MASS EFFECT: SIBLING TRILOGY
BOOK ONE: INSURRECTION
CMDR JOHN SHEPARD: Earthborn, Colonist, War Hero
LT. CMDR JANE SHEPARD: Ruthless, Sole-Surviving Spacer

In the year 2148, explorers on Mars discovered the remains of an ancient spacefaring civilization.  In the decades that followed, these mysterious artifacts revealed startling new technologies, enabling travel to the furthest stars.  The basis for this incredible technology was a force that controlled the very fabric of space and time.

They called it the greatest discovery in human history.

The civilizations of the galaxy call it…

MASS EFFECT

PRELUDE:  IN THE NAME OF SHEPARD


Captain David Anderson had sat at his private terminal nearly all night.  His eyes were weakening to the sting of lethargy, but time was running out.  A decision needed to be made.  He rubbed at his eyes and straightened his posture, returning his stare to the screen.  He had already looked at several files, but none of the names were enough.  None of these soldiers would be good enough.  None of them would be the man for the job.

And he had already told them as much.

“Well, what about Shepard?  He’d have our interests close at heart being Earthborn.”

This was the voice of Councilor Udina back on the Citadel pouring over the comm. inside the Captain’s office.

He had not considered that Udina would have suggested him.  Shepard had always been tugging at the back of Anderson’s mind, and he had wanted to put his name forward, but he had not been sure that the councilor would have approved the choice.

Anderson didn’t even have to look at the profile in front of him.  “Military service runs in the family.  Both his parents were in the navy.  His father, though, requested a post on Mindoir to raise him while Hannah traveled.”

The admiral, who was also present in the room via video comm. seemed to agree.  “He proved himself during the Blitz.  Held off enemy forces on the ground until reinforcements could arrive.”

“He’s the only reason Elysium is still standing,” added Anderson with a nod.

Then Udina chimed in.  “But some of our sources say he never quite recovered from his father’s death.”

Anderson shook his head, frustrated.  Anyone would carry the scars of seeing their parent die, but the massacre John Shepard had witnessed as an adolescent had surely caused more grief than most.  Anderson often wondered if that was the reason John had enlisted so soon after the incident.  “He knows how tough life can be.  I’d call that an asset.”  He hated referring to the death of Shepard’s father like some acceptable casualty--a slave raid was beyond acceptable--but Shepard already needed redeeming in Udina’s eyes, that was plain.

“Hmm, well we can’t question his courage,” said Udina, but he still did not sound convinced.

Anderson took that pause to make a bold move.  “There’s always his sister,” he piped in, and it was clear through the immediate frowns on both Udina and Hackett’s faces that this was a bad idea.  Anderson continued in their silence nonetheless.  “She’s a spacer, like her mother.  Lived aboard starships most of her life.”

When Hackett spoke it was with disdain.  “She got most of her unit killed on Torfan.  And she see saw her whole unit die on Akuze.  She could have some serious emotional scars.”

Now that they were even discussing the possibility of either of the Shepards, however, Anderson was not about to back down from the fight so easily.  “Every soldier has scars.  Jane Shepard is a survivor.”  

“Is that the kind of person we want protecting the galaxy?” pressured Udina.

Of course.

Udina knew the Shepards were his favorites, but considering Admiral Hackett’s responses, he was certain the admiral seemed to have reservations just as he did.  This made Anderson press the issue even harder.  John and Jane Shepard were damn good soldiers, no matter their history.  They had what every other candidate lacked.  That rare quality that made people listen and believe in what they said.

John and Jane had experienced and lived through more than most at their ages, and somehow they had still been able to keep their attitudes in check.  Even if Jane’s anger did flare now and again, she had never disobeyed an order, and she had never failed her CO.  Where John had never been afraid to voice his views and bring his morals onto the table, Jane had sometimes questioned an order or requested to revert to a different plan of attack to get the job done.  Neither had jeopardized the Alliance or the humans’ place in the galaxy, and they would never betray them.  The Shepards would raise a voice before a gun.

“They’re the only kind of people who can protect the galaxy.”

Admiral Hackett’s head inclined only slightly.  The admiral was aware of their service records, but not as thoroughly as Anderson.  He had seen John’s name come up here and there for distinguished honors in his diplomatic approach, and he had also come across Jane’s on occasion when a dire situation had finally resulted in all the hostiles being arrested or annihilated.  He had to trust Anderson’s judgment, knowing that he would not put forward a name in which he did not have complete faith.

