9.

Decades have passed, and yet the glory of the Wyrd is the same,
The Drums of the Dead remain as they have in the flying years
Just as Crow's wings blocked Father Sun, and Mother Moon above.
It was his call among the other subtle whispers through the Silence,
the Pack who still roams the undergrowth of hemlock and briar,
and webs of silken filament that whisper of Eliar's name,
like murmurs upon the breeze, songs forgotten.

He who was not remembered as tae'dae, nor man, such as he was -
But he in his elder years as Regent, descended into the mists of time;
Avatar, Ascendant, Protector of the Realm, betrayer of the North,
the titles grew, and so did the Wyrd, his flesh consumed by it,
the righteousness of vengeance lingered within his mind,
An empty space where his heart resided,
unfulfilled even in all his power.

With no more thrones left to claim, no land or heart worth conquering,
Black Sorrow did return to him, to nurse at the breast of False Memory
Where the milk of its forgetfulness stays all woes,
and cauterizes fresh wounds

There is no such thing as perfection of two, halves or whole,
Not in this story, so it would seem, perhaps if it were true,
For as we all know, the perfection of mortals is as far
and true as love is forever.

But the love remained the same, the fire still burned,
A smoldering bitter plume of ash in the Night,
And all of it was fouled by happiest memories blotted by the sun
There was nothing but numbness, and the wholesome taste of stale air,
At the very idea of seeing her again,
And as Eliar sat alone, to plot the final act of his intent,
All of the tools now at his disposal,
the Dark Four disbanded and free to roam the shadowed lands,
many twisted versions of the events would play upon his mind,
With this he knew, that there was little time for pondering.

The Moon would be Full, and shed warm light high in the heavens,
the festival of the Crone should dawn within a fortnight,
with feasting, and the dancing of the winter Court to occur,
and she would be there, sitting in the chair of the Seneschal,
the platform luminous upon the staircase of the Mother-Tree,
her hair like flames of kindled embers streaking across her cheeks,
the sullen air of a spoiled child upon her hidden smirk,
Such indignity, and disdain, such wasted beauty,
'See, wyrden, how even the brightest of flowers wilt when tended ill,'
One of many phrases he murmured to himself, as he sharpened his nekai,
Claws against metal, screeching endlessly
in the rhythm of a means to an end.

The Gem of the Three-Faced was such a withered blossom,
 ugly to the depths of her bones
'twas so long ago now she had once been a prize, un-wanting and selfish.

Such possessions cannot be kept, nor earned, even Eliar knew that now,
Sitting alone beneath the dark canopy,
 each hour ebbing as sand in a glass,
Was vengeance such an empty purpose?
 Justice, then, to be dealt so swift?
The Fingerblade of dha'Wyrden-cree straining against his biceps,
 he relented,
And all that was in his mind turned to the desecration of those
 who had made him false.

The Predator's viciousness stirred within
 the shards of his heart, pieced together
Should the guise of the Scorpion satisfy,
 and the sting of Wasp come at the penultimate?
What of the Beetle, Bat and the refuse that seek
 to build lives within the Wyrd?
Their place in Eliar's scheme in forethought had little consequence,
With the Crone's full face upon the night in question,
 he was prepared for bloodshed
Though, little did the bear know, that this, would be his last.

10.

The battle was swift and bloody, and Eliar went alone,
 seeking no counsel,
With festival in hand there were many slaughtered who stood in his way,
And the many spines of Moondancers snapped so easily between his paws,
Each stealthy movement, closer and closer
 to the Moonhart Tree brought him thrill,
the lines of the land falling as they always had
 along Moon-River, and the Falls, cliffs would stop him at the edge,
 where water thundered down, awash with his prey's blood
A narrowing of eyes, only told him that the true prize
 would be found at her throne

Just as he had planned, how clever,
 how cunning the teachings of Crow had made him -
But alas, for Black Sorrow,
 that now would finally be forgiven through the death of his betrayer
He bounded, no longer caring for his upright position,
 nekai deep in the earth,
The dust of untended earth well founded in each claw
 that shone wet and crimson
Many wounds he had taken in the assault,
 and he could sense their forces moving inward,
to where all things, within a commune such as this, connected

The guards were easily removed, the monks of the Shofa
 less than a challenge,
For the fear of his aura was too great,
 and sent them to flee through the branches,
The druids would dare not use their trees,
 for he had chopped them all before,
with flame and axe, and the purpose of destroying all that was hers.

The wrath of the Predator within him,
 he pointed his right nekai at the throne,
where, in long fluid lines of sheer cloth she sat,
 aged, but stillbeautiful, and uglier than before,
her expression twisting with finite, eager pleasure,

"Hail, Eliar, the Black-Clawed, Saviour of the Wyrd,
 First-Born of the Pack!"
How her words rang with such disdain, but it mattered not,
 for words are no match
For the action she would soon receive,
 as he returned the greeting in a low snarl,
"Traitor!" The word sent waves of darkness around,
 dulling the gems upon her gown,
"Oh, that was you, beloved, if you do not recall?"
 She rose from her throne, unhindered,
"And it has yielded such perfection, see, the forest,
 it gleams with Mother Moon!"
How foul the words were in his ears, that he laughed,
 a hearty chuckle from his belt -
"You stupid bitch, that is all that you -can- say,
 Moon is hallowed, Moon does shine!"
He prowled forward, along the dias of Mother Moonhart's roots,
 as thunder rumbles above,
For the Lady Lisaera watched from the heavens,
 as She held a tete-a-tete with the Predator Himself.
"But it is merely a veil for your ill intent, your horrid plans."

