Tony had not hired Irina Sokolova to fill the role of the Shanachie's ballet mistress just because she was a friend. He had hired her because she was simply the greatest dancer he'd ever known - a legend in her own time. She knew the ballet like no one else, and there was no one he trusted more to make them the best dancers they could be. But today, one in particular was trying her patience. She was fond of the girl ....woman ....elf, but she could not help thinking she lacked something as a dancer. She had not given up on her yet though, and she had made it her personal business to make a prima ballerina out of the girl yet.

Irina thumped her cane on the floor in time to the music that was playing on the speakers. "Again!" she told her, demanding perfection, but as far as Merethyl Cytria was concerned, perfection wasn't the problem.

Indeed, Merethyl had studied ballet for almost as long as Irina had been alive. She had studied all forms of dance; this was merely the most recent challenge for her form. And she had achieved perfection ....a cold, distant perfection that was more likely to put an audience to sleep than captivate them. She was patient with Irina, understanding that the woman seemed to want something more from her, but after four hours of one-on-one coaching in which she had repeated more movements than a single solo had in its entirety, the elven woman's patience was starting to fray at the edges. The thump of that cane on the floor made her grit her teeth, returning to first position yet again as the sweeping strains of the Rose Adagio made themselves known through the studio once more.

Irina waited, watching carefully as the young woman went through the movements, flawlessly performing each pass and move of the dance, almost as if she was an automaton. Irina sighed, admiring the elf's skill, but there was still something missing. "No, no, no ..." Irina said with a sigh, and thumped her cane on the floor once again.

With a sigh of her own, Merethyl lowered down from en pointe and let her arms fall to her sides, Blue eyes looked at the ballet mistress in confusion. "I do not understand," she told Irina. "What is it that you want from me" Have I grown worse over the year, that you must tutor me like this?"

Irina tapped a button to stop the music so that she could try and explain to the ballerina what it was she was missing - again. She has warned Tony when he'd hired an elf that there would be problems, but she had not expected this. "Worse, nyet. But no better either. Your technique is perfect. Your moves are flawless, but your dancing conveys no feeling, dorogoya. It is as boring as ....how do you say ....watching paint peel. You must not only dance the part, you must become the part. You must feel what the character is feeling so that the audience feels it with you. Ponimayete""

Merethyl drew in a slow breath, frowning as she considered the words. "You believe that I am boring to watch," she repeated, a little insulted by the words but prepared to work on it, if that was necessary. "How do I become someone else? I am myself. I know myself. I have spent almost two centuries learning who and what I am. And now you say I must become someone else, or my dancing will not improve. I do not understand."

"Who do you believe you are when you are dancing the role of Sleeping Beauty' Are you Merethyl the ballerina dancing the part, or are you the ill-fated princess" You must become the character. You must feel what she feels. Your dancing is flawless, but if you cannot convey emotion to the audience, you will bore them, dorogoya." She sighed again, unsure if she was getting through to her at all. "You must put yourself in the character's place and feel what she is feeling. Is she happy, sad, frightened, angry' Dancing is not just mastering the moves; it is a form of acting, you see. The ballet tells a story, and you are a character in that story, da""

"But am I storyteller, or am I a dancer?" Merethyl asked innocently. "Surely the quality of the dance will suffer if emotion is brought into the performance. Are you asking me to cease performing to the very best of my ability, purely to play a role?" She wasn't deliberately trying to be difficult, but it was an odd concept to understand for her. Dance had never been about expression for Merethyl; it had always been about perfection.

"You are both," Irina explained. "You are an actress and a dancer. When the audience watches you, they are held spellbound. They forget they are at the theater watching a performance and become immersed in the story. In the end, interpretation is more important than technique. If it was only about technique, a robot could dance the part, and then what would we need dancers for." She sighed again. "We are through for today. We will resume in the morning."

"Yes, Irina." Aware that she had disappointed the ballet mistress yet again, Merethyl sighed, one hand rising to pull her hair from its confining bun and let the blonde mane shake out over her shoulders. She moved over to the mirror, bending to pull on her shorts, leg warmers, and sweater to keep her muscles from seizing up, and started the lengthy process of removing her pointe shoes and checking on her toes. She'd have to change before stepping out into the city again, but the warm up knits would do for now.

The sound of a man clearing his throat was heard at the door. "Am I interrupting?" he asked, in an accent that was obviously French to anyone who might recognize it.

