Something white glistened before her, not so bright that it threatened. The rest of the world had dulled into silence and smoke, but this white thing moved sedately toward her, closer and closer until it reached down and touched her with its nose, revealing itself to be a white stag, antlers forking up into beyond. He was her friend. She knew him. And the moment he touched her. The pain in Emery's body began to dwindle until it was no more, leaving her in a restful, painless, contented state she realized she hadn't felt since Bres had first touched her. She knew she was free of his poison at last.

The stag backed away, and the world around Emery came into view. The temple was in pieces, its stones having either been blown away or crumbled, and the altar was a dark pile of ash and charcoal. Cullen helped Emery to her feet, and they looked at the remains of Balor's eye: dark, cooling streams of molten liquid latticing the ground around them. The earth itself was barren, the grass having burnt away, but they could see the starlit sky again, and it was touched with a pale seafoam green, harbinger of a rising sun. Bres's body lay in a charred heap, still smoldering with the delicate blue flames that shivered across his corpse. Emery stepped toward him and yanked Lugh's Spear from his remains, not caring one bit for decorum. At least Bres was gone. She was ashamed to think of how she'd come to almost not quite like but, in a gross way, crave his presence as he'd visited her in those visions. Emery knew it'd been the Darkness within her, but she was still angry and ashamed of her behavior.

"Emery," Cullen's voice drew her from her self-reflection, and though she'd heard him say her name many times, it was as if a veil had been lifted, and the velvet smoothness, the comfort and pureness of her name on his lips, touched something deep within her. "Or is it Emer, Lady?" he added somewhat playfully as she stepped toward him.

"It's whichever you prefer in the moment," she replied, smiling. "But both Emer and Emery absolutely hate this dress. I really need to get rid of it." The white garment was definitely no longer white, covered in blood and blackness and singed as it was.

Cullen's emerald eyes sparkled. "I can help you with that later, to be sure, but for now--" He nodded to the side, and Emery looked to find the beautiful white stag standing at the remains of the stone pillars, watching them, wanting them to follow.

Glancing at Cullen, Emery nodded, and the two of them made their way around the emberous streams and toward the shimmering image of the stag, who slowly moved past the bounds of the temple and into the meadow beyond. With each step they took into that dead field, the grass turned a little greener, and the flowers began to perk up on their stems, color seeping back into them. Blues and white, lavender and scarlett, buds reforming, petals expanding, leaves uncurling. As the sun pulled itself slowly above the distant horizon, casting its ethereal sheen across the land, touching on the wings of alighting creatures just woken, a soft pinkish haze hovered like a mystical frost over the meadow, and the white stag moved slowly through it, toward the magnificent yew tree that had risen in protection of Cullen and Emery.

When they passed the places where the bodies of Elatha and the goat man had fallen, they were surprised to find nothing more than ash. And when they looked into the center of the yew, they found the Dagda's cauldron, normal-sized, just as it'd always looked to them.

The stag paused at the yew, turned and with its large black eyes regarded Emery, who watched as the creature bent to its knee before her in a bow of obeisance. The girl inclined her head in thanks, and then she watched as the animal rose and, all of a sudden, a woman stepped forth from the depths of the yew tree. She was wild, her dress made of rushes, a young buck's antlers at the sides of her head, dark marks around her eyes, but she possessed a sort of savage beauty that was familiar to Emery. The woman stood by the stag, draping her thin brown arm over its back, and said, "Daughter."

Emery was confused, but she was also in awe of this beautiful woodland figure. "You--you're my mother?"

The wild woman nodded.

"But how? Who are you?"

"I am Flidais of the Tuatha Dé, and you are my Emer."

Emery had so many questions, but before she could say anything more, another figure emerged from within the yew, this time a tall russet-haired warrior, wrapped in a green cloak with a silver brooch, his tunic underneath as golden and shining as the rising sun. In one hand, he held a forked spear. Had his skin been less bronzed, he might've in fact resembled Cullen who, Emery saw, was staring in all seriousness at this figure.

"Father," Cullen said, much to Emery's surprise.

"Cuchulain," intoned the warrior.

Emery looked from one to the other. A terrible thought occurred to her. "Wait a second--we aren't--Cullen and I--"

"Certainly not!" responded the unknown male. "I am Lugh, of the Tuatha Dé, and my son's mother was a mortal, as was," he turned to Emery, "your father." He bounced his shoulders back and forth a little, added defensively, "We on occasion take mortal lovers."

