Starting the Triatlon del Pavo 2008 Cancun, Mexico

I believe that there are certain points in life that you have to pass by to find out, not so much how good you are at something and not even how much so, but only to see, live and breathe. 

I did my first triathlon ever. A great feat that carries with it the hardest of battles with one of the most assiduous enemies of my life: fear. And after nearly two years of hurting myself from falling off my bike, twisting my ankle, cramps in my calves that could have well been syndromes that required amputation, among other events, I arrived to that finish line.

This is how it went.

We arrived early with the wind blowing and the sun peeking between long strips of clouds. My friends and I were sitting on the sand, watching how beautiful the sunrise was. The ocean, like rumpled silk, tempted and taunted between whispers of the wind as the sun made its presence known before hiding behind clouds again. And after watching all the other categories start, it was finally our turn.

The squeal of the starting whistle.

Everyone ran to the ocean, splashing each other, dolphining, swimming, running. I slipped into the water and was rocked by the waves. My respiration started to peak and drop wildly. Panic slapped me in the face, making me stand on the sargasso. In the distance, I saw how the waves elevated all the other swimmers.

I froze.

It was in that brief moment that an ounce of doubt seeped in and said, “And if I tell my trainer that I’m not going to do this?”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

I turned and saw one of the lifeguards who was watching over the swimmers. His question erased everything on my slate and before I knew it, I put my face back into the water.

At the first buoy, I was panicking again and I grabbed a lifeguard’s floater. Another swimmer was already there, on another floater.

“I’m going to throw up,” he said.

And it was only the first 100 meters.

And as the lifeguard towed the swimmer back, the one who had my floater asked me if I was going to continue. I looked towards the second buoy and saw how far away it looked. A wave passed by gently as if the sea was trying to claim me as its own.

I am, and nothing more.

Fernando from the Red Cross Starting His Second Lap

When I was finishing my first lap, the last couple of swimmers were finishing their second lap. When I stepped into the ocean again for my second lap, I was alone. Swimming 200 meters extra didn’t help the situation either. I was practically on my way to Cuba when lifeguards caught up with me and pulled at my leg on four separate occasions.

“You’re on your way back to Cancun,” said one. In my last 200 meters, he corralled me so that I wouldn’t swim so far off track again. And as I swam and saw how far I was from the course and from the buoy I was supposed to be swimming to, I vowed that if I ever got back to land, I would kiss the first person I see.

The only person who was on shore waiting was a friend I had no intention of ever kissing. He had waited for me.

Mental kisses, then.

The bike was the easiest part except for the first two kilometers. I saw something that wouldn’t easily erase from my mind: an athlete (who I clearly remembered seeing on the beach before the whistle) was lying on the middle of the road with a dark puddle under her head. Two road bikes were leaning on separate trees and the race organizers were indicating that the competitors continue the race.

I didn’t see a helmet anywhere.

As I passed her, I felt a numbness in the back of my head. In the following laps, I was repeating to myself a sort of prayer, hoping she wouldn’t die on me. In the second lap, the dark puddle seeped across the road in a thick path, crossing in front of me. I saw the wet spot on my tire as I race across.

Please don’t die on me. Please don’t die on me.

By the time I was on my third lap, she was sitting on the side of the road, her head bandaged.

In the fourth lap, the only ones who were still on the bike was a teenager who looked like he was suffering from cramps and a guy on an old skool double suspension Mongoose with a rack for school books on the back. The only thing he had there was a bottle of Gatorade strapped firmly onto its grill.

Getting off the bike, the balls of my feet felt hollow, as if they had holes from where I had been pressing against the pedals. And as blisters formed on my feet from the grains of sand that were still stuck to my skin from the swim, my face contorted and formed a smile. Even though I knew that at that point, I was the only one doing the triathlon (most everyone had left and the roads were opened to traffic again), I kept going.

Me, In the Final Stretch of the Triatlon del Pavo 2008

In the last 20 meters, I saw the finish line loom before me. Karla, Hector, Genaro, Odin, Vega and Rosana (friends from my mountain bike group) were shouting at me, urging me across. My heels kicked high and I sprinted, wondering if I was going to cry.

Crossing the finish line, I leapt as if I were in a tampon commercial.

I’m free.

Rosana grabbed me and hugged me hard (her specialty). And as I panted from that last sprint, I realized that I had just finished my first triathlon. An incredible wave of emotion came over me with a strength and elegance that only this grand moment could have given me:

I sobbed as I had never done in my whole entire life.  

When I arrived to Cancun, the first time I went to swim in open waters was with Genaro. I remembered the fear that came over me as I held on for dear life to the line of buoys. He dragged me along for the little bit that I could manage to swim and was a real trooper that day, showing incredible patience for this scaredy cat. And when I saw him at the finish line with his big brother smile, I saw how that circle closed right in front of me.

On the way, I carried my dead with me: Donna, the mother of one of my dearest friends, died of cancer. Her daughter and my friend, Gen, dedicated her first triathlon to her mother and that, later, became my reason for starting this journey as well. Esperanza, a very good friend who used to accompany her boyfriend in his marathons, passed away earlier this year. Neither had ever seen me in a competition.

Now they have.

And as I saw the word “FINISH” rise in front of me, I heard the shouts of the only people waiting there, waiting for me, come from friends. I realized then that the one thing that pushes us on when we compete in a race, regardless of what place we come in, was reduced to the following words:

“Close up shop. I’m here and I’m done.”

Los Triatletas Regresando de la Nadada en el Triatlon del Pavo del YEK, Cancun, Mexico

Creo que hay ciertos puntos que uno tiene que pasar por la vida para comprobar, no tanto la destreza de cada quien, ni quien tiene mas sino nada mas para ver, vivir y respirar.

Hice mi primero triatlón. Un logro para mí que conlleva una fuerte batalla contra mi enemigo más asiduo que he tenido en mi vida: el miedo. Y después de casi dos años de estar lastimándome por caídas de bici, torceduras de tobillo, dolores de las pantorrillas que pudo haber sido síndromes serios, entre alguna que otra cosa, llegué.

Y fue así.

Llegamos muy temprano, el viento soplando fuerte y el sol, asomándose entre nubes largas. Mis amigos y yo estábamos sentados en la arena, viendo lo bello que era ver el amanecer. El mar, como seda arrugada, tentaba entre susurros del viento y el sol se animó a salir un rato antes de meterse de nuevo. Y después de ver todas las diferentes categorías salir, finalmente nos toco a nosotros.

El silbatazo.

Todos corrieron al mar, salpicando uno al otro, delfineando, nadando, corriendo. Me metí y el mar me meneaba. Mi respiración se disparaba. El pánico me cacheteo, haciéndome parar de repente. Veía el horizonte y como el mar levantaba a los demás nadadores.

Me quede pasmada.

En este momento tan breve, pensé, “¿Y si le digo a mi entrenador que no lo voy a hacer?”

“¿Que pasa? ¿Estas bien?”

Volteé para ver un salvavidas, custodiando la salida. Su pregunta me borró todo de mi cassette y de nuevo metí mi cara al mar.

En la primera boya, me estaba apaniqueando y agarré el flotador de uno de los salvavidas. Un chavo ya estaba allí, con otro flotador.

“Me voy a vomitar,” dijo.

Y eran los primeros 100 metros.

