Chapter Six: The Vigils of Small Words

Chapter Six: The Vigils of Small Words

"Only for Magick of high purpose should any witch of our clan wear robes such as these. When you put them on, child, remember that you are clothed in moonlight, and the Lady is watching. She sees your heart and knows the aspects of your soul."

Great-Aunt Forbia would probably still think it necessary to offer instruction on the correct manner and proper intent for wearing the robes that lay across Minerva's bed. Still damp and scented from the ritual bath and juniper smudging she had performed at moonrise, she gently passed the haeddre-fragrant cloth between her fingers, marveling as always at the softness of the Shetland wool, as white as any cirrus cloud, the runes of Orkney woven throughout the draping folds in blue and silver thread. She'd always felt that wearing them was truly to wrap the blessed sky, the moon and stars, around her shoulders.

She could remember the stories and recitations of every McGonagall witch who had worn such robes and for what purpose. Forbia had taught her each one, a litany of Magical family history and pride, and had always questioned her carefully to be certain she would recall them all correctly. Every generation was expected to learn the stories and pass them to the next. There was no debate over whether a child wished to hear and remember, for who would even consider allowing such history to be lost? Leaning on the knees of the elder witch, gazing up into that weathered face, drinking in every detail of the telling, was when Minerva first knew that it was learning that made her happiest.

Even before the letter came that summoned Minerva to Hogwarts, her great-aunt had been her wand-mother, schooling her in the Naming charms, the rites of the Sacred Seasons, the women's spells of Bestowal and Attainment, Transition and Ascension. She'd been taught to face challenges with courage, to accept praise only where deserved, and to deal with adversity with a clear head. Not all her instruction came from the witches, either. Her rowdy wizard cousins allowed no quarter simply because she was a girl, and in contests of stamina and bravery, her uncles expected her to give and receive with as much ferocity as any male. Yet, in all the tales and teachings of her elders, Minerva could recall none that spoke of any McGonagall witch donning moon-blessed robes to make the Fidelius Charm. She would be the first.

Long past, at her Menarche Blessing, she'd been permitted the honor of white robes for the first time. Forbia had gifted them to her swathed in silk, and she could still recall the whisper as the wrappings fell away. She'd been terrified of tearing them or getting them dirty, and so relieved when her great-aunt's wrinkled hands, so full of magic, reached to help her fasten the silver clasps at neck and waist.

"I feel as if I'm made of light, Auntie. Does it always feel like this?" she'd asked, so eager and full of anticipation.

Forbia had held her hands tightly in that moment as she answered.

"I wish I could say that was so, child, and that you'll always feel this way. But that would be a lie and I've never lied to you, nor will I now. You are witch and woman born, and while you'll know great joy, you'll also know great sorrow. You'll wear these robes in both. One thing I do ask you always to remember, Minerva. Never neglect or forsake the light that lives inside you. It is your deepest magic, but do not forget your darkness, either. The two together are your strength."

As she'd grown a bit older, she'd held a fleeting hope of someday wearing the beautiful robes for her hand-fasting to a brave and brilliant wizard. By circumstance, or choice, that day had never come, and years ago she'd moved beyond regret. Of course, she'd known her share of sweet and passionate surrenders of the heart and flesh, but it had become evident early on that study and teaching would always be her most ardent and jealous loves. She'd shaped her life around them, and then of course, there was the matter of the wars. During the first, she'd learned to keep her heart well-hidden. By the second, she'd no longer been concerned whether it mattered when it showed. At the third, she suspected there were few who would take notice either way.

What mattered now was that the moon was well above the trees, and time was passing far too quickly while she stood musing. Slipping the under-shift of azure silk over her lean body, she allowed herself a moment of appraisal before her mirror. Her black hair still fell long and heavy down her back, scarcely touched by threads of silver. With eyes dark and keen, and skin traced by only the faintest net of lines, her face did not reflect unkindly that she was a witch in her middle years. A handsome woman, she'd often been called, not a beauty certainly, but with a proud bearing that drew the eye to her. McGonagall women always tended to resemble their Highland crags, hard and sharp, in contrast to their lowland sisters with their swelling hills of breast and hip. As a girl when she'd lamented her tall and angular body, bemoaning how she towered over every boy in her House, Forbia had only smiled.

"Observe the Moon Herself, child. She's not always full and soft... Sometimes She's only a sliver in the sky, as thin as you. All women carry Her within them, you already know that. We witches even more so... Some of us are meant to be Her weapons, rather than Her wombs. If She means you to be her bow, accept the honor. Be a strong and willing bow, and deliver Her arrows justly."

