The night was cold. The changes in Yew had brought about severe weather changes and instead of a beautiful summer day, the glade was in the midst of a mighty rainstorm. The young elf was soaked to the skin. Having been for many weeks he was still in shock at what had become of his homeland. Already the new owner of the tower had made changes and the elven warrior thought it best not to ask for shelter lest he stir unwanted memories within himself. So he wandered. So he wandered here and there in the rain, with no particular direction and no sense of where he should be. At every house he came to he felt too afraid to go in. He was unready for the welcome that was sure to come, when his brethren learned of his "return". In the cold and still soaking wet, his feet moved without direction....

Hours passed. The moon, glimpsed occasionally through the bitter storm clouds had begun its descent when he suddenly stopped. The hours of walking in the rain too afraid to begin his life again led him to the one place, the only place where he felt safe. And its appearance now shocked him. It had fallen to decay. Ivy and other wild vines had overgrown most of the walls, taking over all the small cracks and chips in the stonework; the entire house was in a general state of disrepair. A sign hung brokenly above the mantle. There was elven script written on the sign - "Malawain". In common it translated loosely to "Forsaken". But its literal translation could almost mimic her name - "Sunveil". Somehow he knew she would be there. Stumbling blindly from the rain in his eyes and not really being able to discern an actual trail thanks to the muddy earth, he found himself standing before her door.

Raising his hand slowly, almost resignedly, he knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

He heard shuffling not at all the boisterous gait he had hoped for. The door opened slowly, reluctantly. Myra Sunveil, hair disheveled and barefoot, stared open mouthed at the elven form dripping wet standing in her archway.

"Hello Mela..." Q'wellen said.

He barely recognized her. Her eyes were heavy with dark bags from lack of sleep. Her normally lithe form was now a mere shadow. It was obvious that she had not slept in days and Q'wellen was willing to give odds, that she had not eaten either. Despite that, despite the unwashed hair, the wild staring and haunting eyes, her ghastly thin form, and ruined clothes, so unnatural from her normally perfectly matched clothing. Despite it all, all he could see was her beauty.

Only something had changed, not with Myra (despite the outward appearances), no this time the change was within himself. He had loved her nearly from the time he had first come to the glade. Being inexperienced in love it came at first in a rush, then as time passed and his passions had turned to the defeat of his arch-nemesis, Khellenduras his love had deepened. Now after his long journey away from the glade his love for her had become compassionate and unconditional. Now, in this time and in this place, he no longer loved Myra Sunveil, but was instead IN love with her.

***

Myra smoothed her hair a little and straightened her clothing as she made her way slowly to her door. She hadn't been asleep, but she'd spent days at a time lying in bed, simply staring at her ceiling mural.

Myra opened the door slowly. It wasn't usual for her to have guests. Not ones that knocked, besides. There, in a shivering and soaked huddle, was Q'wellen. Their eyes met, and time froze. A million different things ran through Myra's mind. The last time she'd seen him... alive... was writhing in Khellenduras' grip. And she had stood there... and only watched. The second thought that ran through her mind was of the kiss he'd bestowed upon her before facing Khellenduras that fateful night. A faint blush tinged her cheeks at the thought. And then she remembered something else. The vows that had been the conditions of his return to this realm.

A gust of wind blew cold rain into her face, breaking her from her near-trance.

"Hello, Mela..." the timbre of his voice had not changed much from what she remembered. She cringed, almost, simply to hear another voice. The last visitor she'd had was Von... that seemed so long ago.

"Come... in out of the rain." Her voice was dry, going untried for days at a time. She stepped aside as lightning ripped across the sky and thunder rumbled out over the northern seas. As he walked in past her, she gave the dark woods about her home a wary glance before shutting the door.

The hinges of the door creaked in protest at being moved, and the sound of the heavy door closing reverberated about the near-empty stone room. In the corner stood a cage, half concealed by sparsely filled bookshelves. Against the shelves was a desk with some loose notes lying upon it. Aside from that, and a small brazier used for warmth, there was only her harp. Layers of dust covered the top of it. Its strings seemed untouched for too long.

She moved silently about the room, setting a stool that had been knocked over upright again. "Please... Sit." She moved to the small forge-like brazier and stoked the coals within. Waves of pleasant warmth rose from it. "You can hang your wet cloak there." She pointed to a hook on the wall just near the door. Her voice was dull, even, almost emotionless. Haunted. The red mark of Mord'sythe's magics still 'graced' her forehead, and she made no move to cover it. As if she'd forgotten it was there at all.

***

Q'wellen entered the room slowly. When he had first seen her, he had seen her through his mind's eye. Now, in the low light of the brazier, he saw her as she truly was. She was a disheveled mess. The house in which she had once taken so much pride was quite literally a shadow of it's former self. Everything was covered in dust. Most of the furniture was toppled and/or broken. Even her beloved books were strewn about with no thought to her normal tidiness.

