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He didn't ask much out of life anymore. He just wanted firm ground beneath his feet and warm sunshine on his face. Both were abundantly present today; he could feel the earth hit solidly against the stout staff he held in his hand, and the sun lapped at his face in a warm caress — a little too warm, in fact. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tunic and amended his list of needs. A refreshing drink at the Journey's Inn would go down real well. Twenty paces to his left and one over the low wooden bar placed at the foot of the door brought him into the cool shade of the tavern, with its sounds of clinking earthenware and its musty scent of ale. The seats creaked as customers shifted their weight, checking him out. A heartbeat later they shifted back, dismissing him. He carefully navigated around them.

 "`Allo there! Nice ta see ya again! When are yeh goin' give us'n story?" came the cheery hail from Tithion, the bartender. "Drinks on'tha house ... we'd be packed."

He tilted his head, considering, and the conversations around him quieted. "No, not today."

He gave an apologetic shrug, hiding a half smile as he heard the masked groans. He felt his ego swell, just the slightest bit, and savored the feeling. Then his knees creaked. He scowled as he shuffled toward the bartender. Trust one's body to give out before one's pride did.

"I just want a quiet afternoon drink." His throat felt dry, and he knew that even if he wanted to, he couldn't have made it through half a story. His throat often ached, nowadays.

"Tis' a shame. Used ta be ya tol' em all the time. Miss them days. 'Ang on then, I'll git the usual table cleared fer ye."

Following Tithion's floorboard-shaking tread, he made his way over to his regular seat by the window and sat down gracefully on the stool. He placed his staff beside his seat and relaxed into a comfortable slumped position. His left hand rubbed his creaky knee absently. His right traced the woodwork of the table. A new scar had been gouged, rather recently, for the edges were still rough with splinters.

"You had some trouble last night?"

"Aye, noticed that didn't yeh?" Tithion chuckled. "Yeh shoulda been 'ere. New bard came in, just a little chit she was." A large hamhock of a fist shook the table as Tithion slapped it. "But she made us all roll on the floor with them stories of 'ers about the Warrior Princess an' these buncha 'estian virgins. Course you know how the boys get when they've had too much likker an' `specially with all that talk about them virgins.  Jorik, tha' idiot, tried to make fresh with 'er. That's when the trouble started. Good thing she had this warrior with 'er ... an that un' was pretty good with a sword. Awfully protective of 'er, that warrior was. Anyway,'tween 'er and 'er companion, things didn't go all to pieces. But it was right nice brawl."

"Sorry I missed the fun." He quirked a grin. So there was new barding blood in Athens, was there?

"She was a right good bard, too. Not that she's better than you," Tithion quickly amended. "But I'da keep a lookout for 'er up in that academy of yours, so ta speak. Can't miss 'er. Blond, kinda short, but wi' an attitude tha' can cook an' spice chicken from ten yards away. Green eyes as pretty as the grass on Olympus. Tho' you ... ya'd know 'er by `er `oney sweet voice. Bring the bees abuzzin' with it, she could. If yeh meet 'er, tell 'er she's always welcome back at me tavern."

Tithion must have left then to go get something from behind the bar, but he didn't notice. His memory was caught in the image that the bartender's heavily accented words had inadvertently  dropped into his mind. Could it be? Could it possibly be ...

His thoughts were broken by a quiet thump as the bartender set a tankard on the table top. "Cider, mixed wi' a touch o' my nutty ale, just like yeh like it. 'Ay now, whatcha thinking about? Yeh lookin' mighty thoughtful-like."

"Huh? Oh. Nothing much." One hand reached out, marking the position of his drink, while the other fumbled at his waist, fingers searching for his moneybag. For a moment, the image of laughing green eyes and a shimmer of blond hair drifted through his memory again. The new bard had been telling tales about the Warrior Princess, and she had been accompanied by a companion ... one that was good in fights. His breath stilled in his lungs. What if ... no. Not after so many years.  He found the ridged edge of a dinar and pulled it out. "I'm sorry about blanking out on you."

"Tis' awright." Tithion chuckled. His thick fingers gently pushed away the proffered hand, guiding it back toward its owner. After a moment's hesitation, the dinar disappeared back into the moneybag. "Workin' on yor latest story, eh?"