Minerva sighed as she wove her hair into a loose braid, forgoing the severity of her usual bun. As she fastened the knotted chaplet, adorned with moonstones and pearls, around her waist and pulled on boots of palest dragon-belly leather, she remembered the last time she'd worn these things. It had been seven days after Albus' death, three days after his entombment, in keeping with the older ways of mourning.

The Ministry had, of course, staged a magnificent funeral, full of solemn ceremony and pompous airs of sanctioned grief. Minerva had proceeded through each prescribed ritual with the appropriate degree of dignity, clothed in the acceptable black. All had been accomplished in a manner befitting a Wizarding world that prided itself on having moved into more modern ways of thinking. Of course certain customs would always be observed, the Ministry officials had assured her, but the ancient rites of mourning? Perhaps those were no longer quite correct, given the needs of the times? Surely they could depend on her to refrain from publically observing the more arcane rituals of grieving? After all, such things weren't really done any more and might be a bit of an embarrassment, didn't she think so? Upsetting to the general Wizarding populace, especially the students?

Preferring to choose her battles, she'd agreed. But on the third night, with the waning moon scarcely visible, when it was certain that Albus' body rested quietly in his White Tomb, she'd draped the heavy robes about her shoulders and climbed to the place of his death to keep the Ritual of Cointeach. Had she been at home in the Shetlands, the Elder-Sisters of her clan would have brought the wooden dish of earth and salt and stood beside her in the shrouded night, but those crone witches were far away and of an age where they were not so able to Apparate anymore. Not really wanting any other company but theirs, she'd made her vigil alone, keening the tale of Albus' life and making her plea to the Guardians, asking Them to watch for her departed as he traveled the road to the Otherworld.

She had cast the Charm of Anam Cara, declaring herself a Friend of the Soul to Albus, seeking to purify the place of his death, to erase the stain of murder and betrayal that lingered there. Yet, when her spell trembled hesitant and incomplete in the air, she'd questioned what would cause such a powerful invocation to waver, other than the blight of pitiless cruelty being so strong upon the place. When she recalled the moment now, it all made perfect sense. Of course the Charm would not hold fast when cast for such a reason. Murder had not been done, and no betrayal made. Albus had already had a Friend of the Soul with him that night at the top of the tower, one who had not failed him.

She must not fail, either, and it was time to proceed. For a moment, she stood gazing around her at what would now be her private space for as long as she remained Headmistress. She'd been in this inner chamber many times throughout her years as Albus' Deputy. As he'd gotten older, he'd often liked to meet with her here rather than his office. He loved to prop against the pillows of the massive four-poster, and a time or two, she'd even joined him there, to share the comfort of the warmth and spend long hours talking of what had been and pondering what was soon to come.

Now, everywhere she looked, there were pieces of her life positioned around the room to make her feel at home. The house-elves had worked like fiends to bring all her personal things and arrange them in a way they thought would please her. She'd asked that Albus' bed be removed and her own brought from her old apartments. Being in this room, even though it was familiar, was too much like slipping her feet into someone else's shoes. They might fit, but would never feel quite comfortable. At least she could still put her head down on her own pillows, lay her weary body in her own bed, and keep her own secrets where she chose.

Secrets... A significant portion of her life was about to center around them, and her very soul was about to acquire their weight.

Albus and Severus... A hex on both of them for their damned secrets. What a pair, plotting and contriving, both of them complicit and neither of them honest with her. She could fairly throttle the two of them for what they'd done, and yet, she loved them both. Two sides of the same coin... the darkness and the light, and neither of them so much of either as they each thought. Albus had carried far more darkness than he'd ever admitted, and Severus far more light than he'd ever acknowledged.

Feeling a little cold, though the breeze from the window was soft and sweet, she wrapped the comforting weight of the outer robes around her, gathering strength from the memory of all those who'd worn the like before her. Tonight, the moon that watched her would be in full ascension, and she would not have to make her vigil alone. Hagrid would be with her, and Albus would stand as Witness in this gathering of three old warriors healing their hearts with the Charm of Secret Keeping.

