It had been a mere three and a half weeks since the funeral, but as the wedding day approached, Métimafoa was filled with anticipation, not mourning. It is strange, he thought, that despite the recent nature of her funeral, it was more of the closing of the book, then starting the epilogue. Though, I suppose it makes sense; I did mourn her for a hundred years, but even those I miss her, and I think I always will, I am more than ready to stop being alone. He looked at where Rainëwen slept in the bed next to him, and could not help but smile as the rays of sunlight began to rise over her side of the bed and illuminated her yellow hair into a net of the finest gold that the gods themselves could weave. He just lay there watching her, for nearly an hour, until the sunlight rose enough to shine through her eyelids and cause them to flicker open and focus on him.

"Could you shut the curtains?" she asked, rolling over and drawing the blankets to go back to sleep, which drew a chuckle out of him.

"I could, but we are on the morning shift at the tavern, so we have to get up anyway."

She grunted in response and sat up, her blonde hair in tangles, and the presence of sleep evident in her grey-blue pools. "And the tea isn't made yet? What do I keep you around for?" She teased, standing and walking to the kitchen.

He arose and followed her, placing a gentle kiss on top of her head as she filled up the tea kettle at the sink, before walking over and grabbing the tea leaves from their canister on the window sill. "That would be my sincerity and good looks, Rainëwen." He pulled two mugs out of the cupboard to his right and set them on the centre aisle. "And I keep you around for you dazzling charm and ceaseless wit." As he split the loose leaves up between the mugs, he smirked and concluded: "Tis why we make such a successful team."

She rolled her eyes, placing the kettle on the fire she had lit in their small stone hearth. "So," she said, letting the word drift off into nothingness before continuing. "I suppose we should finalise the last details of the wedding before we leave for work today."

"Why? We have already gone over it a hundred times. I think we get the gist of it, at least between the two of us. And besides, we still have time; the rings will not be done for another week yet, and we will probably have a day or two after that before we will wed. "

She rolled her eyes and said, "Only you would think overpreparation is a bad thing. "

They bantered back and forth for an hour and it was only when Métimafoa looked at his hastily built sundial that he realised the length of their discussion. "Rainëwen, we have to be at the tavern in three minutes."

She shrugged "Moorglen is not going to be pleased, but he'll also be drunk, so no harm; no foul." Métimafoa put the mugs into the sink and grabbed their coats. Helping Rainëwen as a gesture of chivalry, he opened the door and shut it behind her when she followed him out. They began to run along the river bank as they sprinted toward the town and tavern and the day that awaited them.

. . . 

The sound of the door opening was muffled by the falling rain and laughter of the two young lovers, Rainëwen and Métimafoa. Metimafoa let out another burst of laughter as he asked: "Who knew that the mayor was such a blast at a party?"

Rainëwen restrained her amusement behind a smile. "I certainly did not, but I now know where all of the city's taxes are going." She walked over to the kitchen and lit a candle on the table with a spark from her fingers.

Métimafoa smirked, "So, what did you think of your sandwich for break?"

"I actually didn't get a break today, Mister Estelondo, because someone else took too long on theirs. Where did you go, anyway?"

"It's a secret," he whispered, reaching into his pocket and then quickly putting his hands behind his back.

"I saw that."

"No, you did not."

"Yes, I did." She tried to walk around him, but he turned so that he was still facing her. She walked over and extended her arms as if asking for a hug, and then tackled him to the ground and started trying to get at the secret MacGuffin. Métimafoa put up little fight as he was preoccupied rubbing his head from where it had banged off of the floor, and she got the small parcel with relative ease.

She stood, offering a conciliatory helping hand to her betrothed, and then dumped the contents of the MacGuffin into her hand. "The Rings of Youthful Visage," she stated, staring at the two mithrael rings resting in her hand. Each was adorned with a small mirror in place of a gem, and an elvish inscription ran around the outside and inside, which translated to "The fire of our youth shall burn forevermore."

"Yes," Metimafoa confirmed, still rubbing his head. "I must admit though, I was not expected you to tackle me for them. I was kind of expecting you to try and wrestle them out of my hands in an embrace."

"I know," she said with a condescending smirk. "Were you never taught to expect the unexpected?"