Y mientras el salvavidas jalaba al chavo de regreso, el otro de mi flotador me preguntó si me iba a seguir. Volteé la mirada hacia la otra boya y que tan lejos se veía. Pasó una ola suavemente como si el mar me estaba reclamando como suya.  

Soy, y nada más.

Ya cuando estaba terminando mi primera vuelta, los últimos nadadores estaban terminando su segunda vuelta. Cuando entré al mar de nuevo para mi segunda vuelta, ya estaba sola. Tampoco ayudaba que nadé como 200 metros de más por haber querido nadar hasta Cuba. En cuatro ocasiones, los salvavidas tuvieron que jalar mi pierna para que regresara.

“Vas de regreso a Cancún,” me dijo uno. En mis últimos 200 metros, un salvavidas me acorraleó para que no se abriera tanto. Y mientras nadaba y veía que tan adentro del mar me fui nadando y que tan lejos se veía la boya, pensé que si en caso que llegue a tierra, voy a besar al primero que me encuentro allí.

La única persona que estaba era un amigo a quién no tuve ningún intención (ni tendré) de besar. Se quedó a esperarme.

Besos mentales, entonces.

La bici era lo más fácil de todo salvo que en los primeros dos kilómetros, vi algo que no se me va a borrar: una chava (de quién me acuerdo claramente de haber visto antes del silbatazo) estaba tirada en medio de la carretera con un charco oscuro abajo de su cabeza. Dos bicis de ruta estaban apoyándose contra unos árboles y gente de la misma competencia estaban indicando a la gente que sigan la competencia.

No vi un casco en ningún lado.

Al pasar, sentí una sensación de escalofrío en la parte posterior de mi cabeza. En las subsecuentes vueltas, estaba repitiendo en mi cabeza que no se me muera. En mi segunda vuelta, el charco oscuro se atravesó mi camino y pasé encima.

Que no se me muera. Que no se me muera.

Para la tercera, ya estaba sentada con la cabeza vendada.

El ultimo para terminar el triatlon conmigo.

En la cuarta vuelta, éramos nada más un chavo que ya no le daba más y un hombre trepado sobre una Mongoose de año de la canica con doble suspensión y rack para sus libros de la escuela, lo cual traía un Gatorade.

Bajando de la bici, las plantas de mis pies se sentían como si tuvieran hoyos, por donde presionaban contra los pedales. Y mientras sentían como se formaban las ampollas sobre mis pies, mi cara se contorsionaba y se le quedó plasmada una sonrisa. Aún cuando supe que la única persona que estaba haciendo el triatlón era yo, que casi todos ya se han ido y que abrieron acceso al transito de nuevo, seguía.  

Los últimos 20 metros y ya veía la meta. Karla, Héctor, Genaro, Odin, Vega y Rosana me gritaban. Los talones se empezaron a brincar y cerré pensando si iba a llorar.

Yo en los ultimos 15 metros

Al cruzar la meta, di un salto como si estuviera en una comercial de tampones: ¡estoy libre!

Rosana me agarró y me abrazó fuerte (su especialidad). Y entre la respiración agitada de la llegada y el darme cuenta de que llegué, se apoderó de mí un sentimiento tan fuerte que se soltó con toda la fuerza e elegancia que nada más este gran momento me pudo haber brindado:

Sollozaba como nunca en mi vida lo había hecho.  

Cuando llegué a Cancún, la primera vez que salí a nadar en mar abierto fue con Genaro. Me acuerdo del pavor que tenía, agarrando la hilera de boyas, Genaro casi arrastrándome a nadar lo que pude nadar, con una paciencia monumental. Y cuando lo vi en la meta con su sonrisa de hermano mayor, vi también como cerró el círculo.

En el camino, llevaba mis muertos conmigo: Donna, la mama de una de mis mejores amigas, murió de cáncer. Su hija y mi amiga, Gen, le dedicó su primer triatlón y fue por ella que empecé. Esperanza, una muy buena amiga y alguien que siempre iba con su novio a sus maratones, se me fue a principios de este año. Ninguna de las dos me había visto en una competencia.

Ahora si.

Y mientras veía el letrero de “META” y escuchaba que las únicas personas quienes estaban allá eran amigos míos, pensé la cosa que creo que a todos nos impulsa cuando competimos, independientemente del lugar en que quedamos:

“Cierre el changarro; ya llegué.”

Flying by at the 70.3 Cancun Ironman

There is something amazing about the way things work. You can be doing your same old routine and something always manages to find its way into your life to make you realize that perhaps, you aren’t doing the same thing you always do.

I say this because today was a day like any other, except for the fact that it was the 2008 70.3 Ironman here in Cancun. I was going to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn to ride down to the track and sit out the race, watching friends who were competing. This would have happened had it not been for two tiny details:

1. I failed to wake at 3:30 to leave at 4:30 and 2. I woke at 6:20 to the ringing of my cell phone.

A Triathlete Zips by in the 2008 Cancun 70.3 Ironman, Turning a Head

It was a friend, the one who was supposed to ride with me. He was just getting back from a party and wanted to work off the hang over/sleepiness. I wasn’t sure if I wanted such a huge responsiblity as having the life of my friend (whose physical ability in this particular moment I doubted) on my conscience. But we agreed on meeting a my house and riding out from there.

I normally don’t take the highway to enter the Hotel Zone, where the competition was, but my friend insisted it was shorter. So we went along and entered the HZ from the other side, avoiding the 25 kms before the beginning of the race. We came precisely to where the athletes were just passing by on their bikes. Road blocks prevented cars to come in that side as bikes of all types zipped by. I stood in the sun, on the side of the plastic road blocks that had been set up while my friend (the smart one, as it turns out; my face is now a tonality of baked lobster), on the other side of the road, in the shade.

Returning from the 90 Kms in the 2008 70.3 Cancun Ironman

As the competitors zipped by, some with their full rims whirling, I heard a sound of something like a scratch. One man in a blue jersey looked down at his tire.

“Fuck!” he said.

He pulled over to my side of the road and in the grass, started to unscrew the axel set on his back tire. Once unscrewed and the brake undone, he pulled at the tire, which wouldn’t let go because the chain wasn’t free of the freewheel.

He looked angry. I watched, wanting to help but didn’t wanted to get screamed at so I stood aside. He looked up and around, maybe looking for salvation, a fully inflated wheel to fall out of the sky. But the tire slid off easily and he managed to slip out the popped culprit and slide in a new inner tube. And as he struggled with the tire, trying to get it on the frame, I decided the hell with getting yelled at.

I approached him.

“Do you want me to hold that straight for you?”

“That’d be great,” he said. “Thank you.”

And as I held the frame straight, I saw that he was having trouble with putting the wheel in the drop. I held the frame steady and tried to keep the situation calm and under control. The tire slipped into its place when he realized that he had lost the spring in his axel set.

“I don’t know what it does,” he said. I did. It keeps the screw tight so that the cap doesn’t fall off. My friends later told me that it really isn’t necessary for roadies. I believe since there aren’t tons of bumps in the road, there is less of a chance that the cap will fly off, ultimately ending in I what I originally believed was going to happen to this man: the wheel flying off. I was a bit scared but I decided that it wasn’t the smartest thing to do to put this worry in his head: I just prayed there were no bumps.

He stood up and said something that I never expected:

“Thank you for saving my life.”

I was a little shocked.

“I really didn’t do anything.”

