Eventually, Rainëwen came to find him, and found him inside, holding the baby fox. Is he holding a skunk?  She had first thought when she saw the small black and white creature in his arms. "Métimfoa, I have gathered all of the wood we will require."

"Are you sure? It takes a lot of fuel to accomplish what we are trying to accomplish."

She smirked at his scepticism. "Well, I had two hours since we split up. Is your sister ready?"

"Not yet. I got a little bit distracted by this little fox." He tried to hold up the fox, but it began whimpering again, so he held it against his chest even tighter. "It is alright, Wiaion. I need you to go to Rainëwen now." The fox whimpered again but consented to being handed over as he then picked up the jug of oil, and set it on the bed. He wrapped the sheet around his sister as tightly, yet as gently and tenderly as he could, while still leaving her face uncovered. Then he took the jug of oil, and poured it over her, watching to make sure that the sheet was entirely soaked with the oil and herbs. Then he poured the rest of the oil mixture onto her forehead, saying "With this anointment, I send you at last to Mandos and his Golden Halls. Weep never more, and laugh forever. You deserve that much, at least."

He then picked up her corpse, which was lighter due to its hundred years of decomposition, and carried it out past Rainëwen, who watched wordlessly as he lay Orónëminya's corpse upon the pyre. The thinness of the blanket, and the darkness of her hair made every strand of her long dark hair visible underneath the sheet he had wrapped her in. Her overcloak covered up most of the sky blue robes she wore underneath it, yet he could not help but think of her abilities as an enchantress. She was so much more than that though. 

Métimafoa began to speak out loud, his voice directed toward his sister for the first time in a hundred years. "Orónëminya, I do not even know where to begin. How does one bid farewell to a sister, who they thought they would have the rest of time with? You taught me so much, in our time together, that I will forever be grateful for, but I still have so many questions. What do I tell our siblings? Where do I find the words to explain to them that our beloved sister is dead? If you were here, you would probably say something like 'Do not expect to find the words or to have them given to you. You must make your own words.' But sometimes, there are no good words. Sometimes, it is impossible to make a situation good, no matter how you phrase it. How do I tell them that it is my fault that you were shot because I went to return for Nolgaion? How can I explain to them that if I had been mere days faster at identifying the poison, you would still be here? How do I explain to them that I was more concerned with building a house than I was about spending our time together? What can I say, to justify the fact that I allowed your corpse to rot a mere mile away from where I have been for a hundred years?" He paused to take a breath and looked at her, his beloved sister, who had died for his sake. "I am so incredibly sorry, Orónëminya. I failed you. The fact that you lie here upon this wooden pyre is all my fault, and there are no words I can say that will change that. It should be me up there, not you. I should be dead, not you." He looked over the pyre toward the stream in the distance. "I should have died in that river."

That was the only warning he gave as he ran toward the stream, intent on jumping into it, but a blur of yellow from the side tackled him to the ground. For the next three minutes, Rainëwen let out a string of expletives that would have made the Tiefling God of Swearing turn his ears in shame. "You are the most selfish, foolish, and asinine elf that I have ever met, and my father ran away when I was three to join a literal travelling circus." She glared into his eyes, the blue glints in her grey pools reflecting the sunlight, making small bolts of lightning in her storm grey eyes. "You would try to end it all; after all everyone has done for you? How could you?"

But Métimafoa was equally enraged by her detainment of him. "I am alone, Rainëwen! Do you know what it is like, to lose the only one who you had left? To live as you watch all of those you love die? To know that every death that has been marked against your family was entirely your fault?" 

His shouting fueled her rage, and she spat back "I know what it is like to lose those you love, Métimafoa! I am half-elven; I had a human mother, who I lost centuries ago! Do you think you are the only one who has experienced loss? I still bear the pain of her loss but I fight on. Are you so weak willed that you would throw everything away because you could not handle the pain?"

"I am an elf; the right is given to me to choose the time of my passing," Métimafoa raged, his heart on fire with the fury of his anger. "It is my life and therefore my right, to choose how it ends."

"Your life is not your own, fool!" She retorted, her fists clenched at her side. "You are the people's rightful heir; your life is in their hands." She was shaking with fury as she continued: "What of those who died for you? The papers were very clear about the deaths of your Aunts and Uncles. Nimloth II died warning you about the trials to come. How about this Nolgaion you continue mentioning? She died for you." She pointed toward the unlit pyre behind them and shouted. "What of your sister? She was to be our queen regent, until Percival married. She died to save you, if only from your own stupidity. It is a small mercy that she kept you alive this long."

