Snow rested on the King's Tent that sat on the imaginary line that split the field. The bitter cold accosted them on a grey-skied day, leaving only the footprints of the three remaining heirs as they approached the battle tent. "I thought we had left this weather behind when we left the Vale," Metimafoa grumbled, drawing his outer-cloak around himself.

"Unfortunately, winter comes once a year. We closed out autumn in the vale, but The God of Winter could not be held at bay for long." Percival shivered under his coat, shooting a glare at his sister. "How are you not cold?"

"I am, Percival, but I am willing to ignore it. I have other things on my mind." She looked around the field and grimaced. "You do understand, that if everything goes into our favour, that the ground will so be stained with red and brown. Mostly of those loyal to us."

Percival stopped them at the tent flap. "Stick to the plan. We can't afford any variances."

As they entered in age order, Gygax counted the three before him. "Hello, Children." He paused waiting for the fourth, but none of them spoke. "When you left My Kingdom, there were four of you. Where is--"

"Do not dare to say her name, Pig," Metimafoa interrupted. "You are not worthy of having it pass from your lips!"

Percival pushed back on his brother's chest. Metimafoa turned away from the table and rested a hand against the tent post, and placed hi other over his mouth,

Gygax understood his reaction as he had experienced it before. "How did she die?" He asked, keeping his tone level.

Metimafoa didn't turn, but he answered quietly "She was struck by a poisoned crossbow bolt outside of Copaostirion."

A coldness seized his heart, and he closed his eyes. Visions of Hunawen popped up before him, and when he opened his eyes, she was still there, in Faramaurea. They were the spitting image of each other, but it seemed that the older sister matched her fate. "That was not my men. I am truly sorry that she went in such a way. No one deserves to go like that."

Percival was enraged. "Do not defile her memory with your words, bastard. You will not speak of her!"

Gygax stood up, his anger returning. "Do you think you are the only one who has ever lost someone they loved? Do you think you are the only one who has thought, late at night If only it had been me, and not her? No one deserves to go like that! Not even the scum who took her from me!" He paused realising that he was shouting. "Do not misunderstand; I am not deterred by the fact that she is dead. I sought only the return of Percival, and my wife. But I am truly sorry that she went in the way that she did. Do not presume to know me."

As Gygax sat back down, simmering with rage, Faramaurea looked at him, not with pity, but with understanding. "Who was she?"

"It doesn't matter now, My Queen. Too many years have gone by," he said

"But the wound has yet to heal," Faramaurea stated, certainty in her voice, but she pressed him no further.

"Unlike my sister," Percival said with a pointed glance, "I am not here to talk about your history. I am here to end this game of cat and mouse." Taking off a glove, he said "I don't have much respect for you, Gygax, but I trust you are a man of honour. I challenge you to a one on one duel to the death, for the Kingdom." He set it down before The Elder King, who sat up.

"Do you take me for a fool, Percival?" he asked, throwing the glove back to the Prince. "I am no wizard, nor am I a druid. Each of your family member slaughtered at least ten well-trained guards who were following the order of their king." Leaning back, he stated, "Plus, I have no incentive to dueling you. My army is ten times the size of yours. It is well provisioned, well-fed, and warmed in the fires of their homes. Your army is a minimal threat at best. And I can have this insurrection against a rule organised by your father, put down violently enough that no one will rise again against the power of our rule."

"Dueling me saves lives!" he exclaimed in shock.

"And at what cost? My risk factor goes up drastically your way."

Percival frowned. "I have nothing to offer you. I thought the proffer of saving lives would be enough."

"I issue two points," Gygax stated calmly, "And you address one to say that you have no way to address it? Someone should have told you to be a king."

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance," Metimafoa said, turning around and pulling off his left leather glove. Setting it down he said, "You may not have fired the bolt that killed her," or Nolgaion, for that matter, "But if we hadn't been forced from our home, they would still draw breath. I, Metimafoa Estelondo, last son of Morelanor and Saironellotoron II, challenge you to a duel, you dighted whelp."

