Linwe stood one last time on the shores of the Isle of Arran, watching the flickering flames of the Samhain fire go down. Her last duty to the land. The waves would wash away the remains, just as she had cleansed the land of the poor spirits still roaming there. The bones had been burned. The animals removed and saved. The residents removed in time. There would be no more spirits here. The land, now fallow, would never see the bloom of spring again. She shook her head sadly and looked out at the impending storm, racing towards the island. Was this an end? Or was this a beginning? Certainly she herself had much to live for: her husband, her daughter, her grandson. But what of those others so near and dear to her? What about them? Who would care for Swith, now wandering the lands? Dexler and Justine would follow her. As would Mandi and the rest of Jacen's extended family. But what of the sweet fae? Would they find their way to happiness? What of the wild elves? SO elusive. This was not the first time they had lost their home to high waters and storm. And what of the evils? Were they so attached to the souls fo the living of Arran that they would follow them into new realms? A sharp spike of cold air pierced the elf's head as a foretelling came to her. In centuries to come, the voice said, a man named Yeats will say these words. Take heed. And listen:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
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