“Which name should we put forth to the Council?” Anderson asked, directing his question to the admiral.

“They’re both equally qualified, and you know their tastes better than anyone,” replied Hackett, still indecisive.  Finally, he reached the only conclusion that seemed to make any sense.  “We’ll put both names forward and let the Council decide how to proceed.”

Anderson took a moment of pleasure from the dissatisfied tone in which Udina replied, “I’ll make the call.”

The councilor was not thrilled, but that did not matter.  The comforts of one man would never matter in the long run.  If humanity was to have a chance at even being considered as equals to their neighbors in the galaxy, it was a Shepard--and only Shepard--that mattered.  No matter how the Council chose … together, they would bring stability.

Anderson was just glad it was not his name this time around.

--O--O--O--

She had thought of little else since the call from Anderson had come through a few days ago.  Now, she stood on the observation deck of the SSV Normandy, the first ship to incorporate both human and turian design, the best ship in the Alliance, some had said.  She could feel the hum of the engines beneath her feet.  Having been raised on one ship or another her entire life, it was the most familiar and most comfortable feeling in the galaxy, so much so that it was almost strange to see Earth hanging like a glowing blue beacon out the viewport.

Jane Shepard had only been to Earth on a few occasions, and most of them had been at the behest of the Alliance, to accept medals or promotions.  Most of her sightseeing had been done at the press of a button on her personal terminal.  Data provided in this manner had been her tutor since a very young age, and most of her schooling had been done on her own time, or when her mother had instructed her.  She had attended schools, but since she had always been on the move, following her mother from one posting to the next, she had always had little time to get comfortable with any routine that acquiring the necessary education expected of a child had only happened due to her unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

Unlike her brother, who had moved back to Earth after the death of their father, she did not know if she could ever live planet-side.  She had fantasized about it when she had been younger, but now … the solid mass of the planet’s dirt under her feet … it just never felt quite right, and she was always happy when she was able to move on to the next mission, to the next destination.  The journey was everything to her.  Living in space her entire life had not taken away its marvel.

However, now they were finally on the move toward the mass relay, moving away from that beautiful yet still world and on to continue the journey.  She watched with silent curiosity as the planet shrunk and erased Sol from view behind its northern hemisphere.  

“I miss it, already,” came a voice from the doorway.  She gritted her teeth as the older, better, wiser (and more widely spoken of) version of herself stepped up alongside her.  She had rarely ever seen her brother with their lives so separated by their places in the Alliance, and this was going to be the first time that they would have ever worked the same mission together.  What made matters worse for Jane was that she would be taking orders from him, without room for improvisation, most likely, with his by-the-book attitude.

“I prefer the hum of an engine under my feet,” said Jane.  Her voice was deep for a woman, but her brother’s was a pleasant, sometimes nasal, tenor voice.  Something she was sure had attracted plenty of women, whereas she usually seemed to scare men away.  Not that she had ever had much to choose from anyway.  Most of the men she knew were officers or politicians, and since fraternization was not allowed and she hated diplomats….

“Well, the air’s fresher,” John said, trying to pry a smile off his sister’s face, but it seemed his affectionate, brotherly jousting was not doing the trick.

She dryly replied, “Not really.”  She wanted to continue with the technical jargon of how efficiently the air was recycled on a starship, but she knew John would not understand a word.  He never was much of a tech geek.  A soldier one hundred percent.  She, on the other hand, had poured over every subject growing up and had learned at least base level everything.  Jane smiled at the image of him struggling to even turn on his private terminal.

John mirrored her grin, thinking that their banter had brandished it, but when Jane noticed that look in his eye, the look of accomplishment, she erased it immediately and cursed herself for breaking.  John, on the other hand, only smiled wider at her discontent … like any big brother.

He was a muscular man, with a firm jaw and intense blue eyes, and he had always kept his hair styled like any other grunt.  Though, Jane thought perhaps he had recently shaved his head, for it looked like the hair was only just starting to thicken up again, leaving the short scar leading into his left hairline visible.  He had never said much about the origin of the scar, only that it had happened on Mindoir … the place where their father had died.