“You did. You saved my life. What’s your name?”

“Fumiko.”

“Thank you very much, Fumiko.”

“Good luck,” I had said.

And with that, he streaked off.

I stood there for a bit, awe-striken. Had I come from the other direction, I would have never had experienced the above. The fact that he got a flat right in the area where we were (and there was no other civvie around, cheering on the competitors, for miles) was perhaps fate. I also write this to get rid of a nagging guilt on my conscience for not telling this athlete what I knew. I am well aware that I could have written this in the most favorable light but in the end, I know that wouldn’t go well with me.

I found out later that Mr. Axel Set zipped by on to to the finish line.

Nothing happened to him. Someone up there answered my prayer.

Abram Waving as He Runs the Last Leg of the 2008 70.3 Cancun Ironman

My friend says it was my bad vibes that caused him to get a flat right there.  He jokes and realizes that he has done so after I gave him a dirty look, which implied a subsequent ass kicking.

Whatever it was, I was left moved by the event.

And so starts my search: if anyone knows who this man is, one who competed in the bike leg of the 2008 70.3 Ironman on an orange Quintana Roo, tell him that he made my day.

Thanks.

UPDATE: I just found out what the spring in the axel set does: it just separates the drop from the wheel so it maintains a set space (and it’s easier) to put the wheel in. Whew…all that worry for nothing….

UPDATE No. 2: I’ve found out who Mr. Axel Set is but since it is against the rules for people outside the event to help out, I’ve opted to omit his name.

People always say that the first time is something that you’ll always remember. Some remember it fondly. Most remember it with reluctance.

I consider myself pertaining to the latter.

More for habit rather than for respect, I will not mention the name of that unfortunate person who was propagator of said experience. He was someone who had lived in my hall in freshman year of college and coincidentally, four years later, we ended up living in the same apartment complex.

I was young, inexperienced, far from the savvy woman I imagined myself to be. He was not my ideal but I did not know that yet. I just decided that I was game. As a conservative student once told me, “If you’re hungry and he has food, why don’t you eat?”

Indeed.

And so I seduced him; it wasn’t hard.

But that phrase was soon to be understood in all senses of the word.

After having gone down on him, he got on top and started to jack off, seeing as that he still wasn’t hard enough to have sex. The lights were out in my room and I remembered looking at the analogue read-out on my clock blurt “2:01″ in a scandalous red. I lay there inert, he still on top, trying to bring something to life that probably wasn’t going to wake in a while. That did not apply to me.

I fell asleep.

When I woke, he was on top, pushing what little he had gotten up, to go in, as I formed the question in my mind: Are you in?

He was.

Pitiful. Especially for a virgin.

I broke up with said soul when he failed to call me on my birthday and when I presented him with the phone card bill (which he had stated that he would pay half of) he protested as to why I called him so much (I was living in another country by that time). That, added to the fact that his letters to me consisted of nothing more than box score cutouts and newspaper clippings and photos of Jerome Bettis from the Pittsburgh Steelers, was more than enough to help me realize that he was not apt for me.

The Second was a musician. Quite a bad choice. The condom had fallen onto the floor that night and it was my first time with a virgin. If I remember correctly, we did it twice: once on the floor and once in his parents’ bed (they were on vacation). That ended when I said that I liked to have something more serious with him. That scared him far enough away to find another girlfriend in a matter of weeks.

The Third was a friend of the Second’s. He turned out to be a dick and that also happens to be in all senses of the word. In comparison, he was much bigger and had certain fetishes I wasn’t sure of. Wearing my satin underwear was right up there in my list of uncertainties. I remember I had closed my eyes while the act was being consummated. Therefore, the surprise to see blood on his stomach took me off guard when it hit me: he broke my hymen.

Thinking about that now, I realize the magnitude of such a comment, especially for a man’s ego. The Second could assume that it was already broken but the First? I have learned much since those days and one is that if you want to hit a man where it hurts, size is the lowest blow you can probably throw.

In a way, I feel that writing this is revindication and on the other hand, a warning. We all remember and we all forget. My first times are now reduced to the relationship at hand, which means I’ve had many “first” times. Men, remember that we women never forget. What may have been a need one night, long ago, may end up being shouted to the four winds, bringing a shame that cannot easily be erased.

You decide.

That being the case, I suppose it’ll never happen.

I’ve been deceived many a time by men, mainly because I’ve placed them on too high a pedastal and more often than not, I’m too stupid to see what I don’t allow myself to see from the beginning. But perhaps that is being a little too harsh on myself. I’ve also fallen into a rut of sorts and have not met anyone available who makes me walk into walls because I’m so distracted.

But somehow, I always find myself in the middle of making the biggest ass out of myself even before I can catch myself from falling.

Case in point: I have been wanting to do a triathlon for a while now and have been doing the swim part of my training at the Red Cross.

Enter Cristian, stage left. A handsome, bronzed man from Argentina who is a swim instructor and happens to be training for a tri as well. I start talking shop with him and find him accessible. He knows of another trainer who is an Ironman.

“Give me your number. I’ll put the two of you in contact.” No problem whatsoever. What normally would have been a struggle between ”what is this fool talking about?” and “I haven’t got time for this,” turned into a contest of rubber arm twisting. As easy as pie.

I had already given him my number before I could even think.

The days that followe, however, brought no call from his friend, leading me to believe that he, in fact, lead me on. So much for that.

That perception changed when he asked if his friend had called. We ended up talking shop until he was called away by a friend. I stood there, on my own, when a fellow lane mate called to me. Strange, I thought, we never talked in the pool… I crouched by her and she told me discreetly that I had toilet paper stuck to my ass. Immediately, I thought back to the guilty moment when I lined the seat with paper and forgot to peel the paper off.

We became fast friends after that.

Normally, before swim practice, we have warm ups. Cris sometimes gives the warm up and in one particular exercise, we do crunches which involve laying on the ground and holding out your legs straight. With the students in his class (he does advanced level), he normally takes off a shoe and stands on the stomach of the person, to make sure their stomach is tight. This day, he did it to everyone. I normally have a white suit on (and no, it’s not transparent) and when he got to me, he extra-, uber- cleaned his foot and said, “I don’t want to get your suit dirty.” He could’ve even dirtied my name and I still would not have minded. 

And for some reason, I keep getting plagued by embarrassing moments when I’m around this man. I don’t feel the butterflies in my stomach nor the flush of cheeks when I talk to him. Probably helps that I don’t.

So this plague continues when I am in warm ups a few days later. Cris arrives late and the exercises were taken over by another instructor. We normally face the pool when the warms up happen and a minute into the stretches, in strolls Cris. He sets down his bag, strips and kicks off his shoes. In he jumps while we are doing arm rolls.

“Okay! Spread your legs and bend to the front.”

I do as I’m told and to my horror I see that my bathing suit does not quite have the power to repress a certain growth of hair in a certain part. I look up and to complete my horror, Cris emerges from the water, right in front of me. I could have run wildly into the bathroom but I realized it was way too late. I couldn’t even look at him.

Today, as I spoke to him about training, we talked about the 70.3 he’s going to be doing. He suggested I do it too. I open my mouth to protest and what I was suffering all through swim practice of a a bit of gas stuck in my throat, croaks out as I say “no.”