'Hecate,' she thought as she straightened her spectacles on her nose, 'I've tried to be Your worthy bow, though at times perhaps I should have bent a little more. In these last months, I'm sorry not to have seen the truer target for my arrows. I never expected things to come to this. What turn of fate marks this path for me, I don't know, but I've always done what's needed, and I'll not shirk this task. Whether it's my blessing or my curse to be named Keeper is to be seen, but these secrets need a place to dwell.' She thought of Hagrid, with his fierce determination to take the proper course. 'They'll dwell with us, and amends will be made. There's nothing less I can do... '

In that brief moment, she hesitated. There they were, then, waiting... the words that had eluded her when she'd sat with Harry, but which she now could say with certainty.

'... for my friend.'

~~ /// ~~

"A man could ask fer an easier word ter move past this gargoyle, Minerva. You'll change yer mind if it always takes me this long ter come up." Standing in front of the great stone carving, Hagrid shook his head in frustration. "What was it, then, yeh said, somethin' about dwellin' in a gray fortress... Sherbet lemons was easier ter remember... Wait, now, it was a Scots word... Lioslaith... That's the one."

With stone grinding on stone, the massive statue swung away, granting access to the ascending staircase, and in a moment he stood outside the double doors at the summit, hesitant to lift the griffin knocker. He needn't have bothered, for even as his hand was raised, the doors were abruptly opened inward by the senior house-elf called Pinkham.

"Master is keeping his eyes open and not thinking such heavy thoughts this time?" he inquired, ushering Hagrid into the office with a deep bow--and a poorly hidden look of shock.

House-elves are rarely taken off guard, but Pinkham could hardly be blamed for his momentary lapse in manners as he took in the sight of the usually disheveled Hagrid. It would have been impossible not to notice that Hogwarts' Groundskeeper had given attention to his appearance and that the result was startling. The scent of woodland pastures and windswept moors still surrounded him, but none of the pungent odors of his creatures, in testament to a thorough scrubbing in the loch, an activity which had been most amusing to the mer-folk who witnessed it. His face shone with a ruddiness that was not an effect of firewhisky, and his mane of unruly hair had been combed, or more likely raked, into an actual semblance of order. Even his beard was neatly groomed. A tidied Hagrid would have been quite enough to make those who knew him stare in amazement, but the changes to his attire would have left them speechless.

Rather than his customary beleaguered clothing, he wore a linen tunic, as white and soft as sea foam, over loose breeks of turf-brown wool tucked into stout cordovan boots. His battered moleskin greatcoat had been replaced by a heavy waistcoat of emerald pincord that reached almost to his knees, and over all a ground-sweeping cloak of tawny Donegal tweed, woven with the faintest tartan of hunter green, stitched along the edges with a subtle pattern of acorns and oak leaves in wheaten gold, fastened at the throat by a bronze clasp of Pictish design.

When the over-sized robe box had been delivered to Hagrid's hut right after supper by a highly disgruntled eagle owl, he'd not been able to keep from puddling up a bit upon opening it, especially after reading the note which was tucked between the layers of tissue and cloth.

"To be worn in good health and long life, by a wizard who is most deserving."

Minerva had seen personally to the matter, sending a hasty request to the tailor shop long patronized by all McGonagall men for their wizardly robes, kilts, and haberdashery. The men of her family being as burly and hulking as the women were spare and tall, the venerable Aberdeen clothiers of Farquhar & Skene had scarcely raised an eyebrow when asked to produce garments of a size large enough for Benandonner himself. The galleons she'd sent along, and the letter written over the seal of the Headmistress of Hogwarts confirming that the robes were her personal gift to a Hero of the Final Battle, had assured delivery within the span of twelve hours, with no questions asked.

Hastily recovering some aplomb after another furtive peek, Pinkham directed Hagrid to a heavily-carved armchair of ample proportion, seemingly positioned near the easterly window specifically for his comfort. Resisting an inclination to give the elder house-elf a good-natured tap on the head for the cheekiness of his comment, he settled himself and, still holding to his personal promise, declined the offer of a pint of bitters, requesting a tankard of butter beer instead.

"Headmistress will not be long for her joining you. She is asking that the Groundskeeper Hagrid be contented with the view and is wanting you to wait for speaking with the Old Master's portrait until she is present, also."

Having delivered his message with an attitude of absolute authority, Pinkham positioned himself in the exact center of the office where he stood drawn up to his full height, arms folded across his meager chest, as though quite prepared to insure his mistress' wishes were respected.