Though, where she did not ask the details of his wounds, John had evaded the questions surrounding the marks on her cheek and through her right eyebrow.  All he knew was that her complexion had been left relatively untouched by her profession … until Akuze.  He loved his sister dearly and wondered why she avoided all his attempts in spending some of his R&R with her while she, too, had downtime.  He wanted to know her beyond the service record to which he had access and the observations of their mother, with whom he rarely had opportunities to speak.  Where were their younger days when they had called each other up to talk about colony or space life?  Where was the loving sister he had known long ago?

Jane still loved her brother, though … she just did not have to like him anymore.

John pierced the silence with a mission update, the reason he had come in the first place.  “We’ll be at the relay soon.”

I know, she wanted to say, feeling the tell-tale vibration in the floor, but she held her tongue.  He was talking business now, she could hear it in his tone, and he was her superior after all.

“Anderson wants us suited up and ready to go once we’re through.  I’ll meet you on the bridge.”

She noted how John was somehow allowed to dismiss rank with the captain, assuming some kind of casual link.  “Yes, Commander,” said Jane in her deep, bitter voice.

She listened as John receded from the room, and found herself able to breathe again.  She had been having a difficult time lately in keeping herself together.  Torfan was only the most notable of her most recent disasters she had led men into, but one thing remained the same in all her endeavors.

Lieutenant Commander Jane Shepard never failed to get the job done.

She looked at her reflection in the viewport.  Twenty-seven years … and already a long service record with the scars to show for it.  She pursed her lips, unsure of how things would turn out on the upcoming shakedown run.  For a split second she thought back on their parents as she looked herself over.  And she wondered … why the unoriginal names?  She had often wondered that.  Why was she Jane and why did he have to be a John?  Surely she was more individualistic than any Jane.  Ashley … she could have been an Ashley.  

She shook her head free of the slip into her curiosity and finger-tossed her unfailingly messy short red hair, stepping away from the viewport.  

It was time to heed the call of the Alliance once more.

PROLOGUE


A half century ago, a cruel war ravaged the lands of all Isenlor. A powerful sorceress had gathered armies and fought against the mighty peoples of the Alliance. With her witchcraft and brutality, and her strategic cunning, she poured her control through the waters and across all nations.

It was in this war that the wizards failed, their magics too weak to combat her spells. Thus, the race of wizards was destroyed. The elves sought a hidden sanctuary. The dwarves retreated into crevices where they could never be found. But the Alliance between the three noble beasts––dragons, phoenixes, and griffins––held strong, yet they knew that with the Twisted Ones in the Sorceress's services, victory was far from grasp. And so, they too––the Untouched––fled to distant lands to escape her clutches.

The race of men, however, was stubborn and did not relent in the fight, their arrogance and pride leading them to a bitter defeat. Triumph could not be achieved. Doom loomed over the race under the reign of the Ultimate Sorceress, and thus, covered in a blanket of darkness.

But the wizards were all but extinct. Seven of the survivors banded together with the hope that one day they could banish the reign of terror. Only a handful of wizards joined their cause, the others dispersing into the furthest reaches of the land ... never to be found. The band––named the Wise Seven––and the few remaining wizards returned in secret to the abandoned Isle of Dirisonaë. Upon the Wise's decision, one wizard or witch was sent to each of the towns across the many islands and continents of Isenlor to live out their lives. For protection, they called themselves healers, and they performed such a service to the town or island that had become their home; however, their true purpose was to seek out human youths that excelled unknowingly in the magical craft. Thus it was that the Sacred Temple of Dirisonaë soon flourished with a number of youths gathered by the many healers.

And from that day, the Wise trained the young men and women to be knowledgeable and skillful sorcerers, hoping that one day their numbers would be large enough to form a resistance to challenge the Ultimate Sorceress. But through the many decades, the Wise failed to reform the Old Alliance between the dwarves, elves, and noble beasts. All hope was nearly lost, for without their allies, they would not be able to fight the Sorceress effectively. In the same year, Aliastë the Fourth divulged to the Wise that she had had a prophecy of a child to be born, one that would rise to reforge the alliances of the races and have a power never before seen by any wizard, a power rivaling that of the Sorceress.
And they vowed to continue to pass on their teachings.