"No ... on a legend, my friend." Smiling slightly, he turned to face the sun that was streaming through the window and listened as the bartender rolled off to attend other customers. When he was sure that Tithion was gone, he took out the dinar again and hid it under the curved bottom of his tankard. Then his right hand went to his tunic and to a hidden pocket located just above his heart. He carefully traced the edge of the parchment stored there. The thick paper felt tattered and frayed at the corners, but it was still worth more than all the gold in Greece ... well ... at least it was to him. He took out the small scrap, handling it with silk-fingered care, much as he would the skin of a lover, back in the old days. His mind knew each line of the picture, knew it so well that there really was no need to look at it anymore. Yet, he still liked to brush his hands against the soft surface and to imagine that he could feel the face below his fingertips.

"That's a lovely picture you have there." A stranger's voice crept out, low, but with a distinct curl and litheness that marked it as feminine. His fingers jerked with surprise, nearly dropping the parchment. Tithion usually steered people away from his table, and the floorboards had not warned of this stranger's approach. A hand with long, elegant fingers reached out and steadied his own shaking ones. He could feel the roughness of the callouses on the palm and breathed in slight scent of grass and horse sweat. The faint imprint left from gripping the reins of a horse still made shallow ridges in her flesh, as if she had been riding for quite some time now. Though she had a strong hold, there was something much like weariness in the way her fingers drooped just the tiniest bit.

He put down the parchment and clasped the palm more firmly. This was a hand that knew of swords and battles, though the flesh now seemed slightly loose and creased. He wondered what stories he could have told about its owner. Few of the sword and battle ever lived to the point when their skin grew soft and slightly bagged. She allowed his touch for a full five heartbeats before pulling away. A stool squeaked against the floor as it was pulled out next to his. He noticed that her bones, too, creaked softly as she sat. Despite this, she moved like water down a glass pane; he hardly heard a whisper of air as she settled down. He remembered her grip, sure and strong. He had not wanted company at that moment, but now that she was here, he found he could not send her away.

"How much would it take to relieve you of that ratty old scrap of parchment?" A faint hint of a chuckle lingered in her voice, disturbing the crispness of her words.

"It would come at no price that could be counted or put in a bag," he replied, adding the usual dramatic flourish with his hand. Timing was everything. "For it is a likeness of my muse, my inspiration, my rosy-fingered dawn."

"What eloquence. You speak and move like a storyteller," the faint edge of a chuckle came again, "and by my guess, you must be the Blind Bard, the Master of the Muses, and the headmaster of the Athens Academy of Bards."

"Some call me that. But those are just titles." He touched the parchment lightly. "In truth, all I am is a legend taker, not a legend maker. I'm just a simple bard. Not much more to my name than that. But what about you? What title or name should I know you by?"

"What is in a name? That which we would call a rose would still smell as sweet." This time he heard true laughter in her voice. His mind stirred faintly. He should write that down.

"However, some names are best not spoken, no matter how sweet or otherwise they may be." The words were clipped, final. He nodded.

"Are you sure that you're not a bard yourself? With that voice and that lyric style ..."

"No. I'm not a bard. But I've been around a couple of them in my life. It probably rubbed off. And if I know bards, that picture probably has a story behind it."

"You do know bards well." He leaned backward, facing the sun again. He always liked it on his face when he thought of her. "I bet you know of Gabrielle, then. Her stories are rather popular nowadays, especially with the younger ones, though most bards like to make up their own since Gabrielle's disappearance from the barding scene. Not a day goes by without another youngster popping up and making yet another wild tale, swearing it to be true. You would think that Gabrielle and the Warrior Princess were demigoddesses with all the impossible stunts that those bards make them do in their stories. Why, I've counted as many as three times apiece that both have "died" in some form or fashion and came back. If it's true, I don't know how they did it. Then again, it could just be the stories of some half-drunk bards. All I know is that the two were real women and that they were just human."

"Just human?" He felt his face warm at the slightly mocking tone. Or perhaps the voice contained a hint of curiousity, instead. Or perhaps something else, entirely.

"Why should they be anything more? Their humanity was the most remarkable thing about them ... they were born with no special powers beyond that which they found in themselves. Yet, they changed the world. And Gabrielle, well, she was both a legend maker and a legend taker. She actually lived through all the adventures in her stories. You can't imagine how unique, no, wonderful .. wait ... well ... I mean ..."

