While the city's bell towers and horns were ringing out in remembrance of the city's fallen heroes, and temples were leading worship services to reflect on the sacrifices of war, the outbreak and other circumstances, Isuelt DeRomiano was holding her own ceremony. Since coming to RhyDin, she had found Remembrance Day to be a chilly memento of those that she had lost.

Beyond the Southern Gate, the Scathachian found a quiet time during the mid-afternoon to escape her duties within the city; she did not stop by the Inn, nor the Marketplace, nor the hospice. Securing a small patch of woods south of the city, she knelt in the soft dirt and put down the leather pouch that was hanging at her waist. Her gloved fingers began to dig in the mossy earth until she was satisfied with the modest depth.

The Judge sat back on her heels for a moment just then, listening and recollecting.

Opening the bag, she produced a carefully wrapped orchid. Then another, then another, then another; until she had seven fragile violet flowers laid out on the soft ground. Isuelt removed her gloves with a solemn reverence and placed them behind her. With each blossom, she held it between her naked fingers and quietly said their name. One father, one mother, four brothers....Daddy. Mum. Willac. Gareth. Eric. Luc. Lovingly, she consigned each orchid to the small hole she had dug before moving on to the next. Her family had been avenged many years ago, still on this day, the wounds seared deeply.

There was one blossom left, one perfect violet orchid. She held it between her fingers for a moment longer and then whispered the name of her husband. It was another lifetime ago, but on certain days, it felt as fresh as the moment he had fallen by her side in battle. Meredith DeRomiano. Finally, she deposited the flower in the ground with the others, and outstretched her hand in a Scathachian blessing over the fallen.

She knelt there, sitting on her heels, in the forest for some time before she pushed the soil back into place over the small grave of fragrant flowers and stood up. She brushed off her knees and boots and turned back to rejoin the road that would lead back to the bustling seaport city. More sullen and reserved than usual, Isuelt had one last stop before she rejoined her Sisters and tended to RhyDin's citizens. Her friend Jewell was waiting for her in the cemetery, and Isuelt had picked a gentle bouquet just for her.

"You know, if someone had told me last year that I'd be spending Remembrance Day in a mausoleum, I'd have laughed at them," Dominic mused thoughtfully, leaning back against one of the older tombs. "But then ....last year no one could have predicted what would happen."

He looked up at the plaques on the wall in front of him, each commemorating a member of his own family who had died before him. Raleigh Granger was here, as were his brothers and sister, and almost everyone who had come after them in the direct lines. But they weren't why he had come. No, his reason for coming was still shining white, as though it had been carved out of the pristine marble and place up there among the Grangers past only yesterday.

Gwendolyn Amarice Granger, nee Laurent. Beloved wife and friend. Born 14th December 1976. Died 4th June 2011. May she never be forgotten.

"Three months, Gwen. It's been three months, and I still can't believe it. Everyday I come home, and I expect to see you fiddling around with some new dye, or arguing with Humphrey about his stubborn damned pride. You wouldn't be very proud of me right now."

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, scrubbing ruthlessly as eyes that refused to stay dry, despite his promise to himself that he would not cry. That was the one thing she had always insisted on - graves were not meant to be wept over; they were there as a reminder to the living of the life that had now gone, and should be treated as such. Gwen had been so vehement about it, too. Put flowers on them, she'd say, or pour a bottle of whiskey, or whatever, but don't cry. They wouldn't want you to.

She wouldn't want him to cry, he knew. She'd want him to miss her, obviously, but not to let her loss derail his life the way it had. She'd be furious with him if she were here, absolutely incandescent at him for falling apart like a child.

"I haven't been back to work," he confessed to the silent stone. "I haven't been able to do anything much. I'm lost without you, Gwen. Fifteen years of happy marriage, and what do I have to show for it' A bedroom full of photographs and empty bottles, and a family who walk on eggshells the moment I enter a room. Well, apart from Gigi."

Gigi, the only one of his myriad cousins who had gone out of her way to drag him out of his suicidal depression with tough words and harsh truths. Gigi, who had spent the most time with Gwen when he was away, who had come very close to beating the crap out of him when he was drunk and incoherent. Gigi, who'd spent the last three months putting up with his drunken and self-pitying antics.

