Light trickled lazily down through the trees and danced on the water of a small, still pond. Morning glories raised their heads to welcome the new day and the conversation of small birds brought in the dawn. Silent and motionless in the shadow of a large oak she stood. A mottled brown and grey cloak blended in and hid her from all but the most astute observer. Large green eyes watched the meadow as began to awaken. The mist faded and the sun rose high in the sky yet she stayed still. Always watching. You would have thought her a statue but for the tears which stained thick black lashes and made streaks down dirt smudged cheeks.
The sun rose past midday. The silence unbroken until the sound of approaching wagons shattered the stillness. She was gone with a faint whisper of fabric. A broken twig the only evidence of her vigil.
Heavy wagons lumbered round the bend when suddenly the shouts and friendly camaraderie of travelers was abruptly cut short. "Halt!” yelled Mr. Willoughby, the wagon master, as he reined in his team and motioned for every other wagon to stop. A pyre had been built in the middle of the meadow. It was a small pyre of willow branches and pine boughs, oak leaves and myrtle. It was surrounded by stones and strewn with flowers. Upon a golden bier lay one small linen draped form. Upon the form lay a silver sword. Its hilt rested on the forehead and the point reached almost to the ankles. The pale emerald in the hilt glinted tantalizingly in the morning light. The greed in the heart of Mr. Willoughby was beyond his control. Throwing down his reins he abandoned his wagon. Startling his horses, he jumped to the ground and ran eagerly toward the sword. Already thinking of the town ahead he ran as fast as his short pudgy legs would carry him. He could almost taste the ale he would buy tonight and feel the comfort of a real bed. Almost. As he reached for the sword light blinded him and with not so much as a puff of smoke, the body, the sword, the bier and the pyre shimmered and disappeared. He fell awkwardly to the ground and stayed there muttering curses under his breath.
Disappointed and frustrated he stood up and brushed the dust from his well-worn tunic. "I hate faeries! I'd like to rip their stupid wings right out 'o their backs. They was playin' us from the get go. I hate faeries."
If Mr. Willoughby had looked up and slightly to his right at that moment he would have seen a small silver arrow head pointed directly at his heart. Runes glowed lightly as they flowed over the arrow and shimmering moth wings covered the shaft. The hand holding the small ebony bow did not shake and the smile on the face of Lendreena was cold and calculating.
"Peace, my sister. He is an ignorant man. His death on your conscience is not worth the price."
Lendreena lowered her bow and carefully put her arrow away. She slowly nodded and turned to her companion. "Galandia is gone. Our queen, Shaehel, has been taken from us and we are the last of our kind. Where shall we go? What shall we do?"
Ravvick sighed and adjusted the small pack on his narrow shoulders. Set deep within the dark folds of his brown and grey cloak it was hard to read any expression on his thin face. Finally, he pushed back the hood and his golden eyes narrowed as he reached out a long slender hand. "Come, Lendreena, we will seek the wisdom of the trees in the far west. We will find the purpose we seek in the home of the Ancient Ones. Perhaps in so doing we will find answers to what has been done to us. Perhaps we will find the reason for this curse which has stolen from us all we know. Perhaps we will yet live to see our people reborn."
“Then let us go, Ravvick, let us find this answer of which you seem so sure. I wish I had your faith. Though I do not, still I will come with you. For the only reason I had to stay has vanished in this failing evening light.”
Both Lendreena and Ravvick unfurled gossamer wings, rose gracefully from the branch and headed silently from the meadow. Toward the fading sunset and away from their beloved forest they flew. Silently they passed the sleepy little village where Mr. Willoughby entertained the tavern with his tales of a faerie pyre and the treasure which was almost his.