Peering about the room with a trace of uncertainty, Hagrid was not quite comfortable knowing that all the portraits were having a good look at him, but, upon meeting the eye of several, was more than pleased to receive a cordial nod or two. He was disappointed, though, that Dumbledore's frame showed only a vacant chair and no occupant. Maybe that was best, since in all honesty, he wasn't certain what he should say to the "old master" when he did see him after all this time. He'd learned so many things over the last few days, and he was still mulling over the up-ending of many of the perceptions he'd held as truths for such a long time. The fact that no empty frame hung in the spot that should have belonged to the school's most recent Headmaster did make him smile a bit behind his beard. No portrait perhaps meant the Potions master was still on this side of the Veil, with no one the wiser.

"Thank you, Pinkham, and good night. Nothing further will be needed until morning."

Having bowed to his mistress with great dignity and given Hagrid one last puzzled glance, the wizened retainer needed no further urging to take his leave. Truth be told, he could hardly contain himself, what with all the news there was to share with his fellows. And besides, there was that rejected pint of bitters to be enjoyed.

Lumbering to his feet at the sound of Minerva's voice, Hagrid turned to see her standing in the doorway that opened from the inner rooms into the office. After assuring himself with a quick survey that Pinkham had indeed left the room, he studied her with a frank and open admiration. She appeared to be as calm and steadfast as ever, but somehow with the candlelight flickering off the threading of her robes, there was an air of ghostliness about her, as though she were a little detached from herself.

"Minerva, yeh could truly pass fer the Moon 'erself."

Smiling fondly, she took in his appearance with a satisfied nod.

"And you, Hagrid, could be taken for the Green Man. Does everything suit you?"

"It does, better than I coulda' ever expected, and I'm wonderin' how ter thank yeh. I'm happy fer all the pockets yeh had 'em put into the coat and inside the cloak, as well." Looking a bit sheepish, he glanced at her sideways from under the tangle of his brows. "There's a pocket fer a wand, did yeh know? Not quite the size fer my umbrella ter fit, but still, it's nice ter have it..."

"I imagine that before long, Hagrid, you can do away with carrying your wand inside an umbrella."

With a start of joy, Hagrid recognized the voice he'd not heard in nearly a year and, turning, found himself looking straight into the beaming face of Albus Dumbledore. Without thinking, he crossed the room in two great strides before remembering it was only a portrait that greeted him, not the living, breathing man he'd loved and served with such proud devotion. The realization brought him to an abrupt halt, and he dropped his head to conceal his embarrassment at his mistake.

"Forgive me, my old friend, for not giving you better warning before popping up so suddenly. I did not intend to startle you, but I have missed you dearly. You've no idea how very glad I am to see you looking so well. I see that a few changes have taken place."

Hagrid's face turned even redder as he glanced down at himself, and Dumbledore chuckled.

"You do look quite splendid, Hagrid. I believe a fine new set of robes is the least that we could provide for a lion of Gryffindor. Minerva insisted on having those ready for you, given the importance of tonight's events."

Not wanting all the portraits to see him so overcome, Hagrid answered with a gruff edge in his voice, struggling valiantly not to let a tear meander down his cheek.

"It's my honor ter wear 'em, and it's good ter see you, too, Dumbledore, in whatever way there might be 'a doin' it. I didn't know if I'd ever set eyes on yeh again, at least not 'ere. I was hopin' fer it, though, all the time."

At that moment, Hagrid felt that was as much a speech as he could safely manage without disgracing himself.

"As was I, old friend, as was I. Would you both come and sit with me for a moment?" The old wizard's voice was earnest as he motioned them towards the chairs that flanked the great oaken desk. Noticing Minerva's glance towards the window where the moon could be seen rising still higher, he reassured them, "Not to worry, we have enough time."

With a small grunt for the half-remembered stiffness of his old bones, Dumbledore settled into his own chair.

"You are in accord, then, concerning this Charm of Fidelius. Little doubt of that, was there? You know, the Muggles say that three people can keep a secret, but only if two of them are dead. What a terrible lack of trust that shows, but I can hardly fault them. It was a grievous error on my part, to lay the burden of so many secrets on the shoulders of just one man. A tangled knot, indeed, all my secrets and mistakes woven together with his own... I would hope for no more knots to be woven on my account."

"Your knots have always been tangled, Albus, but you've managed to make them useful." Minerva's tone carried a note of sharpness. "There's none of us won't live with our mistakes, including him, although he's cherished his for far too long. This Making must happen, it will happen, and who other than Hagrid and I would do this on his account? Someone from his House, do you think, or perhaps a penitent Death Eater? I hardly think so. There was only one of those other than... other than he... and that one long dead."

Tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes, as though he felt a chill, Dumbledore stood and began to slowly pace within the boundaries of his portrait.

"Point to you, Minerva... Well-placed."

There was a twinge of pain in his voice.

By now, the room was awash in the milky glow of the ever-climbing moon, and Minerva could no longer restrain her impatience.

"Albus, I'm sorry, I don't mean to hurt you, but there's no need for these second thoughts. Put your fears at rest. After all, you were the one who first presented this to us. Hagrid and I hold no illusions, and yes, we're in agreement. Now, if you'll please make a start? We'll not have another chance for a month, if we delay, and all of us know very well that will be too late."

Extending his hands as if ready to grasp theirs, Dumbledore looked from one to the other.

"Tradition decrees that I ask you once more before we proceed. Your intentions are clear, and you are willing?"

Both nodded.

"Come stand here with me, then, and take hold of this frame, one on either side."

As Minerva and Hagrid moved to take their places, a quiet smile passed between them.

"Are you ready, Hagrid?"

"That I am, Minerva, though I'll say I'm a little nervous. Is it allowed, ter take yer hand as we go?"

Her answer was clear as she reached out to him.

"I'd be glad if you would, da brudiwr."

~~ /// ~~

Keep a close watch, da ddewines. At the cut of dawn, I intend to send your owl with news. If I had the strength for it, I'd put all I've to tell you on paper, but I'm bone weary, and I fear I'd fall asleep over the pages. So, rather than write anything now, I'll simply sit and have a small conversation with you as though you were here and keep myself awake a while longer.

Here... or there... Small words, aren't they? You're off somewhere... there... in your world of wars and magic... We're here... Waiting... Holding on...

Tonight, I'll hope to rest. If my medicines take their full effect and our lad sleeps deeply, I'll try to do the same. I've a cot alongside his bed so that when he stirs, even a little, I hear him. My Tess will wake me if not. Dear old pup... She's sat many a vigil with me, faithful as any attending nurse could ever be, and she's not deserted me in this one, either, only slipping away as needed. She's been a touch uneasy, though. I expect it's the magic that hovers in this room that makes her nervous.

I've not left his side, Minerva, not since you brought him, other than for my necessities. When there's black smoke seen rising from my chimney, it's known here that I've a patient I must stay close to and I'll be wanting help. There's been no worry with my animals or gardens; they've all been tended for me. Twice each day there's been a soft knock at this door to let me know that the things I need...food, clean linens, and such--are right outside. The debris of sickness that I've left there in exchange has all been quietly removed. I've not seen or spoken with anyone, but I've written out instructions for the careful handling of the things which leave this room and made my prayers and such to keep those who help me safe from harm. Delyth's been here the most, I'd imagine, being the closest. A strong and steady girl, our Delyth.

It's good no one's about right now... They'd likely think me daft to hear me conversing with shadows. Tess likes the sound of my voice, though, and I think your Maldwyn hears me a little, too. That's really all he knows of me... my hands and voice, my scent, maybe, and the taste of the medicines I've coaxed down his poor throat. I've been talking to him quite a bit, and sometimes I'll be singing to him as well, especially when there's the need to touch him. There's an old lullaby from when I was a boy that seems to quiet him, so I've sung that a good deal. When he finally wakes, he'll know a bit of the Welsh maybe from having heard it so much.

Tell me, Minerva, did you ever read of the poet and his raven that sat above the chamber door, speaking only "nevermore?" I would think you had. It's your owl that's perched on the windowsill above the bed, watching us all with his umber eyes, never speaking, only waiting. I'd rather he flew off to hunt a bit more often and didn't watch us quite so close. I believe your little messenger has grown impatient for my answer. From time to time, he's offered his leg, in expectation, no doubt, of being sent back to you. He'll have his chance tomorrow, if we come through this night as well as I would hope.

"Send word," you said.

That was your wish, wasn't it? To receive some reassurance?

What word should I send so you'll know the battle that's raged within this room these recent days... what we've been through together, your lad and I? No single word would let you understand, but torrents of them wouldn't, either.

We've stayed within this circle of protection that I cast days ago, and the few times I've stepped outside it, I've made sure to close it behind me to keep him safe. I made a second Joining, but with no more success than the first, except for one whisper of thought when I believe he tried to answer. I'll not deceive you... I've not made another attempt. Did you know, da ddewines, that he'd been cursed... and did you know how deeply? I have to trust that you'd have warned me if you knew.