"Christian!" Irina exclaimed, moving over to greet the young man who stood hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "Come in, come in. You must meet Merethyl. This is her second year with the ballet," she said, taking him by the arm to lead him into the room.

Unlike the ballerina, he wasn't dressed for practice, but was dressed casually in jeans and sweater, a scarf wound around his neck. If one didn't know better, he could almost pass for Tony's brother.

The elven woman looked up from where she was sat on the floor, flexing her toes to reduce any chance of swelling and stiffness from being en pointe for so long. She seemed almost unremarkable - just a pretty blonde with blue eyes, and the right build for a dancer. Her eyes, though, tended to throw people; they usually weren't expecting to see her age there, unless they had noticed her ears first. She offered a smile to the unknown male as Irina brought him into the room.

"Ah, she smiles!" Irina remarked with a grin of her own. She wasn't sure if the elf was just being friendly or if she was admiring the man. There was certainly plenty to admire. As far as she could tell, Christian was in top shape. One would never know from looking at him that he'd suffered a career-ending injury, followed by painful, debilitating surgery, but then, Rhy'Din had changed all that. It was why he was here, after all.

"Bonjour," he offered to the blonde woman with a polite smile and nod of his head.

Merethyl rolled her eyes at Irina. It wasn't as though she never smiled. Pushing herself up onto her feet, her toe shoes hanging from one hand, she looked up at the man. "Hello," she greeted him in return, glancing warily at Irina. "I am sorry if we over-ran. I can change somewhere else if you need the room."

"Nyet," Irina replied with a grin. "I have an appointment." Which was another way of saying she had a date of some kind, but the ballet mistress was a little too coy about her private life to say as much to those in her charge. "Did you need something, Tien" I am just leaving," she asked as she turned to the man.

"No," he replied with a small frown. "I was just speaking with Anthony, and he said you wanted to see me."

"Ah," she replied, patting his cheek fondly. "Not now, dorogoy. Zavtra ....tomorrow. First thing in the morning, da""

Watching this interaction, Merethyl's brow rose above a slow, somewhat sardonic smirk. "Subtlety is not your strongest point, is it, madame"" she asked Irina warningly. She was significantly older than most others involved with the theater, after all. Her blue eyes turned to Christian for a moment. "Since you have been abandoned, monsieur, would you like to get a drink with me" It will not take me long to change."

Christian arched a brow at the pretty blonde whom Tony claimed was not entirely human. She looked perfectly normal to him. He didn't really notice anything out of the ordinary yet. One thing that was clear was that it appeared either Tony or Irina had set him - them - up, but what could one drink hurt' If they were going to be working together or even dancing together, they were going to have to get acquainted sooner or later, and he knew next to no one. "A drink," he echoed, not missing the French she'd thrown into the conversation, but he wasn't particularly impressed. It was easy to toss a word or two into conversation without being fluent. "Tres bien. What harm can there be in a drink?"

Irina grinned like an idiot at the two of them. "Very good. I shall see you both in the morning then."

"Thank you." She inclined her head to him in thanks for his gentlemanly manners, slipping out into the afternoon coolness with a long slow breath. "I do understand, academically, what it is Irina seems to want from me, but I do not understand how to do it. My training before I left my homeland was in perfect performance, not emotional conveyance."

"But if your technique is perfect, then you can afford to immerse yourself in the character. What is the character feeling" How can you convey that to the audience?" he asked, challenging her to think about her dancing a little differently. "It is about interpretation, not technique."

"But how do I do that?" she asked him, genuinely curious. What seemed to come so naturally for the human dancers was a difficult struggle for her, so used to cutting all emotion out of her performance. "How do I know what a character is feeling, much less show it to an audience?"

"Ah, how do I explain?" he asked, coming to a halt just outside the theater. "Let me think," he said, raising a finger to her to give him a moment. Not only was it a difficult concept to explain, but he had to find the right words in a language that wasn't his native tongue. "Let us say, for example, you are dancing the role of Cinderella. You know Cinderella, oui""

She paused with him, turning to face the man trying to explain a concept that was by its very nature almost impossible to put into words. "I do, yes," she nodded in agreement. "The cinder girl who dances at a ball, loses a shoe, and marries a prince."