"I was, but I was not expecting my wife-to-be to attack me."

She smirked again, but then her brow furroughed. "I thought we were not getting these for another week?"

"As did I, but the enchanter stopped in today and told me they were done early, so when my break came around, I retrieved them."

"That's reasonable, " she said, "but you were gone for twenty minutes. Where else did you go?"

Métimafoa shook his head at her incessant questioning. "If you must know, I went to the blacksmith to check on my sword. It should be done by tomorrow; he just needs to attach the rib handguard and I'll be-"

Three knocks on the door cut his off explanation. Who found our house? He wondered, drawing his rapier in as stealthy of a fashion as he could. He gestured toward the window, and Rainëwen snuck over and peaked out of it from a distance back.

She held up two fingers, pointed toward him and then back to her, then pointed to the candle on the table. "What?" He whispered so she could hear it.

She made the same gestures again, realised from his blank look that he was not following. "Two elves, a Male and a female, one with evocation robes."

Metimafoa considered his options. A wizard elf? He must have been sent by Gygax to find me. Then he walked over to the door, and flung it open, moving his rapier into a defensive position.

His rapier dropped from his hand a second later and clattered to the floor. "Percival? Faramaureä?" He stepped forward to embrace them, but Percival pushed his sister back and stepped in front of her.

"How do you know our names, julaifæ?" Percival asked, his eyes narrowing. He felt a hand on his chest and looked back to see Faramaurea's eyes locked onto the "julaifæ" he had addressed.

"Surely you recognize me, Percival?" Metimafoa turned to his sister after observing his brother's blank look. "Faramaurea, do not tell me I am a stranger to you?"

At that moment, the goddess Martamo saw the young prince's distress and decided to pull some strings. Illuvitar's Loom of Fate is weaving together many strings, even unto this day. Some of those strings are alone and fade without becoming a part of the greater narrative.  Others merge to form larger strings, and those strings become lines. Of those lines, none stood out more vibrantly than the Line of Estelondo, and it was that line, that Martamo began pulling the strings of.

Deep within their hearts, both Percival and Faramaurea felt a pulling, as Metimafoa's eyes plead his case before them. Faramaurea stepped forward again, "Who are you, aifæ, that we would recognise you in our heart of hearts, in strings that have not been pulled since those we loved departed?"

Metimafoa fell to his knees, causing Rainëwen to kneel beside him in concern. "I am one of those you loved, timannyan." He took his fiancée's hand, and she drew him to his feet, but his eyes remained locked on the emerald pools of his sister.

Faramaurea stared back, and it was only in those eyes that he saw a spark of recognition turn in face into a spark of hope. "Metimafoa? Siv celtëwn sú fahm?"

Percival stood wordless in shock, but after a moment, doubt entered his mind. "Metimafoa? Nesannyan, it cannot be." He took her arm, pulling her aside. "I understand your desire to find him, but you cannot simply--"

She cut him off. "Look into his eyes, Percival. Some things cannot lie." Rainewen cleared her throat to draw their attention, and Faramaurea smiled an apology. "Begging your pardon, friends; we needed to discuss something quickly." She extended a hand to her younger brother's fiancée, "Greetings. As you are already aware, my name is Faramaureä."

Rainëwen took her hand with great hesitancy, then seemed to remember herself. Dropping to one knee, she was caught by Métimafoa before she could complete the manoeuvre, but she shook off his hands. "My apologies, Regannyan, for the accommodations, or lack thereof. My name is Rainëwen; soon to be Rainëwen Estelondo, incidentally."

Faramaureä shot a glance to her younger brother, who, though he had been looking at her in shock, averted his eyes from her glance, before matching her gaze with the hope of the name he bestowed. Turning back to Rainëwen for confirmation, she watched the half-elven maiden open her closed hand. Inside lay the two bands.  "The Rings of Youthful Visage," Faramaureä whispered, her tone conveying reverence that so rarely graced her nonchalant demeanour. Clearing her throat, she ran and embraced him "Congratulations, toronnya!"

But behind her, Percival had been quiet, as he noticed someone was missing. I know how excited I was to see her. Where could she be? A dark thought sped through his mind, and he waved it off, but could not shake the feeling of dread it had left in its place. "Where is she?" he asked his brother, but Metimafoa's reaction of stepping back, and closing his eyes as though to hold back tears was an answer enough.

