The dark elf sat alone upon the outcropping that overlooked the lush grasslands below. With her legs crossed, forming an “X” before her, she rested her forearms on her knees, her hands held together loosely by their fingertips as she watched the autumn day go by—unusually warm for being so late in the season.

I better enjoy it while it lasts, she thought to herself quietly, her eyes reflecting the clear blue of the cloudless sky with her own azure gaze to match. Soon the gentle breeze that wafted the tendrils of her white hair from her face would turn frosty with the coming of winter’s cruel bite. Though Teir’Dal were not prone to suffer from the rigors of cold weather, this particular one had learned to hate even the slightest hint of chills down her spine, and passionately so.

It wasn’t always this way, she pondered. In days long past, the cold used to herald the welcome arrival of night. She used to detest the feeling of the sun’s rays against her face. It hurt her eyes, after all, and gave her a pounding headache that wouldn’t go away. No self-respecting Teir’Dal would welcome that.

Even worse was the occasional downpour from the cloud-filled sky, drenching everything in sight until she was soaked to the bone. Roads turned to mud, hampering travel. Lightning flared, blinding her sensitive dark elf eyes. Rain or shine, it was always a burden.

But she was no longer any typical Teir’Dal. She was a Teir’Dal who welcomed the sun’s warming rays on her face each morning, and found solace in the day’s silent progression. She was a Teir’Dal who recognized and even acknowledged virtues forever alien to her race—virtues not spawned of hatred. Not even the clouds bothered her anymore, she thought, as the threat of rainfall presented the clear chance of catching rainwater straight from the sky with her tongue—an opportunity she never failed to take advantage of in her self-imposed isolation in the lands of South Karana.

Though wary of the inhabitants to the north, Dreketh stayed well clear of any civilized land. The southern areas of the plains remained, for the most part, unmolested by human hands. What few travelers she saw in the course of a week were distant and easily noticed from high in the mountaintop that was her home in exile. Simply put, nobody came out this way, and that was exactly how the dark elf wanted it.

Contrary to her thoughts, a shadow passed over Dreketh, blocking the sun that had worked its way behind her in the western sky. A wry smile crossed the dark elf’s lips for the first time in weeks.

“I knew you would find me,” she said, still gazing out upon the green panorama rolling before her.

The silent breeze rustled the man’s robes who stood behind her, causing the heavy fabric to snap lightly as would a flag in a hearty wind.

“A grand view,” her father’s voice spoke in its familiar tone. “I never could dissociate you from your obstinate taste for the romantic. Or the sentimental.”

“I’m glad of it,” Dreketh replied, still not turning around.

Moments passed as the necromancer’s robes continued to flap about in the ceaseless breeze.

“I thought you might wish to know, Tunare’s army has dispersed,” Quexill informed her. “Upon completion of the Pact, the elves formally withdrew their support of the war effort. With the threat of annihilation gone with the destruction of Zeranon’s Chalice, they could no longer justify the genocide of a people.”

Dreketh blinked slowly, not so much as acknowledging that the necromancer had even spoken.

“Things have returned to normal,” Quexill continued. “As with Zeranon’s crusade two thousand years ago, Norrath has again stood on the brink of disaster with only a handful of people who realize just how close it all came to ending.”

“Or who gave their lives for it,” the shadow knight said, her voice dire.

The necromancer nodded quietly, allowing several moments for the wind to carry Dreketh’s words on its currents.

“Many regrets,” he muttered.

“Don’t speak to me of regrets, custodian,” the shadow knight said dourly. “In Highpass, when you told me I would have to kill Tunare’s advocate, you knew how she would die. You’d seen the visions of prophecy, and placed it under the false pretense of a struggle for power, not a mercy killing.”

“Yes,” the necromancer admitted.

“You lied to me.”

“As did you, daughter.”

Dreketh cast a scowl up at the man’s silhouette, silently demanding that he explain his accusation.