However, the years passed on, as did Cartolusd the Sixth, and some wizards young and old began to doubt that the end of the Sorceress would come.

Then, as if by a miracle, a healer anonymous by name and location sent word to the Wise that he had been gifted a vision of a youth that would battle the Sorceress.

Hope was restored.



CHAPTER 1: DESCENT OF THE MOUNTAIN DWELLER


Upon the ocean breeze there wafted an incense of purity. The tides rose and fell, rippling in an inconstant rhythm that quieted the soul. The inner nature of the soul was bound to the serene melody that the crashing water played. A rhyme untold to many, for only the wisest minds could hear the harmony it sang through its ferocious undertones. The waters were to be revered, yet they were also meant to be feared, for it was the Goddesses that bestowed peaceful voyages or perilous journeys to the wanderers which crossed it.

On the horizon there glimmered the white canvases that signified a ship sailed toward the island of Yaventar. It was a simple passenger ship, ferrying a small hold of cargo as well.

The sun was just beginning to rise as a young man at the grassy cliff of a mountaintop watched the skies and waters. He spotted the small ship as the evening rays splayed a strange patchwork of red and orange across his face. A gleam entered his eyes, and for once they glowed in identical hues, for his left normally appeared a brighter green than his right. Adventure toyed with his countenance, anxious to meet newcomers, for it was an infrequent occasion for Yaventar to occupy settling visitors.

But this young man lived far from the main town on Yaventar, and so he watched from his mountain perch as the passenger ship came into port far below him. He owned a perfect view of the entire island from here, his favorite spot to stand and observe his surroundings. The perfect place to come and think through his days.

A swarm of curious villagers had already come to watch the ship come into the docks, for it was a rare occasion to receive so many visitors. Even from where he stood, the young man could feel the impatient furor of excitement passing through the crowd as the ship glided in and was moored to the dock.

Just as soon as the passengers stepped onto the docks, they were engulfed by the surrounding townsfolk. He watched in silent pleasure as the folk immediately began speaking with the newcomers as if they had only just arrived from returning home from a long journey. It soothed him to know that even in the dark times in which they lived, the people could still be at ease with each other and truly welcoming.

They had all heard the stories and the rumors. Their ruler, the one who called herself the Ultimate Sorceress, had long sat upon her throne in the Béaradük Fortress on the mainland. She had taken power nearly forty years ago after winning a swift war with their old king Jasusoles and took the crown for herself. He had not even been alive during those times, but the war was still fresh in the minds and hearts of all the people of Isenlor, and some still craved the dethroning of the usurper queen.

It was times like these, when people gathered in merriment and exchanged smiles and handshakes that reminded him how much he, too, wished for the old stories of life to be new again. He wished times could truly be peaceful once more rather than the faux peace that rested in welcoming hugs and kisses.

Just as he was about to turn from his spot, something below, a face, caught his keen eye. A lady with fair red hair and a glowing face. She sauntered across the wooden boards alongside an aged man who was clearly her father. They weeded through the crowd and came to the end of the wharf, where an assembly of older men and their wives had gathered to greet the newcomers, surely asking all sorts of questions and offering them blessings. The young lady's eyes strayed from the talk and across the terrain of the land. A sparkle entered her once dull eyes as she gazed away from the boring proceedings, and her gaze wandered up, up into the crevices of the mountains.

It was a strange occurrence to be sure when the lady's eyes seemed to meet with his. He stared at her for a long moment as her eyes shimmered in the fading light, but then he stepped back, sliding into the trenches of the mountains once more.

===============

The son of a pot-maker, the youth woke early the next day to aid his father. The annual autumn festival held on the island of Banoqe had ordered the crafts desired for the celebration. Six months away from the engagement, the artisans had to work diligently to meet the large request, for it had been the biggest order that his father had yet received, and were all astounded at the money they would receive when the shipment was sent.

The shadows of night were still upon the pair as they started their day. An assortment of vases, bowls, urns, and other crafts of all shapes and sizes were laid out on the half-enclosed veranda, which stretched down several stair steps. This array, however, did not account for even a fourth of the demanded order.

"I want you to go on and deliver the orders from town and collect the money," his father said. "I will start painting some of our finished pieces from the Banoqe order in the shed."