"I'm going to get my act together, Gwen, I promise. I'll make you proud of me again. There's a trip planned to one of the more technologically backward Earths soon; Professor Mycroft has been on my back about getting ready to go, since the tribal systems of Terra are my specialty. I'll stay for Ollie's wedding, of course - you'd like the girl he's found, a right proper lady and everything. She, uh, she helped me a bit ....gave me this poem I'm going to hang for you here. It was written by a Terran poet, a woman called Mary E. Frye. I hope she was right when she wrote this."

From his bag, he withdrew a beautifully framed piece of canvas, on which had been embroidered with painstaking attention to detail thirteen lines of heart-breaking poetry. Dom touched it almost reverently, nodding to himself as he re-read the lines.

"It helps, to read this when I'm getting down," he admitted to the cold, unfeeling stone that bore his beloved wife's name, rising to hang the framed piece beside the elaborate G of Gwendolyn. His fingers traced the cool marble, touching lovingly the carven shape of a name whose face he would never now see again, except in the many photographs that littered his home. His face crumpled, hot tears escaping as sobs began to wrack his broad-shouldered form.

"I miss you."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints on snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. So do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die. - Mary E. Frye

In the hazy days after his confrontation with the mercenaries and getting Tasha safe but before the trouble that was to come, Luse went back to his old cabin in the great woods north of the city of Rhydin.

Upon entering, the musty odors of wood, dust and the past hit his nose like smelling salts. A lot of things would never be the same. Would never be like they were before. Would never be as special.

He dropped his bag on the lone table in the one room cabin and moved to the old chest at the foot of a flimsy aluminum cot he used as a resting place. He wasn't one for nostalgia normally, but now seemed the proper time. Kneeling, he unlocked the chest and opened the top.

All sorts of memorabilia were laid out in piles of no particular order in front of him. He had been around a long time. Too long, some said. Not long enough, others insisted. Still, he had met many people in his travels. Some more than others he wished were still around and able to inspire him to see past what Rhydin was.

He rummaged and took a few items out of the stash. Some keys to a great machine that was destined to fly one day, if its creator had any say in it. The best fireworks he'd ever experienced. The recipe to the greatest milkshake ever made. Notes of inspiration from a cute little Irish lass who was probably the sweetest person he'd ever met. A shaving of a bar he once knew long ago, given freely and with the hopes that it would be used to spawn another like it. These were just some of the things he collected from the chest and laid out on a simple linen cloth.

He wrapped all of those up save the fireworks and stood. Grabbing both the linen package, the fireworks and a bottle of whiskey with his free hand, he pushed open the door to the cabin and moved to the large log he had placed by the charred remains of a fire pit nearby.

He set the small linen package down on the ground by the log and moved closer. Popping the cork of the whiskey bottle, he poured a generous amount on the charred remains of the big logs, setting it aflame.

It took mere minutes but the fire pit was restored, roaring into being.

The elf took a swig off the bottle and sat on the voluminous log, staring at the fire. After a few more swigs, he tossed one of the fireworks in the flaming pit.

The flare shot straight at the sky and exploded in colors that were not meant for unworthy men to see. But he saw and he smiled. Memories flooded his mind as he watched the embers of the display fade away.

He threw another firework onto the fire with the same result. A flare shot up higher than most could dream of and then blossomed into a multitude of colors that rainbows would be envious of.

Another swig off the bottle and he truly smiled.

"Wish you were here."

It was very possible that it was mere coincidence that Amthy recollected anything of consequence"or anything at all for that matter"on Remembrance Day. She sat tucked comfortably on the wide seat of one of Ardane's double-hung bay windows. It over looked the woods. Trees: that was what she could see. If she strained her eyes and pressed up against the glass, there was the lake to the east. There was, of course, the sky that stretched endlessly; narrowing far beyond the scope of her vision. If she closed her eyes and listened, her Wind Sibs could tell her what lie in those far reaches in such detail she could imagine it. They could fill her ears with knowledge of things both big and small. The most inconsequential fact did not escape their collective notice. They were the Wind, and they saw, heard, and touched everything.

She wiggled backward until she rested against one of the angled panes of glass. Her regard turned from the sky to her hand: delicate and dirty. Her nails were chipped and dirt highlighted the crescent shape beneath. Amthy had been like them, too. Once. Her thoughts slipped away from that knowledge like a foot on an algae-covered rock. Her interest focused instead on a silver wrought butterfly with stained-glass wings. It sat poised for flight just beside her bare toes.