"Oui, but there is more to it than that. It is about a girl who has lost her mother and her father. She is alone in the world, except for a stepmother and stepsisters who treat her cruelly, n'est ce pas" There is no love in her life, but she still has her dreams. She meets the prince and falls in love at first sight, but she knows it cannot be because she is but a lowly servant and he is a prince. And yet, he loves her, too. She flees the ball, terrified he will find out the truth, but eventually, he finds her and he marries her, and they live happily ever after. So, it is not just about dancing the part to perfection, but it is about conveying what she is feeling. How do you do that' You must become Cinderella. You must feel what she is feeling. You must make the audience forget you are a dancer and believe you are the character."

Merethyl listened closely, always happy to learn from others who shared the craft she had devoted herself to. What he said made a great deal of sense, but she was still a little fuzzy on how it went from concept to execution. "I must believe I am someone else and yet still retain the skill that I have gained?" she asked thoughtfully. "But if I were to truly believe I am Cinderella, then I would no longer be able to dance, surely."

"It is called acting, Merethyl. A good dancer is also an actor. Un moment ..." he said, lifting a finger once again to indicate he needed a moment and tapping the side of his cheek while he considered a thought. "Ah, regarde ....The Prince is confused and brokenhearted when she flees from him in the night, oui"" He stepped away from her, pressing his hand to his heart and using his body language and his facial expressions to show the turmoil he might be feeling if he were the Prince watching his beloved flee in the night. He outstretched a hand, imploringly, as if to call her back, turning his body away with the grace of an exceptionally skilled dancer, dipping his head to bury his face in the crook of his arm as if he is weeping with grief. All of this emotion was conveyed without words, with only facial expressions and the subtle movement of his body.

She watched, fascinated by the transformation. In an instant, he had gone from a dancer she had only just met, to a heartbroken Prince Charming. Despite herself, she could feel herself empathizing with the prince's plight, only now beginning to realize that this must be what Irina kept talking about. She had seen Tony and Anya do it, of course, but she had always assumed that it was their connection that made them so enthralling when they danced together. "But how do you do that?" she asked in amazement. "How do you become someone else?"

It wasn't difficult, it seemed, for him to transform into the heartbroken prince or to pull himself back from the illusion. "Practice," he replied simply. "You try now. You are Cinderella, and I am the Prince, and we have just met." He offered her a formal bow before reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips for a kiss, his whole body moving in such a way that lent a certain elegance to his movement.

If only Irina could have seen this, she might have realized just what Merethyl's problem was. The elven woman had trained for almost two centuries in dance - pure dance. It wasn't that she was not capable of expressing emotion; it was her cultural perception that, in order to perform, she had to be perfect. She had never studied acting, and the terror that showed on her face at the thought of just doing it without any formal training was blatantly obvious. She froze, staring at Christian as though he had grown a second head. "I can't," she blurted out, her hand shaking in his. It was genuine fear - not merely the fear that was stage-fright, but a true fear of failing.

"Yes, you can," he told her, without moving, his body at least staying in character. "Use your imagination, Merethyl. Do you remember when you were a child" Do you remember how to pretend" Pretend you are Cinderella, and you have just met your Prince Charming. What would you do?"

"But I have not studied this," she tried to explain, proof positive that a long lifespan does not necessarily mean you are in any way more mature than those around you who live shorter lives. She hadn't been entirely honest about the way her people measured the periods of their lives - in a very real sense, she was the elven equivalent of around twenty, despite having triple digits to her age in years. "I do not know how to pretend to be someone else. I do not even know how to lie, and this is lying, isn't it?"

He sighed, dropping letting go of her hand and once again he was Christian and no longer Prince Charming. "It is not lying. It is acting. There is a difference." He offered her an arm, though he wasn't sure why. She was supposed to be taking him to get a drink somewhere, not the other way around. "Come," he said. This wasn't working. Perhaps he could explain over a drink.

His sigh hit her harder than any of Irina's shouting had ever done. For some reason, she didn't want to disappoint him, and it was clear that she had. "I am sorry," she said quietly, curling her arm through his as she looked down at her feet. "Perhaps I should resign my place and study this acting for a few years."

"Perhaps you should think of it this way ..." he started, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. For some reason, he seemed to have made her feel bad, which had not been his intent. "If Anthony did not think you were worth the investment, he would not have asked Irina to work with you. He is only trying to make you a better dancer. He is, I suppose, doing the same for me," he added with a frown, hoping Tony didn't hire him on just because he felt sorry for him.