Every point she made struck Métimafoa deeply, but he responding bitingly: "How come I have to bear all of the pain, if it is not my life? Why must I walk this misery alone?"

"Who says you have to? It is you own stupidity that leaves you alone. This world is filled with people; if you cannot find even one who wants to bear them with you, then you are not looking hard enough."

Métimafoa drew back, but said, "Who are you, to accuse me of not trying?"

"Someone who has observed that which you seek being right in front of you, and yet remaining unseized." With that, she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. 

He looked at her in shock, but he gave into the pang of his heart, and leaned in to kiss her back. She accepted and they embraced neath the branches on the braes of the river, their forms almost united as one, but Métimafoa pulled away, his rage having turned to passion, but his mind triumphing over both at once. "I would love," he said between long, controlled breaths, "to continue this with you. Unfortunately, we have other business which needs attention." He turned toward the pyre and drew his sister's iron dagger and a hafted flint stone. "'Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.' Is that not what the humans always say at their funerals?"

"Not always; every ceremony is different." She followed his as he led her toward the pyre. "Living in a multi-racial city for the last three hundred years, I have seen generations of funerals, amoungst the human folk. Yet each on is a new experience; they tend to sing songs, and weep, but the sons are always different and the kind of tears wept."

As he began to strike his two tools together to make the fire which would scorch a visage too young to deserve it, he asked: "What 'kind of tears' are you referring to? A person only weeps when they are sad."

"Métimafoa," she explained sadly, "Never have there been words less true that those you have spoken. We weep all of the time. Are the tears a girl weeps on her wedding day the same as the tears she weeps when she buries her husband a year later? Are the tears a mother cries as she gives birth the same tears she cries when she lays the infant down to its eternal rest? Are the tears you cry now for your sister, the same tears you cry when you were teething? Of course not!" She watched the small fire building under the pyre and held out a comforting hand to him, which he took. "We weep when we are happy, sad, angry, hungry, in pain, and many more. Tears are not a way to gauge a person's emotions; they are a sign that a person's emotions should be gauged."

"Where do you get all of this wisdom, Rainëwen? How do you know all of this?"

"I have spent nearly half of my life living amoungst those who live for but a blink in our eyes. I have seen those who live for less than a hundred year live, love, laugh, and die. And they are beautiful." She wiped a tear from her eye, holding the Elfling Prince's hand and continued. "See, the mistake we elves make is that we are going to live forever; though none of us ever has. The humans on the other hand see each day as a moment, they have less than a hundred years on this earth. They live their lives knowing that, and with that in mind, they will take action much more quickly. Their lives become more vibrant, as a result." She looked at him with curiosity. "The butterfly flies higher because it knows it will die anyway, and wants to see beautiful things before it does."

"Why do we all despise Death so much then? If it makes life beautiful, where is its flaw?"

"It is not a flaw that it has; it is a flaw in the consciousness of the living creatures. No matter what we do or accomplish; we always leave the world feeling as though we could have done more. An author who writes 20,000 words will always wish for 25,000. A fisherman who reaps a hundred fish, will wish for one hundred and twenty. A hunter who hunts a doe, will always wish for another. It is the way of our minds."

While they talked, the pyre had engulfed his sister's corpse, which had so fairly laid upon its final bed. The little fox was curled up in Rainëwen's right arm, sleeping in the fire's warmth, while Métimafoa's right hand held her left. The sky was blue, and cloudless, except for the pillar of black smoke rising upward like a tower of obsidian into the early morning sky. 

Watching his sister burn was like a stabbing to Métimafoa, who fell to his knees in mourning. I should have died in that river. I want to see my sister again. 

Rainëwen knelt before him, and brushed his hair, and tears from his eyes, a look of pure sympathy on her face. She started, "You never thanked me for pulling you from that river, and I have never asked you to." He went to respond, but she held up her slender hand to stop him. "My attempts to save your life were free, but now I fear I must demand a price of one who has lost so much."

Métimafoa's face was wet with tears again but he was listening, "What is your price, Rainëwen? What do you demand of me?"

She smiled comfortingly, her voice sending unwavering peace through him, and into his heart. "I request that you choose to live, my friend. That is all I would like. I just want you to live. Your sister did not give her life, for you to give up hope, Aryonelloestel. You must live for her."

With that she fell silent. Métimafoa smiled at her, drying his tears, and replied "I do not think I can deny that request, but I cannot do it alone." He paused to watch the hope building in her eyes. "Do you understand what I am offering?"

"Are you proposing to me, little prince?" He went to nod, but before he could, she leaned forward and kissed him, the urgency in her kiss pushing him to the ground. After a few moments, she smiled as she disentangled herself and pulled away. "It only took you a hundred years."