He stopped, frowning slightly as the next words refused to come. It was the ultimate irony, he grumbled mentally, to be at a loss for words when describing one of the most verbose women in Greece. He gestured toward the picture. "Anyway, this is a picture of Gabrielle. I  had it made many years ago, when she visited Athens. She and the Warrior Princess had just stopped a civil war in Thessaly. It doesn't look like it in the picture, but she wasn't really in good condition when she made it into town. By some accounts, she almost died because of her injuries; by others, she did die, but was brought back by her friend. Whatever the case, she would've killed me if she'd known that I had it made, but I knew that this way, no matter where she might go or what might happen to her, I would always have something of her to carry around with me."

He finished by bowing his head slightly. He fingered his tankard, hands suddenly nervous and eager to be away from the parchment on the table. His throat felt sore, and he wanted to fold up the picture and to sit in silence for awhile, without words. However, his audience gave him no such luxury. Instead, she surprised him by moving her chair slightly closer to his.

"You know, I don't hear many stories about Gabrielle, personally, aside from those about the Warrior Princess. You're one of the very few storytellers who speak about her as if she was a real person." The stranger's voice was wistful. "Some bards just paint her as a silly sidekick. You make her sound like she's something more."

The sunlight had changed its angle, and he could feel the creeping shadow inching onto his face. "I don't know what you've heard, but she was more than the silly sidekick. Much more. She was the best storyteller I've ever met, and she taught this poor humble bard the greatest lesson of all."

"That is quite a compliment, especially coming from the Master Bard himself."

"It's the truth. You know,  I could never tell Gabrielle's stories on stage, for I could never capture the essence of her words. The only story of hers that I've ever written down was the one about Ulysses, though I changed his name to Odysseus. Not that it matters, anyway. The Warrior Princess wouldn't allow Gabrielle to tell the true story about what happened. Since she could not include her friend, Gabrielle made me take out her own name as well, though it killed me to do so. Great friends, those two were. The best. They never wanted to be apart, not even in a simple story," he paused, his fingers interlacing into a tight knot. His breath caught tight in his throat and he forced it out through his teeth. Why think about her now? And sit here talking about her to a person who ...

"She must be a very giving bard, to lend her story to somebody else. Tell me more about her." The woman had leaned closer, and her words came eagerly, flowing smoothly together like a river gaining momentum to the sea. Her soft voice reminded him that sometimes, it was good to tell something other than a story. Sometimes it was good to share something that touched him deeply. So many just wanted stories from him, as if life had nothing else to offer but fiction and fantasy. He took a long swallow of his ale, trying to fend off the scratchy dryness of his throat, the drought that stopped up stories and stole his voice. Sometimes, he had to remind himself that he, too, was of flesh and blood, with all the gifts and tortures that came with it. His fingers relaxed, and he placed them on the table, his index finger touching the very edge of the parchment paper.

"Gabrielle said that it was a shame to let any good story die untold and unknown to the world just because it had to be fictional ..." he shrugged. "So she gave it to me. I wonder if the world will ever know or remember what really happened there in Ithaca."

"You did the story justice. It's one of the best pieces of literature in all of Greece."

"Don't you understand? She lived through the real thing." He pulled his chair forward, trying to remain in the light. "I can never capture that. I wasn't there. She was at the end of the Trojan war as well ... I've read her version, and she puts my words to shame. But to honor my tale, she's squirreled hers away somewhere. I told her not to do it, but her storytelling skills are matched evenly by her supreme stubborness. Olympus will crumble to the sea before she will relent. Still, I hope her version will surface someday. The world will love it, when it does. She was the bard of bards. "

"Was?"

"Or is. I don't know what really happened to her ... she hasn't been by Athens for a long time. I hear stories, some good, some terrible. Being a bard myself, I know better than to believe them all." His hands fluttered at the picture. Damn joints. They were getting shakier all the time.

"Some of my students ... you should hear them. Once, this really bright, talented young girl came through my class ... Saffy? Sappy?" He ran his tongue against his teeth, trying to find the correct name in the faceless throng of youngsters he had met over the years. Suddenly, a soft, sweet voice filled his head, full of passion and longing. "Oh yes, Sappho was her name, and the stories she spun of those two ..."

He shook his head, rubbing his hand through his hair. A course roughness had replaced the once silky and brownish-blond locks, and he knew that the strands had to be white, for all the other possible colors had been pushed out. He wondered if his face still looked the same as the image he held in his mind. Well, some things were at best to remain a memory. He could look as handsome as Hercules, there.