His son nodded and bade his father good day. He watched as his father headed around the house toward the shed, and then he strode across their front yard toward the barn.

Their property was larger than most of the villagers'. It was not really a matter of money, though they were wealthy from their trade. It was simply that since they were some of the only ones to live up in the mountains, they had more land available to them. The villagers rarely ventured up into the mountains unless on official business with the inhabitants, so they were at peace on their land.

All through their property there flourished blossoms of all sizes and colors and was surely the work of his aged aunt that lived in town. His aunt never came up to their home very often, for the walk up here was precarious even without considering her old bones. An added bonus was the view to which the youth had become accustomed. The outlook onto the ocean was one that he woke to every morning, and he enjoyed gazing upon its seeming endless beauty at different hours if just to discover the wonder that the various lights splayed upon its collection below.

He entered the barn then and took his time in packing up the orders for the townspeople. They filled three bags, which, after he saddled a horse, he tied securely to it. He took a bow from its resting place against a beam, shouldered it, and mounted his horse. Moments later, he made his way out the barn and down through the mountainside country.

After nearly two hours of easy-paced riding, and just about half the descent behind him, he happened upon a lone figure. A woman. She sat on a rock overlooking the lands below, which were lightly dusted with trees and grew in number further down the path.

Galan stopped alongside the woman and realized that it was the same lady that he had seen the evening before. Her flowing crimson hair shifted in the breeze as she turned to look up at him.

"Good morn," the young man called to her.

"Morning," she replied.

"May I ask why you are sitting alone in the mountains?"

"Exploring my new home," she answered brightly.

"New home?"

"Yes. My father and I arrived just last evening. We've come to live here."

"With so many islands to choose from, why come here?" he asked.

"My father wanted to be as far from city life as possible," she said, standing and approaching him. "Our other home, Hudsaif'Mou, just as so many other cities, are becoming infested with the Queen's soldiers. They say it's for our protection, but it is she who needs that."

"You came to the right place to escape all that then. The Queen's soldiers have yet to reach this far. To be true, they occasionally visit us here, but not so far as settling the land."

The lady looked to him curiously then, finding his knowledge of the current situations and the ill tone toward the soldiers intriguing. It was the first time he noticed how blue her eyes were.

"What is your name, mountain boy?" she smiled.

"Galan," he offered. "And you, lady?"

"I am Marguerite. Marguerite Ramsthead."

"A delight to assume your acquaintance," he returned with a slight bow. "Might I offer you a ride back into town?"

A playful smile pried at the corners of her lips. "Thank you."

Galan leapt off his horse and helped to lift her up onto the saddle. He flicked the reins over the horse's head and pulled them along at a slow trot.

"What were you doing up in the mountains?" asked Marguerite after a while. Noticing the large bags attached to the horse and the bow and quiver across his back, she added, "Are you hunting?"

Galan smirked. "Not today. The bow is for protection. I happen to live here."

"In the mountains? Truly?"

Galan nodded.

"Why? I would think it inconvenient." Her understanding of his life of near-solitude clearly confused her, but it also sparked a certain interest in her.

"When my parents moved to this island, many years before I was born, my mother asked my father to build their home in the mountains. It's the only place where she's ever felt safe and at home. She used to tell me stories about her childhood, growing up in the mountains to the north of the Frenduer Fields just above the town of Berinois. My parents first met in that town when my father had been a journeyman. A chance encounter." He smiled, for it was remarkable to him how the Goddesses had woven their two destinies together.

Then his happiness waned. "They moved here not long after the Queen took power."

"Seems she's driven most from their original homes."

"That she has." He watched his footfalls then as they continued in silence. Marguerite could sense that his thoughts strayed elsewhere, perhaps even to an imagining of a world without their cruel circumstances.

"What does a boy like you do in the mountains?" she asked, stealing him from his roaming thoughts.

"I am a pot-maker, like my father. His name is Corone. Perhaps you've heard of him? He is quite well renowned for a pot-maker."

Her face lit up with excitement. "Ah! Yes, I do know that name. Five years ago, my father and I traveled to Banoqe for their autumn festival. It was quite an occasion. Full of color and laughter. I saw the most beautiful hand-crafted vase there. They told me a man named Corone had made it."

Galan laughed lightly. "To be honest, I make more vases than my father now. But he is the painter still."

