An Ending That Never Happened

[This was going to be my "exit" for Myra Sunveil. After I wrote it, I decided I simply could NOT end her that way. Still, it is such a work of art, I wanted to present it and see if everyone else saw the force of emotion it contained. I have added a little snip at the end to allow this to be a part of my collection of Myra writings. Enjoy! ~Jenna]

Some days you awaken with a certainty. A feeling of 'knowing' so strong your very being vibrates with it. A certainty you feel to your very core. Today was such a day for Myra Sunveil. It wasn't a feeling she could place, but it was one she could not deny. This was not the first time she'd felt this way, and she judged it would not be the last - but who can tell with such things? When such certitude is known to a being, how can one count on 'tomorrow' coming? These thoughts occured to the elf maid, but she wiped them away the same as she did the sleep in her eyes.

The sun met the water of the falls and sent a curtain of scintillating color across the cave floor. These mini rainbows danced across the elf maid as well, and for a brief moment, she smiled. A glance around her living space faded that smile. She slept upon a small mound of furs and assorted softened animal hides. The rocks of the cave served as various 'tables' of sorts. Kept in a slim wooden case beside her 'bed' rest a blade. Where the elf maid seemed somewhat unkempt in appearance, the blade resting upon the velvet lining in the case was pristine. Immaculate in its very form. The gentle curve of a scimitar, seemingly made of ivory. The arcane runework that graced the blade - rendered with some unknown magic to appear wet, the color of blood... The smile disappeared completely.

How long had she lived like this? Her very existance shadowed by that blade? Directed by a need, a hunger, she could not satisfy. Barely a century old, how much longer could she live like this? Such thoughts were the meat and drink of Myra Sunveil's mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Unlike food and drink, however, they did not sustain, they devoured. She slept less, avoided the Reverie even more. Food was an afterthought, when she grew almost too weak to eat. Her only focus was finding a release, a way to stop the need to kill. So focused upon this, Arwen Sunveil had failed to notice that she no longer felt drained if she did not kill. She did not notice that her lessened sleeping habits were not causing ill effects. The simple fact of the matter was - Something had changed.

But weariness has a way of turning to madness, and madness had set its foot inside the threshold of Myra Sunveil's mind. Her focus was clear, all else was unseen.

And it was this focused, this blind, that she found herself walking an unfamiliar path, oblivious. Arcane formulae worked through her thoughts, both those borne of light and healing, and those risen from death and decay. It was the combination of these two powers - the power of the holy paladin and the power of the unholy necromancer - that would bring her salvation. So she believed, in the fevered realm that was her mind. So lost in her own world, she did not hear the approaching footfalls. A split second before the hand came to cover her mouth that feeling of certainty she'd awoken with became impossible to ignore.

The bear of a man with his hand across her mouth pulled her back, intent on snapping her neck and being done with his task. Myra, as muddled as her mind may have been, was still a warrior. Still trained by both Bladesinger and Drow, and those are paths one does not forget. Like a dance your body remembers long after the mind has forgotten the music.

Myra twisted as she ducked, in the same motion freeing her blade from its sheath. The man she faced was no common brigand. Dressed in leathers and furs, he still appeared well-off. Professional. A grin parted his bearded lips, showing perfectly white teeth. Too perfect. The sun reflected off his bald, polished pate. She took less than a moment to assess the man before charging after him with a flurry of blows. Her arm, formerly broken by a flesh golem in some forgotten wood in Malas, was newly healed, thanks to the magics she'd begun studying. The combination of the art of a healer, and the methods necromancer's used to revitalize flesh had allowed her just the turn she needed to accelerate the healing and rebuilding of bone. All of this was undone in less than a heartbeat, however, when the man took hold of her wrist and twisted.

White-hot pain flashed behind her eyes and the snap of the bone resonated in her ears. The scimitar, her lifeline, fell from her hands... skittered across the dirt path. She was brought to her knees, the man's impossibly strong hand still on her wrist, eyes blinded by tears of excrutiating pain.

"Little elf. Der is no need to struggle. T'does you no good. Shh, shh. Be still." His voice, deep and warm, was deceptively calm. He addressed her as a parent would comfort a child that had scraped its knee. He extended his other hand toward the blade, lying beyond either his or Myra's reach. The bladed lifted in the air, floated into his hand. He observed it with cold blue eyes, all the while Myra struggled, even resorting to biting the man's hand in an attempt to break free of his steel grip. He seemed oblivious to her efforts.

"Now. T'is time for you to hush, little elf. Cute 'dough you may be, Ah am paid to deliver your heart."

He held her own scimitar angled toward her chest. Fear, cold and icy, filled her. This must have been how that healer felt when she and Trenton had faced the poor woman, Trenton's scimitar held in a similar fashion. This was it, that certainty proclaimed. This was what was coming. Her end. The pain in her arm faded away. The madness that had driven her these past days melted into nothing. Clarity filled her eyes in that last moment when the tip of the blade pierced her tunic, her skin, her flesh and bone...

Long denied the feeling, in just moments, Myra Sunveil knew peace.

Myra blinked into full consciousness, cold sweat blanketing her body. She had lapsed into the Reverie, but that certainly had never happened... what did it mean?

