It is the night of the full moon once more. The full moon always brings unrest
to me, when Night's utter darkness is lessened by the bright silver of her
sister. I sit by my cauldron, and watch the passage of the moon across the sky.
I wonder what will become of the nightshade, if it will wilt at last after all
these years. I am restless.

A disturbance arises in Wydyr. I stand in alarm, and hurry out from my alcove,
to be met by one of my sister slaughs. "Rhianna," she gasps, purple veils
fluttering around her slender form, "It's one of the elfen, here to bless the
Springs. I don't think he's been here before."

A faint flicker of something rises within me. Is it memory? I cannot think
right, but the words are familiar. I am fooling myself, of course. There has
been no word from Caoimhe for a long time. "Let us go see," I say to her. "And
don't let uncle Cythrawl at him."

She laughs, a clear tinkling note, and takes my hand. If nothing else, Mother
Night grants us grace. Together we make our way to the nightshade bush.
Unexpectedly, the one waiting there was very young: a man scarce out of boyhood,
shuffling nervously around. Yet I feel no surprise at his youth, and his
embarrassment is somehow endearing.

I find myself hiding a smile. That won't do. I walk forward, challenging him
and asking his business, though I know it already. This has happened before, I
think, but of course that is impossible.

Our eyes meet.

--------------

Later, back in my alcove, I cannot shake the feeling that something significant
has happened. I feel as if I should remember, but it hovers just beyond the hazy
veil of my thoughts. It unsettles me, and I send up a prayer to Night to raise
the dark mantle over my mind. It goes unheeded.

Unexpectedly, a messenger arrives for me. I am bemused when I see what he
bears: a letter, written hastily and shakily. I tear it open, scanning the
lines, and laugh.

It is a love letter.

The young elfen would profess his love for me - I, Rhianna Slee-Slaugh, old
beyond his reckoning and beloved of Mother Night. And he a scion of Ellindel
Treeheart, who loved the Moon best! It is a foolish notion, and only one as
young as he could ever entertain it.

"I should have fed him to Cythrawl," I murmur.

I take a sheet of paper, and settle down to write a reply. /Jaryn Treeheart,
put these delusions behind you, for you are of Moon and I am of Night, and all
the world forbids it. You are young, and thus impetuous and hasty in these
matters. Think before you act, and you will grow wiser. I do not love you./

I hand the letter to the messenger, and bid him leave. "Tell the boy I do not
love him," I say, smirking. Then memory bites once more, swift and sharp and
confusing.

I do not love him.

I do not love him.

I do.

--------------

Fevered preparation - why do I do it? I cannot say, except that it feels so
right, as it felt so right when I had found Jaryn waiting for me at the Springs.
Whatever lies between is, it is not something I can understand. Why? Why do I
feel so strange?

We have sent letters, exchanged tokens. The trappings of young love, some part
of me sneers. It was unnecessary, of course. From the instant I wrote a reply to
his first letter, the part of my mind that remembers has guided me. I don't know
yet what it is I remember. Perhaps some charge from Mother Night, some spell
laid upon me?

Another letter arrives, and I tear it open eagerly. He wishes me to come with
him. Surely now I see Mother Night's hand in this. Perhaps I am to bewitch this
young man and lead him to Night's service. She has been known to do such things.

I know a potent brew, which saps the will and turns it to do the witch's
bidding. It uses mushrooms and nightshade leaves, and I have gathered these
already.

And there is another... a subtler one, which will let a fae of night pass
through the guarded spring. I tremble at the thought, but yearning stirs in me,
and memory lays her hand on me again. I crush the mushrooms beneath my foot.

"You," I say to the messenger. "Bring me..." What was it again? "Fireflies.
Yes, bring me fireflies."

--------------

The instant before I drank my own potion, I knew fear.

Why? Why did I do it? For his sake, and not my own. For someone who cherished
me for more than simply being Mother Night's blessed. I don't know. He'd taunted
the guards of the spring away, and even now, fighting my own panic, I wonder how
he managed to act cruel enough.

No time to think. I drink the brew.

Coldness spreads through me like the touch of death. I cannot breathe, do not
want to breathe. I feel light, insubstantial as air. Behind me, I hear the
exclamation of my fellow slaugh, and retain enough feeling to pity her. Perhaps
she will rule here, now.

I plunge into the spring.