Drawing closer, Eliar allowed his mouth to set flow
 the words that he had practiced for decades:
"I have come to pass judgment on you, for your use of me,
 your disposal and hunger for power,
Your wars that you have waged, to keep your people
 in fear of the unknown,
Your desecration of nature, weakening it with false light,
These people are prisoners to their own minds,
 just as you had used me for your gain,
And for that, you shall die,
 and relieve this place from your presence,
As it is as poisonous as the love that you had lured me with."

Upon completion, she had laughed in return,
 her athame quick to her hand, and light to her feet-
the fae near her did not cower but struck forward,
 attempting to trip the tae'dae's feet,
A succubus light of Moon showered through him,
 and their battle began, each measure of attack
Each of them lowering the strength of his will,
 but each he strived against and became resilient
At last, he had found an opening in her defense,
 the mother-far had turned to heal her,
By the scruff, one paw clapped about her neck,
 as the other broke her athame-wielding arm.

"Our son has been trained for this purpose," she gasped breathlessly,
His claws finally had met her spine,
 twisting along the garish lines of her wounded form,
Eliar reeled, only as the moment of the news struck and passed,
 it was not surprising,
the old hag had waited years to tell him,
 how fitting, for his own demise.
"He will destroy you, just as he will destroy all that you have built,"
 she spat blood,
"Relyth! Avenge me!" She cried,
 as the fae upon the tae'dae's back still attacked,

Eliar then drew his claws across her neck,
 and it severed so easily,
And like pulling hummingbirds wings apart,
 the sinew of her life broke.

There was a sense of satisfaction then,
 as brief as it was to see her reign at end,
But even as he turned, the figure of Relyth appeared
 blue-furred with bardiche in hand,
The bouts between them rang throughout the forest,
 as Eliar disposed of the last of the fae,
shanking each through the head so that they could not oppose him,
Each tae'dae did not use words,
 but in them the shrieks of their warcries were enough.

Exhaustion grew upon Eliar,
 like the prickling of the fur on his neck,
And one blow, became slow enough for Relyth's bardiche
 to counter and strike,
With the blade piercing his chest, Eliar gave swift chase once more,
 before stumbling back in shock,
A strange numbness took ahold of the older bear,
 deep within his throat, as his mouth went dry,
"Poison," said he, pressing his sweaty paw along the gash now bleeding
at breast,

Relyth gave a laugh, the sound unseated with low pitches,
"Not even the grand Eliar can escape poison,"
  the younger tae'dae replied, eyes bright,
even as the battle continued,
  Eliar felt the weakening sensation of it draw him in,
the pain he could overcome, but the slowing of his speed
 could not win him the fight,
With blood on his lips, the vigorous blows of Relyth
  grew arrogant and over-bold,
As with the last of his strength, his blows grew dirty,
  and he caught Reylth's shoulders,
Grappling him, Eliar's nekai went straight through the young bear,
 tearing entrails in twain
Another deed done, for the last of the Gem's lineage was put to rest
 The light from Reylth's eyes and the laughter faded,
A sound of the past upon the bubbling of his muzzle

Heartbeat slowing, he clutched his nekai,
 the scent of copper stained upon them
Limping through the forests, he sensed that he would not have long,
Soon, it was crawling that dragged him to the sweeter trees near,
Where the mountains had snow-capped peaks and Rikenfriez was not far,
Arms trembling, he attempted to bandage himself,
 but to no avail for it would not hold
Wounds such as these ran deep, and even the soul could not clot them
The blood quenched the ground, and he could hear his legs give way
Stumbling at the edge of Tolborolla Valley,
 the furrikin's shrieks abided as he slid;
Body soul-worn along the orchards,
 and collapsing among sweet honeysuckle
Eyes rolling in a dizzy hum, as the low stink-breeze
 of the pond to the east caught wind
Such a gape in the tae'dae's chest
 it was wide enough to wet his once grand fur

'Ameliana...Forgive me.'

11.

