The sun seemed to be absorbed into the hood of the man who sat beside the pond, contemplating the ripples in the water as the occasional fish surfaced. Despite the heat, his face remained hidden by the cowl, his hands gloved in leather.

Faint whisps of silver-white hair are lifted from the depths of the hood, glinting in the sunshine. His kind were not meant for the sunlight... He knew that. And despite years of living in the Forest, he still found it uncomfortable to be in direct sunlight, without a hood.

Also glinting in the sun was a silver gryphon symbol, wrapped around the elven sigil for healer; barely visible under the cloak.

He tugged at a strand of grass, brushing his hands over it gently, watching the water, as it it were a scrying bowl. Memories washing over him, reminding him of what he had done, scant days ago.

His father was warning him, between blood-frothed coughs, against rash decisions. A tear stained his cheek, emitted from the golden eyes unwillingly. He let the wind take the blade of grass, watching as it wended a lazy route over the water, before sinking down to float on the ripples.

He had seen the withered husk his sister had become before he spotted his uncle. The chants of Jayyge's incantation seemed to pull on him, drawing him into a state of semi-consciousness.

He hadn't seen his father stab Jayyge in the stomach, before coughing his last, a puddle of blood flowing from his mouth as the convulsions took him.

Kyrelen's strength had come then, from the knowledge that he was the last. He broke Jayyge's spell by killing his sister, slicing through the thin neck with ease, then turning and doing the same for Jayyge....

The last he remembered of that battle was seeing the smug satisfaction in his uncle's eyes before the backlash of Tssyrial's power had drawn him in, towards oblivion.

A soft whimper escaped him, followed by a cough. His hands moved to his side, as if by holding tight he could stop the slow rot of the Bone-water dust that had blanketed the Forest.

Slowly, he lay on his side, waiting for the wracking cough to ease, holding a black silk cloth to his lips, to hide the blood.

Slowly, he inhaled the sweet air of this inn, closing his eyes, letting the life-giving air revive him. He reached for a small pouch at his waist, looking in. Just three leaves left, maybe enough for a week, maybe more. But when they were gone, he would have to die, the bone-water dust rotting his lungs from the inside.

Pulling out a leaf, he slid it under his tongue, the bitterness of the herb almost causing him to gag.

Sighing, he closed his eyes again, putting the pouch back on his belt. It was getting worse. Each coughing fit left him weakened, barely able to stand now.

With his eyes closed, the bitter herb in his mouth brought back memories that were even more bitter.

The darkness of the Palace, just before it's fall. He sat in his grandmother's bedroom, holding the lifeless hand of Helena, watching as the blood seeping from her frail body stained the white satin sheets.

Darkness, it was almost comforting to him to be here, with no lights on. Drifting on the air in the distance, he could hear the lament for the fallen; a song that had not ceased now in three weeks, as one by one the Forest's people had fallen. Those who were young, sickly or frail had died first, quite mercifully, without pain. That first night had seen nearly three hundred deaths.

He had sung his own share of the lament, had sat in prayer while others around him had died.

His father had started to cough after one week, the day his sister, Dieride, had passed to the shadowlands. He sighed, hugging his knees to his chest, wishing this were over. Wishing that these memories had never existed.

''Father...'' the word escaped parched lips, as he remembered the kindly face, slowly growing thinner, a growing frailty in his father's once-agile form.

Old though he felt, Kyrelen was still but a boy, merely one and a half centuries old. His heart was breaking now; now that he had a chance to grieve... Now that none could witness his weakness...

Slowly, he rises back to a sitting position, the leaf in his mouth now nothing more than a mess of ash. He swallowed the last, feeling it's bitter magic working, holding back the sickness.

He hoped that the youngster that was his sister would come back, before he ran out of herbs. Either that, or Lady Black would be around somewhere near here and could help him find the right herbs.

What was he thinking? Lady Black, right now... Wasn't Lady Black. He frowned, brushing some dried grass from his cloak. What had the name of her first husband been? Hmmm. Darque? Yes, that was it. Lady Blackstone-Darque.

He tried to remember where she was living at the time he had arrived... But the sickness was starting to rob him of the intricacies of inane information. He sighed. For all he knew, she was staying here at the Inn... Or wandering the soul planes, banished.

He shook his head, biting back another sigh. It was a hopeless situation now, that was a fact.

He reached up, brushing his hood back, the wind catching and blowing freely through his long silver-white hair. The sun kissed his ebony skin, it's colour matched by the burning desire in the golden eyes sunken into the black face.

He reached up, wiping his cheeks as he felt the cold air. He frowned, had he been crying? Was the pain getting so bad that he lost control of his emotions now?

He sighed, drying his face on the corner of his cloak, then raising eyes of golden hue to watch the water.

Eventually, he stood, moving to the relative shade of the nearby forest, walking through the mottled shadows. He felt more at home here; this was what his home had BEEN like.

Another tear found it's way down his cheek as the memory of burning trees and terror caught him unaware.

He had been scouting that day, watching the Christians from afar; wary of another attack. But what the keen eyes of the four scouts positioned there had failed to see was that only a portion of the Christians were camped there.

The acrid scent of burning wood had reached them, barely seconds before the alarm. He had jumped from the tree he was in, sprinting back towards the main settlement... Too late.

He had watched helplessly as the main hospital and temple complex had caved in on itself.

He had struggled on the fireline for four days and four nights straight, with no sleep.

Eventually, begrimed and exhausted, he had collapsed.

He was not the first to do so, nor the last. But the firelines were triumphant and half of the Forest had been saved... That time.

Slowly, feeling that exhaustion again, he sank to his knees in the middle of the path, a choked sob escaping him.

The firelines. It wasn't the last time he had fought the red, lashing tongues of fire, intent on destroying their forest home.

A fist hammered on the packed earth of the path, a sense of futility filling his exhausted frame.

"Damnit! I cannot give up! I WILL not give up..." he choked out, his tears now uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

In his minds-eye he saw the Lady Black, her arm blackened by the fire that had touched her, seared her to the bone. He knew that underneath the white funerary robes that shrouded her that most of her body had been consumed by flame already. He had watched in silence before, had stood to attention as a Captain of the Order of the Gryphon, a disciple of hers and a master healer in his own right.

But now, unfettered by tradition and duty, he sobbed. He had been unable to save the one woman who meant the most to him. His own aunt had died, because of Kyrelen's inability to save her.

He choked, sobbing, the grief within him consuming all reason, while he finally allowed it an outlet.

Eventually the tears stopped, the soft choking dying down to muted cries. He was exhausted once more, the tempest of emotion now drained.

Kneeling up, he closed his eyes, trying to summon to himself a measure of calm, trying to use the techniques he had been taught; meditation before healing.

This was the last time he would grieve. He was the last one left, the only survivor of the Forest. All else were dead, all those great trees destroyed, the spirit of the Forest; the Heart of the Forest destroyed in flame.

Armageddon had come and gone. And the survivor now had a limited time to deliver his message.

Who knows, perhaps it will even work. Perhaps this time around, Kyrelen will not have to kill his sister, Tssyrial.

He stood now, pulling his hood up around his face again and moving deeper into the Forest, to find a resting place for the night.