Here in the Deadlands daylight struggled just to reach the blackened ground. Weak sunbeams at times filtered and faded through the thunderheads above - but there was no rain, only the seeming of a storm, and violent whirlwinds that descended without warning. Here at the mouth of the sea, the water still boiled, black, and as lethal as it had been over fifteen years ago. Had it been 15 years? It seemed just yesterday that he knew his boy was alive and well and living his noble-born life in Ylric.

The phoenix rested his head against the jagged rocks behind him. His legs were splayed out carelessly and he cradled his violently red arms against his chest. At first, there had been pain, pain that had been rivaled before, but only just. He didn't hurt, not anymore. Now, he felt exhausted. Now, he felt the weight of the Deadlands pushing him down. And now, for what he was almost certain was the first time in all his many lives, he could not find any reason to rise. Not for the Obsidian Circle, to whom he belonged now only in his own heart - for the Circle had forgotten him. Not for a human with whom he traveled, not for the reason why they traveled, not for the Outer Realms, not for a dragon who still held his heart. All the reasons he had in the past seemed pale and faded now. He failed them all. All of them. It was best this way, here, where there would be no hope to retrieve his ashes.

( The paladin he'd traveled with was no more. )

Largely silent on the return journey into Astarii's capitol, Ilyien wrestled with many troubles. It was ignoble to leave a woman – high priestess of her people or no – to the dangers of the road, especially after having been responsible for her weakness. Ilyien hoped she took the potion. But the gifting of it did not absolve him. Neither did the knowledge that his own path – his and Agincor’s – was just as necessary to follow.

And there was also the thought of Leironuoth and Onainat. Every time his thoughts turned to the two of them, he tightened his hold on the reins of his steed, tightened until the leather gloving his hands creaked with the strain. It was right to direct the warrior elf toward Onainat, right to give him as much information as Ilyien had, so that the elf could find her and watch over her. Perhaps even follow up with the interest he showed in her so many years ago. Leironuoth would surely be as exceptional and honorable a lover as he was a warrior. Creatures like Leironuoth did not know how to be mediocre or dishonorable in any aspect of their lives. And if they two were bound as lovers together, then Ilyien was ever more assured that Onainat would be safe. But. The thought of them. Together. It was almost more than he could endure.

He loved her. He loved her beyond what was appropriate and reasonable for a Guard in the Obsidian Circle. Beyond what was appropriate for any phoenix. Dragon she may be, wise and powerful and beautiful, most blessed of all races, but she was dangerous to him. The love he felt for her was at times all-consuming. It made his chest ache, his human arms feel weak and useless, his head spin as if from lack of oxygen. It was a sickness, this love, and it would have ended him, had he stayed with her. Had he stayed a moment longer with her. And how was it fair to her? She could not enter into the intimacy of his people; she would be killed by it. She could not share her mind with him, and he could not share his. Their feelings were required to be expressed in words, and the thought was so very foreign to him – to try to speak forth the deepest emotions in his heart – that Ilyien could not imagine how any human, elf, or dragon ever did it. Did their poetry capture those feelings? Did their prose? And when lovers spoke, did they magically know the words to press their hearts inside out and put them on verbal display? It seemed impossible.

Impossible. But Ilyien knew without considering it first that if he had the power to be the lover she needed, he would have abandoned all else to get it. Would have turned his back on his Order. On his people. On his land. On Caeleste. Everything, he would have renounced everything for the single chance to tell her, truly tell her, how he loved her.
That thought alone was frightening, troubling enough to tell him it was his time to leave her. But even apart from her, he felt himself consumed by her. Her absence, it seemed, only strengthened her presence within him, until the world turned paler and grayer than it ever had been before. No, nothing was quite the same without her.
As Ilyien grunted under his breath at the utter futility of trying to escape Onainat’s hold, he realized that he and Agincor were approaching the great temple in the heart of the capitol. Angry with himself for having lost himself so deeply in his thoughts, he cleared his throat. About to suggest that they dismount and find a place to secure their horses, he was interrupted by two temple guards who approached them directly.

“Our priestess is expecting you,” the first one said in a clipped tone. “Allow me the honor of tending your horses while my companion leads you in.”