"You must think I am very stupid," she murmured as they walked along. "But what comes naturally for you is not so easy for me. I had every emotion in my performance trained out of me when I was still a child. My parents were dancers, so I learned to dance with them. I never learned to feel what I was dancing." She shrugged, shaking her head. "It is as impossible for you to understand that upbringing as it is for me to understand how easily such performance comes to you. But I am dominating this conversation." Merethyl shook herself a little, drawing him toward a small coffee shop across the road. "Why would Tony want to make you a better dancer" You must be greatly superior already to have been hired."

"Rien n'est impossible," he told her quietly in his native French. Nothing is impossible. "Make me understand then. If I understand, perhaps I can help," he told her, frowning a little at her question, which he'd rather not answer, but which she'd likely find out sooner or later. "It is not so much about making me a better dancer as it is helping me overcome my fears, I suppose."

"Then perhaps we have the same problem," she said thoughtfully, reaching out to pull open the door to the coffee shop. "After you ....We both seem to have fears we are unable to overcome alone."

"Perhaps we do," he agreed, nodding his thanks with a muttered, "Merci," and letting go of her arm so that he could step inside. He breathed in the aroma of coffee, forgetting his problems for the time being to savor the coffee and the company. It was almost a relief to find something familiar in this very unfamiliar place.

She only smiled, renewing the glamor that allowed her to pass a little more easily among a predominantly human society as he apologized. "There's no need to apologize," she assured him. "I know that my natural appearance is a little too other-worldly for most humans, and this is a human dominated society. I do not wear the glamor constantly, but when I am going to be seen, it is almost always there."

"I must confess I have never met anyone like you," he told her, a little embarrassed even by that, but he had already told her he was new to Rhy'Din, so it shouldn't be that hard to believe that he'd never met an elf before.

"As far as I can tell, not many have," she told him, trying to help him accept that it was all right to be fascinated by other races. "I am a moon elf, one of the high elves in the land where I was born. We keep mostly to ourselves, though we are very friendly with outsiders. I am the first of us in many, many years to leave the forests and strike out on my own."

"Then you are not from Rhy'Din either?" he asked curiously, though it was only the first of many questions. While it was true that he had never met anyone like her, he knew he was likely just another human to her.

"No, I was not born here," she smiled, taking a sip of her tea. "I am from a land I know as Faerun, but I have met others who say they are from Faerun, and describe a world I do not know. Perhaps it is better to say that I am from one of the Faeruns, just as you are from one of the Earths. I assume," she added quickly. "That you are from Earth, I mean. Most humans are."

"Oui, I am from a place call Montreal," he said, pronouncing it as a proper French Canadian would with the T silent. "It is a city on Earth." He did not remark on multiples Earths, as he was not aware of any but the one. "I have never heard of Faerun," he told her, though that much was probably already obvious. "What is it like?"

"Montreal," she repeated, commiting the word to memory. His question, however, made her laugh once again. "I would not know where to begin," she admitted. "It is very different to this world, and others. I have heard, for example, that technology and science drive innovation and progress on Earth, yes" On Faerun, it is magic that drives us on; magic that maintains us. Divine magic, given to priests by the gods that rule us; and arcane magic, which is often an innate gift many are born with."

What she was telling him was so foreign to everything he'd ever known he almost wondered, not for the first time, if all of this was some strange dream, though it seemed very real. "There is no magic on Earth, only in stories." Like the ballet they were going to be performing in a few months. "Do you know magic?" he asked further, his coffee forgotten for the moment.

"I know a little," she shrugged. "Enough to disguise my looks, or light a candle. Elves are naturally more disposed toward magic than other races on my world, though dwarves are born with a natural resistence to it. I never studied it, so what I know are small, basic tricks that everyone knows."

Obviously, he had seen firsthand the magic she had used to disguise make herself blend in better, so that went without saying. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, this time in English, though she seemed to be having no trouble understanding him, whichever language he chose to speak in. "All of this is very new to me. Anthony warned me I might have trouble adjusting, but ..." He shrugged, as if he either had no choice or had no words to explain further.

"There are a great many differences between this world and your own," she agreed softly, reaching out to lay a small hand on top of his reassuringly. "It is a matter of time, to grow a little better accustomed to them. I take it that it was Tony's idea for you to come here, then?"

He nodded his head, looking a little unsettled. He hadn't been in Rhy'Din long after all, and though he trusted Tony and took him at his word, all of this was a bit much to absorb. "He promised I would be able to dance again."

