Whereas the priest and the spirit had wandered away from Saphienne amicably, with ease befitting a close friendship, when they concluded their conference a change came over their demeanour. Nelathiel moved with vigorous, hulking purpose, the honed angles of her body further emphasised when she slipped one arm loose from her robes to expose the prominent muscles of her shoulder. Holly kept pace with her through slower, longer strides, swaying and drifting as if she were still borne aloft on the breeze that had carried her into the shrine.

Together, they returned to Saphienne and wound twin circles around her in opposite directions, both gazing upon her fiercely — their expressions mirroring the countenance of the idol rising beyond. At last they halted so that each stood equidistant from each other and the statue, enclosing, perhaps entrapping her in the sacred space.

As one, the pair crouched.

“Comes now a child of elves to meet Our Lord,” intoned Nelathiel.

“Comes now a child of elves to know her god,” replied Holly.

“Let her ask now what runs within His heart.”

“Let her ask now what beats within her own.”

They bowed their heads to the ground, then smoothly sat cross-legged on the grass, leaving Saphienne standing, mystified.

“You can sit or stand,” the priest smiled up at her, though her tone was still more formal than when she and Saphienne had last spoken. “Whichever is most comfortable.”

“But do not be at ease,” Holly warned. “Our god is near. Ask what you came to ask — upon Him, peer.”

Sensing that the verse was instructive, Saphienne turned to face the icon, and knelt down to imitate their bows before she sat. The gaze of the god fell exactly upon where she was sitting; she belatedly realised that the winding, walked circles had subtly driven her to stand in the appropriate place. Her teachers remained silent behind her, waiting for her first question.

She decided to keep it simple. “Who is Our Lord of the Endless Hunt?”

“Our Lord,” answered Nelathiel, “is one among the three hundred and sixty-four gods and goddesses worshipped by the elves and spirits of the woodlands.”

“Nameless He is,” continued Holly, “as are They all. To know our gods is to discern Their hearts aglow.”

Saphienne studied the gold rings inlaid into the eyes of the otherwise realistically painted icon: polished to a mirror shine, she could see herself reflected in their lower edges. “What sets the heart of Our Lord of the Endless Hunt aglow?”

“To hunt,” the priest decreed. “Our Lord is never satisfied. ‘Our Lord Who Knows No Triumph,’ is one of the lesser titles that attest to Him, for He is eternally driven to seek what cannot be caught.”

“So too,” explained the spirit, “is He defined by His pursuit. Without a quarry, what the hunter? Mute be He — to chase, His only absolute.”

Saphienne frowned. “A god of obsession?”

Yet neither elf nor bloomkith replied.

She supposed ‘obsession’ was pejorative… and yet, since they hadn’t corrected her, Saphienne was confident she wasn’t wrong. Nor was obsession inherently good or bad, now that she thought about it; the danger of an obsession depended upon its object.

Then she smiled up at the god, realising what Holly had tried to tell her a mere moment ago. “A god of obsession; a god who asks us to question the worthiness of what we most concern ourselves with.”

A melodious, descending hum of satisfaction conveyed Holly’s approval.

“Good,” Nelathiel said. “All our gods and goddesses are approached in this way. What do you see when you look upon Him? What do you feel? What do you think, when you meditate upon His nature?”

“Poesy,” the spirit agreed. “Faith is grown from living rhyme.”

Saphienne had expected holy doctrine to be more authoritative… which felt foolish to her now, as her thoughts turned to how elves expressed themselves through art. She reconsidered the eclectic offerings left around the shrine, along with the diverse interpretations they evidenced. “…But it can’t all be subjective,” she complained. “There have to be facts… truths of our faith, held in common.” She gestured to the idol. “You told me that I’m looking at him right now, as surely as if he were physically here–”

“He is here.” The priest spoke softly, but firmly.

“There are other shrines to him, though,” Saphienne said. “And I have to imagine that, if he manifested here by other means, you would consider him more present than he is now. This seems like a contradiction, so let me ask: just where are the gods?”

Holly laughed mildly. “The gods are everywhere, across all time. The world is Theirs, beautiful and sublime. Behold you now but dimly, child, the clime from which the gods ascend: our paradigm.”

“Which is to say,” Nelathiel translated, “that spirits have a better understanding of the gods’ immanence in the world than elves. Thanks to their wisdom, we can contemplate the gods as both at one with the world and manifest within it — for spirits remember what came before the lives they live.” She laughed at herself, conscious of her limited understanding and how little she had explained. “Spirits are bodiless, while you and I are bodies; both we and spirits were once boundless; the gods are both bodiless and embodied, and remain boundless. How that is possible is a mystery with which we are called to wrestle.”