Flidais moved slightly; the rushes of her garment rustled like wind in the grass. The Goddess's face shone; tiny blue bits of light moved around her--the fae lights Emery had seen so often.

"You sent the stag--" she said, and her mother nodded, "--and the lights!"

"I was always with you."

"And I saw you! At Tara--the night . . ."

"Of your handfasting." Flidais leaned against the stag's head, and he in turn nuzzled her.

"Why haven't you told me until now?"

"Oh, my flower, my love, my golden darling," Flidais replied unhelpfully.

"To prove you were worthy!" Lugh chimed in gruffly. "Half-mortals must find their own way to Tír na nÓg. And you, my son, you and your bride, you have shown your valiance, your courage, your resilience. You have earned your place amongst us."

But Emery was confused, and she was hurt. "Courage and resilience? You all wanted me dead! You would've had me killed in that sacrifice! And those--those children . . . you had them murdered."

"Oh, my child, no," Flidais calmly replied, something of a babbling brook in her voice. "We would never abide by the harm of innocent life."

Cullen was as concerned as Emery was. "Explain," he insisted, turning to his father.

Lugh, while apparently a little rough around the edges, seemed more likely to offer information than Flidais, whose dainty and rather airy qualities gave her all the look of a large fae child. "The Fomorians required those sacrifices, not us. Who do you think started all of it but that primordial druid Mug Ruith? He knew the prophecy; those creatures couldn't be freed until--"

"Someone wasn't sacrificed that should've been. Right," Emery cut in. "That was me."

"But," Lugh pressed, giving a bit of a surprised eye at Cullen, "it couldn't have been any old unsacrificed child. It had to be one of ours, a half-mortal. So they waited centuries for one, and then you came, with that softhearted druid of yours unable to follow through. Ever after that, they waited for you, until a time they could take you for their own."

"Why didn't you put a stop to these sacrifices long ago?" Cullen asked sternly.

Lugh clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "They were not of our doing. We Gods do not often traffic with mortals. Who can understand the ways of them?"

"But—our fate—" Emery tried. "Did we not defy it? Weren't you angry at us?"

"Defy it?" Lugh half-laughed. "You fulfilled it! From your births, we knew you were destined for one another."

"But you had to find your way," Flidais added somewhat dreamily. More would've been asked had not the wild woman suddenly chirped, "It is time!"

Just as she said it, the sun made its climb over the horizon, and the meadow was bathed in a golden-amber glow, turning it into the heavenly empyrean of Emery's dreams and visions, where she'd found herself wandering over and over again. To the left was a forest, though it looked somewhat less dark, now, and to her distant right, where she'd never quite been able to turn, the outline of a magnificent city began to form, traced as if from silver, towers and spires, domes and pennants flowing in the breeze, clouds hovering about the tops of points and peaks, walkways and bridges, trees shrouded in mist, scintillating water cascading in falls from the walls and rock. Windows and doorways and gates and every manner of detail formed out of the very sky, and over it all was suspended a pearly, glimmering aura, the very stuff of enchantment.

By the time Emery could pull her gaze from the far-off city, she turned back to another surprise. The while she and Cullen had been staring at the apparition in the distance, many, many more figures had emerged and were still emerging from the interior of the yew, standing in rows upon rows, argent and glittering, golden and mythical, the many, many Gods and Goddesses Emery had seen when she'd entered their portal in Tara. The host of the Tuatha Dé, beautiful and strange and majestic, great warriors and stunning maidens, ancient wizards and mighty royals, curious tricksters and dashing poets--so many, and as in her previous vision, they looked at her and, now, at Cullen, as if waiting for something to happen.

"You must choose, daughter," Flidais sang, as charming as a bluebird.

"Choose?" Emery asked.

"Come home to us," added Lugh, looking to his son. "Come home."

Emery turned to Cullen, knowing he was as torn as she, and they took one another's hand. "If we do not," Cullen asked, "does it mean we may never return here?"

Before Lugh or Flidais could respond, a large man in white robes stepped forth from the gathering. His snowy hair was long and curling, his beard close-trimmed. His features were worn but jocular, and his eyes twinkled. "I am The Dagda," he spoke. "And I shall answer you. You may live freely here, or you may live freely in the mortal world. The choice is yours. Should you choose to leave us, now, your lives may be full of hardship. You will feel pain, and you will weep, and you will eventually suffer death. But there will be joy as well, and love, and friendship. When you do die in the mortal world, at whatever time you are called, you will return to the kingdom you see beyond, your home, Tír na nÓg, where you will be welcomed into our open arms."