Amthy circled her arms around her legs and pulled her knees firmly to her chest. There were many things she would change, if only she could. Numbly, her heart lurched in her ribs. Hesitantly, she extended her hand and let the tip of her pointer finger play across the cool, gleaming curve of a wing. Gradient olivine hair fell forward to spill over her shoulders and obscured her face.

"For crying out loud, would you stop it already?" Cayt broke the silence as she plopped unceremoniously down just on the other side of the butterfly. Her worn riding breeches sent up a small cloud of dust. Tracks of dirt streaked on her pants and her blouse. She punctuated her words with a pert, and unexpected, flick of her fingers against the tip of Amthy's nose."I'll have you know you ruined what could have been a perfectly good ride"if I'd even made it to the stables." Cayt grumped. "Before I'd barely gotten out the door I was crying. I didn't even notice it until "Rora pointed it out. Then I tripped and fell off the porch."

Cayt picked up the butterfly and rolled it over in her hands. Amthy made a fist against her leg to stop herself from grabbing it.

"Not that I'm saying it's completely your fault. It's okay to cry, you know." Cayt told her. The brusque nature of her words softened to show the concern that hid beneath. "And I know you know how. Maybe it's time to just let go of it. Nothing you do for Mealla or Rory will change what happened for you. There's no going back, and there's no do-overs. Not even if you come back from the dead twice and become a farmer."

An unexpected chortling snort escaped Amthy as she looked at Cayt. Her amusement and surprise were clear on her fine Fae features. "Why do I get to be Willie in this story' Why couldn" I get to be you?"

Cayt held the butterfly up and admired the way the light brightened the glass. "Because I moved on and he didn't."

"He didn"ave "til the end o' time."

"It would be a shame if it took that long." She held the butterfly out to Amthy.

The Nymph-y Pix took the figure and rolled her lower lip outward. She balanced the butterfly on the tops of her knees. It fell lopsidedly into the valley between them.

"Just think about that, okay?? Cayt stood and patted the top of Amthy's head. Affection played up and down the link that connected them. Amthy's head bobbed beneath the weight of Cayt's hand, but her eyes stayed on the butterfly, as if she could see nothing but the glow of the metal framed wings.

The calm winds of the evening and the bashfully setting sun allotted Solange to make her way to the freshly erected memorial markers in the Barony. While she made no secret about disapproving of most of the circumstances and events in this city, her heart softened upon hearing that it was Remembrance Day.

Wrapped in a midnight blue trench, her charcoal gray wool slacks peeked from beneath. Her chestnut hair was wrapped neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck so that the small-brimmed black fedora she wore at an angle covered her face to her satisfaction. She was wiser this time, abandoning her signature stiletto pumps for the block heels of polished loafers. Her steps finally found their way to a modest marker, gray and cool to the touch. She hadn't been here before, but Alain had told her that he had put it there. Chiseled simply in a block lettering upon the slab was the name: Lord Rolf Clarendon.

She knew there was no grave there, his body had been left in New Brittany after the assassination. There was a shiver than ran over her skin and chilled her bones. The fedora dipped as she bowed her head, remembering the day his life had ended. It was the beginning of the end. That was how she had come to think of it. Once the government officials succumbed to the frenzied plots and violence of the radicals, the world as she had known it crumbled. The chaos and anarchy that was birthed had forced the flight of many New Bretons, which had landed many of them here.

Her eyes looked to the left, seeing Melisandre Claire D'Mourir's marker. Alain's mother and the sister to Lord Rolf Clarendon. She wondered if he had been here today, or would he come later. His hours were so odd. Though such is the work for the man that Alain had become.

Solange was cold. Not the sort of cold that would be remedied by a hot tub or a steaming cup of tea. She was cold to her core, empty. She hated that feeling. The Attach' was much more comfortable being strangers with emotion; it enabled her to do her job properly. Her fingertips brought to her stained lips, she kissed them and then extended her hand to press her kiss to Lord Clarendon's marker.

"Jusqu'? la fin de la vie, mon amour. Je vais vous voir ensuite." And with that, she withdrew her fingers from the cold, hard slab and backed away to depart.