 I don’t know why in particular so many embarrassing things happen to me while I talk to him. It isn’t all that normal but I think that there is no way around it now. Did he notice? Did he even care? I don’t know but I think my only option now is just to keep at it and “tri” to be me.

What Jorli saw in those particular memories left her speechless. Out of shame for finding out about her closest friend’s most private and intimate moments, she reached for another memory. And then, another. All she was able to convince herself of after she went through them was that there was no doubt that Oslin and Saria enjoyed being in each other’s company. Finally she came to one memory that wasn’t so vividly explicit. She tapped it and was instantly inside.

“I’ll be in my quarters a little later if you have time to discuss tomorrow,” started Saria. Oslin beamed at her and held her close. He whispered into her ear. “I am yours forever, my flower, whether you remember so or not.” He kissed her on the cheek and she started to walk out of the room. Oslin sat back down with the King of the Drendhils.

Jorli ran after her.              

            “Saria!” she called out.

            “Jorli! What are you doing here? I thought we were supposed to meet in your quarters?”

            “I couldn’t wait,” she replied quickly. She had to keep this up long enough to keep the memory from vanishing. She motioned for Saria to follow her to a corner of the castle out of earshot. “I wanted to know now.” She took a deep breath.

“Are you in love with the Warlock of the Wind?” Saria’s face lit up.

“With Oslin? He is such a wonderful person; so caring and sensitive.”

And a lot of other things too, thought Jorli.

“I just want to make sure that he’s good for you. How do you know?”

“How?” Saria smiled shyly. “I like it when he holds me and treats me as if I were the most precious thing in the world. I like it when he kisses me and makes me feel like each part of me is sensual and…” she blushed heavily.

“What?” asked Jorli. Come on, just a little bit more.

“Delicious,” she said a little exasperated. “I cannot believe I just told you that.” She was now several shades of pink.

“What is the thing that most attracts you to him? His looks?” Remember Saria, remember…

“He knows how to listen and I really love the color of his eyes and how they seem to smile. I love his hands and how they caress my skin.It’s so strange that we even seem to understand each other better than I could have ever imagined. His hair, when it is wet, smelling of pine needles…”

“Keep going…,” prodded Jorli.

“I feel like we were made for each other and I don’t even know him…” She stopped. She stood up straight as her body shivered in a sudden spasm. Her eyes blinked several times before she could register that she was seeing. She looked at her hands, as if she could not believe that they were there. Then, slowly, she turned to Jorli.

“I remember…everything…” Jorli yelped with happiness. She closed the memory and now saw that the Shard had broken up into many fragments, releasing all the memories with Oslin as the soot fell as dust and trickled out of Saria’s ear. She jumped out after the soot.

The Warlocks jumped at the sight of Jorli as Oslin rushed up to her. The Fox held out a paw.

“Let’s just make sure,” she said and took out a small vial from her pouch. Uncorking it, she dropped one drop into Saria’s mouth. Momentarily, her eyes opened.

“Jorli, what happened?”

“Saria,” she said cautiously. “Do you know who that man is?” and pointed to Oslin. She blinked once, as if adjusting her sight and her eyes grew wide; it was with recognition.

“Oslin!” She stood up and ran to his waiting arms. They kissed as only two people could kiss when they are in love. Fenlin coughed loudly and cleared his throat twice before Oslin detached himself.

“My love, come and meet my brothers,” he said with a smirk.

And as Yorlin had mentioned, there was much to celebrate. Oslin and Saria waited before announcing their union so as to wait for Urlin, who went to rescue his love from the Anemone Beds. Once freed, Elizabeth went into the painful explanation of what she had done with Oslin and tearfully asked for forgiveness. She had realized that Oslin had only done what he had done for the sake of the act and really did not care at all. And upon comparing his behavior with Urlin’s, she understood the magnitude of her mistake and immediately went to search for him in high waters. She offered him her heart, if he be so considerate in taking it. His love could not help but overflow and he kissed her sweetly, after which he offered to show her how much he was in agreement with her proposal if she would be so kind as to follow him to private quarters in the Merlands where they could discuss the matter at length. She assented by saying that she had several things she would like to show him. The fact of the matter was that after several days of lengthy discourse, they finally agreed to prepare for the double wedding.     

Many came from far and wide to the celebration, which was held in the Land of the Tower where the Tower was adapted for living, although Saria and Oslin decided to keep the bier as an eternal reminder of their first meeting. As for Zjorn, he was completely healed by Saria’s blood for it was liquid given out of one human’s free will that was what he needed and now was conscious enough to understand his horrible greed for knowledge and power. When he finally was reunited with Saria and then later with the Keeper, it ended in a tearful meeting that left everyone feeling content with finding several additions to the family. On petition of the Keeper, Zjorn went to live in the Forest where he also helped in its protection. His physical body was still beset by the trials of time but he began to regain in strength and color. Sebastian and the Keeper were quite shocked when they received the notice from Perlen and Sinlar, who flew back with the news of Saria’s union to the Warlock of the Wind but upon meeting their future son-in-law, they realized that there really was nothing to fear.

Saria, Oslin, Elizabeth and Urlin were all wed and though they did not promise many children to their respective spouses and parents, they did promise love, respect, communication and many intents at children, however unsuccessful be the intent. With these four things, the two couples lived happily albeit with their occasional dispute, which would be followed by an escape and quickly closed by explanations and apologies. They continually renewed their passion in the most creative of ways, some of which, for Saria and Oslin, involved reenacting their first meeting whereas for Elizabeth and Urlin, it was playing shark and victim.

Urlin was the first to become a father, after which he and Elizabeth had ten more. It seemed that he had to make up for lost time. As for Saria, she and Oslin wanted to enjoy their couplehood before they had children. They found that as their love for each other grew, it also augmented their desire to unite for a product of their love for each other.

Now that they were free from their guard duties, Fenlin and Yorlin were also able to find mates, though they did not see the need to marry. Fenlin, a hard-to-please sort, took a bit longer to see that as an option in his life, was happy with living his life with liberty and not complicating himself too much. Yorlin was more sensitive but was not very lucky until he finally allowed himself to understand the wonders of tolerance and self appraisal. Once that was learned, a whole world of possibilities came knocking on his door: in other words, he was not so choosy. They both, in their own ways, lived the sensual bliss that marked Oslin’s rebirth with their own incursions into love.

Our heroes and heroines, however, did not always live that wonderfully false romantic happy ending. They fought like the fiercest of creatures and made others tremble in their shoes. They broke things, sometimes hearts, and cried a great deal but they did learn that their lives were dictated by the choices that only they themselves made. Creators of their own destinies, the power of choice distinguished their happiness from their loss of interest in life. And as the years trickled by, they would all reminisce about the past and however different were their experiences, they all had one thing in common: none ever regretted a single thing they did or did not do.

But that is another story to be told another day. Today, we live.

Presently, they arrived to the bottom of the pit. It was a large hall, in the middle of which there was a wide glass cylinder in the center. Underneath the top pane of thick glass was a young man lying with his limbs extended outwards. Circlets of light held his wrists and ankles. This was Urlin, the Warlock of the Sea.

He had his eyes closed as they approached. Yorlin and Jorli stayed back as Oslin drew closer to his brother.

“Urlin.” It was a command. And though his eyes were not open, he knew who it was.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to break the curse.” His eyes slowly opened, as if he were used to keeping them closed.

“I want to make peace.” Urlin looked impassively at Saria and studied her for a long while.

