“They will come to me,” Death said quietly. “And sooner, and in greater numbers, than if you choose to live. The Valdemar you knew will be no more; her people will struggle to maintain their freedom in a shrunken land, bereft of allies and hemmed about by enemies. You are not the only hope, Vanyel, but you are Valdemar's best hope.”

Vanyel closed his eyes in a spasm of despair, struggling to maintain his composure. He was so tired - so very tired. So tired of pain, of loneliness, of a life that seemed harder to endure each day. But what he had told Jervis was no less than the truth. He could no more leave his duties unfulfilled than he could repudiate Yfandes. Especially not now - not knowing, by the word of a Power that would not tell him false, that there was no one else to do what he could do.

But he was so tired.

“What is magic's promise, Vanyel?” asked the vibrant voice. “You thought you knew the answer once. Is it still the answer you would give now?”

He rose out of his own soul-deep weariness, and realized that-no, the promise of magic's power - to a Herald - was not what he had thought at seventeen. And that was the difference between what he was, and what those of Vedric and Krebain's ilk were.

“It isn't a promise made to me,” he replied, slowly opening his eyes and meeting Death's unblinking, steadfast gaze. “It's a promise made to those who depend on me, on my strength; it's a promise I haven't fulfilled, not yet, not completely.” He closed his eyes again, and bowed his head, feeling tears of weariness slipping from beneath his lashes and not wanting the Other to see them and his weakness. “It's a promise that gives me no choice. I - have to go back. No matter how - tired - I am -”

There was a whisper of sound, and a feather-light touch on his jaw. He opened his eyes, and Death's hand lifted his chin so that his gaze again met those beautiful eyes. There were tears in Death's eyes, tears that matched his own, and a tender, sorrowful smile on Death's lips.

“I have never been so grieved - and so glad - to lose,” he said, and touched his lips to Vanyel's. Their tears mingled on his lips as Vanyel closed his eyes; he tasted them in the kiss, his own salt, bitter tears - and Death's sweet -

Strong arms closed about him, supporting him, holding him against a comforting shoulder, as Death held him with all the sensitivity of the lover that He could be.

Vanyel yielded to the greater strength, and crumpled in his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Gentle hands caressed his hair, and gentle words came to his ears.

“Not yet, beloved,” Death murmured, breath moving against his ear, lightly stirring his hair. “There is no time here, while I will it so. You need not take up your burden until you feel ready to meet your life again.”

So he wept out his weariness, his longing for respite. He wept, and then he rested on Death's shoulder.

“Vanyel, is it only duty that calls you back?”

“No.” He found another tiny crumb of strength and slowly straightened in the Power's arms. “No - it's more than that. Moondance said it a long time ago. I lost my own hearth-fire, but that's no reason why I can't warm myself at the hearths of my friends, not when they've offered that warmth.” He blinked, and realized that he was smiling. “Not so many friends,” he said, half to himself, “But all of them - good friends.”

“Worth returning for, Vanyel?”

“Yes,” he replied simply.

Death actually laughed softly. “So long to learn what Moondance meant?”

“Sometimes I'm a bit dense.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For some reason I never had any trouble figuring out what death was all about; but life -  that's taken me until now.”

The Power held him for a moment longer, then let him go. He met the compassionate, luminous blue eyes for one final time, and saw them flare with a strange mixture of pride, grief, and joy. “Vanyel,” Death whispered. “One thing more - there is one who would make his farewell to you.”

Vanyel felt someone behind him, a lesser presence than the Shadow-lover, and turned.

“Hello, Vanyel,” said Jaysen, holding out his hand. “Or - I guess it's good-bye.”

“Jays?” Vanyel took the hand, momentarily stunned. “Oh, Jays, no - I didn't -”

“No, you didn't. Don't go all guilty on me.” Jaysen actually smiled, ruefully. “It was my own stupid fault for being so distracted by the fact that you went and fathered our little pet that I gave those things of Vedric's a chance to get at me.”

Tears burned his eyes. “But -”

“Stop that. I knew you'd take it that way, that's why I asked - Her - Lady Death - to let me see you. It's not your fault. Now listen to me, neither of us have much more time.”

“The Web - you're the Northern Guardian -”

“Exactly. You'll have to take my place. More than that, remember what you were thinking earlier? About making all the Heralds the power source? Do that, Van. Figure out how.” Jaysen squeezed his hand urgently. “It's important. Figure out how to change the Web-spell so that it doesn't need Guardians anymore, just the Heralds themselves. You're the only one of us that can do that. I'm charging you with that, Van.”

He nodded, and met Jaysen's eyes evenly. “I promise.”

“I -” Jaysen's eyes softened for a moment. “There's something else. She told me I could tell you. Maybe it'll help. She said you won't be alone.”

He released Vanyel's hand, and stepped backward, already beginning to fade.

“She promised, Van. And I promise.”

Then he was falling, falling -

For a confused moment after he opened his eyes, he thought that the slumped form in Whites in the chair beside his bed was the Messenger -

But his hiss of pain as he tried to move woke the other, and he saw that it was a mortal and a friend, after all.

“Tran?” he whispered. “Tantras? What are you -”

Tantras' face was lined with exhaustion, and his eyes were red with weeping.

“Van, I have to tell you -”

“We lost Jays,” he whispered, remembering, feeling the emptiness.

Oh, gods - He was not aware that he was weeping until a sob shook him and made him gasp with pain.

Tantras just handed him a square of linen, and, moving to sit gingerly on the side of the bed, held him until exhaustion left him no more tears to weep.

“We thought you ought to hear it from a friend,” Tantras told him, helping him to lie back. “I should have known you already knew.”

“How?” Vanyel whispered. “He didn't tell me how.”

“He couldn't keep the Swarm off - so he and his Companion - you know better than me how that works.”

“Final strike,” Vanyel answered numbly. “Take your last target with you. Oh, gods - if I'd just been there.”

“What good would you have done?” Tantras chided. “No one can be two places at once, Van. Not even you. Lady Bright, we came within a hair of losing you, and that's something I'd rather not think about. Lissa's Healer still doesn't know how he pulled it off. He swears he had divine help at the last moment.”

Vanyel just stared at him, rinding it hard to imagine a world without Jaysen in it.

A gentle tap broke the silence between them, and a maid hurried in, face blank -

Hiding fear.

“Milord Herald-Mage?” she faltered, holding a pitcher.

Not “Vanyel, “or even “milord Van, “ he thought, with a catch in his throat. Now I terrify even the ones who grew up with me around. I'm a stranger even to my own.

“Yes, Sondri?” he said, as gently as he could.

“I brought ye summat t' drink.”

“Thank you.”

She left the pitcher and glass beside the bed, and hurried out.

Fear. Vanyel felt another wrench inside. And there was only one way to deal with the pain of it.

Tantras had enough Empathy to feel something of his withdrawal. “Van - ” He touched Vanyel's shoulder. “Van, what are you doing?”