Gygax picked up the glove and held it gently in his hand. "You still haven't proffered a sufficient incentive. I already have a high chance of victory, and those who perish will be traitors. Where is my motive to take up this challenge."

The three of them stood in an arena of their own, almost entirely forgetting the third heir in the tent. "What about..." Faramaureä paused and swallowed the bile and bulge that arose in her throat. "What about me?" The three looked at her in confusion. "If you win, Gary, I will go with you willingly."

"And will you assume the duties of a king's wife?" Gygax asked, turning toward her with eyes that were surprisingly soft, if eager.

Faramaureä swallowed again. The youngest daughter of Estelondo was well-known around the cities and woods around their house as a bright-eyed, carefree lass, and it was this sudden rise of maturity in the face of futility that brought a tear to Percival's eye, as she said "I will do what is required of the office you allot to me."

"Are you sure about this, Faramaureä?" her younger brother asked, caution evident in his voice, but it wasn't either of them who spoke next.

"I accept," Gygax said, pocketing the glove, causing them all to turn. "I have my motivations, Children, just as you have yours. I accept your terms. Tomorrow at dawn?"

In spite of the fact that it had been one of their terms, the two male heirs were still so in shock that all they could do was nod. Gygax bowed slightly, and walked out, leaving them alone with your thoughts.

"Metimafoa?"

"Yes, Faramaureä?"

"If you don't win, I'll be dead by teatime tomorrow. This relies on you."

She turned on a heel an walked out, leaving Percival alone with the youngest of their line. "You don't think she'd actually do it, do you, Percival?"

"She has suffered more than any of us, Metimafoa," he answered, his eyes following her as she trudged through the blanket of white that listed down and settled on the broken ground. "I do not know what she would do."

"Surely she wouldn't go that far?"

Turning toward Metimafoa, he stated "As an alternative to living with the man who took the freedom away from a girl who only ever wanted to be free? I think it's a distinct possibility." He held open the tent flap, and gestured with his head for the youth to go out. And that scares me to no end, Percival thought to himself, before following his siblings through the wintry snow.

. . .

The torches that illuminated the canopy of the tent flicked with wanton abandon. Supper had come and gone without her, much to her older brother's dismay. I need time to think, she rationalised, and talking through my feelings has never been my way. She shivered in the cold air, having run out of fuel for the fire, and refusing to allow more trees to be harmed for her leisure. Pulling a blanket from her bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders, and sat down before the smouldering ashes of the fire. I can't allow any more loss of life, but I'll be damned to a life of agonising misery if I have to be with him, and bear his children. She shuddered in spite of the blankets, and decided to get out of her wet dress, as she hadn't really moved since the earlier meeting.

Taking of her brown leather vest, she drapped it over a chair to dry. I cannot abide with him; certainly not if he kills yet another one of us, and kills or captures our King. She untied her shoulder straps and slipped out of the green dress, throwing it into the corner. Then she grabbed a towel, and dried herself. No part of me is actually willing to live with him.

Then why did you offer yourself to him? Her subconscious asked, and she sighed.

No part of me was willing to have people die for my sake, either. It is an unwinnable choice in response to a possible situation. My alternative was to explain to the army's men that I expected them to die for me without risking my life for them.

None of them would have blamed you for not wanting to give yourself to him.

She picked up a wool and cotton gown with long sleeves and pulled it on, weaving the satin rope that bound it together through the ghillie holes that bound it together. She sat down before the ashes once more and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders again. They might not have blamed me, but I would have been responsible for every one of their deaths. And while living with Gygax might be agony, she conceeded, at least I would be living whereas those who would have died for our cause would not be so lucky. She let down her hair out of its pigtails and halo braid, and then tied it back loosely with a small piece of dried vine from her bag.