“You are in love with her.” Oslin could not answer. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Then now you know how it feels.” Oslin looked at his brother with incredulity. He found his voice and spoke firmly.

“Yes, I love her and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.” He looked frustrated. “Nothing is perfect, Urlin. I am not perfect but I know that I did much to wrong you.” He looked at his brother sternly. “I know your heart has been colored by hate and I wish to the high heavens that I had never lain with her. I wish I had never lain with Elizabeth because the only person I want to be with is dying in my arms. And the only family I have hates me as his worst enemy.” He blinked back a tear.

“Please Urlin, forgive me. I cannot change the past. What is done, is done. All I want is for peace to be between us. And so I come with an offering.”

Urlin cocked an eyebrow.

“An offering?”

“As I was trying to eliminate the poison from Saria, I inadvertently drank water from the Forbidden Lake.” He looked at Jorli with a smile. “Upon drinking it, I found out how to save Saria and how to redeem myself in your eyes.” He had Urlin’s attention.

“How?” he asked skeptically.

“But first I shall explain Saria’s cure: the four of us, you, me, Yorlin and Fenlin must call on the powers of the elements. The strength of the elements will eliminate the poison still left in her body and close her wound. This would also break the curse placed on her.” His face fell a little. “There is a chance that she will fall out of love with me but it is a chance I need to take.”

“So what is this offering you spoke of?”

 “I found out where Elizabeth is.” Urlin gave a hoot of laughter, the most animated he had been during the entire conversation.

“If you haven’t noticed ‘dear’ brother, we have been under time-slowing spells. Elizabeth,” and his voice lowered to a whisper, as if in reverence of that woman, “is most likely a grandmother by now.” A grin cracked upon Oslin’s face.

“She would be save for one small fact.” Urlin was rapt with attention.

“It seems that she had been sailing in a small boat when she was sucked under into the whirlpool leading into the Merlands. Apparently, she landed in the Beds of Anemone, stung to sleep, and where she has lain sleeping ever since.” There was a look of shock on Urlin’s face.

“You know, brother, they say that in the Merlands, people age quite slowly. Would you like to take a guess as to why she was manning a boat? And that far from shore?” The shock had Urlin paralyzed.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered. Oslin came closer to the glass pane.

“Urlin, I am willing to give up the love of my life only to see her alive.” The two brothers looked at each other.

“Even if it means losing her forever?” Oslin nodded his head.

“Forgive me.”

Urlin stared hard at his brother, his flesh and blood. His eyes began to fill with emotion.

“I forgive you,” he said in a shaky voice. In a flash, the circle of glass lit up and glowed a bright red. With an explosion absent of sound, the glass disappeared as the light shot out, filling the hall as if it were pure daylight. When the light faded, Urlin stood there, freed of his bonds and cell.

“I did say that the place was cleverly enchanted,” said Yorlin approaching and taking Saria from him. The two brothers faced each other, pausing for a moment and embraced. Urlin stepped back from his brother and held him by the arms, smiling.

“I would love to stay and chat, dear brother, but we both have damsels in distress we should tend to.” They turned and found Fenlin there. He embraced both and apologized to Urlin.

“You really gave me no choice, Urlin,” said a shamefaced Fenlin.

The four knelt down and distributed themselves around Saria. Jorli watched as they held their hands over Saria’s wound. They mumbled words under their breath which turned into a rhythmic chant.  Light began to glow in their hands and as their chants grew stronger, it began to spill out through the spaces between their hands and fingers. The light shot out and reached every corner of the hall as the four figures were illuminated in a globe of radiance. Slowly, the brightness dimmed and they removed their hands. Saria’s wound was completely closed and color had returned to her face. Oslin held her hand and stroked her face lightly. There was movement beneath her eyelids as they gradually parted and blinked. Oslin broke into bright smile.

“My love,” he murmured as he drew her close to him. He leaned down to kiss her when she stopped him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing away from him. “Do I know you?” Oslin looked as if he had taken a blow to the stomach.

“It is me, my love, Oslin,” he said, pulling towards her, his voice sounding a little unsteady.

“And what is this place?” she asked, surveying the hall. “How did I get here?” She saw the rest of the Warlocks. “Who are you?” Oslin started to look a little frantic.

“Don’t you remember who I am, Saria?” he said desperately, trying to hold her hand. She pulled it away quickly and started to look frightened.

“I do not know how you know my name but I want you to keep away from me,” she said, placing her hand on the hilt of her short sword. Oslin turned to Urlin.

“What is happening, brother?”

“I think when we cured her wound and drained the poison, it also quickened the enchantment. She does not remember.”

“What don’t I remember? What is going on?” Saria got to her feet and started to back away from them, unsheathing the sword. Yorlin was still kneeling when Jorli climbed to his shoulder. She whispered in his ear, “Let me handle this.” He nodded and she slid down and ran towards Saria.

“Jorli!” she cried. “How did you get here? And who are these people? What has happened to me?” She embraced the fox.

“I’ll tell you on the way and the only way to get out of this place is to take this transportation potion. It’ll take us to where we want to go. Just hold me tight,” said Jorli, holding out a small non-descript bottle.

“Anything to get away from this place,” she said, shooting looks of disgust at Oslin; his heart nearly crumpled. She drank the potion in a single gulp. For a moment, she stood there, waiting for something to happen when suddenly, the bottle slid out of her hand and she collapsed to the floor. Jorli jumped out of her arms before they hit.

“Sorry about that, Saria,” she said. She turned to the Warlocks. “So what is all this about this enchantment? What happened that I don’t know about?” Urlin stepped forward.

“I suppose, I better than anyone, should explain. When I cursed my brother, apart from all that Saria had to go through, she was also enchanted for the space of one moon—“

“Wait, I thought it was Oslin who was enchanted. I heard that he would be her faithful servant.” Oslin shook his head.

“No,” Urlin resumed. “The truth is that Saria was the enchanted one. She will be madly in love with Oslin for one moon, after which she will forget she had ever met him and see him as the most undesirable man alive.”

“So are you saying that she never really loved him at all?”

“If she does not remember all that has happened, no. You see, the curse will make her forget everything concerning Oslin if she does not remember on her own accord.” Oslin placed his head in his hands. Jorli looked at him and knew what she had to do.

“I’ll be right back,” and with that, she jumped into Saria’s ear.

“WHERE ARE THEY?” The wind whistled around them and promptly they were hurtling towards the west, speeding through with such velocity that they were barely noticed as they passed towns below. Upon leaving the foot of the Pinnacles, the group disappeared from sight.

The hour was ticking closer to midnight as Saria lay there, chest falling and rising heavily. The poison was slowly taking effect. Zjorn was bleeding profusely but was more mobile. He had transported them to the Forbidden Lake and was making ready for the blood-letting. Through foggy vision, Saria could see Zjorn looking up at the moon awaiting the hour. Relir squirmed in the skins and started to cry.

“Take my blood,” she said weakly. “Don’t kill the child.” Zjorn looked at her nonchalantly. For an instant, however, he looked as he was going to falter.

“Your blood has been poisoned. I doubt it would do me much good.” It would be nearly midnight. Hurry, please.

“Take it,” Saria said, her eyes dropping closed. “Spare the child.”