When a person feels a sudden loss, it is common for their subconscious to substitute the void created with a noise or feeling, but this was not the case for Percival. He heard no noise, and felt no pain as he fell to his knees on the hard wood floor. There was not even silence in the loss. He could still hear his siblings talking. He could still see his younger sister kneeling before him, concern in her eyes until at last she understood and closed her green pools. So green. So full of life, he thought. Just like Oroneminya used to be. Percival heard a voice that he knew was his own, but it was one he could not control. "How?" was all it said. All it could say.

Métimafoa took a deep breath and exhaled, before turning to his fiancée. "Rainëwen, could you fetch us some tea." She hesitated for a moment, but after a second's indecision, she went over to the small firepit they used as a stove. Grabbing the tea kettle, she gave a nod of solidarity to her fiancé, and walked through the still open door. After she had gone, Métimafoa walked over to his siblings, who still knelt, and helped them up. He led them gently over to the couch he had built of cyprus, in the dimly lit interior of the cabin. Sitting them down, he pulled a chair over from the table of the three-room cabin, and sat opposite them. Faramaureä sat with her eyes closed and fingers laced together as though in a light meditative state, but her face was drawn tight, as she held it all in. Percival, on the otherhand, leaned forward as his brother sat. His eyes were brimming with tears, but rare was the jewel that fell from its coffer and streaked the Prince's face. 

"How?" he asked again, and Metimafoa took a deep breath and pushed a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Rainëwen entered from the outside, dripping and grimacing. 

"It's wet out," she stated, shaking her hair in a futile effort to dry her hair. "In fact," she said, holding the kettle aloft, "this was half full by the time I reached the river. Obviously, I emptied it out first, but I wasn't waiting out there any longer after I filled it." She walked out to the kitchen and placed the kettle on the firepit spit, so it hung over the fire.

She continued bustling around the kitchen, but Metimafoa turned back to his siblings, neither of whom appeared to have moved from their original positions. "I am not quite sure where to begin," Metimafoa began, clasping his hands together on his lap. "I was very young when we left our homeland; I can barely remember it. The same goes for much of my early journey, though there are images. I remember boating with Oroneminya, and her injuries from that. I remember meeting Nolgaion and her father; I remember staying in the teleportation realm, and it is there that my memories stop being images, and start being memories."

With that as his beginning, the youngest heir of Meneltarma told his older siblings all that had come to pass since his memory began. The two sometimes interrupted to ask questions but he answered them with haste and continued. He told of their river adventure, their time in the teleportation realm, their time in canoes, and their time just before her death. Then he spoke of his suicide attempt, the hundred years he had spent in mourning, and the morning of the funeral. He concluded with his engagement to Rainëwen, who came over and rested a hand on his shoulder as he spoke. It was only as he concluded, however, that she brought out the tea, and four stoneware mugs with it.

Even after she had brought it out, none of them touched the tea at first. It rested before them as the four fey children sat in silence, unable to find words to fill the space where their sister had been. And that is the terrible thing about loss; you can bridge the hole left by it, but never again shall that hole be filled. Percival sat with his eyes downcast, and Faramaureä sat there meditating. The tear streaks on the face of the Last Daughter of Elorean made it clear that she had heard every word her younger brother had said. 

Eventually, Percival reached out and picked up his mug, and clasped it between his hands, as though absorbing the heat out of it. "I wish it had been me, instead," he whispered.

"Don't be foolish, Percival," Metimafoa reprimanded. "If either of us were to die in her stead; it should have been me. After all, she wouldn't have been injured if I had not tried to go back for Nolgaion."

"You are both being foolish," Faramaureä stated. "Our sister would not have wanted either of you to die in her stead. She would have wanted you to live beautiful, vibrant lives, and here you are just wasting time feeling sorry for yourselves." She turned to her older brother, "You remember Skye in the Castle of Chameleons? Do you remember how he described funerals there, and simplified your reaction to them?"

Percival paused in thought. "He accused me of being selfish and thinking of my loss at a funeral, and said that we should celebrate the life they lived. Why does that matter?"