"What did she say about them?"

"Sappho always has Gabrielle and the Warrior Princess dying in a lover's embrace. Lots of heaving and sighing, if I remember correctly."

 "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all. Love is a beautiful thing, especially in the way she wrote about it. But she had a tendency to overdo certain scenes and hyperventilate halfway through her performance. That one better stick to something short and sweet, like poetry. Then again, you could go the other direction with ol' what-his-name. Platey ... Pluto .. No, that's not it." A droning voice filled his mind, buzzing like a flock of smoked-drugged bees.

"Plato. Found out right quick that dramatic storytelling just wasn't for him. His storylines were flatter than a Hestian virgin's dowry! He was more a philosopher than a bard, in any case. But he's a good kid, very intelligent, and he'll do all right. Anyway, he has the Warrior Princess and bard dying together in a noble death for honor, justice, truth, or something like that. Many bards are a mix between these two extremes. There are merits to all versions, you know, and audiences for all kinds. Anyway, I haven't heard anything from or by Gabrielle for decades now, and most of Greece assumes that she and the Warrior Princess are dead. A lot of the young bards tell of them dying in this glorious battle to the death, against Caesar."

He felt for the parchment, tracing the edges. The paper trembled in his grip, making soft, swishing sounds. "A terrible death, a crucifixion. For some others bards, it doesn't end there ... they write the two heroines out of it  ... to go for another round of heroic triumph and heartbreaking torture. Some even say they had kids!"

His hands searched for his tankard and he took a long swallow. The liquid trickled down his throat, and he concentrated on that sensation instead of on the shaking in his hands.

"What do you think?" she asked. He heard her chair shift as her voice deepened. "How would you write an ending to their story?" In her question, he heard the echoes of hundreds of other people. He smiled faintly.

"I don't think their story can end. Not with so many bards running around. You see, they've become more than a story. More than just women of flesh and blood. For the romantic and those of hoping hearts, they are the symbol of fiery passion and love without end or of a friendship that is beyond boundaries and transcends time. To those inclined to war, they are the balanced forces: the Warrior Princess of the cunning, honor, and strength that is needed to win in battle and the Warrior Bard, who is the mercy and compassion that should guide the sword of any true warrior. And for some, they just make a very entertaining story. The great thing about being a bard is that you can choose the ending you wish to be true, no matter if it's true or not."

"That's awfully romantic, but you didn't answer my question, bard." He almost dropped his tankard. In all his years, no one had ever challenged his answer. But then again, the stranger was hardly a young, wide-eyed bard waiting to take on the world.

"I don't write tales about Gabrielle, remember?" He was surprised to find he could squeeze the words out, for his tongue felt like sandpaper, scraping against the roof of his mouth. He swallowed some more ale. Suddenly, he could feel her breath his face; she had leaned uncomfortably close.

"Why not?" She spoke in a half growl, but he could still hear that playful burr at the end. "You tell good stories. You would do her stories justice. You could do her justice. Like I said before, I've rarely heard any tales about Gabrielle's own courageous deeds."

"Hey, it's not like Gabrielle didn't have an ego, you know! She included herself in the stories." Homer paused as the stranger let out something that he could have sworn was a chuckle. "But it's the Warrior Princess that sells to the crowd; she's the one that's popular. And Gabrielle did pay a lot more attention to her friend's deeds than her own. The stories of the Warrior Princess were the ones she really poured her heart into, ego or not. That's why most bards sing more about the Warrior Princess than the Warrior Bard; they're just following Gabrielle's own example."

"If you ask me, that's a damn shame," the stranger said. "Gabrielle shouldn't be overshadowed, not in that way. As you said, she lived a real life. A full life. And from the way you speak of her, you could give her a life in words, as well. Most people remember her as a silly sidekick .... you can change what people think of her. Much like she did for ... the Warrior Princess. "

She suddenly tensed, and he could feel her body move slightly in front of his. He straightened, ready for trouble. Most people left him alone, but there were always one or two ...

"Is everything alright here? She isn't botherin' yeh none, is she ?" Tithion lumbered over, and the table leaned as he put his weight on the edge. His voice was harsh and it was pointed toward the stranger. "I didn' see 'er come to sit by yeh ... I was too busy."

"No, no ... I'm fine. Me and .... my friend were just discussing something."

"I can move 'er if yeh want. Plenty of room elsewhere."

