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The horizon rose over their journey many times, the purple dawn cresting over the ravaged lands they traversed. A solemn journey across the blasted and pockmarked fields of Lachheim. Cithara's sorrow seemed to manifest itself in the still palpable haze that clung to the earth and sky over the ruins of the city — but in its cratered homes, movement, and hope sprang. White-cloaked figures turned and patrolled the ruins. The Radiant Order had not abandoned their posts, nor would they even beset by horrors and war. Life glimmered in the ashes, green shoots defiantly forcing their way up to the sun.

Spring clung tightly to them, grudgingly ceding only the barest hint of the season to the summer heat by the time they reached Fort Ivory. The field there as well had begun to recover from its battle-churned blight, the earth slowly settling and growing over green and true. The scars were visible, but the wounds were on the mend.

Lidia and Gram left them at the rear gates, the little thief a proper mess of tears as she truly said goodbye to her adopted brother. They lingered like that for longer than was likely proper, but who was Bart to begrudge a girl her tears? Inevitably however, the Glade called to him — his shattered body's pain longing for the warmth of Cithara's little demesne, and the Lady in White herself awaited him at the gate, naught behind her but the green shade of the Sidhewood and its impossible woodlands, tall, mighty and foreboding. Bart did not find them so anymore, the wood welcomed him as an old friend — a worthy rival. The Erlking's realm bowed its head to its equal. Cithara smiled at him, raising her face in beatific beauty,

“If you come away with me, I will care for you," She intoned to him again, and the weary Paladin smiled.

“I am yet weary of this world, take me away Lady Mine," he returned much the same, following the divine creature into the boughs and branches, leaving the men and women of Fort Ivory behind. Friends, family, and comrades all, their time together had passed for now. Now he must dwell apart.

“Look there, Bart," Cithara's voice came as the eldritch wood closed about them, behind them. The road ahead stretched into the dim green, but behind them twisted impossibly, blocked by the very magic that protected it. Bart peered ahead, his pack slung across one shoulder, armor, effects, and sword strapped to it — and he wasn't sure what he was looking at, the dim viridian haze and dancing motes of pollen obscuring much past sight.

Until he heard the strains of a stringed instrument. Until he smelled the spicy, strong scent of pipeweed. In spite of himself, the Paladin smiled. He dropped his pack and pulled the First Blade from its place in the lashing, still sheathed in its scabbard — he propped it on his shoulder.

“Bart?" Cithara asked, but her nose twitched, and ears turned and understanding fluttered across her gorgeous visage. She smiled.

“I will be but a moment, just one more goodbye," he said, limping off the road on his still-borrowed cane, carrying naught but the sword.

The bend in the road wended and wound around impossibly, as was the wood's wont — but in the curve of the primeval forest path and its impossibly tall trees, along its strangely scrub-free ground — sat a familiar figure.

He was hunched over his strange instrument, his helm to one side but armor still worn as it had always been in the year of struggle he'd endured with the creature. Deep-sunk, white eyes looked up at him from a haze of pipe smoke.

“Daedolon," Bart said warmly, limping over to the embroidered red blanket. The campsite was different, and yet somehow just as it had been when he'd learned the blade now resting across his shoulder.

“Boy," the goblin responded with a crooked grin around the stem of his pipe. Bart sat down next to him heavily, and he just... listened for a while. Daedolon played, it was that same song he had always played — the song of his history, his life. The strains of the song drifted over him, and there was a symmetry that he found strangely comforting, he closed his eyes and stayed that way until the sweet song finally stopped.

“You slew your quarry," Daedolon said after a fashion, setting his bow and instrument aside, it was not a question.

“Yes, I did. Not easy in the doing," he agreed, Daedolon nodded and passed his pipe silently to the Paladin. Bart took it, a lungful of the acrid, spicy smoke took the edge off the pain in his ravaged frame.

“So your body tells. You come to me again broken and battered," the Goblin said quietly “Yet unbowed," Bart asserted, smiling and turning his gaze to the ancient soldier. He took the First Blade and offered it to the warrior, “I have done as needed of me, if I am judged wanting of your iron — you are free to take it. I will rest long, and when I return — simple steel will serve me if needs be." Daedolon took a long, measured look at the weapon. His six-fingered hand reached out and took the blade from him, Bart felt his heart sink but he nodded as the Goblin let his fingers smooth across the hilt. He drew it forth and looked at the edge and flat, the verdant light glittering off its golden sheen.

“It is a good blade. Grudgingly my best work. Never again have I put so much passion into a weapon, only regret and bitterness. Bitter iron is brittle," he said, turning his gaze to Bart; “Bitter people, as well."

The weapon snapped back into its scabbard with aplomb. Daedolon weighed it in his hands as if he did not remember its bulk, a ridged eyebrow rose speculatively as he seemed to sit and consider the blade — particularly the newly-woven charm around its hilt, how it matched and seemed to belong there now.

“Not yet, I think," he rumbled after a moment, his ancient voice dry and level as he turned the weapon back over to Bart, “This iron has work yet left to do. I see no point in taking it before that is complete," he said, presenting it with a snapping motion full of firm demand. “Take it, boy. It is not my iron again just yet."

Bart's eyes widened... but he accepted the weapon once more, its weight pulling with startling familiarity at the end of his arm. It felt right.