They shared a laugh and they continued on down the path, entering into a pass that led straight into the forested area below. As they grew closer to the trees, Galan came back to offer a hand up to Marguerite, but she sent him a puzzled look. He explained that the branches ahead were too low for riding, and she slid off the horse to land in his arms. Blushing, she turned away ... although, too soon to see that his face had also flushed slightly.

"So, what is it you do?" Galan inquired.

Hesitant, Marguerite shook her head. "No, it's silly."

"Come now. It's still a few hours left till we reach town, and I won't stop asking until you tell me," he threatened with a grin, as they started their way down the pass again, walking alongside each other.

"Oh, all right. I am a poet." She cringed as she finished, as if she half expected some sort of outburst from her companion, but Galan looked at her with enthusiasm.

"Really? What sort of verse do you write?"

Marguerite's face glowed, thrilled that Galan had expressed such curiosity at her occupation. "All sorts. My favorite things to write are rhymes of nature, of chance encounters, and of long held stories."

"Will you write of our encounter?" asked Galan.

She grinned playfully. "If you wish it."

Marguerite noticed him look away in bashfulness. She, too, gazed off, taking in her surroundings. As they continued on in silence, Galan kept taking quick glances in her direction. The way her eyes sparkled in the light drew him in, and before long, as her blue orbs danced across the forest before and around her, he found himself staring at only her.

"I do not have any books to my name, though," she said suddenly, as if there had been no lengthened pause in their conversation, and her voice made Galan snap out of his daze.

"Hmm?"

"My poetry," she explained. "I've written so many verses, so many sonnets and rhymes ... but I've never made them into a book."

"Why not?"

"My mother was also a writer. I suppose it's just that I'm afraid that ... I won't live up to her name," she said slowly. Her melancholy tone made Galan take her arm. They stopped there and he looked down into her eyes.

"You may not be as good a poet or you may be better. But I think not doing anything would be the only disheartening thing to a parent," said Galan, and the sides of Marguerite's lips turned upward again.

"Thank you again, Galan."

===============

The two of them passed the hours by with talk and laughter, and by the time they reached the outskirts of town, they had become fast friends. Galan waved hellos to all the townspeople that he crossed paths with, his jolly smile the welcome joy of the town. Even though he lived so far away, Corone's boy had always been a town favorite.

"A welcome sight, Master Galan," a middle-aged man called from the porch of his home, which was his way of saying a fond hello to any folk. Galan gave a small wave a nod toward him.

He then turned to Marguerite. "I have some errands to run, but I should like to walk you home if you would admit me."

"But it's only just noon. What errands have you? Perhaps I could help." The playful, pleading expression that crossed her face was none that Galan could refuse.

"I must deliver these orders," he said, pointing to his horse's load.

"Then helping you would acquaint me with the people here. Please, let me come?" she asked, holding her hands together in a lighthearted prayer.

He agreed and as they came to the fence surrounding another house, he offered her the reins to the horse. He dug through one of the bags and brought out an ornately painted urn. Marguerite tied the reins off at the fence and followed him down the stones leading to the porch.

A haggard looking woman answered Galan's knock, and though she looked unhealthy, her eyes and her smile seemed as young as the couple standing before her. "Young Galan, is it good to see you."

"I have your order," he said, holding out the urn.

Her beaming smile grew wider as she accepted it. Gentle tears welled up within her eyes as she gazed over it with an uneven breath. Then she looked to Galan approvingly. "Thank you, Galan." She then drew her attention to the lady beside him. "Ah, and who is this?"

"Marguerite. She arrived on the passenger ship last evening. She's come here to settle," he introduced.

"And what do you think of our island?" the old woman asked.

"I like it," said Marguerite immediately. "It's nice here. Quiet."

"Good. Well, I'm Herana. Come on inside." She led them inside into her sofa room. She set the urn down on the tea table in the middle of the room and walked toward the mantle. She gingerly picked up a little tin box from among the collection of artifacts and turned back to them. "He would have loved this urn."

Herana knelt at the tea table as Galan and Marguerite sat on a sofa opposite her. Herana slid the lid open.

"Your ... husband?" asked Marguerite in a careful tone.