She blinked, a little bemused by this. After all, the way Irina had spoken to him had made it sound as though he would be joining her embarrassing drilling in the morning. "Something is stopping you from dancing?"

"I am ..." There was that reluctant pause again. "How do you say' Recuperation?" he said tentatively, using the more familiar word in French. "From an injury. I was told I would never dance again," he explained, wondering if she had any idea what such a diagnosis meant to him.

"Recuperating, recovering," she corrected him gently, but the horror in her eyes at the sharing of what his doctor had told him was more than reassurance enough that she could easily understand how awful it must be. "But, of course, your doctors do not know magic, and here on Rhy'Din, there are healers who do."

"Exactement," he replied, though the grave expression remained on his face. He was not convinced that he was entirely healed yet, though he was no longer in any pain. "I can dance," he explained. "But I am not sure I can dance with a partner."

"Then that would explain why Irina wishes us to drill together," Merethyl said quietly. "I may be the same height as others you have danced with, but I am significantly lighter. I do not know why, but elves seem less dense physically than other races." She shrugged, offering him a comical smile. "And there is no rush to lift, surely. A cavalier performs many actions, not all of which are taking his partner's weight."

It was obvious from the look on his face that this was troubling him greatly, though he had not spoken of it before to anyone but Tony and Irina. He was a dancer; it was all he'd ever known, all he'd ever been, all he'd ever wanted to be. "Oui, bien sur, but I will have to try eventually."

She considered him for a long moment, all kinds of thoughts passing through her mind before she decided on one in particular. "Stand up with me," she told him, rising to her feet. Just here, there was a ledge against the wall that was barely a foot high, wide enough for her to stand on, which she did. "Help me down," she told him, daring him to naysay her suggestion.

He arched a brow up at her as she rose to her feet, following her with his eyes. Was she going to do what he thought she was going to do' Did she really expect him to lift her right then and then" But then, she was only asking him to lift her off a short ledge. It should hardly take any effort at all. "I am not sure this is such a good idea," he warned her, obviously reluctant - fearful, even - even as he got to his feet and set his cafe au lait aside on the table.

On the ledge, she was barely a couple of inches taller than he was - if that - her smile warm and confident in him. She knew her weight, she knew he had been highly trained, and she knew that once he had done it a single time, it would no longer hold him back from the basics as it must now do. "I am positive that it is," she assured him. "I will not hurt you, Christian. Trust in me."

He sighed, frowning at her, wondering how she could possibly know that for sure. "It is not you who worries me," he said, but he obediently placed his hands against her waist, pausing a moment as his eyes met hers. She was nearly on a level with him now that she was standing on the ledge, blue eyes meeting blue eyes - different and yet the same. He held no magic in his ice blue gaze, only a very human, very mortal longing and hope. "This is not the kind of move I am afraid of," he told her, and yet, he knew he'd be able to feel the tension in his muscles - in his arms and shoulders and back, in those very places that had been hurt so horribly. This was a test - they both knew it. Would he pass or would he fail?

Her hands laid themselves gently on his shoulders as his found their place at her waist, her smile as confident in him as he was unsure of his own physicality. "It is a beginning," she reminded him gently. "A body is a very different object to lift than a weight. I will not hurt you, and you will not drop me, I am sure of it." Slowly, she leaned into him, letting her own weight, insignificant as it was, ease into his grasp. But she did not take her feet from the ledge; it was up to him to lift her that small way down, when he was ready.

"I can," she nodded. "But I don't want to, not yet. I want to stay, to learn, to discover more. I will go home to die, not before. Faerun seems so small now I have been here, to the hub of all places. Anything is possible."

"To die," he echoed. "But that will not be for many years, non"" he asked, uncertainly. She had alluded to the fact that she was young for an elf, though she was over two centuries old. He couldn't imagine living that long and wasn't sure if he envied or pitied her.

"The oldest elf I have ever known was close onto a thousand years old," she admitted with a rueful grimace. "But most choose to go to Arvanaith at half that age. It is our choice, if we are not killed by other means. I will live until I cannot bear to live any longer, then I shall go to Arvanaith."

"Arvanaith," he repeated, the word clumsy and foreign on his tongue. "Is it like Heaven?" he asked, wondering if she knew what Heaven was, or at least, if she understood the concept of it. Of course, no one knew for sure if Heaven was real or not, but she seemed sure that this Arvanaith was a real place.

