Willow's End - Jera Skyspear
Elvish words/phrases linked to Glossary OR hover mouse to see translation.
Once at Midsummer...

The sun rose ever higher until most of the vendors and their patrons turned attention away from trade and on to the midday meal instead. Jera was getting hungry as well, so she began to make her way through the crowds to meet up with her companion. In fact, she felt an unusual need to make short shrift of it.

Sandaeren was easy enough to locate. During the festivals, such as this one for Midsummer, he set up a tent alongside that of a fellow named Vosper, his primary business associate. Vosper and his family were bowyers and worked leather goods to arm and equip hunters and warriors. Sandaeren had begun his trade in a more peaceful direction. He was originally a candlemaker. However, Vosper discovered that Sandaeren was adept at using his wax wares to finish wood and leather. Thus a partnership developed.

Though festivals in the little borough of Thetford were correspondingly small, there was a reasonable variety in the marketplace, drawn from surrounding lesser villages and the immediate countryside. Jera's home was some distance away, between there and Camelot, but she'd found buyers for her essences and herb gatherings and, after meeting Sandaeren, had more than enough reason to frequent the place.

When Jera first ventured to Thetford, or any town, she went to the local apothecaries, healers, and sellers of produce or spices. Generally she was well cloaked and rather quiet about her visits and inquiries. She did not reveal her race or gender unless she felt comfortable in an establishment. Too many times, especially in these little tucked away towns, she'd seen ill treatment of elves and women. It seemed a favorite past-time of mortal men, particularly under the influence of ale. For as long as Jera could manage it, she preferred to be seen only as a tall cloaked figure, and she made a point of being seen as little as possible. However, on her rounds through Thetford, Jera found cause for revealing her nature.

A small undecorated door, with no placard of any kind, was propped open in a little shop between shops. The scents drifting out called to Jera and, even without knowing what sort of shop it was, she had to go in. There was very little to the place. It was a deep but narrow room in the building, more like an alleyway that had been given a roof. There was a strong scent of melting wax but the symphony of fragrances above it were what filled Jera's nostrils and made her smile within the shadow of her hood.

"Good morrow," came a greeting from a disembodied voice. It called from the shadowy area at the back of the shop.

Jera could say nothing for a moment. She watched and waited for the person to emerge but had an inkling of what she might see. His voice was melodious, not at all the often gutteral and harsh barking of ordinary men. Had she been visible, she was sure she'd be ablush with the warmth of hearing this voice, one like her own people, one like memories of home.

Indeed the person who emerged was very tall, lithe, and graceful. He was dressed in leggings, soft kneeboots, and a flowing poet's shirt tucked by a woven belt. The sunlight which managed to get into the shop through the little door, helped illuminate a flawless face of fine features. Pale blue-green eyes sparkled, as well as highlights from long silver-blonde hair flowing in small rippled waves over his shoulders. As Jera's eyes adjusted to the room, she noted that his brilliance was more than what he borrowed from the myriad candles lit and on display on the shop shelves.

"I am..." Jera was breathless, "so pleased to meet you, kindred. Mae govannen." In a way, her voice was laced with relief as well as excitement, as from one who has waited longer than memory for something needed and desired. Here he stood, another like herself. In speaking, she had revealed to him her gender and her race, but if he was in any way a threat to her, she felt not one whit of it. In fact, she felt completely open and drawn to him.

"Amin saesa," he returned with a warm smile. He approached in long fluid strides and paused within a pace to lean foward in a respectful bow. He had not missed the smooth lyrical tone of her voice, and of course her 'Well met' in his native tongue. So, cloaked or not, he knew that the figure before him was a woman of his own kind, kindred, as she said.

As Jera bowed with a slight dip not quite a curtsey, Sandaeren told her his name and she reciprocated. She kept to herself the thoughts about his name. She knew it meant 'abiding sea' and that was what she saw in his eyes, the depth and color of the timeless sea. The same heritage was echoed in the fine waves of his hair. She told him of her pleasure at the scents from his shop, which he explained. He had made a good living selling candles enhanced with the scents of flowers and herbs. It was a novelty around Thetford. Naturally, Jera continued with this topic and by the end of their first meeting, Sandaeren had contracted her to supply him with the fragrant oils and essences needed to blend with the wax.