I do not know anything of it, except that I almost did not wake. When I did, it
was to look into Jaryn's eyes, under the bright light of day. We were in a green
valley, and everything was strange to me. In a thousand years, I had never seen
the other side of the springs.

"Rhianna!" His voice breaks upon my name, and I somehow find the strength to
raise a hand to touch his face. It seems right, like a well-done ritual. But
Night's service is behind me now, and I must face the day.

I do not think either of us expected what happened next. His uncle - as
belligerent a man as mine, no doubt - took one look at me and received the wrong
impression entirely. I heard him yell something about an invasion, saw him raise
his axe to me.

Saw Jaryn stab him.

There is a roaring in my ears. In all my years, I have never seen actual blood
spilt, despite all Cythrawl's ravings. I gasp and clutch myself, as red drops
spill slowly down Jaryn's blade, seeping into the soil. Horror is etched on
Jaryn's face, disbelief on the other's.

"Why?" The older man whispers. "For her?"

Jaryn nods, a brief nod, fraught with pain. How could I have thought him young?
I see him yell for help to the ruler of this place, never thinking that she
might blame him for the injury - or perhaps not caring. I lay a hand on his arm,
and we exchange a glance. He knows what I mean.

For once, I am glad of the sudden touch of remembrance. "He will grow well," I
whisper. "And find love."

Jaryn takes my hand, and together we flee all that imprisons us. "Like us," he
says.

--------------

These are good days, joyous ones spent beneath sun and moon and star, revelling
in the newness of it all. I discover his quick wit and dry humour, and love him
for it. We make plans, plans for years to come. I can be a village healer if
needed, though Mother Night's true arts lay elsewhere. I daresay he could find
work as a swordsman. Together we would have a home, and Fates willing, perhaps
children one day.

I am so happy.

How did I never imagine this, in the darkness beneath the trees of Wydyr,
watching cycles of the moon come and go? How did I never know the common little
joys of life could be so sweet? In all of Mother Night's lore, She had not told
me that. I learn it now, and treasure it.

Yet as the moon waxed and waned, I grow restless. Not with unhappiness - never
that - but with a sense of impending danger.

"I'm sure you worry about nothing," Jaryn says when I tell him, but it does not
dispell my fear. I feel a dark hand reaching toward me, as slowly and surely as
the shears of the Fates.

It comes, unexpectedly, in the form of the Queen of the Fae. I knew her well,
once. She gifted me with a hound. But we had never been close, and I am
surprised to find her on my doorstep one day.

"Rhianna," she says without preamble. "You are happy." She glances around at
our little cottage, and at Jaryn as he comes to stand by my side. Is it - can it
be - a flicker of envy in her? "With Jaryn gone, there is nobody to bless the
springs. The fae are suffering. This cannot continue."

"We cannot go back," Jaryn says quietly.

"Do not be so quick to say so," she retorts. "I am queen. Let it be so." She
glances at me once more, and there is genuine sympathy in her. "Rhianna," she
murmurs. "I am sorry."

Then everything goes dark, dark as the mantle of Mother Night.

--------------

When I wake, it is the night of the full moon once more. The full moon always
brings unrest to me, when Night's utter darkness is lessened by the bright
silver of her sister. I sit by my cauldron, and watch the passage of the moon
across the sky. I wonder what will become of the nightshade, if it will wilt at
last after all these years. I am restless.

A disturbance arises in Wydyr. I stand in alarm, and hurry out from my alcove,
to be met by one of my sister slaughs. "Rhianna," she gasps, purple veils
fluttering around her slender form, "It's one of the elfen, here to bless the
Springs. I don't think he's been here before."

A faint flicker of something rises within me. Is it memory? I cannot think
right, but the words are familiar. I am fooling myself, of course. There has
been no word from Caoimhe for a long time. "Let us go see," I say to her. "And
don't let uncle Cythrawl at him."

She laughs, a clear tinkling note, and takes my hand. Together we make our way
to the nightshade bush. Unexpectedly, the one waiting there was very young: a
man scarce out of boyhood, shuffling nervously around. Yet I feel no surprise at
his youth, and his embarrassment is somehow endearing.

I find myself hiding a smile. That won't do. I walk forward, challenging him
and asking his business, though I know it already. This has happened before, I
think, but of course that is impossible.

Our eyes meet.