The first words were mouthed, and not heard,
Each shape themselves formed around a voice he knew but was beyond,
Somehow the morning had risen without his will to it,
the horizon blazing tangerine
There was something wet to his lips,
 the blurry droplets of his vision cold and sweet
But the water soured on his tongue,
 even as he felt a familiar presence assist
He tried to speak, but he felt himself quieted
 and knew the poison had taken hold
There were no more thoughts in his mind,
 save that he had slain his own son
"My Ameliana..." he mouthed, but could not hear,
But even so, it was a son he could not abide,
 of a false love and sorcery,
It brought him no contentment, she was dead,
 and to think it would have,
the Wyrd will grow more virulent, apparent and strong,
 he had done the Preadtor's will
The next words he could hear, the colours of the vibrant 'scape
 of Ackleberry bending together

The travels took the Brothers to within the Heart of Darkness,
 where drums were loud,
In this time the poison was set to the tae'dae's heart, attacking the very last functions,
Though strong he was, his age had grown with it,
 and the poison of the bastard,
Inevitable, he had recalled, where darkness would pain him,
 and light would soothe,
Such a poison cruel enough to destroy the last ounce of mortality,
And it was this that he saw the irony, of all of his loyalties,
 his wars and battles,
Their purposes seemed to fade away, each conquering moment
 no comfort to him,
This was justice, this was true, and righteous action -
 to usurp the Northern Forest's last,
Last living figurehead, and her son.

"Carry him, Hiawaith, for he is even too laden for me to carry,"
Inashi spoke in the silence between Sorian's uplifting shadowy melody,
the hand-like branches swooped up the torn, mangled body of the tae'dae,
cradling him in the wyrden flora where the scents were gentle,
 an' little insects glowed,
the zenith of the wyrdenwood was beautiful as it was terrifying,
 a cradle of rebirth,
Such radiance in the strangled light of the fireflies
 did not stop the brother's tracks,
As they continued their march dubiously through undergrowth
 and mountain passage,
the slow rumbling song of Hiawaith discordant with Sorian's
  as bubbles of shadow rose,
"We must hurry," the tribolus voice of the wyrdenwood said,
 "he needs more than we."
"We know," said the smooth voice of Inashi from ahead,
 though desperate it was.
"I am too wounded," he spoke,
 though it felt as if the bellows inside him came apart,
"Inashi, give me to the Ravenwood,"
 The Igasho nearly refused,
The wounds were too great, split across the fur of his chest,
And all around him, his brothers sensed that this would be the end,
They argued heatedly, even as Sorian made attempts
 to heal the crevice-like gashes,
but to no avail, each time, the poison grew deeper, and deeper still, when the bear had cried out in anguish,
 they knew the agony would not slow.
"Eliar, please, hold on - Stay, stay," they all said, speaking his name,
 the fondness of it the last thing he would hear.

In the haze of the drain of life,
 Eliar saw once again the spinning needle,
No longer was he there, with his brothers,
As his eyes grew still, ears still tingling with their voices,
He saw the end, and its perfection,
 and saw the Spirits welcome him to eternity,
Yet, it was the Wyrd that granted him one last chance,
 as it had given him the first,
A consciousness writhing to be free from death,
 his own as the Wyrd within him rose to reform,
Yet he denied it, the last privilege of immortality,
 and felt a strange peace ignite
Down, down, down, into the spiralling ends,
 where dream and terror met in one thread
And he thought, in his last moments, the roots curling about his middle:
"All was worth it... every... last... moment."
Breathing his last, his eyes saw her again in the shadows,
And like the crows in flight, his soul went with them.

...

 Epilogue

There were no funerary rights held, no pyre laden into flame
Only a sad few to carry on Eliar's blood and name
It is said when the Ravenwood devoured him into the shadow-hollow
That one name was whispered over and over again, in the moaning of the wind,
Indecipherable to all but poor Hiawaith, whose sappy tears made his grove fallow
And the songs that Sorian did sing across the canopy echoed until the dawn
Inashi himself stood vigil at the edge of the forest, too aggrieved to be there
And the Dark Four were no more, their leader and battles long behind
them

They had done has he had wished, in his last moments,
 for the tae'dae was wise
He had not lasted long, or so the crowd of people had said
 when his body was brought
The brothers knew in their anguish that the poison had muddled his mind,
As a dreamcatcher, his moments were no longer full of pain,
But of visions of home,
But they knew, in their heart of hearts that he had died long, long ago
So, they had done as he had wished, for he was wise
Eagerness rose in the air, to see this display of true devotion to the Wyrd,
And the coteries of shadows,
 of the cult and murders of the Blacktalon witnessed,
As each coil of root wrapped around the the body of the tae'dae
The chasm of the great hollow wide
 to consume the essence willfully given

The Ravenwood's inky-black feathers
 wreathed through the blood-touched leaves,
its consumption setting it to grow in height and girth,
until the bark was as hard as iron

Those who remembered him knew of his plight, where he had welcomed death
From the beginning of the end, his heroism toppled an ignorant nation
Upon which thrived the zealotry and ignorance of a lost, misguided people

Sorian, was the one to write the ballads, it is said, of Eliar,
Yet nothing can be said for certain, as I have recorded them here,
He, the one to place the head of Elfelihana at the foot of the Silver-fold Witch,
He, the one to present the shreds of her bastard son, Relyth to the Wyrden Mother,
But the fate of the brothers has always been, in tandem, so the Fates prophesied.

Such of one of these, did come to a bitter end,
Yet the Wyrd claimed its servant, rightful and just, to rest beneath its roots,
Sometimes, upon the summer air when the Moon has died one can still hear his howl,
desolate amongst the many others, of whom we have honoured to forget.