“You are a strange creature, boy," the immortal warrior stated, meeting Bart's gaze for a moment before taking his pipe, he wasn't looking at Bart so much as through him. The Paladin felt at that moment, that Daedolon wasn't really here, he was in his memories — looking through Bart as a window to a person past, perhaps someone he once knew?

“You defy my expectations and spit upon my preconceptions and yet I feel no anger, no bitterness. There is the satisfaction of my work, well-used," he said and a crooked, iron-toothed smile spread over his lips, smoke limning his face.

“It is a feeling long-forgotten. For that, I thank you," he said, and in a moment Bart never expected to see — he dipped his head in a respectful bow. The Goblin leaned back and nodded at him after that.

“You have much recovery to do, even my eyes can see it. There is much work ahead of you that will require you hale and whole," the Goblin said and then tapped the hilt of that well-loved blade.

“Wield it in the doing, do so well, with sound judgment," he said and took a puff. “Now, leave," he grunted tersely, looking up at the boughs. “I have lingered just long enough, I think I will travel the world again. See this land you have saved," Bart stood with a wry grin.

“Be well, Old Soldier," Bart said, and Daedolon didn't seem to respond... but the twitch of that immense nose and lantern jaw said all he needed to. Be well, young warrior.

The green swallowed the Goblin's camp in mere strides back onto the road as if he was never there. Daedolon's own ancient magicks foiled the Erlking's realm as easily as anything. Bart rejoined Cithara on the road, his face a serene smile.

“A proper goodbye?" she queried, and he laughed.

“Perhaps, but it felt much more like 'until next time'," he said, and the little unicorn tittered at him.

“So is the way of immortals, you have much yet to learn."

“So, teach me. I have the time."

~ ~ ~

The days passed lazily in the Glade, and Bart was not fully sure if it had been a week or month, but he had been fully on the mend. Cithara had cared for him as promised, and his nights had been full of passion and his days full of rest and care. It was an impossible dream of joyous days without end — conflict loomed far ahead in the esoteric distance, but for now, he found himself happy and content.

His body nearly whole, he had become restless — and his father's words had tasked him until he had enough. Strong words and demands of the twins and their liege lord had produced to him — tools. Sidhe Silver was hardly what he would have preferred, but the King of Love would not be denied so simple a thing as a good, sharp chisel.

It was a day like that when Cithara came to him. The birds were particularly loud, and the frame of timber he'd been shaping was moss-covered when he'd returned to it that day. Around him, a comfortable clearing stood — a familiar one, just beyond the cast of the beams glimmered the pool and waterfall where he had first confessed his love to the Unicorn. No better place to build a home in his mind. In that clearing, was the beginnings of a simple, wood-beamed home. A cabin really, not unlike what he had grown up in himself — built by his father's hands.

“I had thought to find you here, dear one," the tiny unicorn said, the bright sun and chirping birds seemed to follow her like a halo, life springing up around her in earnest — the sweet scent of spring following in her wake.

“I felt restless, and Father was right. A man should build things," he said, grinning as he put down the silvery drawknife he'd been working the beam with, stepping up to pull his beloved wife down for a warm, welcoming kiss — his golden ring glimmering against her pale cheek as he stroked it.

“I imagine you did, every day you grow stronger and cast about the Hearththrone for tasks like a buck in rut!" she said, Bart grinning as his much-mocked name for her home had wound its way into her way of speech. Bart shrugged, looking around with a squint.

“What is all this then? You are glowing, almost literally," he said, as a small bird boldly landed on his upturned hand, hopping gaily about his palm, “What has possessed them so?"

“They are celebrating, husband mine," she said, smiling up at the birds and the rest of the wildlife that ghosted at the edge of the clearing, “It's a very special day."

“Oh? Have I missed some divine holiday?" he asked, turning to her wholly as she laughed at him with a joyous shake of her head.

“Nay beloved, you are present at the founding of one," she said, biting her lower lip with eager delight — she lit her orbit and took his hand in its radiant grasp, shooing the little starling away as she drew it towards her — but not towards her cheek or lips as was her custom. Nay, instead this time she laid it across her belly. Bart's eyes widened... and he felt a gentle, but impossible-to-miss sensation.

A kick.

“I'm pregnant, my love."

The joy that surged through Bart was narcotic in its intensity, and as his face split in a wide grin the birds around him burst into song, the air alive with the rejoicing of nature and man alike as he gathered her into his arms, sweeping her tiny frame from the ground and laughing as he spun and twirled with her through the singing air. Laughter, raucous, joyous laughter was all he could give. There were no words for his elation, no words for the happiness that flooded him.

Well, there were a few.

“Oh, I love you Cithara!"

Her joyous smile was all the response he needed.

~ ~ ~

At that same moment, deep in the cold-locked heart of the Sidhewood, the Tomb of the First Paladin sat as it had always, silent and stoic. A vigil of grief everlasting. The snows had never stopped falling, and never really seemed to pile up. An eternal winter of regret.

And yet…

In that frosty wasteland, just ahead of the entrance to the tomb. The snow lessened. The warm wind of spring wound through the stones and bare trees.

In that snow, against all odds — a single green shoot had grown, forcing its way through ice and frost to spread simple, white petals up to the wan sunlight that crept down.

Against all odds, life had come again.

THE END.