The riddle made little sense to Saphienne. She wondered whether any truth lay behind what the priest and bloomkith were saying, or whether they were reading meaning into the imprecise language of presence and absence… perhaps much like the paradox that Filaurel had once posed to her. Could they never fully understand the gods because – ultimately – each divinity was just a symbol for the unknowable? To Saphienne, their struggle to reach a satisfying answer appeared unwinnable–

She laughed, keenly aware of the presence looming over her.

“Whether or not the gods are knowable doesn’t really matter to you,” she realised, her voice betraying her growing amazement. “The pursuit is real; your faith is real. Contemplating mysteries is the point, isn’t it? That’s the important thing, held in common between the faithful.”

“Spy I a halo,” murmured Holly, “swift descending down.”

“You’re quick to grasp what others have scarcely touched,” Nelathiel admitted, a little unnerved. “The articles of our faith consist of the ancient ways, the stories of our shared gods, and the truths that have been and are revealed to us through contemplation of divine mysteries. Our enactment of the ancient ways, our performance of the gods’ stories, and our struggles with the mysteries are interconnected: each informs upon the whole.”

Saphienne could feel the shape of what she held. “Which means… any answer that doesn’t contradict the stories of the gods, the ancient ways, or truths that have been revealed–”

“Subjective truth the gods to us decree,” interrupted Holly. “How we might reconcile? We must agree.”

“…And that gives rise to the consensus of the woodlands,” Saphienne inferred. The elaborate choreography that held the society of elves and spirits together felt tenuous. “Meaning, the ancient ways are a code for living together in peace, the stories of the gods instructive in what we should strive to emulate, and the rest is left to us?”

“Sounds simple, when phrased like that,” the priest admitted. “And I see now why the gods willed you to this shrine. Tell us, Saphienne: do you?”

Whether or not the gods had willed her there, the lesson that Nelathiel wanted Saphienne to infer was obvious. “There’s never an end — pursuing the truth while upholding the peace is constant work.” She tilted her head as she studied the sculpted face above her. “Thankless work, I expect… since it’s without triumph.”

In keeping with their ritual, Holly tested her as well. “Tell us: what does Our Lord in His hand hold?”

She squinted at the spear-like implement, unfamiliar with its curved head. “I expected he would have a bow, or a spear… but I don’t recognise what he’s holding.”

“And if you were to guess? Come now: be bold.”

Being forced to answer without enough context to form conjecture was uncomfortable, but she imagined that was the point. “A hunting implement… a weapon. But… I’m reminded of a sickle, or scythe.”

“What Our Lord of the Endless Hunt holds was once a scythe,” the priest confirmed, “before it was repurposed for war. We are not surprised that you don’t recognise it, just as you wouldn’t recognise that war falls within His purview. He is not alone in that regard, but like His fellow gods and goddesses, Our Lord has not been invoked for such purpose in a very long time.”

Old knowledge resurfaced as Saphienne listened. “A triumph was once a ceremony to celebrate victory, wasn’t it? But he is Our Lord Who Knows No Triumph. Is that because he never stops waging war, or because there’s never any victory in it?”

Again, her teachers were silent.

Eventually, Holly spoke. “The child is ready for the mystery.”

Nelathiel replied, “Whose winds will lead this elf unto herself?”

“Mine,” said Holly, and Saphienne flinched as the spirit placed her glowing hands upon her shoulders from behind. “I will guide this child along the path.”

“Saphienne,” said the priest, coming to stand before her with clothed and bare arms folded together, “do you wish to contemplate the mystery of how the ancient ways came to be? If you are unprepared, they will await you. Time unending is your birthright — and the liturgies your rightful inheritance.”

Anticipating a challenge, Saphienne squeezed the coin in her hand. “I do.”

* * *

Crouched behind Saphienne, Holly continued to hold her shoulders as Nelathiel retrieved the teapot left before the icon. The priest lifted the lid with a smooth and exaggerated flourish, setting it aside as she placed the pot before Saphienne; her hands cupped over the revealed opening as she repeated a mantra. “The waters once covered all we behold,” she said, and yellow light tinged with streaks of red shone from her fingers, fresh water pouring between them to fill the pot.