"No, I rather she stay here, if she's willing to endure my chatter. Gives me some company. Really, I'm fine, Tithion. Thanks for asking, though."

"Well, awright. But yeh give me a call if yeh need."

He nodded and smiled, his fingers unclenching as he felt and heard the wood shiver and squeak as the bartender left. His companion hadn't moved a muscle, but he could feel the alert tension that practically radiated off her body. Tithion had been lucky.

"You have a good friend there." She had backed away again, to her side of the table. The wood stood between them now. He rubbed the gouge in the tabletop thoughtfully.

"Yes, I do. I'm lucky in that way. Friends are important." His hands stopped, and he wanted to reach out to her, but the wood was in the way.

"Well, I'm sorry if you wanted more information on Gabrielle and the Warrior Princess, but I can't give you much more than what I heard in stories. I doubt that more than half of it's true. But I can tell you this. I hope that wherever Gabrielle and the Warrior Princess are, they are together. Despite what Plato or Sappho or any other bard might write, they deserve that much, at least. And that one day, after all the heroics and adventuring was done, they'd go off somewhere together, not necessarily into the sunset," he smiled slightly "But to a place where people wouldn't know their names, and they could be just themselves ...  friends, lovers, or whatever. If I had a choice, my ending would have them building a home together, perhaps raising a family."

"A family, a home, and a peaceful, anonymous existence ... it's an ending I would wish on anyone."

"Yeah, but that's a boring type of climax. I'd be booed out of the taverns. To die at home in a rocking chair is not the most glamorous of endings for someone as great and powerful as the Warrior Princess. Besides, I wonder if the bard could ever get her friend to stop adventuring  ... or even stop the urge in herself. They'd probably have to come out, now and then, for old times sake."

"You think?"

"Maybe. Just for a little fun, you know ... to stretch the ol' bones a bit." The sun had moved out of the range of the window. Stretching, he could feel the aches and whimpers that time had etched deep within him. "Well, I better get back before the younger bards start raiding the forbidden section of the library. They all seem to want to get the newest publication from India ... the Karma Smutta or the Smarmy Sutra or something like that. If they read it, I don't want to be the one who has to send the notes to their parents about the results," he paused, and he knew a rogue smile was creeping across his face. "Though sometimes I wish I could ... but as much as I hate to admit it, I'm too old, among other things." His hands fluttered to his face, and he rubbed his temples briefly. "I bet the pictures in there are mighty interesting, though."

He slowly got up, swaying slightly, and he felt a hand close over his upper arm, steadying him. The fingers were strong and firm.

"You're never too old for anything, unless you think you are," her voice rumbled, and he bowed his head, trying to hide the sudden heat that flushed his cheeks. "When you get back to the Academy, there will be two young people waiting for you. One of them will be a young girl, by the name of Ephinia, who thinks she's a bard. Therefore she also thinks that she has to run away from home to prove it."

"Seems like a trend, nowadays. What do you want me to do? Youngsters rarely listen to an old, blind bard."

"Or anybody else. Tell her to send messages home occasionally. Her parents are worried. And tell her to visit now and then with that young warrior she ran away after." She pressed his staff  into his hand. "I doubt she'll trouble you for long in that Academy of yours. She never could stay in one place. Wanted to go and see the world ... you know how it is with youth. She's a stubborn young thing, but she has a good heart. She'll work hard, like her mother, and her mother before her."

"I'm sure she'll do fine. It's up to the young ones to write the stories and to carry on the adventures, nowadays. I barely can remember the right names to anything, anymore. Not to my students, not even to my own work ..."

He gripped his staff, leaning against it suddenly. His knees hurt more than ever now. A home, a family, and an existence of peaceful anonymity with the person he loved... his hands stroked the staff absently. He reached back for the small sheet of parchment, feeling along the familiar creases to make sure he folded it the right way, picture side up. "Who'd ever thought that we'd get old? That both legends takers and legend makers would not outlast their own words and deeds? I wonder what the future will think of us, when our flesh and blood becomes bone and dust. Will they ever know we were once real? Or will stories be all that's left?"

"For what it's worth, I liked your ending the best. If the only things you leave behind are your words, well, it's not that bad of a legacy. Besides, SOMEONE has to show those young upstarts the way to spin a tale. Trust me, there are worse things that you could be remembered for. Words are the only things that last, beyond warriors and warlords and lands in turmoil."