"It is our afterlife," she told him softly. "A realm within Arvandor, the celestial realm of the Seldarine, our gods. When the spirit prepares to leave the body, Sehanine Moonbow tells us where we must go in order to cross over. It is a time of celebration, not sadness." She considered his question for a long moment. "I think, perhaps, Heaven is a fair equivalency."

"You choose to die when you are ready?" he asked, assuming that was what she meant by her explanation, though he didn't understand everything she was telling him. Some of the words were unfamiliar to him, though he thought he mostly understood her meaning.

"Not exactly." It was difficult to explain, especially to a short-lived race, just how the call to Arvanaith came about. "Everyone becomes tired of life at some point. When that comes, Sehanine Moonbow sends us waking dreams, visions to lead us to the place where we may cross over. Her moonbow appears in our eyes, and our friends and family will know it is time to say goodbye. But she does not call for us until we are ready to go."

He couldn't imagine living more than a hundred years, and though her people's beliefs sounded strange, he saw no reason not to believe her. "You must think us very short-lived," he mused aloud, though he assumed they must have a different way of valuing and measuring time. She'd said she was young for an elf, though she was over twice the usual life span of a human. She had also alluded to a family here in Rhy'Din that was of mixed blood, and he wondered how that worked but maybe it was a question for another time.

"On the contrary," Merethyl shook her head, smiling, "I find humans fascinating. My people have a way of life that is slow and measured; I am utterly enthralled by a race who cram all the wonders of a lifetime into a span shorter than my childhood." As she spoke, her face was bright and animated, proving that she was sincere in her words. "It isn't about the length of time you have. It's about what you do with it."

"I am already thirty years old," he told her, for the second time. "I have perhaps sixty more years, if I'm lucky. I will age and grow old and eventually die, while you remain young. It is that way with all humans." And that was a best case scenario, assuming he didn't die from an accident or illness before that. He wasn't sure why it mattered really, but she was right about one thing. "One must make the most of the years they are given."

"We only remain youthful on the outside," she countered quietly, looking down at her cup. "Perhaps those who do not leave home stay young for longer. But those who travel, who mix with other races ....they age, they learn wisdom, and they always go to Arvanaith before anyone expects them to." She looked up at him, her eyes somehow eternally sad. "There are only so many friends you can watch grow old and die, before something inside you dies with them."

"Why do you not return home then?" he asked, curiously. He could only imagine how difficult it would be to watch all those around you grow old and die, while you remained. Wouldn't it be easier to return to her own people and not have to watch those she cared about leave her behind" It would certainly become lonely after a while, but perhaps that was why they'd choose to go to this Arvanaith before their allotted years were done. "What of those who intermarry' What becomes of them?"

"What will I learn about myself if I stay at home all the long years of my life?" she asked mildly. "How will I be able to teach others of my race not to fear the unalike, if I don't know the unalike as well as I know myself" I will have time, when I go home, to share what I have learned and experienced, and my experiences will encourage others to step out of the safety of our home and experience the world for themselves. I don't see that as a bad thing." Her smile softened as he turned the conversation to those who had intermarried. "I have not known intimately anyone who has married outside our race," she admitted, "but I know the tales. We bond with the ones we love; it is a deep joining, a merging of souls, I suppose you would call it. When the shorter lived comes to an end, the elf will often remain to be certain any children of that union are well and safe. Sometimes the bond with their children is enough, but I have been told that, more often than not, the loss of that deep love brings on the call to Arvanaith. Sehanine Moonbow does not want us to suffer, chained to life when there is no joy in it. So she calls us home, to find a new kind of joy in the realm beyond life."

"But if that is true, you will never see each other again, n'est-ce pas" My people - les humain - mankind ....we believe many things. Some believe that after death, there is nothing. Some believe we go to a better place, which some call Heaven, and there we will once more be with all those who went before us. I do not know what is true, but if that is so, it seems sad that two souls who love each other would eventually be parted forever."

"There is no provision in your creed, or in mine, for what happens when those two souls are parted," she pointed out. "But I do not believe that the Seldarine are so cruel as to keep love away just because it does not conform to the accepted way of things. Perhaps, for those souls, Arvanaith and Heaven are merely stepping stones to an afterlife that will be shared for all eternity?"

"Peut etre," he admitted with a small shrug of his shoulders. "I suppose we shall never know," he added with a small frown, though it hardly affected him. Perhaps she'd find out the truth someday, when she at last went to this Arvanaith of hers, but he would likely be dead and gone by then.