Holly reached past Saphienne, palms held upward. Nelathiel returned to the ornate box, fetching a bundle of cloth that she unwrapped to reveal dried and chopped plant matter, pale and musty in the daylight. She tipped the pieces onto the spirit’s hands, prompting Holly to repeat a mantra of her own. “What dies yet lives in vivid memory,” she whispered into Saphienne’s ear, and the glow she summoned was tinged with the orange of sunset as it reduced the fragments to fine powder. Preparation complete, the spirit dropped what she held into the teapot.

As Nelathiel replaced the lid, Saphienne asked, “What is that?”

“To water, mushrooms added,” the bloomkith reassured her. “Holy brew.”

Lifting the teapot, Nelathiel and Holly both clasped it together while the two repeated a shared mantra: “May sunlight ever warm our woodland vale.” Once again, the spell was tinged with red, and palpable heat swiftly boiled the pot. Holly continued to hold the vessel aloft as Nelathiel fetched the handleless cup, the spirit waiting until the priest wound the cloth that had held the mushrooms over the spout before she poured out a measure of the infusion.

Satisfied, Holly set the teapot aside, returning her hands to Saphienne’s shoulders as Nelathiel offered the cup.

“Drink only a sip,” the priest cautioned Saphienne.

“No,” the bloomkith said. “Slight though she be, Saphienne is strong.”

While the face paint hid much of Nelathiel’s expression, the gold and the green gave contrast to her uncertain gaze. “…She is very young for this, Holly.”

“Drink deeply from the cup.” Holly squeezed Saphienne in reassurance as she spoke. “Trust in my song.”

Enough had happened to Saphienne of late that, even though she felt no fear for her physical safety, she had cause to hesitate. Accepting the cup, she sniffed, and tasted, and her lips curled up and brow wrinkled in a wince of disgust. “It’s bitter.”

“Drink,” urged Holly.

Steeling herself, Saphienne focused her attention on the idol, meditating to suppress her other senses as she drained the cup.

Prying the empty grail from her hands, Nelathiel poured herself a much smaller measure of the mushroom tea, drinking it with her eyes closed. She held her peace for a moment. Then, animated by the demands of the rite, she returned the ritual implements to the box and bowed to the idol — only to stand, and reach, and lift down the war scythe, handling it with apparent familiarity.

She faced Saphienne with weapon braced against her hip. “Listen. Hear what you seek after, and follow it. I will go ahead to prepare the performance; Holly will attend you.”

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Addressed, the spirit shifted her glimmering form away from Saphienne. She was watching her attentively when Saphienne glanced back.

Nelathiel left them without another word.

* * *

No immediate change came over Saphienne. As the minutes passed, she listened to the birdsong and the waving trees, wondering what would ensue. Her patience dissipated as the sun reached its zenith, and she spoke quietly to Holly as it shone directly overhead. “Thank you for attending, and for advocating to your sisters–”

“Do not speak,” Holly chided her. “Listen now: hear what allures.”

Flushing hot with embarrassment, she was surprised to feel sweat break out on her brow. Her stomach clenched without warning – nausea rising in her throat – and she fought the discomfort as her mouth dried and her heart beat faster. A chill raced through her, goosebumps rising. Intellectually, she could tell that the mushrooms were having a medicinal effect–

“Saphienne!”

Blinking, she looked behind herself. Holly had risen and was standing, nearly floating, to one side of the shrine. The bloomkith said nothing as Saphienne studied her.

Troubled, Saphienne asked, “Did you call for me?”

Yet the spirit did not say.

Feeling paranoid, Saphienne looked up at the idol. The god before her was unchanged, though the longer she stared, the more she could swear that his hungry smile grew wider at the sight of her. Perceptual distortions, she realised; she would have to be careful to remember–

“Saphienne!”

This time, Saphienne’s eyes lit up even brighter than the daytime, her face unguarded and astonished as she twisted around. The coin slipped from her hand, and she let it fall. Her attention was on the voice she had heard, somewhere out there, under the trees.

“…Kylantha?”

Laughter squealed among the boughs.

She tried to stand — and stumbled, her legs clumsy and relaxed. Holding herself, she rocked on her feet, the colours of the forest glittering and weaving in the corners of her eyes. “Kylantha? Is that… it can’t be you.” Saphienne shook her head, panic rising as her heart pounded. “I’m… this isn’t…”

But Kylantha giggled, her voice carrying from just beyond the steps. “If you want to try to find me, you can try…”

Saphienne would have ran, were she able. She walked a few paces on numb feet, unbalanced, then stopped, kicking off her shoes in frustration, attuning herself through sense of touch to the grass and stone. She went on until she reached the steps that led from the hillock, and balanced there precariously, shrugging off her satchel, leaving it where it landed as she started her descent.