“You had no intention of destroying your friend for sake of Innoruuk’s claim on the Chalice,” Quexill stated simply. “Yet you would have had me believe otherwise. Together, you both schemed to destroy the Chalice long before leaving the keep. It is why I insisted you enter the vault under threat of death. Like the goddess, I too knew what was in your heart, daughter.”

Squinting in the sunlight, brow furrowed in displeasure, Dreketh resumed her grim fix on the panorama.

“Nevertheless, as custodian I did use and manipulate you. You and the druid both,” the necromancer conceded, following her gaze. “As your custodian it was my duty. But as your father, I have failed you. I’m deeply sorry for it, Dreketh. I hope some day you can find it within yourself to forgive me for my part in what happened that day.”

The shadow knight closed her eyes, betraying nothing of her thoughts as she absorbed his words. The two Teir’Dal remained quietly on the outcropping, allowing the moments to pass as evening approached.

“Be that as it may, I come seeking to know one thing, and one thing only,” Quexill said, breaking the silence. “Then I will respectfully leave you in peace, never to disturb you again, if that is your wish.”

“What is it?” came Dreketh’s quiet response.

“Do you ever in tend to straighten your room back home? It’s a dreadful eyesore.”

Looking up, Dreketh cast her surrogate father a dour look for his flippancy, only to encounter a fond smile spreading across the man’s striking face. The image was too much for the brooding dark elf, who hurriedly turned away. Purely of its own accord, a smirk wedged itself through her airtight defenses.

“I miss that wardrobe,” she said under her breath, thinking of the many shirts, pants and robes she’d left scattered about her quarters before leaving Neriak that first day.

“I thought as much,” Quexill replied. “That is why I have seen fit to bring it along with me. Space in the Lodge of the Dead is at a premium, and it was either bring your belongings or burn them. The latter I found unsettling, so I instead opted for the former.”

Once again looking up to the master necromancer’s careworn face, Dreketh uncrossed her legs to stand and embrace her father.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered, holding him tight.

“You’re quite welcome,” Quexill replied, loath to end her embrace.

But end it did as Dreketh pulled back to look again at her father, her fingers caressing his cheek in much the same way hers had been touched so many weeks before. The profound meaning of that gesture was not lost on the master necromancer, as he reached up to take her hand in his own. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed it tenderly.

“The pain of loss has not yet passed,” he observed. “But you must trust me, Dreketh, when I tell you that it will. It will.”

Dreketh shook her head sadly.

“I don’t want it to go away. I need it to linger in me and foster that small part of her soul that’s still inside.” She brought her fingers up to tap lightly against her own chest. “I feel her, father. Right here. The portion of her soul I tapped still exists within me. Do you know how hard it was to lay her to rest knowing that?” The young woman’s eyes started filling with tears as she spoke, as it had so many countless times since the end of the Pact.

Taking her twice in his arms, Xon Quexill held his daughter close to his chest, allowing the painful sobs of her grief to abate.

“I know,” he muttered, soothing her. “I know, indeed.”

Again, the whispering winds of the mountainside blew across the two dark elves as each sought refuge in the comforting silence of the plains.

“Is she here?” the necromancer asked calmly.

Nodding, Dreketh pulled away with a quick sniffle of her nose.

“Up past the hut,” she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of her makeshift dwelling.

“Is it marked?”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“Good.”

“Why’s that good?” she asked, swiping at her nose with the back of her shirtsleeve.

“Because of a debt I believe you owe someone who would greatly benefit from visiting her final resting place,” the necromancer said.

Dreketh found the acolyte kneeling before Laera’s headstone, his head bowed solemnly. Quexill had said the foolhardy young elf was discovered at the edge of Nektulos Forest, defiantly demanding an audience with the guild master by name. Scant moments before he fell under the blade of the guards, Quexill interceded on the impetuous boy’s behalf.