Her hair was a crow's nest, her face drawn and weary. The mark of Mord'sythe glared from her forehead, and when he saw it, it hit him like a physical blow. Despite it all, in his eyes, her beauty shown through. Beneath the stained cheeks, he saw glints of her once perfect skin. Amidst the disheveled and uncared-for locks he saw glimmers of her once proud mane. In spite of the bags under her eyes, he focused instead on her fathomless orbs, sparkling in the firelight.

When he had first arrived back in the glade, only hours ago, he was unsure of why he had come back. Seeing her here, now, like this he knew. It was as the old ones had told him - True love would know. As proof, here he was, standing before her when she needed him the most.

He unbuckled the clasp from his cloak and tossed it on a nearby overturned chair. Glancing around, he turned his head and caught the long strands of his hair. Quickly and purposefully, he withdrew the war knot, wringing the rain from it, and placed the knot back in, all in one smooth motion.

Trying not to startle her, for she had suddenly taken on the appearance of a skittish doe, he slowly lowered his pack and blades to the dusty floor. Beginning to feel the warmth return to his bones, he moved towards her slowly. He noticed a strange, dull expression had overcome Myra. He became worried quickly, as it seemed she had suddenly lost connection with the reality around her. Her movements became aggravated, almost like a cornered animal. Q'wellen slowed to a snail's pace as he tried to get closer to her.

The closer he got, the more feral she seemed to become, but it was more than that. Q'wellen could sense a deeper meaning behind her movements. Myra had reached the bottom of herself. She had crashed on the rocks of herself and Q'wellen sensed that she had come up short on reflection.

He inched towards her painfully slow, aware that any sudden movements on his part would send her bolting. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he almost giggled, as the thought came to his head that he was indeed stalking her as if she were a skittish deer. He moved closer. Now no more than a few feet separated them. He raised his hand in measured increments, keeping his eyes locked on hers. Finally he held her arm, and in the next instant he had her enfolded in his embrace.

She struggled at first, writhing madly. She muttered obscene and foul things. As he listened he began to understand. She thought she was trapped by Mord'sythe or Khellenduras depending on the delusion. He began to whisper to her softly, still holding her tightly though, as she kicked and fought. She struggled continuously, but the days without sleep or food wearied her quickly. As she relented in her struggles so too did Q'wellen's grip loosen. Shifting from a restraining hold to one of comfort he held her closer still and began to stroke her hair, still whispering soft nothings to her.

The energy drained from her quickly and, without warning, she slumped against him. In that second he seemed to recognize Q'wellen.

***

Myra watched him. Some sense in her mind screamed out that this couldn't be Q'wellen. Serafina had told her of the vows he had been made to swear to the Seldarine themselves! He was not to pursue her, she had been told. He had been told to seek true love elsewhere. At least, that was her understanding. And then there was the word that had reached even the depths of the forest she lived in… about his departure. She had gone and left a short few verses on his door. She didn't know if he'd find them…

This couldn't be Q'wellen, standing here in my home, she thought. Her eyes shifted, becoming frightened. What trick was this? Whose trick was it? He tossed his cloak across the overturned chair in the corner. She backed away slowly until her back was against the wall. Slowly, he began to approach her. She was too far from the stairs to bolt up into her room, and he stood between her and the door.

Her eyes darted, looking for a way out. Finding none, she focused on the thing that surely could not be Q'wellen. Red pinpoints of light glowed where his eyes should be. Water… no! Blood dripped from his hands, his hair, his clothing. Pooling on her floor. Her eyes shifted only for a moment to his cloak across the room. Blood. He'd gotten blood everywhere. The smell of decayed flesh assaulted her senses, as he grew nearer. Now his hands were reaching for her.

"N'uma! I buried you! I didn't leave you there for him! N'uma! No! Nau..! This can't be!" the screams that resounded in her mind never made it so clearly to her mouth. The sounds she uttered were garbled noises that only spoke of the revulsion she felt as his cold, rotting arms closed around her. She felt herself suffocating as he pulled her closer. She feared he would simply absorb her body into his own decaying corpse. She squeezed her eyes shut against it all. This couldn't be happening…

Warmth suffused her. She stopped struggling as she realized… The whispers she heard were not the murmurs of the undead - or the dead, for that matter. Q'wellen's voice. Soft, careful… whispered against her hair, into her ear. Nonsensical whispers meant to calm a wild or frightened animal… His arms weren't restraining her, but supported her, as her legs gave out and she collapsed against him. Tears and wracking sobs came unbidden as she was released from her visions of a living nightmare. "Q'wellen..." the single word, his name, seemed a desperate plea.