"Am I to take that as a yes?" Métimafoa asked as he sat up somewhat dazed.

"How many girls have kissed you like that to say 'no?'"

He laughed, an odd sound from his lips. The sound which had once spelt out his sister's fate now carried a happy tune, as it sounded for from his lips

The little fox, which had been woken up in their interactions was watching the two of them like a trained dog. Albeit a poorly trained dog, because he was jumping around and yipping; a far cry from his hungry whimpers earlier. "I think we may just have to keep him," Métimafoa said, his voice asking a very clear question.

"Did you honestly think I was going to say no?" she answered with a smirk, picking up the little fox once again, and whispering sweet nothings into its ear.

Métimafoa looked back toward his sister's pyre, which had now reached optimal heat and was sending a tall dark pillar into the sky. "If you do not mind, Beloved, I would like to spend some time alone with my sister."

"Do you promise not to try and drown yourself again?"

"Absolutely," he said. "I have something to live for now."

As she walked away, with one more parting kiss, Métimafoa turned toward the ashes, and sang one of Orónëminya's favourite songs. 

"The Kings and Their kingdoms standing proud,

while music comes from their trumpets loud,

with firm statutes and fair laws endowed,

with the power to lift people's shroud.

So weep ye not, ye fairie people,
and weep ye not, our church and steeple,
our lords and ladies come so regal,
that we will never see their equal."

He watched the fire burn out hours later, and wept as he approached and saw her skeleton resting inside of a cairn of ash and dust. Tears wet the white grey ashes as he gathered up her bones and took them out back beyond their house, and set them down gently. Métimafoa began digging a hole with a shovel he grabbed from out front, and he continued digging. The hole grew deeper, as the hole in his heart from his sister's loss decided on its depth, and by that reasoning, he had to keep digging. By the time Rainëwen found him the next morning, hours before dawn, he was sleeping in the bottom of a two-unit, by one and a half unit, reverse conical hole. 

She slipped into the hole and shook his shoulder gently. He sat up sharply and blinking a few times, he remembered where he was. "I need to keep digging."

"It is deep enough, Beloved. Just finish this. Take care of her, Métimafoa, she needs to rest."

"I do not think I am ready to say goodbye."

"I somehow doubt that you ever will be." She clambered out of the grave and brushed off the now blue dress that she was wearing. Extending a hand to him, she said, "Whether you are ready or not to move on, she is waiting for you to move on."

Métimafoa took her hand and allowed himself to pulled out of the pit he had dug. Reaching down, he gently placed the bones in the pit and began covering them up with soil. After he had, with Rainëwen helping, filled in the hole, he said quietly, "I need to grab something from inside." He ran around the front of the house and into the back bedroom, where his old bag lay. Reaching inside of it, he removed two long slender bones with a steady curve to them and placed them in his pocket. Then he slipped his bag over his shoulder and stepped back outside, where Rainëwen was waiting for him.

. . .

Hours had passed by the time they returned to Moinatarminas, because Rainëwen had insisted that he take a bath first. "You smell like smoke, grease, and dirt. You need to clean up."

After his bath, he turned to find that she had brought clothes from the city, for him to dress in. The tight-fitting pants and boots were made of a soft black leather, as were the gloves, but the ghillie shirt was a fine silken grey material, tied with leather strings. There was also a new leather frog for his rapier, but he put that in his bag saying, "I am going to have a new rapier made shortly, and I want this to be its sheath." When he had dressed(he had asked her to close her eyes, or at the very least avert them, but she declined.), he said, "I believe we need to make a journey to the blacksmith's the jeweller's and the enchanter's, beloved. I have some work to do."

She smiled, knowing about the rings he was making. "Not quite yet though. Moorglen awaits us for the dawning shift."

"Oi!"  exclaimed Métimafoa exclaimed in remembrance. "I had forgotten about that." He looked at her sheepishly. "My bad; it has been a busy twenty-three hours." He looked at the small house behind him. "I think we should move in here. I can rebuild it and, with maintenance, it should last for quite some time."

She looked at him, as she stood with him along the banks of the river, the calm grey of her eyes contrasting with the blue specks which crackled with excitement at the proposition. "I am in no way opposed to that. I had to move out of my parent's house someday."

He laughed and as the walked back over the grassy lowland, surrounded by trees on all sides, the first rays of dawn came and rested not only over the house, but over the grave, and the ashes. A gentle breeze blew, and the two did not hear the gentle words on the breeze which called so softly for the First Daughter of the line of Estelondo, and the ashes were lifted up, and dissolved into the golden rays, seeking, in her own fashion, the Golden Halls of Mandos.