Herana nodded. "He always loved the sea." She removed the top of the urn as she continued, "But I told him his seafaring would cost him one day. Two weeks ago he was found on the shore of Banoqe."

"We all told him not to go, Herana," soothed Galan. "It was not your fault."

"Oh, no. I don't blame myself. He died were he was most happy. And now he is here always to keep me safe," said Herana as she poured the ashes of her husband from the tin to the urn.

"Keep you safe?" Marguerite sat puzzled.

"Of course," the old woman said as she petted the urn after setting its top back into place. "It is said that the ashes of a loved one have magical powers. It was said that the ashes would protect against any evil."

"No magic has been seen on Isenlor since the old ages, though," said Marguerite.

"But you do believe in magic, do you not?"

"I believe it existed at one time, but those times have long been gone." Marguerite could tell the old woman would not dismiss her beliefs do readily, so Marguerite turned to Galan for support, but his face had instantly become unreadable.

All he would say was, "Magic is indeed a mystery."

He and Marguerite left soon after this and after he had gathered his payment from Herana. Marguerite departed the house in a thoughtful trance, eyes turned inward, but as the day progressed and she met with other townsfolk, her encounter with Herana soon passed from her mind.

They visited the blacksmith, the merchant houses, and other homes, dropping off this and that and collecting odd amounts of money from each person they called upon. The day wore on without their notice, and before long, as they were making their final stop, the sun had begun its last descent from the sky.

"This is my aunt's house," said Galan, as he approached the black and very oddly constructed fence surrounding the house. The countless posts looked like charred tree branches strung together with thick wire. Marguerite looked at the border with suspicion. When Galan noticed, he offered an explanation as to its appearance. "When my aunt had her house built, she found an odd branch in the forests," he touched the post to the right of the swinging doorway, "and had her fence built in accordance with it. She thought it good luck and no real misfortune has bestowed itself upon this house."

Contrasting with the dark fence were gardens of flowers all around the house. The most prominent flower was of a blue hue, and they and the violet blooms added a perfect balance to all the bright red, orange, and yellow flowers. Butterflies and bees and all matters of insects were ever present in her yard, but they were less a menace and more a welcome.

Galan entered the familiar house and called out to his aunt. Within seconds, the older woman came out of the hall to greet them. Her dark hair looked like a sleek mop with an odd assortment of trinkets swept up in its tendrils. Her smile was warm and her words slow and loving. "About time you came down that mountain again."

Galan introduced the two women, and already his aunt spoke to Marguerite as if she had known her for years. "He needs to come to town more often, don't you think? Every two weeks kills an old woman like me. You never know how many more I have in me."

"Don't speak like that. You are young as ever," said Galan as he handed out a repaired vase to his aunt.

She accepted it and immediately led them into her kitchen where she filled it with water from a basin and slipped a bouquet of freshly picked blue flowers. "Perfect," she smiled, as she then set the vase at the window behind her wash basins.

===============

Sunlight barely graced their tiny island anymore, as Galan walked silently with Marguerite in the evening air. His errands complete, he now followed her to her house. The path there was short since she lived not far from his aunt's, and once they stood at the porch of her home under the moonlight, Marguerite silently asked, "Is it true you come to town only every two weeks?" The look she gave him carried the sincerest hope that his aunt had not meant anything she had said.

He took a breath, inwardly cringing. "I only come to town when I have something to come for. Running errands mostly."

"Oh, I see." And when she said it, she looked so very dejected.

"I sometimes stay at my aunt's on days like these, though, when it's too dark to make the trip back into the mountains," he said, hoping it would cheer her up, and it did a little.

A small grin appeared. "Then ... will I see you the morrow?"

"I'll be sure to stop by before I head back," he promised.

Even in the dark, he could tell she was blushing. "Thank you for a wonderful day," she then said.

"You're welcome," he said with a nod. "Pleasant night." He turned away and strode over to his horse. Before he mounted it, he turned back to Marguerite ... to find that she was still watching him. "I ... think I may be coming into town more often," he stammered.

"Why?"

"It's like I said before. I come into town when I have something worth coming for," he blurted, and though he could tell that both their hearts must have been beating so very fast in that moment, he would never have traded it for anything else. Just standing there, staring at her and being stared by her seemed like a moment in paradise. No further exchange of words. Only a look, the meeting of eyes. And it was all he needed.