Eventually, after many regular visits to Thetford and Sandaeren's obscure little shop, Jera learned where in the woods he gathered wax. They enjoyed many an afternoon of tea with honey, discussing Jera's activities and Sandaeren's new ventures, especially as work for Vosper began to take over his days. Jera invited Sandaeren to visit her at Willow's End and she was invited to his modest cottage near his helpful colonies of bees.

For years on years they continued and grew ever closer. There was never really a discussion about making a home together or such. There was no hurry. Each had their own lives to attend but more and more frequently they made time for each other. There was nothing they did not share and no pleasure left untried together. It was so comfortable to be in communion, whether walking through the woods, laughing while stirring some unusual new mixture over a fire, or sitting quietly in the shade. When possible, they attended functions within Thetford and nearby. There seemed to be an acceptance of them among these humans which was rather foreign to Jera but Sandaeren was accustomed, since he'd been long established in the area.

As festivals came to pass, like Midsummer, Sandaeren and Jera would each use the events to ply their trades as well as enjoy the company between them. So it was on this Midsummer, and so it was that Jera approached the row of vendors where weapons and the like were being sold. A sense of urgency began to course through her. She walked more swiftly along the row of tents with gleaming armor and the musky scent of leather. She had difficulty seeing through the crowd to where she knew Vosper's tent was stationed and therefore Sandaeren's. Her urgency within was pushing more forcefully. There was an element of dread to it, but she was driven onward to whatever awaited.

At last, Jera saw a break in the crowd and slipped through, then found that several people were actually kneeling to something on the ground. The rest of the gallery was just that, mostly silent or whispering, and watching. When Jera identified the top of Vosper's head, she stepped around to speak with him. He looked up then and sat back on one booted heel. He could say nothing.

With Vosper leaned out of the way, Jera could see what had attracted the crowd and it made her heart drop down through her body. She saw Sandaeren's beautiful face. His shining hair pooled around his head where he lay on the ground. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but the most horrific thing was the head of an arrow protuding from the hollow of his throat.

Vosper grasped Jera's arm to support her as she sank to her knees beside Sandaeren. All those who had hovered over him simply disappeared or at least she was no longer aware of them. She had no expression. She was still trying to comprehend this nightmare vision. She knew Sandaeren was dead though, besides the look of him and his life's blood spilled in the trampled dirt. Her sense of him was gone. He was gone.

Her hands hovered over his face for a moment, then his chest. She was reluctant to touch him, knowing that his lifeforce no longer filled him. Finally her left hand gently pressed over his heart which had of course been stilled. She let the fingers of her right hand lightly brush back a strand of hair from his face and tuck it behind his handsome ear. Then, she looked up at Vosper, with tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. She did not ask him for an explanation, but her look expected one.

Vosper shook his head and looked down again at his friend Sandaeren's body. It was easier than looking into the piercing and tearful eyes of the elf's lady. His words were dry, cracked and stumbling. "A bowman's mistake. A grievous blunder. He was no where near the practice yard. He stood here, showing a group of young squires how to care for a fine bow. He--" Finally, Vosper looked up at Jera again and watched a tear slip over her fine cheekbone. "He had no hint nor warning. There was no malice intended, my lady. Twas simply unlucky chance."

With the help of a few men contracted by Vosper, Jera escorted Sandaeren's body away from the festival and ultimately to a small glen near his woodland home. She instructed the men on building a proper pyre and while they worked, Jera gathered all the honeysuckle she could carry in order to drape Sandaeren in its rich scent. It was his favorite and plentiful enough here to keep his bees content.

As sunset approached, the preparations were completed. Jera pressed her hands over Sandaeren's where they rested upon his chest. She leaned in to kiss his cool lifeless cheek, then she stepped back. One of the men had prepared a torch and set the pyre ablaze. Jera quietly thanked them all for helping and gave them leave. She was left alone then to sink again to the ground, to sit upon her feet, wrap her arms around herself... and sing. Her throat was tight, full of great sorrow and great joy, but she sang, sending part of herself to go with her friend, companion and lover, on his journey to the West.

Among Jera's modest collection of personal items, is a tall white pedestal candle scented with honeysuckle. It was the first of many such gifts Sandaeren had crafted for her, making much ado of blending their arts. She has never burned this candle and perhaps never will, but the surface is worn slick from Jera sitting sometimes, rubbing her fingers over the scented wax and remembering.

DHP © May 5 2002

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