He claimed his name was Rigel, and demanded of the master necromancer that he be taken to his friend’s grave immediately, tears marring his face. As he was already planning to visit Dreketh anyway, Quexill agreed to allow the stalwart youth to accompany him.

Though the name hadn’t rung a bell to Dreketh, she recognized the young wood elf immediately as the one who discovered her with Laera in Greater Faydark just outside of Kelethin. Clear memories of their dealings with him were resurrected, reminding her again of fonder days when her companion lived.

As Dreketh approached, the oblivious wood elf laid a single piece of parchment on the ground next to the headstone, placing a smooth rock on top to keep it from fluttering away in the wind. Nearing, she was curious to note it was a letter written in crisp, flawless script across the page.

“Hello,” she said, calling attention to herself.

Turning abruptly at the unexpected voice, Rigel caught sight of the dark elf’s face.

“It’s you,” he said, his tone wholly uninviting.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted,” Dreketh continued, her voice genuine to her words.

“It’s okay,” the wood elf answered curtly, hurrying to wipe at his face with a smudged hand. “I was finished saying what I was going to say, anyway.”

The dark elf nodded, her eyes straying to the headstone along with the young man’s as the two stood before the shrine dedicated to the one thing they had in common—their devout and truest friend.

Sniffling once again, Rigel posed his question.

“So, what does it say?”

Not understanding at first, Dreketh cast the wood elf a quizzical look. Her confusion was short-lived, however, at seeing his gaze riveted to the words written in Teir’Dal on the headstone.

“What sets gods asunder shall set the spirit free,” she interpreted. “Here lies Laera Nellynwae, freest spirit to exist on Norrath.”

Lower lip quivering, Rigel stood unmoving as tears again continued to flow down his cheeks.

Seeing this, Dreketh broke the awkward silence.

“You know… Laera mourned the loss of that insipid orc she’d found in Crushbone for days after we left. She said she’d felt robbed of being able to grieve because she never had the time to really get to know him. I couldn’t fathom what she meant, and dismissed it as being frivolous to the task at hand.”

Swallowing, Dreketh glanced down to her feet, framed as they were by the dry scrub and rocky terrain.

“But now I envy you, wood elf,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You knew Laera in a way I never will. You loved her for who she was before the Pact. Before the darkness and blood that so colored her nature after meeting me.”

Rigel offered no comment, the young acolyte’s eyes fixed on the stone before him.

“I find myself echoing her thoughts now,” Dreketh continued, her voice quivering. “I feel robbed of being able to grieve her loss, because the Laera Nellynwae I knew…” The dark elf paused, choked by her own tears. “…wasn’t who she really was.”

The wood elf looked over to the pained Teir’Dal—the same Teir’Dal who had taken Laera away from him. The same Teir’Dal who twisted his kindhearted friend into someone who only vaguely resembled the person he knew. This was the Teir’Dal whose very hand shattered Rigel’s world by killing his beloved schoolmate. And here she was weeping before his eyes over the loss of his friend, even as he.

A voice in the back of his mind told him that his bitterness wasn’t the way Laera knew Dreketh, nor would she wish him to see her in such a light. Headmistress Netheel told Rigel of Laera’s willingness to lay down her life for love of this Teir’Dal. Obviously his friend’s devotion was not unrequited.

“Then let me tell you of the Laera Nellynwae I knew,” he said.

Dreketh looked up in disbelief. Seeing the young man’s earnest face nod in confirmation of his own words, she sat on the ground near her companion’s shrine as the sun set to the west. Rigel retrieved his letter, folding it carefully and placing it in his pocket as he sat across from the Teir’Dal.

Licking his lips he began.

“Laera Nellynwae was the kindest, most vibrant friend anyone could wish for…”

Dreketh closed her eyes, allowing her imagination to drift along with the young elf’s words. Vivid memories of her devout friend pervaded the Teir’Dal’s mind, allowing her to see fully well that with every breath, the acolyte spoke the absolute truth.