Holly tread after her, close but unobtrusive.

As she reached the offering trees Saphienne blindly looked around, unsure of herself, elated and alarmed, watching the world drip and run in colours that were heightened beyond even what Hyacinth could make bloom. She was sure she was mad; she was sure she was sane at last.

“Where are you?” she whispered.

“We’re dancing,” Kylantha replied, nearby.

Saphienne spun, her feet remembering their steps. “…I look for you, but I don’t see you anywhere…”

“When they’re fourteen, they can travel with the adults.”

Her eyes dulled. “You were taken away. This… I don’t understand…”

“Let’s go somewhere we haven’t been. Somewhere no one expects us to go…”

“Where?” Saphienne was struggling to understand where Kylantha waited. “And what will we do, when we get there?”

“See things we haven’t seen before.” She was receding. “We need to practice for when we travel.”

“Kylantha!” She trailed after her, slowly smiling as she drew nearer to her glowing white dress. “We’re going to travel?”

“As soon as we’re grown, we’ll go on a journey. We’ll go over the mountains.”

There was a mountain blocking Saphienne’s path, its grey slopes alive with birds and animals, unscalable. She stopped in fear before it, biting her lip. “We’re meant to stay here. We’re not grown enough…”

“No one will notice we’re gone. And who cares if we get into trouble, anyway?”

Holly passed into the cave, splitting open the mountain before Saphienne, who saw her go on ahead… but who did not see her.

“Come on,” Kylantha said.

For the sake of her friend, Saphienne found her courage. “We have to see our journey through…”

There was no other option. She would follow.

* * *

Brought through the darkness by the shining spirit, Saphienne lost all sense of time, feeling as though she had been descending for an endless age, the smooth walls she touched melting in her mind. She made steady progress, going deeper into the earth as the mushroom tea settled more potently into her blood.

An eternity passed, and the darkness receded, revealing a cavern that stretched out as though it lay beneath the entire world. A firepit held burning wood that sparked and crackled, surrounded by furs that had been piled thickly to cushion the floor. With so little to see, Saphienne was able to make sense of what she found at first, though the furs soon writhed as she approached, become the backs of living beasts that encircled the fire.

Then, the herd rested. She giggled, climbed onto one, and sat.

“…I know you’re here,” she said, her voice childlike. “But why are you here?”

“It’s not for me.” Kylantha was grinning. “It’s for you. You need to close your eyes.”

“All right.” Saphienne’s eyes drifted shut.

Then a loud whistle woke her.

Through the flames of the fire, Saphienne beheld Our Lord of the Endless Hunt, stood above the beasts with his war scythe in hand, his outline cutting through the hungry tongues to ensnare her gaze with his fierce visage. He pointed to her with his weapon, and a harsh yell echoed through the chamber, accompanied by the bright and rippling pink of an impossible dawn.

The god spoke with a woman’s deep voice. “When the woods were young before the mountains, and all the sky alive with dragonflare, flesh and spirit walked apart and fearful beneath a night as yet unvanquished.”

Around him, the sunrise became woodland, and Saphienne shrank back as half-naked, feral elves leapt over the fire, racing away from guttural roars. As she looked to what they fled from, she saw only a woodkin cowering away from her — twisting her branches up to the sky to flee upon the wind.

“Elves trod in silence under wrathful shadows, afraid to rouse their ire.” More elves crept into view, painted green and grey, hiding under the sprawling boughs, their eyes frightened. “The spirits howled passions great and lethal,” decreed the god, the groaning fury of the matron of the woodlands making Saphienne quake, “crying havoc, at war with maddened mystics.”

Chanting in an unknown language grew in volume all around her, drowning out every thought, smothering every breath, and would have snuffed out the fire and its visions — had the god not swiped them from the close air.

Her Lord crouched, holding Saphienne’s gaze. “These were days dim and dreadful, death and ruin raging across the vales. Against such horrors all words are whispers, drowned by endless screams–”

She started at the sound of a pained cry in the distance.

“–That still linger here. This tale began in blood.”

The fire died to the sound of two short whistles.

…Yet its embers cast the shadows of regal figures upon the walls, and Kylantha’s voice rang out as they moved like puppets behind a screen. “Beyond the vales of tears, the gods beheld the strife in every heart, and one among the hidden court beseeched the court of bone in search of mercy.”