You aren't lucky, Faramaureä. If anything, you're cursed. Her subconsious responded dryly. Your mother dies and the land goes into famine, then your father has himself killed to save the kingdom, then the man who ordered the death of your father rapes you, and in a blow of pure cruelty, kills all of your aunts, uncles, and your remaining grandparents.

I may not be lucky, but some have had it worse...

Who? Who could have suffered worse?

The mother who watched her children and husband starve during the famine, in an attempt to refrain from cannibalism. She bit her lip contemplatively. At least I didn't have to watch them all die.

And yet, the internal voice said, only you had to flee your home and live on the lam for several years. Now you offer yourself as a sacrifice for the Kingdom. Surely you've suffered the most.

Faramaureä grimaced. I don't spend much time in the past for a reason, but pain is pain. The suffering of one person does not discredit the pain of another.

Yet you must suffer further?

"That is the responsibility of a Queen," She whispered, laying on the bed in the fetal position, wrapping the blanket around her. "I have to serve my people, and if I must suffer for it, so be it." Her subconscious spoke no further and she shuffled slightly under her coverings. I never wanted to be a queen. Just a druid, and a friend. With that final thought, and no small amount of tossing and turning, Faramaureä fell into sleep's cold embrace.

. . .

The realm she awoke to was warm, not so much so that she was uncomfortable. It was as warm as the late spring in Le Elorean, and as far as she was concerned, that was just perfect. Anchoring her hands to sit up, she was immediately aware of the strange texture, and opened her eyes. The purple grass oozed through her fingers like the jello her mother had made her, and there were footprints in it, no bigger than those of a halfling. Looking up, her eyes were met by crystal trees that glistened in the sunlight. "What in the...?" She stood, and looked around, immediately taking note of a small gilded crystal cabin in the distance with smoke rising out of it. She also noticed a small, grey-skinned humanoid with tri-colour horns. "Hello. What are you called?"

It shook its head and pointed toward the cabin. "thcanaf ga dais át." She had no idea what it was saying, but she understood intuitively that it wanted to to go to the cabin. She began to walk forward, walking carefully as to not slip on the grass, but she found that it wasn't as slippery as it had felt to the touch. She began to sprint toward the cabin, accidentally leaving her guide behind as she reached the cabin, and knocked on the door. "Come in, Ryiel ayo Estolsten." Opening the door, Faramaureä saw a stone, round table, and at it sat three goddesses, or so they appeared. Their garments were all completely different, with one dressed in blue and green, the second garbed in a suit of terracotta armor, and the last in a shimmering white gown. It was the third who spoke, and again she spoke to say: "My name is Vivien, and these are my sisters, Curwënne and Martamo. Long have we been interested in your line, even before it began." She smiled sympathetically, her blue eyes and long blonde braid as radiant as her gown. Her hair was tied back with a daisy. "We often work in the background, but there are times of extreme importance where we need the world to go a certain way. This moment is one of those times."

"Enough mitigation, Vivien," Curwënne said. "Hiding the truth doesn't help anyone." She clasped her hands together before her and said, "You can't kill yourself."

Faramaureä stood before them, unashamed of her thoughts. "I will not live with him."

"Then the world will burn and we will die," Vivien said. There was no anger in her words, but a sense of sadness. "I don't hate the idea of death; Mordelisk and I have been cooperating for centuries now, but I love this world. I want it to live."

"Your brother and your husband, much like Thaurgurn himself, are industrialists. The will continue to build and reap, and Le volkir Alacrin amyácal, celtdrom." Curwënne stated, switching to the Aifae tongue with ease. "But the forests and grasslands will burn beneath their fire. Le gild ar Sesce ayo emocera namcúl ar firicúl."

"Tolkawn le tolkien ayo le Aifæ?" Faramaureä asked in shock.

"And those of the dwarves, Changelings, orcs, and teiflings." She said, "But that isn't what's important. Without you, the cities will grow, but nature will wane until at last, it crumbles into nothing. And Alacrin will be angry and sad, but he might not react directly. He might just walk away." She stated, "But this is his third attempt at civilization. He might just start over and us deities die if that happens."