"Are you sure that you're not a bard?"

Again, that low chuckle seemed to vibrate through his entire body. "Sometimes, I wish I was. I admire what bards do. Most of all, I admire what they've taught me."

"Well, for what it's worth, you would have been a good one. And if I know bards, I think that you would have had a great story to tell. One that the world would want ... and need to hear."

"Let's just say I got lucky in that department ... I've never needed to be my own bard. If I had to tell my tale by myself, my story would probably be a tragedy."

"You're certainly lucky then, in more ways than just having your story told."

"I know. But sometimes I wish I could repay the favor," her tone deepened, and he could almost hear something much like regret there, standing stark and strange within the voice which had sounded so firm before, "and somehow give my friend an everlasting life, if only in words. However, I'm not a bard. No one would read what I wrote nor listen to what I have to say. It is quite a shame, you know, to let a good story die untold and unknown to the world."

She was close to him, and he could feel each breath of air that came with each word. Each syllable was filled with not a threat, not a plea, but with a quiet intensity that made him think of the tension that came just before sunrise.

He hesitated, licking his lips and swallowing. Yet, the dryness that usually accompanied the action was curiously missing. Feeling the picture solid in his hand, he straightened his stance.

"Well, I hope you do find a bard to tell that tale of your friend, one day. But I also think you're wrong about yourself. By the way you speak of your friend's influence, I think you have more than repaid the favor, if any was owed in the first place ..." he stopped, giving her a wry shake of his head. "The art of a bard is not just in the spinning of a story, nor in how long one's words will last. It's also in the lives that he or she touches through writing, storytelling, or otherwise. If we're lucky enough to reach even one person, well, we're that much closer to reaching the world." He stroked his throat absently, feeling the melting tension there, like the first glimmering of dawn. His memory sparked, slightly, as if warming up something he had long forgotten. "In your actions and your friendship, I'm willing to guess that your bard finds  ... his or her... own story told well."

"You are a romantic one, if not a bit presumptuous."

"I am just a simple bard, remember? Take it anyway you want to. By the way, could you do me a favor? Since you're around bards so much ... if you ever happen to meet a certain Warrior Bard, tell her Homer sends his regards and wishes to see her now and then ... to make sure she's still flesh and blood. And tell her to send along that Warrior Princess of hers, too. I want to meet the woman behind the legend. I've never met her before. All I have for an image is this huge woman: cunning, brave, and a true warrior. But she's always so cold and aloof, in my mind. I don't know if the image I hold of her is true ... I don't think it is. I think I would like Xena, with or without her title." He held out his hand and she took it, gripping it firmly in the place right below the elbow. A warrior's handshake. But one which spoke of much, much more.

"I will pass the message on, if I see them." A slight sense of warm humor and goodwill floated on her voice. He could barely hear her footsteps leaving.

"Wait ..." The footsteps stopped as he held out the folded parchment. "Say, if I was to start telling certain tales about a certain Warrior Bard, I would want to get the details right. Tell me, even after all these years, do you think my words should describe her face as it is in this picture here? She's so pure, so full of life and joy that it seems to leap from the lines. So beautiful. That's the image I hold of her, in here ..." He tapped his head. "And I want to know if it still matches. I think it does. What's your opinion? Do you think I'm an old, romantic fool?"

"Doesn't matter what I think. But ... if I were a bard, and a romantic one at that, I would say that she's countless times more beautiful than any picture on a parchment." She hesitated. "But her face must be very close to the one you hold in there." A strong finger tapped his chest. "Funny ... the one in there's pretty close to the image that ... well..." Even though he couldn't confirm it, he would have wagered that the slightest trace of a smile graced the stranger's face. "It doesn't matter. Just get started on those stories, will ya?"

He caught a soft whiff of grass and horse sweat, and the floorboards creaked once. Then she was gone. He tucked the picture back into his tunic, at the spot right above his heart, then headed for the door. Firm ground and welcoming sunshine awaited him. Ephinia. He rolled the name in his mouth, trying to memorize the feel of it on his tongue. He was sure when he got back to the Academy, that he, the youngster, and her warrior companion would have a nice long talk. After all, it was never too early to start gathering up potential stories and finding the ending to old ones. With the sun warm on his face, he headed toward home.

The End

Presenting my ever suffering guinea pig brigade (who both should have learned better by now but without whom this story would be just a bunch of  "words, words, words"):