One of the silhouettes shone golden, and it bowed to the multitude. “‘Who among the elves will bone bequeath to spirit?’” Kylantha quoted the shining woman as she pleaded to the crowd. “‘Give to them a child of elves, that peace arise throughout the vales.’”

The shadow show rippled, and when it settled again it had become the outline of a young elf, their ears overlong, trees growing around them as they wandered. “And so the court of bone allowed a child of elves to stray, delivered fast to hidden grove where spirits played in flesh.” Retreating from unseen danger, the child threw up their hands in fear — then shook and convulsed in pain. “The child was seized at once, and came to know what passions ruled where elves dared not to tread, and deeply drank from bitter cups in thrall to things unseen.”

Tossed and made to caper, the puppet child fell down and crawled, snared by blooming tendrils that yanked them along.

“Unending misery was all the child was taught by lash and thorn, until the court of bone was moved to weep.”

Black smoke veiled the scene.

“Yet the child of elves endured the pain.”

Whether for seconds or hours, Saphienne heard only her own laboured breathing…

…And then three whistles sounded from afar, preceding the words of the horned god who began to whisper in her ear. “Elsewhere, bound by mystics merciless, a blooming spirit suffered countless labours forced by selfish sorcery.”

A bloomkith tripped into view, bound by glimmering chains of gold that dragged as she walked on, weary.

“At last the spirit fell and was rebuked, cast out to scatter on the breeze as broken petals, lifeless, aimless, weak enough that flowers were no longer any shelter, sunlight no more balm.”

Pain shot through Saphienne, and she contorted in sympathetic agony, sinking onto her side as she witnessed the spirit being torn apart by her bindings, feeling what she felt as she was shredded and uncaringly discarded.

The god continued, “In time the spirit settled where her sisters saw, and she was saved from sleep by loving kin that gave her unresisting flesh.”

Relief washed over her. On the far wall, the silhouette of the child reappeared — and rippled in the wind, gaining shape and colour as they stepped from the stone to stare down upon Saphienne with blank and vacant eyes. They were too young and too vulnerable for their ordeal; so thin and neglected were they, she could not tell whether they were girl or boy.

“The child of elves became her bed.”

At once, the emptiness within the child was covered over, vibrant yellow light filling their eyes — which remained pained, sad, and broken. The child began to walk beside half-formed, playful shadows upon the wall, lagging behind their darkling frolicking.

“But though she was revived, still never could she fly so free or far again, nor did she share the fury felt toward the child of elves in whom she sank her roots. Hollow, the child had neither scorn nor malice, moving listlessly, as like her blooms had drifted.”

Played around, then left behind, the possessed child sat, holding themself.

“Sympathy was slow to grow, but grew like densest wood within, as willed the sylvan gods, both courts aligned in holy purpose.”

The scene dimmed, returning Saphienne’s gaze to the sweltering fire that she sprawled before.

Four whistles announced the next movement, and the possessed child stepped over Saphienne and leapt across the flames. Kylantha narrated, “Then came the day the spirit, sickened, led the child of elves away from hidden grove to seek the succour she had found with kin.”

Sitting up, Saphienne stared, a rapt listener, while the spirit and child ran through winding passages of verdant and night.

“Alas, the child knew not where dwelled the elves. Not even memory remained intact where other spirits once had cruelly played. Bereft of hope, they wandered wildling west, until the child of elves could walk no more and moonlight chased away the daylight’s warmth.”

Overhead, the moon shone clear through the trees, illuminating all but the glittering eyes of the shivering child with tarnished silver.

“Together sat the child and spirit, lost, alone yet not alone, imprisoned there, the child without a will, the spirit trapped by wounds that would not heal. Her wish to free the child had brought not just her own demise, and sorrow bloomed.”

Aching, the child held up their arms.

“Forlorn, the spirit prayed, but prayed not for herself.”

Exhausted, their arms dropped.

“And yet the gods were silent.”

Again, the spirit lifted their arms, swaying, lips moving in unvoiced plea.

“Still she prayed, invoked the gods she knew through rite, and sacred promise gave, if they would save the child.”

Toppling, they fell upon the ground.

“And still the gods were silent.”

Straining, the trapped spirit sat the child up, turning their head to the horizon. “Bleak before the dark, her prayers diminished. Calling out, she asked that dark, ‘Will no one help this child but I?’”