"What my sister is trying to say," Martamo explained, "Is that no matter who is on the throne, we need you by their side to hold them in check. Otherwise, the world will cease to be as it once was."

Faramaureä turned away for a moment in contemplation, but she felt anger pulsing through her, and barely restrained it as she said, "Am I to have no choice in the matter?"

"You always have a choice, Your Majesty. But sometimes you only have one choice that stands for that which is right, and you limit yourself to it," Vivien explained. "I do not hate death, but I certainly don't like it. But all life would end if all life continued indefinitely. That's why Alacrin took away the immortality of the low fey."

"How did he take it away? I thought Alacrin could only create?" The Daughter of Estolsten asked, actually curious in spite of her situation.

"He allowed death and war to continue, and by doing so he allowed magic to fade."

Suddenly, Curwënne's eyes flashed white. "He's coming. I have to go."

"Then we have to send her back."

"Wait," Farmaureä ordered. "What is this place?"

Martamo smiled, "We're in a house your sister built when she stayed here, in what is technically the Dream Realm, but you know it better as the Teleportation Realm." Curwënne's eyes flashed red, and she sighed.

"We're too late." She threw out a hand, opening a portal behind Faramaureä and falling to the ground.

"Go!" Vivien threw out a hand of her own and knocked Faramaureä through the portal with only a last glance of Martamo catching her sister in her arms.

. . .

The next morning, Métimafoa awoke to Percival and Faramaureä talking in the main room of the tent he shared with the general. The tent was fully open, with no flaps cutting off the bedrooms, which is why he threw a blanket over himself when he realised he was undressed. "What are you all doing here?"

"We're here to prepare you for the duel, and to discuss what happened to Faramaureä last night," Percival answered.

"Is everything alright, Faramaureä?"

Percival answered before she could. "Everything is fine. We'll explain after the duel. I don't want anything else on your mind." He pointed to a wooden tub with steel bands and said, "Lady Rainëwen was kind enough to draw you a bath, so please get in with marked haste."

"I'm not a Lady, Your Majesty," her voice called from outside the tent, and it was only then that Metimafoa smelled the cooking meat and potatoes.

Percival grimaced. "I swear to you, I'm going to make a village and appoint her as it's head just to prove a point."

Metimafoa laughed, and then sat there waiting for a moment, so Faramaureä said "I hate to rush you, but we are in a hurry."

"Aren't you going to leave?"

"We've seen it all before, Metimafoa, and we have to discuss your apparel for the duel. Get in," Percival said, splashing him with a handful of water.

Métimafoa begrudging dropped the blanket and got into the tub with a hiss, and then turned to his brother. "Did you take care of the bones, Percival?"

He nodded "I'm not sure how I feel about it, but the blacksmith should have the sword done in time. You would not believe how hard we had to scramble to build a forge." He looked at the white ghillie shirt his brother had been wearing for three days. "Remind me to find you another shirt to wear under your armour."

Métimafoa shook his head. "I don't want any armour, Percival. I've never used it before, and it would be foolish to start now."

Faramuareä shook her head. "You have to wear something for protection."

He pointed to his leather bracers. "Those will protect my hands, and besides that, all I need is speed."

"I don't like this course," Percival said, as the general walked into the tent. "Lord Canoelloestel, please talk some sense into him?"

"About?"

"He doesn't want to wear armour."

Canoelloestel sized Metimafoa up, which made him quite uncomfortable given his current lack of attire. "Rapier?" Métimafoa nodded, and he turned to Percival "Get him a leather vest. Anything else would harm more than help." Then he began to pack up his bedroll, catching glances of confusion from the other children. "What? We're not sleeping here again. No matter how today goes, I sleep in Meneltarma tonight." They tried to take heart, but the note of optimism could not keep up with the true meaning of his words.