Zjorn looked at her. Something began to stir within him. No, no, no…the child must die…

Saria began to cough up blood. Her hand shook slightly as she conjured a goblet from the air and from her wound, made the blood float to the goblet, filling it.

“I give it to you willingly.”  Suddenly the glass glowed brightly and before she fell to the ground, Zjorn caught it in one hand as he caught Saria with the other. He looked uneasily at the contents. It was supposed to be the child… He looked at the baby crying and waving his arms angrily. He felt the goblet weigh heavily in his hand.

It was then that a moment of determination entered him and it moved him to drink the glass with one gulp and as a clock struck midnight, the contents of that goblet trickled down his throat.

The reaction was immediate: a scream died as a white flash emerged from his torso and extended out from that point. The light was blinding as Oslin emerged from the teleportation. He ran, as he had never run, towards that light, the others following him. They reached it just as Zjorn fell to the ground in a heap. But that did not matter. Nothing did for as Oslin saw the prostrate form of Saria, a gaping hole in her chest, he broke down and placed his hand over her wound. With all his strength, he conjured a spell to extract the poison and close the wound. He worked tirelessly for the poison had reached most of her body.

The others tended to Relir who was carried back to the Drendhils by Koslor. Between Sinlar and Perlen, Zjorn was also carried back, leaving behind Jorli, who could not leave Saria behind. She was beside herself with grief and padded towards the water’s edge, watching them until the sun began to rise. It was when the sun began to peer down at them that Oslin sat back, exhausted, with tears running down his face. The blood on her face had dried and Jorli, saddened by what she knew was the inevitable, washed the face of her closest of friends, gone forever. Oslin placed a trembling hand over her and carefully pushed back the strands of hair. The woman he was always meant to love was now gone. He kissed her face, a final act of love, and lingered on those lips that would never kiss him back. He sat her up and held her close to him, trying to remember the feel of her skin, her body in his arms, and the scent of her hair on his clothes.

His eyes suddenly flew open. He looked at her and felt her cheek with his hand.

“Jorli, where did you get the water to wash Saria’s face with?”

She looked at him confused.

“Well, from there,” she pointed towards the lake. Then she placed her paws on her hips. “I didn’t bring any with me, you know.”

The face that was only moments before wrought with tears now wore a smile that matched the light of the sun, which illuminated his face.

“Jorli, I know how to save her!” He held her close to him and kissed her forehead. “That was water from the Forbidden Lake. Anyone with pure intentions will obtain knowledge if they drink it. And now I know how to keep Saria alive! Come! We have very little time!” With a leap, Jorli landed upon Oslin’s shoulder and the three disappeared.

They reappeared in a rocky crag, where mountains were so high, the light fell in tiny shards, barely touching the ground. Jorli sat fearful on Oslin’s shoulder and in a voice, even tinier than her size, she breathed, “Oslin, where are we?”

“This is the Gate to the Netherworld.”

“What?! Are you insane? What are we doing here?”

“Looking for my brother.” Jorli looked at him, fear slowly seeping in through her.

“I’m scared,” she said in a whisper.

“You are with me. Do not worry but stay close, all the same.” Jorli gripped the chain mail on Oslin’s shoulder. Just in case.

She glanced down at Saria’s countenance: it was pale and looked as if it were fading in color.

My friend isn’t going without a fight, she thought as they traveled deeper into the rocky crags.

They soon came upon a large clearing in the middle of the rock formations and at the other end, there was a large gate, tall and imposing.

“Identify yourself or your life is forfeit!” The voice came from above the gate. There, standing against the shadows was a figure that was encased in an aura of fire.

“It is Oslin, Warlock of the Wind!” he shouted. The figure of fire flew down and stood directly in front of Oslin. He smiled at the figure.

“It is good to see you again, Yorlin.” The Warlock of the Fire broke into smile and gripped the other’s shoulders.

“The curse has been broken! But who is this?” he nodded towards Saria.

“We haven’t much time. She has been stabbed by a Keeper’s Blood-Letting Knife and the poison nearly killed her. But I know how to cure her and I need all of us, including Urlin, to help me.” Yorlin looked at him carefully, arching an eyebrow.

“She’s the one who broke the first half of the curse,” he said, matter-of-factly. Oslin nodded slightly. He could not nod any harder without having his tears fall. Yorlin understood: he was in love.

“We shall have much to celebrate when she awakens. Urlin is in the pit. I’ll send word to Fenlin.” And with that, he lifted a hand and a small phoenix rose from his palm and flew off. The group descended into the earth, beyond the gate. Jorli observed as they descended further and further into the ground.

“Oslin?” she said, gripping tighter on the mail.

“Yes Jorli?” he answered as they flew past the unchanging scenery of rock.

“Just what exactly are you going to do when you find your brother?” Yorlin suddenly stopped.

“We go down from here.” In front of them, there was a large pit that’s width extended far into the shadows. They looked down and saw that the pitch blackness reached far. There was a miniscule dot of light in the distance: their destination. Yorlin went first and they descended, feeling a waft of warm air surround them.

As they descended, Yorlin looked at Oslin. He had the woman held tightly to his chest, kissing her forehead as if she were only asleep. It was an attitude that surprised him for Oslin was little disposed to show his feelings this openly for a woman. And after so many years, he awakes with sensibility after being born without it. Yorlin was not a blood relative but they were as close as if they were. Urlin, who had always been the runt of the family, was always a severely self-conscious young man who was not seen in the shadow of his older brother. When the curse was placed, Yorlin and the Warlock of the Earth, Fenlin, made a vow to hold Urlin captive until his brother woke from the curse. They took turns on the watch for though their protection was heavy, they could not take chances. They were not there when the curse was cast so they would not let Oslin die on a whim of Urlin’s, should he escape. All they could do was allow for the course of time to bring the correct person to break the curse.

“Oslin, what will happen once the moon cycle is over? Will you forget who I am?”

His eyes watered at the question.

“No, my love, I will never forget who you are.” She propped herself onto his chest.

“Will you stay? With me?”

“Only if you wish it. But will you? I may be a bore after one moon.” She laughed and then looked at him with a seriousness and an intensity that he had rarely seen in a person before.

“I will wish it with all my heart. It shall be cut out of me, if I do not.” Oslin was horrified by the thought.

“No, my love,” he said, kissing her face. “You shall do no such thing. I do not think I can enjoy you in equal form if you do.” They laughed heartily, creating enough time for them to prove to each other that they did love each other before making ready for war.

In the Great Hall, they were given weapons and provisions and set off for the Pinnacles. Oslin flew them easily to the place. Once they got there though, they realized their work would be cut out for them. The Pinnacles were a myriad of towers that were superimposed on top of each other, creating mountains of towers. Oslin informed them that it was also enchanted cleverly so that someone could be hoodwinked; he would not be easily able to break the defenses. Saria was the only one who was elated.

“Oslin, would you be able to see what I see?” He looked at her Eye of Fire and knew what she was thinking. He held her hands and suddenly their vision was one. He could see the endless tunnels, paths and traps. He helped to stretch her vision and soon they found the way: a narrow door partially hidden between pinnacles. And it was so that they ran through the labyrinth, opening door after door until finally they came to a pair of heavy doors which lead to Zjorn’s antechambers. But there was a problem: the key they needed was an enchanted key, which was located behind the doors.

Saria looked with horror at Oslin.