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> [This was going to be my "exit" for Myra Sunveil. After I wrote it, I decided I simply could NOT end her that way. Still, it is such a work of art, I wanted to present it and see if everyone else saw the force of emotion it contained. I have added a little snip at the end to allow this to be a part of my collection of Myra writings. Enjoy! ~Jenna] > Some days you awaken with a certainty. A feeling of 'knowing' so strong your very being vibrates with it. A certainty you feel to your very core. Today was such a day for Myra Sunveil. It wasn't a feeling she could place, but it was one she could not deny. This was not the first time she'd felt this way, and she judged it would not be the last - but who can tell with such things? When such certitude is known to a being, how can one count on 'tomorrow' coming? These thoughts occured to the elf maid, but she wiped them away the same as she did the sleep in her eyes. > The sun met the water of the falls and sent a curtain of scintillating color across the cave floor. These mini rainbows danced across the elf maid as well, and for a brief moment, she smiled. A glance around her living space faded that smile. She slept upon a small mound of furs and assorted softened animal hides. The rocks of the cave served as various 'tables' of sorts. Kept in a slim wooden case beside her 'bed' rest a blade. Where the elf maid seemed somewhat unkempt in appearance, the blade resting upon the velvet lining in the case was pristine. Immaculate in its very form. The gentle curve of a scimitar, seemingly made of ivory. The arcane runework that graced the blade - rendered with some unknown magic to appear wet, the color of blood... The smile disappeared completely. > How long had she lived like this? Her very existance shadowed by that blade? Directed by a need, a hunger, she could not satisfy. Barely a century old, how much longer could she live like this? Such thoughts were the meat and drink of Myra Sunveil's mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Unlike food and drink, however, they did not sustain, they devoured. She slept less, avoided the Reverie even more. Food was an afterthought, when she grew almost too weak to eat. Her only focus was finding a release, a way to stop the need to kill. So focused upon this, Arwen Sunveil had failed to notice that she no longer felt drained if she did not kill. She did not notice that her lessened sleeping habits were not causing ill effects. The simple fact of the matter was - Something had changed. > But weariness has a way of turning to madness, and madness had set its foot inside the threshold of Myra Sunveil's mind. Her focus was clear, all else was unseen. > And it was this focused, this blind, that she found herself walking an unfamiliar path, oblivious. Arcane formulae worked through her thoughts, both those borne of light and healing, and those risen from death and decay. It was the combination of these two powers - the power of the holy paladin and the power of the unholy necromancer - that would bring her salvation. So she believed, in the fevered realm that was her mind. So lost in her own world, she did not hear the approaching footfalls. A split second before the hand came to cover her mouth that feeling of certainty she'd awoken with became impossible to ignore. > The bear of a man with his hand across her mouth pulled her back, intent on snapping her neck and being done with his task. Myra, as muddled as her mind may have been, was still a warrior. Still trained by both Bladesinger and Drow, and those are paths one does not forget. Like a dance your body remembers long after the mind has forgotten the music. > Myra twisted as she ducked, in the same motion freeing her blade from its sheath. The man she faced was no common brigand. Dressed in leathers and furs, he still appeared well-off. Professional. A grin parted his bearded lips, showing perfectly white teeth. Too perfect. The sun reflected off his bald, polished pate. She took less than a moment to assess the man before charging after him with a flurry of blows. Her arm, formerly broken by a flesh golem in some forgotten wood in Malas, was newly healed, thanks to the magics she'd begun studying. The combination of the art of a healer, and the methods necromancer's used to revitalize flesh had allowed her just the turn she needed to accelerate the healing and rebuilding of bone. All of this was undone in less than a heartbeat, however, when the man took hold of her wrist and twisted. > White-hot pain flashed behind her eyes and the snap of the bone resonated in her ears. The scimitar, her lifeline, fell from her hands... skittered across the dirt path. She was brought to her knees, the man's impossibly strong hand still on her wrist, eyes blinded by tears of excrutiating pain. > "Little elf. Der is no need to struggle. T'does you no good. Shh, shh. Be still." His voice, deep and warm, was deceptively calm. He addressed her as a parent would comfort a child that had scraped its knee. He extended his other hand toward the blade, lying beyond either his or Myra's reach. The bladed lifted in the air, floated into his hand. He observed it with cold blue eyes, all the while Myra struggled, even resorting to biting the man's hand in an attempt to break free of his steel grip. He seemed oblivious to her efforts. > "Now. T'is time for you to hush, little elf. Cute 'dough you may be, Ah am paid to deliver your heart." > He held her own scimitar angled toward her chest. Fear, cold and icy, filled her. This must have been how that healer felt when she and Trenton had faced the poor woman, Trenton's scimitar held in a similar fashion. This was it, that certainty proclaimed. This was what was coming. Her end. The pain in her arm faded away. The madness that had driven her these past days melted into nothing. Clarity filled her eyes in that last moment when the tip of the blade pierced her tunic, her skin, her flesh and bone... > Long denied the feeling, in just moments, Myra Sunveil knew peace. > <i>Myra blinked into full consciousness, cold sweat blanketing her body. She had lapsed into the Reverie, but that certainly had never happened... what did it mean?</i>
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