Saphienne’s chest ached.

Within the child’s obscured face, their yellow eyes disappeared. “She wept.”

And silently, so did Saphienne.

Suddenly, a change gripped the child, who sank down and bowed their head upon the ground. “But then the child of elves began to pray, and prayed to court of bone for her alone.”

Which prompted the fire before Saphienne to explode in a shower of sparks, driving her back as five sharp whistles announced a turn in the ancient tale.

From the left strode Our Lord of the Endless Hunt, roughly pushing the child onto their back with the haft of his war scythe; from the right, an animate tree wreathed in flowers glided into view, clothed with sunshine as she, too, pressed down upon the spirit with a living wind that howled through the chamber.

Spoke her Lord, “Came then gods of bone and wind upon the vale, aflame with terror, testing child of elves and spirit both to speak the cause from whence arose their prayers. ‘Are you not shamed by sharing prayers together? Enemies are flesh and spirit, bone and wind, accursed prey and predator forever warring!’”

The possessed child struggled, mouthed a reply, and the god repeated it. “Answered then the spirit, ‘Sylvan gods above, together we have suffered though we stood apart. For this we pray in common. Who among your multitude may look upon our woes and tell us we are not the same? Let us be damned together. Better we should fall as one than live in hatred.’”

Amused, the spirits’ goddess folded her branches as her head rattled, her laughter pelting against Saphienne’s head from the inside.

Her opposite divinity continued, “Laughed then gods of bone and wind alike, and pressed the child of elves to answer, ‘Why accept this pity? Why return it? You have suffered long enough. Do you not wish for freedom from her hold? Her life demands your flesh.’”

But the spirit and child the gods oppressed still strained to speak, and the hunting god shared their answer. “Replied the child of elves, ‘Long pain and anguish I have felt, and empty I have been. But now on kindness I have fed, far sweeter tasting, sweeter still for all the bitterness I choose to swallow.’”

Both deities leant closer. “Cried the gods, ‘And what becomes of vengeance?’”

But the child gripped the war scythe, and pushed it back. “Said the elf and spirit, “‘Let it wither.’”

Still the divinities loomed over them, incensed and enraged. “‘Even though you risk that we forsake you?’”

Rising to their shared feet against the winds, the child and spirit were defiant to their end. “‘Even in your silence, let it wither.’”

Dizzy, heartbeat pounding in her ears, Saphienne clung to the fur beneath her with both hands, struggling to see the story through.

Six notes sounded, and peace descended as the child vanished.

Facing each other through the now empty space, the god and Kylantha spoke as one.

“All gods were satisfied.” They slowly came together. “The elven gods set aside their names, and joined together with nameless, hidden gods of wind, and each so reborn then chose their proper title, that they be known by seeming.”

The goddess of the spirits faded into golden mist, and gilded Our Lord of the Endless Hunt, whose eyes became twin suns. He walked toward Saphienne, crossing through the fire unharmed, and his voice was preceded by more feminine echoes. “Come the dawn, song was taught to spirit, dance to elf, and from bone and wind a flute was made, and played joyfully by child of elf and spirit.”

One last time, Saphienne heard whistling — notes arranged in melody.

“The music drew the elves, and spirits too, hallowing the sacred glade where sisters and mother found who they thought lost.”

Offering his hand, the god helped Saphienne to her feet as half-glimpsed celebrants crowded around her. The cavern spun, and he had to half-guide, half-drag her with him across the fire, his twinned voice urgent, and low.

“So began our ancient ways: in kindness.”

As he let go of her hand she collapsed to her knees and vomited, losing touch with the world altogether.

* * *

Kylantha sat behind her, braiding her hair.

Saphienne kept her eyes on the red, paper hyacinth she held in her lap. Her heart was heavy. “You’re not Kylantha.”

“No,” Kylantha answered.

“Are you a god?”

Giggling, the girl threw her arms about her friend, and pressed her mouth to her ear. “I’m half the elf you think you are.”

She leant back, letting herself feel at peace, however illusory. “I miss you.”

“I never left.” Kylantha resumed braiding her hair. “Nothing may take me from you. No one may hold us apart. Wherever you go, I am there. Whatever you become, I am with you.” She finished, and hugged her again. “Resent me not, within your joys and fears.”

“I wish that were true.” She offered Kylantha the flower.

“Keep her,” said her best friend.

Saphienne smiled sadly. “For when we travel?”

They laughed until they cried.

End of Chapter 46