“Which one is it?” There in the middle of the next room was a large table with dozens of keys of different shapes, sizes and colors. Oslin magically conjured the key that was needed. It levitated off the table but fell promptly.

“The enchantment is shrewd. You can only physically take the key out.”

“How will we get to that key?” cried Koslor. Saria searched and found an answer: a narrow opening through a high point in the wall. An opening which no human could get through but something smaller would.

“It is a silver key with a blue stone in it,” said Saria, picking up Jorli and raising her magically up to the hole.

“Look at and touch no other key,” said Oslin. “If they are all enchanted, there will be a good chance that there will be traps.” From the hole, Jorli looked down at them, winked and disappeared. Saria followed her as she crawled through the narrow space and leapt down into the room behind the door.

In the room, Jorli sped across the floor and pounced upon the table. She looked at all the keys and found the one they needed, near the middle of the table. Quickly she darted over the keys and came to the one. Carefully, she picked up the key with her snout and rushed back. But the key was not balanced evenly in her mouth and started to wobble dangerously as she crossed the table.

“No!” whispered Saria. “You can do it…don’t drop…” The key slid out of Jorli’s mouth and was about to hit the table when she caught it with her paws. Saria exhaled slowly as she watched Jorli jump down from the table and scaled the wall to the hole. Jorli returned through the hole and jumped into Saria’s waiting arms. She examined the key and a realization hit her.

“Once we open this door with this key, we will not enter the room we just saw, will we?” Oslin could not help but feel admiration for this woman. Had it not been for the seriousness of the situation, he would have been quite disposed to show her right in that moment. He restrained himself by only saying that the key would most likely take them to Zjorn. They looked at each other for a moment and with a swift motion of her hand, inserted the key and turned. Light spilled from the crack of the door and shot into the room, shaking the room with such strength that when the smoke lifted and the dust settled, the room was completely destroyed.

From beyond the destroyed room, Zjorn stepped over rubble.

He was a tall, willowy man who looked older than he was. Years of searching for the way to break the spell of the Forbidden Lake, he, like very few others, knew the meaning of being denatured. What started as a search to increase his power turned into his own downfall. It was to live your life as if you lived between worlds, an eternal insanity that would only have moments of lucidity. In those moments, he sought to find the pure liquid to cure himself. But his mind would wander and he would find himself in this senselessness. It was during that same senselessness that he would have killed, as he did with his own flesh and blood. He had held his dead father in his arms during one of those moments of lucidity and cried at his misbegottenness. He never had very much time to think about it for from moment to moment. He saw how he erected towers in the Pinnacles, a maze in which he placed himself in the center. He had retrieved the child and now was aware that the boy was part of the plan. He had wanted to stop himself on several occasions but as the years went on, his lapses of lucidity were fewer and it made him realize that he would soon be consumed completely by the self he did not know. It was the death of his soul and for having taken that drink of the Forbidden Lake, he had destroyed what, in that moment, was of little consequence to him. All for the sake of greed and self-gain. And as he slipped into the insanity of his day to day, he wished that someone would have the decency of putting him out of his misery. If they could.

His alter ego surfaced and had heard the intruders come when the correct key was nearly dropped. Foolish, he thought. The intruders got what they came for. The room was completely devastated in such a fashion that anyone would have easily have thought that our heroes had perished. And as he moved a stone with the tip of the boot, hoping to find remains of these trespassers, he heard the unexpected:

“Give us the child.”

He spun around. Saria and the others stood in Zjorn’s chambers, unscathed. One look at the group sent him laughing in a maniacal fashion. It was a laugh that lingered and scratched but the group stood firm.

“I can see that you are to face your death in a few moments,” he said, recovering. “Pure luck led you this far but now, it is time.” With an upward swing of his hand, he threw forth a beam of light that sizzled the air as it shot at them. Only Saria and Oslin kept their eyes on Zjorn as both crossed their arms, sending a blue light in an arc around the group. Zjorn was stunned.

“How can that be?” he stuttered, staggering backwards. Then realization struck him.

“You are both human?” Saria smiled pleasantly as she brought her arms down in a full frontal attack. Arcs of blue light sped like knives and burst into smaller arcs, tearing at Zjorn’s counterattack. Oslin shot burst of wind in a rapid fury but wasn’t quick enough from blocking a blow from hitting Saria. She was thrown back and in a brief moment of distraction, Zjorn nicked Oslin in the shoulder. He cursed as blood was flowing crimson under his sleeve. He raised his hands in a counterattack and with all his might, blast the wall away, along with Zjorn.

Meanwhile, Koslor and Jorli went to find the child and found him in a small crib sleeping, quite far from the skirmish. The child slumbered peacefully and as Jorli reached down to pick him up, a cry erupted from Saria’s throat.

“I would not do that if I were you.” Koslor and Jorli turned around to find Zjorn nearing them menacingly. Suddenly, an ear-piercing cry filled the room as Perlen and Sinlar swooped down on him and slashed him with their claws. Oslin materialized and with a hurricane force, threw him across the room and against the opposite wall when he stopped slightly. And so did Zjorn.

They were both distracted by a light blue glow emanating in the room.

And there Saria stood, dust settling around her. Although her clothes were torn, she gave a air that was frightening to behold. Her hair danced around her and a wave, as if of water, emmanated from her and expanded slowly. As soon as it touched Zjorn, however, it hit him with a foce that pummeled him through the wall into the far wall in the next room, creating a recess in the brick. Seizing the opportunity, Saria appeared and with a swift movement, sent flying the blood-letting blade that the Keeper had given her and it hit him in the shoulder. A scream of scathing force burst from Zjorn’s lips as he lay in agony. His blood was spilling and for him, it was a sensation he was not aware could happen to him. Saria stood over him and was amazed as this man, the Keeper’s brother, slowly changed in countenance. He began to look haggard and simply old. He looked up at Saria and smiled weakly.

“I have wished for so long for someone to kill me,” he started. “I am never conscious long enough to know what I am doing.” He looked pleadingly at her. “Please kill me. I will never find the correct liquid. Please. Before he comes back.”

Saria looked at him with sorrow. Here was the man who killed the Keeper’s parents. Someone who, in search of personal gain, fell farther from grace than many could ever have done. And she felt sorry for him. Leaning down to pull out the knife, she was concentrating on the hilt and had barely noticed that the man in front of her had shifted shapes. He grabbed the knife from his shoulder, sunk it deep into her chest and in a blink of an eye, they were gone. Relir was gone as well.

“Zjorn will be killing Relir at midnight tomorrow. He is still in the Pinnacles, according to our scouts so you must start early. The Pinnacles are still unknown territory for us and it is enormous. Zjorn created it as a labyrinth and we have yet to hear of someone who has escaped alive. The key would be to find out what is the ‘pure liquid’ that Zjorn must drink. We might be able to give the child some time…” He looked around at the other members of the group. “Will all of you be going?”

“Your highness, I speak on behalf of Perlen and myself,” began Sinlar “and we are bound to serve and protect Lady Saria.”

“Me too…your highness,” piped Jorli, who stopped devouring a roast pheasant to answer.

“The child is of the Range and I have sworn to retrieve him at all costs,” replied Koslor. Karil was about to make her statement when Saria interrupted.

“I believe Karil should stay for she has a family and does not have a real reason for going.” She smiled at her as the mare lowered her head in embarrassment. Saria somehow knew that she was not sure how to tell them that she had priorities that did not allow her to go. Thus, everything was settled and arrangements for the morrow were attended to. For the meanwhile, all were indulging in Drendhil mead.