Tears formed in Emery's eyes, just as her choice formed in her heart. The way Cullen pressed her hand, she was sure he agreed with her. And The Dagda was sure of their answer, as well.

Gesturing toward the yew tree, the old man said, "We offered you our treasures, so that you might use them along your journey. Keep them; use them as you need. They will return with you, but be forewarned--my cauldron can ne'er be used for resurrection again. However, should you have a need, it will never be empty of sustenance."

"And you wield my spear better than my own son would, I wager," Lugh interjected with an almost-laugh toward Emery. "I'm proud to call you daughter." He stepped forward and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the tip of his spear, which Emery still held at a distance from herself so the acid wouldn't harm her, and the minute he did, the blood ceased dripping.

"What of the Fomorians?" Cullen asked, somewhat impatiently. "We killed only but a few. The druid--"

"And the woman!" Emery added.

The Dagda lifted a hand, and they ceased talking. "You've not killed any of them, only sent them back to the foul pocket of the earth from which they crawled. Evil will always be with us," he noted in response to their dismayed expressions. "You cannot eradicate it. And yet, I believe they've been quelled for some while. At least a thousand years or so." He glanced back at the others, who nodded and murmured in agreement. And then he did a strange thing, first saying, "And we have you to thank for it, my Lord and Lady," and he inclined his head so low his chin almost touched his knee. At his action, every one of the host of the Tuatha Dé followed, until all of the crowd of Gods and Goddesses was bent over in genuflection.

Emery turned to Cullen in awe, unsure how to respond to such reverence, but he, too, was uncertain.

When the host lifted their heads once more, they began to leave, slowly, in twos and threes, turning into the meadow and moving toward the city in the distance. Emery was enraptured with them, their movements, their attire, their beauty, so that she was startled when a woman cloaked in black and gold approached her. Dark feathers dripped from her arms and twined in her thick, raven hair. In one hand she held a staff tipped in twine and an onyx globe; a crow perched atop it. She possessed a dangerous beauty, and she gave Cullen a look Emery didn't altogether like. Ultimately, though, the woman, claiming herself as The Morrígan, lowered her head before Emery, saying, "It is only true love could overcome my edict. You are worthy, Lady." Then she stepped aside and joined the others in retreat.

The procession continued, and soon there were few left. The Dagda spoke once more, saying, "There is one wishes to see you, before you go. Forgive him his faults, for it was we who caused him his grief and forced his meddling. Lord, Lady--I look forward to the blessed day we meet again."

The Dagda turned, and from behind him stepped Lir, radiant in all his oceanic attire, looking happier and taller than he had ever looked. With no reservation, he hugged first Emery, then Cullen, who managed to offer a swift embrace in surprised return. "I've my memory back!" Lir claimed, beaming. "It was they that hid myself from me, sending me off to protect you."

"So they made you think you were Adam? That . . . doesn't make sense to me."

"Who can understand the ways of the Gods?" Lir laughed slightly.

"You did stick up for me a lot," Emery recalled. "And you tried to chase away my husband."

Lir blushed sheepishly. "I recall meeting you, at Tara. I recall tasking you with the Four Treasures. They meant it as security that I failed to remember it all, thinking to keep you safe in oblivion, and I, as well. I don't believe they were prepared for Cuchulain and his druid to send me home!" He shook his head, flattened his smile. "I shall have words with them. You were right, Lady Emer, that our judgment of you was wrong. We Gods are imperfect as mortals." He leaned forward, whispered, "Though we prefer if you don't tell us." Lir winked, then straightened. With a nod toward Cullen, one final smile toward Emery, he, too, turned to join those last few who were wandering away into the meadow.

Last to go were Flidais and Lugh, who held their children and their children's lovers in their arms, expressed regret to leave them but joy at having met at last.

"Mother," called Emery toward Flidais's and the stag's departing figures, a tremor in her voice. She jogged a few steps toward the Goddess. "Please, I don't understand. Why did you leave me as a child? Why couldn't you have stayed with me?"

Flidais gazed at her daughter with her large brown eyes, and within them, Emery recognized a forest alive with wildlife, fluttering birds and soft small creatures, foxes and badgers and deer, drinking at the river and climbing through the trees, nesting and burrowing, the beauty of their natural world around them, and she knew: this woman was untamed. She was as free and uncultivated as the animals she cared for. Such a woman, Goddess or no, could never have raised a child.

Emery embraced Flidais one last time, whispering only, "We'll meet again," and then she and Cullen returned to the chamber inside the yew and let it fold its curtain around them.