Darkness fell across the Ethereal Plane. When the Silver Goddess,
alarmed by the change, arrived to tend to the land She loves, all seemed
normal: the Queen of the Fae sat, as always, on her throne, her Consort
by her side, and the fae of the Faethorn Court went about their daily
activities. As far as She could tell, nothing was abnormal -- only the
impenetrable darkness that flooded the skies like ink spreading across
vellum.

"What do you want?" came the Maeve's voice, as she snapped her fingers
for the Goddess to step forward.

More alarmed still, Lisaera acknowledged the Queen of the Fae's tone
with equal venom.

"Mind your tongue, fae. The number of your divine supporters is
regrettably low, and I guard this Plane with My every breath. What has
become of you?"

The cruel, flippant responses continued. "You guard us? You are nothing.
You and Your Cousins do little to assist our world."

A small gathering of mortals from both communes bore witness to this
exchange, which continued well into the following day. The Maeve shot
verbal barbs at a Goddess whom she loved, and the Empyreal Mother
remained unnerved, but began responding with more and more patience. She
realized quickly that something was amiss with the Queen of the Fae. It
was then that She noticed the brand.

"My Maeve, your neck -- does it pain you?" inquired the Goddess, every
breath the gentle caress of a concerned mother.

"Our -- our -- what? Our what? What do You mean? What? Our what? Our
what? We cannot hear you, no, no, we cannot hear you -- "

The Queen of the Fae unraveled mentally then, her erratic words matching
the confusion in her eyes. She shouted her rage and cried tears of
terror, all the while squeezing Laeroc's arm until her nails drew welts
of blood. He stayed by her side, silent and terrified, as the Faethorn
Realm shook under the Maeve's power, sending the fae of the Court into a
blind panic. At last, the Silver Goddess wove a spell of sleep around
the Queen, which soothed her into a deep slumber. It was then that
Lisaera realized the root of the darkness.

Before the gathered mortals, the Silver Goddess vowed to heal the Maeve.
She would gather the combined power of the Nature Pantheons and devise a
plan, and all She needed was information about the brand's origins. The
mortals bowed and voiced their understanding of the long, hard tasks
ahead, and the gathering dispersed. After a moment of contemplation and
a kiss upon the Maeve's brow, the Silver Goddess also departed.

Years passed. Mortals brought the Silver Goddess and the Lady of the
Thorns information about the brand, but nothing revealed the keys They
needed to break the spell. The Maeve's torments grew stronger and
stronger, and the fae began to react accordingly. Maidens were seen
carrying abandoned -- or stolen -- children into the trees, pixies and
nymphs were found tearing one another to bloody shreds, and banshees
wailed overhead, their voices stirring the air into violent storms. The
Silver Goddess visited the Queen of the Fae often, but every exchange
was similar to the first: the Maeve shouted her rage, cried her
confusion, and wept her sadness, all the while her exhausted Consort
stood guard, his tired eyes filled with the tears of a man who cannot
help his lover.

Finally, Laeroc's composure broke and he begged the Elder Gods of Nature
to bless him with Their faith. As One, They acknowledged the Consort's
efforts and stepped aside, allowing him to rally the communes himself
with a new plan. Because the Maeve's mind is failing, he reasoned, it
would behoove the mortals who care about her to give her their own
memories. The only thing that could save the Queen of the Fae, Laeroc
believed, was the combined efforts of Serenwilde and Glomdoring. The
Queen of the Fae was gravely ill by then. Despite the soothing music,
sung by bards from both communes, despite the power pouring into her
from Lisaera's tireless spellwork, the Maeve fell deeper into her
confusion, until she sat immobile, eyes glazed with delirium.

"We will build some sort of apparatus," muttered Laeroc. He paced the
throne room of his Queen, his hands trembling like a madman's. "We -- we
will grow a tree. We will use its roots...the Queen will know what we
know..."

And so the work began. The communes set aside their endless cycle of
death to gather the Consort's only supplies -- two nuts each from the
Moonhart Mother Tree and the Master Ravenwood Tree. When the time came
that the tree would be planted, Laeroc commanded Serenwilde and
Glomdoring to secretly nourish the sapling with essence from their
respective lands until at last, it bloomed with power.

The Consort took his place amid the gathering and called upon the
countless lives of the Faethorn Court, pouring all of their combined
power into his own hands. He murmured prayers to the spirits of nature
and reopened the bloody wounds that fed the sapling. One by one, the
Elder Gods of Nature manifested, Their expressions grim as They watched
Laeroc plead for the Maeve's forgiveness. As the Tree of Memories grew
around him, he knelt before the Lady of the Thorns, his eyes streaming
with tears, and shuddered as the Silver Goddess summoned a howling storm
in the sky above the Faethorn Court. The Oak Whacher summoned vines to
restrain the prone body of Laeroc, and with a simple swipe of Her
scythe, the Lady of the Thorns severed the Consort's head.

Silence.

Then chaos.

The Faethorn Court erupted with the howls of the fae, who all felt the
Consort's death. The Silver Goddess wept openly and held the prone body
of the Consort in Her arms as his spirit was taken into the sky by a
beam of moonlight. As the blood soaked into the roots, the Tree of
Memories flexed its limbs and reached for the heavens, unveiling broad
moonhart leaves and oily raven feathers.

Months after, the magic of the Tree of Memories swelled and the
restoration of the Maeve was at hand. Silver light and shadow flared
throughout the bark and boughs of the tree, sweeping the Queen into the
ethereal skies above. Caught in rapture, the Maeve surrendered to its
power: her sanity healing, her body restored. Indeed, shards of scarlet
lifted from her skin - the very same brand of the Weeping Amaranth that
tortured her for eons - broke away from her skin. Faethorn and the fae
cheered; however, this happiness was cut off as the brand disappeared in
a flurry of motes that winked out as quickly as manifested. The presence
of the Elder Gods hovered over the proceedings, and they were disquieted
in the manner in which the brand disappeared. Though many wondered what
had happened, their concerns and fears were abated by the joy of the
Queen's rejuvenation. Both the Serenwilde and Glomdoring attended to the
tired queen, who weakly called out to her Laeroc. Saddened at the
thought, they bid her to recall his sacrifice, and the Maeve turned
mourning.

Slowly, the assembled mortals departed and a new kind of darkness fell
across the Faethorn Court.


Penned by My hand on the 17th of Avechary, in the year 431 CE.