Later, Saria excused herself and told Oslin that she will be in her room in a bit, if he would like to ‘celebrate.’ He held her close and whispered into her ear. They smiled at each other and she left. The King watched as she left and turned his attention to Oslin, whose gaze lingered a bit longer.

“She would make an exquisite wife,” mentioned the King, snapping Oslin from his distraction.

“She would,” he replied.

“What is this? Do I hear bitterness in your voice?” exclaimed the King. “Do you not see how much in love she is with you?”

Oslin concentrated on his glass, finding the mead interesting as it swished in his goblet.

“You must promise me that what I am about to tell you does not leave your lips. Ever.” Oslin looked melancholically at the King.

“Warlock of the Wind, I am King of the Drendhils but above all else, I am a man of my word.”

“Lady Saria is only in love because it is part of the enchantment my brother placed on me,” he said finally. “What she did would have been very difficult for any woman to have done and yet she did it for the love of her friends and family.” He paused for a bit. “You see, my brother Urlin, was jealous of me and so when he had the chance, decided to curse me in the most despicable of ways.” He stopped to drink the rest of the contents of his goblet. It refilled by itself.

“The nature of the third riddle and test was one. The fact that it had to be a woman; another. And the last, the worst of them all. The one no one knows about. The one who frees me will be enchanted for the space of one moon cycle, in love with me to the very marrow of her bones. When the cycle is over, she will forget me and never recall all the time we had been together. In her mind’s eye, she will see me as the ugliest and most repulsive man ever. This would not be so difficult had it not been for one thing: from the moment I found Saria in front of me, I did not want her to be anywhere else.” He turned to the King with sadness. “I had been a popular sort of man in my day, the reason for Urlin’s jealousy. And now, his revenge could not have been sweeter. I know what I want now and it can never be mine.” The King sighed and downed the contents of his own cup.

“Is there nothing to be done? Could the enchantment be broken?”

“Your Highness, you are talking to the Warlock of the Wind and even I cannot break this enchantment.”

“Because it has been cast upon you! Could not someone else convince the Warlock of the Sea to lift it? Could reason not be met?”

“If only I knew it to be so. For now, I will be content to love the Lady Saria with all my heart, for all of the days that are left us. And I may be able to recall these days and think that once, I truly was happy.” The King also fell out of spirits.

“If only there was something that was in my power that could help you…” he said. The two said nothing and sipped quietly their mead.

As for Saria, she was found knocking on Jorli’s door. It flew open and she was ushered in. As soon as the door closed in Jorli’s room, the Fox only gave her a stare.

“What happened in the Warlock’s chamber?” she asked. Jorli had always been direct. She was about to answer when the door flew open and Sinlar fluttered in.

“I was thinking I would find you here,” she ruffled. “Now what is going on with you and this young warlock?”

The door flew open a third time and it was Perlen. He looked around and was a bit abashed. But recovering he said, “Is this young man a suitor?” Saria laughed at the three.

“Well, I suppose I’ve been found out,” she started.

“Have you ever!” cried Jorli. “But I want you to start from the beginning: how did you free the warlock?” Saria turned several shades of red. Jorli raised her paw to her forehead.

“Don’t tell me you… Are you saying….? Was he…” Jorli’s words were coming out in jumble.

“Just answer us this then, child,” said Perlen. “What was the third riddle?”

“’What has not been taken must be freely given,’” she replied. It was obvious enough. Sinlar and Perlen’s beaks sat ajar while Jorli threw herself onto the floor. Perlen gasped before asking, “Did you…?”

“Of course she did, Perlen! Do you not see that he is alive and well?” reprimanded Sinlar.

“I still don’t under…” piped Jorli.

“Child, are you in love?” asked Sinlar.

“I’m not sure,” replied Saria. “I know it is too soon to fall in love but I care about him immensely and I could get used to a man like him. All I know is that when I am with him, I don’t want to be with anyone else.” The three friends looked at each other in turn.

“In love,” they said in unison.

“But I’m not sure what will happen after the moon is over. Will he go away? Will he forget who I am? Will he serve someone else? It is such a short time…”

“Short indeed…” mused Perlen. “Tomorrow we go to the Pinnacles to free this child. We shall ponder this at length afterwards. To sleep, everyone!” He looked sternly at Saria. “I mean it.”

Later, in Saria’s chambers, after she and Oslin kept their battlefield promise, they lay there spent and euphoric. A little before dawn, Saria woke to find Oslin watching her slumber and stroking her hair. She smiled at him and crept closer to his body, finding it warm and hard. She traced her fingers down the length of his body and found him waiting and wanting. Her mouth searched his face, his neck and wandered down to envelope him in the most aching of wants and needs for this woman that he had only met yesterday.

Love, it is said, is a seed that needs time to grow and however fast, one day seems to be much too short. Nevertheless, the warlock was not a normal man, by any standard. He had lived his years in an intense living dedicated to charm, battles and frivolous women. Long were those years and nothing could apparently change them or him, for that matter, had it not been for one event that would have seemed otherwise insignificant: he was bored. It was not something that he could have thought or said had those events in which he partook daily began to lose their diversion. He began to remember how he yearned for those experiences and how now, it really did not matter whether he did take a woman or not. He had enjoyed them but it did not matter because afterwards, they would disappear from his life. Traveling from land to land, he was given his choice in women. He was ‘lucky’ in other men’s words. Especially according to Urlin, and misfortune struck when Oslin took a woman that his brother was fond of. He was little aware of his brother’s feelings when he had done so but soon found out from an angry tirade that ensued from a man-to-man boast of the women he had had. Wounded, Urlin accused his brother of frivolity and incapability to love. It was a comment true and direct but it was one that Oslin could not eliminate from his mind for it placed a finger on his open wound, the one that did not have a name. It was then that Oslin became conscious of his actions and what sort of effect they would have on others. He began to look within himself and ask what had ever been meaningful in his life of excess and his view of life began to change. In the constant adoration from women, he was alone and he began to realize that his constant adventures were due to the fact that he really did not care to live for he had nothing to live for. And as his brother captured him and held him captive in the Tower, he told him of the curse he was about to place. And it broke Oslin’s heart for it implied the greatest sacrifice of a woman who did not know him when they would meet and would not know him when they would part. But for one moon cycle, she would give him what he needed the most: love. It would be true and honest and as the spell was cast, he yearned to meet this woman or never wake again.

When he did, Saria had just given him a kiss. Sweet and tender, unlike any he had ever had before. And upon looking at her face, he knew that an angel like her could not exist anywhere else but in his arms. She was coquettish but strong and a soul braver than most men. She was unique and the answer to a life-long search he had never known he had started. But there she was, lying next to him, satiating his passion and provoking others he had never known of. So what seemed to be a scarce rising and setting of the sun was actually a product of many years of experiences. In other words, he finally knew what he wanted. Now that he had her though, he did not want to let her go but that inevitability would end. Yet he preferred this to never having had her at all. So he loved her as if every moment would be the last knowing that quite soon, she would shunt him from her life. His, meaningless until he was cursed, was cursed again when the spell was broken. And now, he was so violently in love that he could not imagine a life without her. So as he entered her again and again, he hoped with all his might that at least her body would remember who he was and how he loved her.