Death had its hands on him that first day and would have taken him, but I called on my dear Brighid and asked Her to show us a small kindness. The blood began to pulse again beneath his skin, like the water that moves under the skim of ice on spring-melt ponds. It was a blessing when the warmth came back to him, but it didn't stay gentle very long.

Fever's been sweeping over him like fire through parched grass, cresting and fading, cresting again. When it's high, you'd do as well to lay your hand on a smithy's anvil as to touch him. When the chills come, they've had him shuddering like a beaten animal. This room has stunk of the rank sweat that's been pouring off him and the bloody bile he's been retching, but for a Healer, those are useful things, signs the body's ridding itself of poison. Still, I'm glad you've not been here. It would have grieved you to see him.

He doesn't know it, but he's fought me... hard. It's fever strength that's in him, that and his Theriac... He kept that secret from you, did he, his devilish stash of potion? With all his thrashing and twisting, and his jaws clenched tight as a vise, I've almost believed the serpent was meant to change him into something kin to itself. You might tell Hagrid, I could have used his strong arms and that now I know what it means to wrestle with a dragon.

His hands have scarcely been still, scratching at the blankets. The sound's like dead leaves skittering on winter ground. It's an ugly thing to hear, knowing the cause of it. His mind may be clouded, but his poor body knows what it wants. That damn box. On my immortal soul, I'll not put that into his hand.

Nor his wand, either. I've enough of the magic to understand the power in this room. There's something of him seeks to find his wand, to make some spell, but it's madness without focus. I woke from a doze yesterday to Tess's whining. There was an arc of red light whipping about the room, and his right hand was clawing at his left arm where that brand marks him. I gripped his shoulders tight to stop him, and for a moment I felt something pass through me like a knife. The sense of Joining was there for just an instant, and it was all I could do to restrain him. Still, I was glad for it. A few days ago, I'd feared he'd lost his will. I don't know why, but that red light, whatever it was, simply vanished, and he lay still again. I've wrapped and bound his hands so he'll not try to tear at his arm again, or pull away the bandages at his throat. He's done that several times, as though his body remembers the weight of that bloody snake. Even without a wand, if his magic surfaces that way again, I doubt I could prevent whatever he'd attempt.

His eyes have opened a time or two, da ddewines, but other than a spark of life, there's nothing in them, no response to movement or light. In my dreams, his eyes were powerful, and when I asked you about their color, you said nothing of blindness. Is that another secret you chose to keep from me, Minerva, or another thing you didn't know?

Through all of this, he's remained nearly silent, other than his gasping when the fever's high. There was the one small moan when I was first settling him, and the whisper from our Joining, though that's not really a sound, is it? The wounds at his throat have begun to close, but there's no way yet to tell what damage has been done to his voice. I'll not lie, his silence is troubling. I've heard men shriek, and weep, and beg when pain is on them. Despite all I've done to ease him, I know that he still suffers some. It makes me wonder how and why he's taught himself not to show it.

Men can lose all reason in battle, and he's at war with his own death. A harder tone sometimes quiets him when a gentler one fails. He reminds me of soldiers I've known, so scarred and bitter they'll not accept kindness. I could pass for some old sergeant, with my ordering him to keep still and let me do my work to help him. I've told him that I'm stronger in this fight and he'll not win... that I'll be the one to prevail. If he's heard this and accepted it, I don't know, but today he fought me less when I touched him, and this latest peak of fever was not so great. I'm watching him closely now, in hopes my medicines will send him into a truer sleep and let his body rest. Brighid willing, we both may have a little peace tonight. It'd be hard to prove which of us needs it more right now.

Your Maldwyn is a fighter, surely. If ever the tables are turned, and I'm the one lost in hellish battle, I'd want him at my shoulder, though I'm not sure I'd want to know the weapons he'd bring. Forgive me, Minerva, for telling you all of this as if it was some epic tale. I am descended from poets and warriors, after all, and I'm so weary I've begun to blether. Maybe it's this feeling of the Moon watching us that makes me ramble on so. She's beautiful tonight, as bright as the Lady's Flame.

In the end, there's little to say. He is alive, and he is blinded. He is cursed, and I am wanting help. You have promised to return, and you have secrets of your own... Some to share, some to learn as well, I think.

So, da ddewines, when the sun rises in the morning and I fasten my message to your owl and send him home to you, this will be the only word he carries...

"Come."