taenaran, bladesinger and hero of Rashemen, walked down the path toward his friends.
Behind him, the raucous cawing of an albino raven echoed throughout the vale.