She collapsed against him in heap, exhaustion finally winning out. Moving quickly he scooped her up in both arms. Using his foot he righted a nearby couch. One of the legs was broken and the couch sat haphazardly. He set her down gently, carefully. Despite his great concern for her health, he couldn't help but be intoxicated from the feel of holding her, and it took great effort to set her down, forcing himself to release her. He checked her over for external wounds. Deciding quickly that she was ok, he scooped her back up in his arms and brought her upstairs.

He set he on the bed carefully, trying not to disturb her from her much needed sleep. Stepping over to her tub, he ripped off the curtain and used it to clean the interior of the porcelain tub. Fetching a bucket, he quickly filled the tub with fresh rainwater that had collected in a catch pan hooked to an outside window.

Uttering a few words of power, a small fire appeared beneath the tub. Waiting for the water to warm, he once again approached Myra. Moving slowly, he removed her dirty shirt and torn dress. She was so exhausted, that even these motions did not wake her. Not wanting to embarrass her, he took care to leave her underskirt in place. She was like a ragdoll in his arms.

Leaving her for a moment he checked the temperature of the water. Satisfied that it was warm enough, he waved a hand dismissing the elemental cantrip. Returning to Myra he scooped her up once more. He lowered her resting form in to the warm water slowly. Even in her exhausted state, the warm water seemed to soothe her distorted features. He took his time in washing her, all his cares and concerns for her, showing in each gentle stroke of the wash cloth.

He washed the pain and suffering from her tired form. As he washed her face he could not help but see the mark Morde left on her forehead. But it held no pain for him, he accepted her past, and let it remain just that...her past. Making sure she could not slip beneath the water he left her to soak. Searching her cupboards, he found clean sheets and made her bed. Returning to the tub, he lifted her carefully and brought he r to the bed. He sat on the end of the bed and dried her off, then slowly brushed out her hair. Placing her in the bed, he covered and stood up. As he stood he stretched back and looked up....at her ceiling.

He just stood for a moment staring at the ceiling. There was a mural, a mural both hideous and hypnotic. A sun was painted there, but it was not the sun that held his attention. It was the giant spider climbing up from the sun that held his gaze. Deep black and life like, his mind struggled in horror to take it in.

What could possibly make Myra, keep this? How could she wake to it? Fall asleep under it?! His mind swirled as another piece of the puzzle that was his love fell into place. As the horror faded he tried to look at it in a more analytical way. How did it come to be here? Was this a gift from one of her tormentors? Or a more disturbing thought...had she painted it herself?

He tore his gaze from the terrible scene. Once more focused on his task, He spent the next few hours cleaning her home. Using what paltry skills he had, he attempted to fix the broken furniture to at least a useable state. Finally in the early hours of the morning he approached Myra's bed once more...

She stirred slightly as he approached. Glancing down at her, he smiled gently. The housecleaning had been good for him as it allowed him time to sort his thoughts. As he looked down at her she smiled faintly.

"Hungry amin'arwenmela?" He said through a smile.

She nodded. At her nod, he knelt next to the bed, bringing his eyes even with hers. Obviously she had a far way to go to recover from the pains of her heart, but now in this moment his love came forward unhindered. Caressing her cheek, he brushed her hair. Looking deeply in her eyes, he felt a spark in return from her. He moved closer slowly and she moved in response. He closed her eyes and kissed her and for the first time she returned the kiss.

As they kissed, Myra became more fully aware of where she was and what she was doing. At first she wanted to pull away, Q'wellen's promises flashing through her mind. But as his soft lips massaged hers, she closed her eyes and pushed those thoughts away, leaning in to kiss him more fully. Two souls bound by some cruel fate, were at last able to enjoy that which they sought, each other. The kiss went on for long moments, as theirs souls mixed. Q'wellen pushed aside his temper, his memories, everything and lingered in this most cherished moment. The same was true for Myra, there was no Morde'sythe, no Khellenduras, no past, just the kiss. The kiss seemed to go on for eternity and as they kissed something happened that neither saw. The overcast skies cleared for a moment and the rays of the sun lit the room. One would swear that the shadows of three forms appeared in that sunlight. All three were elves, tall, noble and the most beautiful elves ever seen. The moment past and the clouds once again blocked the sun.

As the kiss ended, they separated. Q'wellen was smiling, the smile of peaceful bliss. His eyes came to focus upon Myra's. There he saw an infinite sadness as a single tear rolled down her cheek. "Q'wellen", she whispered "You must leave"......

For some reason he didn't resist, deep down he knew now that she felt it too. He walked downstairs slowly, retrieved his pack and sword. Replacing his cloak he walked out the front door without saying a word.

Myra watched him go. In some part of her mind it registered that she was clean. Her room was clean. Her clothes were new... He had tended to her while she'd rested. With a quiet sigh, Myra set the breakfast tray on the floor beside her bed and rolled over, pulling her blankets over her head - and cried.