"We'll come back to that," she said, before facing her younger sibling. "Métimafoa, what did Nolgaion tell you you needed to do when you met her volerin?"

"She told me to live for her, in return for her dying for me,"Métimafoa answered. "but I did not ask for such a burden."

"And we must do the same for our departed sister," she said in a way that was reminiscent to Percival of their mother's fire. "Percival, I did not know her as well as you did. This loss is, in all likelyhood, is probably the hardest for you to bear, but I must lay one more burden upon you."

"What burden is that, Faramaureä?" Percival asked, feeling like he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

"A mere question."

"Then speak."

"What did she want more than anything in this world?"

Percival was struck dead in his tracks, "Do not dare to ask me that!" he whispered with vehemence. "I am not her keeper, nor could I know her mind. She was her own person, just as you are, and it is not my right to make that call!"

"Yes, it is, you damnedable fool!" Faramaureä replied, her voice reverberating throughout the house. "You are our King, Percival, like it or not. It is not only your right; it is your duty to make that call. So make it!"

Percival threw his mug against the wall, shattering it and causing his sister to flinch and close her eyes. "I am not your King! I never wanted it! The throne was our father's throne and you expect me to take it? No, never!" He turned an marched out of the house.

Faramureä took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The emeralds sparkled with tears, as she marched out after him. "Damn it all, Percival," she said in a soft, soothing tone. "Why do you refuse that which was always intended for you?"

Percival stood facing the tree-line and refused to meet her gaze. When he spoke, she was surprised to hear just how broken his voice was. "It was never intended for me, Faramaureä. Father had the throne for three years; the Usurper has had it longer than he has." He turned to look at her at last, but under her gaze, he turned away again. "Father should have held the throne forever. Mother should have ruled Elorean forever. There is no reason I should ever have become King. That was never the intended route. Father did not want me on his throne."

"He did not want to die either, Percival, but he made the call he needed to make." Faramaureä placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. "I disagree with you, brobtima, that they did not want you on the throne."

"On what grounds?"

"On the meaning of your name." Percival looked straight at her, and she matched his gaze. "Métimafoa: Last Breath. He was our mother's final breath. Faramaureä; Dawn Hunter, because I used to awake just before dawn and run up to the Battlements to watch the Sun rise in the east. Orónëminya; First Sister, named for her relation to you. She was your first sister." She lowered her hands from his shoulder, and explained "Percival; from the Elvish "Perci" meaning rule, and -"val," the conditional third person ending. Together, it tells of your fate; 'He will rule.'" She sighed as he turned away. "The throne was always going to be yours, Percival. The crown is yours to wear."

Percival looked away for a long time, looking at an area of the yard covered in ashes and dust. Then he walked over, and scooped some up in his hand, letting it fall through his fingers. "I do not want this crown," he said after a moment, watching the last of the ash fall away, "but Orónëminya was a stickler for responsibility. 'It's not about what you want, Percival; it's about what needs to be done,' she would say to me often." He sniffled and dusted off his hands. Wiping his tears, he marched back toward the house, and his sister followed.

Inside, Métimafoa was picking up the tea tray, on which lay the remnants of the broken mug and the other three. When he saw them, he explained "I tried to follow you out, but Rainëwen said you two needed a moment alone."

"Nothing we do is hidden from you, Métimafoa. You are our brother; what is ours is yours," Percival explained. "So it is with all things; our lives, our wealth," he paused, before adding, "our home." Percival straightened his posture, and said: "And because that is the case, we sought you for many years, not to run together, but because we are done running." Taking a deep breath, he said, "We have decided to take back Meneltarma, and we want you by our side."

"I am not opposed," the youngest prince said, "but we cannot hope to beat Gygax by strength of arms alone, Percival."

"No indeed," Rainëwen concurred, picking up the tray her fiancé had set down. "Gygax has more resources through your birthright than any but the Dwarves United Front."

"Don't worry, Rainëwen," Percival said with a sly smile, sitting down at the table in their living room. "If you would be so kind as to fetch me a quill and a pad of paper, I'll explain. I," he announced, pausing for emphasis, "have a plan."

There was silence for a moment, and then Faramaureä spoke. 

"Somehow, that doesn't comfort me at all."