Ilyien exchanged glances with the man at his left, then dismounted slowly. “I thank you for your gracious assistance,” he said carefully. The elves had never been creatures who willingly showed hospitality to other races, in his experience. Not unless there was something they wanted, something they needed. Whatever Aeotha had done, it had been good.

Ahead, when he looked, he could see the temple doors opening. At the threshold stood an ethereal figure, clutching a book. That must be the one.

Aeotha had overseen as much of the ritual as she could, but she kept needing to rest. For the entire actual ceremony Aeotha was seated up in an upper balcony as a score of Priestesses surrounded Leironuoth. It didn't take very long for the general announcement. He was indeed the Champion. A real one. Any of them could feel it. Aeotha could feel it a mile away. But she stayed quiet as the Priestesses moved away and passed the message on to the next Priestess they met. Official notices were sent out on horseback. They would find all temples of Lorien in the surrounding area and word would spread like wildfire.

( At least she hoped so. )

The main temple of Lorien in the center of the city was quite an achievement. Towering heights, flowing architecture, and light everywhere. Even during the day, it almost seemed to be created by that strange and undefinable element. Ilyien could only imagine what it seemed like at night. ( Odd that he had never traveled here, in all his journeys, in all his days. )

Nothing about it had been easy.

After Edrac was safeguarded, Ilyien stayed as long as the night. Like a thief, or a coward, he left them then, when all was quiet except the sounds in his head. The emotional ambiance of the beings around him - a grating he'd learned to tune out but never could stop - and the objections of his honor and his betraying heart were not silent as he closed the door to the inn. But they could not tell him anything he could use. He knew what he must do.

He had left nothing in the room he'd let for the night, save the slender wooden box he had carried with him throughout his long years in the Outer Realms. That box still lay on the thin coverlet spread neatly over the bed he'd not occupied. The thought of his flute in Onainat's delicate fingers was a comfort he did not deserve. Presumptuous as well. She might cast it into a fire. She might throw it into the sea. She might bury it the way he hoped she would bury her memories of him.

There was no note. Every time he tried to put into words the reason why he had to leave, he instead found reasons to stay. He loved her. He couldn't imagine any life worth living without her also at his side. He wanted to give her everything she ever wanted, all she needed; he wanted to tend to her heart when she grew sad, and he wanted to be the reason why she laughed. He could never be any of those things. Already, the mirror told him enough: he was older and closer to the final flames of the end of his existence when compared to her. In another three, four, five centuries, she would still be young and beautiful. He would be - as those of the Outer Realms said it - dead. Dead. Returned to flames. Dead.

But that was not the reason. He would have stayed with her until he could no longer lift his sword, if Tyr willed that his life were so long-lived; he would have stayed until he could no longer lift his head, if Onainat willed to remain with him as well. It was not the reason. The truth -- he'd known it from the beginning -- was that all of him - heart, soul, spirit - was already spoken for. The Obsidian Circle had no contact with him now, but the final order of his Praetor still remained his one reason for moving in these blasted lonely Outer Realms, and he would see that order through until the very last of him extinguished into ash. It was all he could ever know. Love had no place in the heart of a creature such as himself. There was not room.

He had done Onainat a grave injustice, but not by the departure he made tonight. He did it the moment he let her show him how to kiss her. He did it when he gave into the weakness she put in him. He did it when he tried to give her what was not his to give. He did it when he tried to give her himself. It never could have worked. Tonight, he only rectified that injustice. Ah, ah, but it was bitter, the taste of salt on his lips tonight.

Passing through the gates of the city, Ilyien walked out onto the moonlit road. Terestai was a long walk away. He began, then.

The slant of sunlight through the bars flickered, split by the shadow of a sparrow pecking for crumbs.

Myles lifted his head, cracking one eyelid open to take in the form, backlit with gold in the light from outdoors. His body was stiff and cold, aching from a night on bare stone, and still no one had come to let him out. Two days. Two days, and it was the boredom which wearied him more than the physical ache. Armas was calling, and he could do nothing. Nothing...

( His eye roamed once over the cell, returning eventually to the bird on the ledge. )