Rosemary McMillen

         Morning lay quiet over most of the city, and especially on the streets of Corin. Most people were in their beds or just beginning the day's work. War rumbled ominously on the country's borders, but it was distant and unreal in the scheme of daily life.

         This silence, this sense of contentment, was the heart of the small shop that sat away back from the main road that connected Corin to the rest of the city. It was dimly lit inside, but the light was enough for Gregory to see by. He stood at the far end of the room staring at the table across from him.

         It was a good table–sturdy, well-built, with a good shape. He surveyed it with steady eyes that were set in a quiet face, intent on every detail. He saw it as it was–the quality of the wood, the shape of the legs, the rough surface.  But he also saw what it was to become.

         He nodded in satisfaction. Yes.  It was ready for the final shaping. He selected his tools from a nearby shelf and set to work.

         Moment by moment, the wood changed almost imperceptibly beneath his hands. The table grew more detailed, more refined–more beautiful. Gregory forgot the war, forgot all but the wood and the shapes in his mind.

         Suddenly the door slammed open, bringing him abruptly out of his concentration. He turned, startled, to see Vauna standing just inside. Her pale face was surrounded by disheveled hair, and she was trembling. She was afraid, but what Gregory most noticed in her eyes was pain.

         The first thought that entered his mind was that she was hurt. The war had reached their city, she was mortally wounded. He leapt to his feet in fear, but before he could take a step towards her she rushed forward into his arms.

         "Gregory!" she sobbed, hardly able to speak through her gasps for breath. "He's dead, gone, the Anointed–dead! Fynnastus..."

         "Are you all right?" Gregory interrupted. He held her at arm's length, studying her face. "You're not hurt?"

         "No." She stared back at him, tears streaming from her eyes. "No... but Gregory... the Anointed is dead!"

         A wave of relief swept over him. The Anointed dead! But Vauna–Vauna was safe.

         "Hush. No more." He took her in his arms, afraid she wouldn't stand much longer. She was trembling, and her breath was shallow. She wasn't hurt, but something was wrong. He had never seen her like this! "You need to sit and get your breath. Tell me what's happened once you're calm."

         Vauna only nodded and allowed herself to be led gently to the only chair. As soon as he was sure she was safely seated, Gregory left the room, returning moments later with a glass of water. She drank it gratefully.

         Gregory watched her quietly. Now that she was safe, what she'd said was beginning to sink in. The Anointed–dead? It didn't seem possible, but what else would have sent her into such a deathly terror? Unless she were truly ill...

         But she was recovering before his eyes. It took several moments for her to regain her clarity, but even as the terror passed, the pain remained in her voice.

         "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I don't know..." Her voice trailed away.

         "How?" Gregory asked softly. "When?"

         "This morning, at dawn." Vauna took another sip of water. Her voice steadied. "He was found in his bed. Simply... gone."

         There was a long pause. Outside all was silent.

         "Do the people know?"

         "No. They will be gathered within two hours." He glanced at her questioningly, and she explained.

         "I was up early to see Claudia–she's been ill the past week. I overheard two soldiers talking.  They stopped when they saw me, but not before I gathered what had happened. I didn't believe it. And then a group of them hurried by, with Fynn at their head. Our eyes met. I saw the truth... and the future." She paused. Gregory was standing by the window, staring out and listening. "The death of the Anointed frightened me. But Fynn..." Her voice faltered.

         "Gregory," she whispered, "It has begun."

         He turned sharply. "No. He is too young."

         She met his gaze with pained eyes. "Youth is no matter if it is the Spirit's will."

         At that moment there was a knock, soft but urgent.  Neither moved, at first, then Gregory answered in a hoarse voice.

         "Come."

         The door opened to allow a tall young man with brown hair and eyes. He was dressed in the armor of a common soldier but had the red sash of a Commander tied about his waist. He looked near exhaustion. Weariness stripped him of all but the inner strength that shone as a state of calm from his eyes.

         "Fynn! What are you doing here?" Vauna exclaimed.

         He stepped in and closed the door after him. "I left things in good hands. I won't be needed until the people are informed. They know where to find me." He looked around for a place to sit, and his eyes landed on the table Gregory had been working moments before. He occupied it without further thought.

         His friend watched from his spot by the window, giving a wry smile. Fynn would never heed such things; it was best to overlook them. 

         "What's going to happen?" he asked gently.

         Fynn shook his head. "They choose a new Anointed. Today. The enemy is upon us–we have no time for ceremony. The Elders are gathering as we speak."

         "But how?" Vauna asked. "How can they possibly choose in so little time? It takes weeks..."

         "Most likely they will choose someone already well known, to them or the people, someone they already trust, and will be easily followed." Fynn paused, staring carefully at the floor. None looked at the others. Each knew what the all were thinking, but none dared voice it.

         Fynn had become a soldier at sixteen, admitted at an early age because of exceptional skills. As soon as his youth would allow he was a low-level Sub-Commander, and he had since risen to become High Commander, second only to the complacent Grand Command, and the Anointed himself. His battle skills had been tested in several defensive skirmishes, and one full-blown battle. He had risked his life more than once, and executed daring maneuvers that reversed hopeless situations.

         Men followed him where none else would go.

         The people knew and loved Fynn. He was their champion, their bravery. And now he sat in a shop on the back streets of Corin, knowing that his life was about to change completely.

         He shook his head. "The Spirit will guide them."

         "It is hard to believe," Vauna murmured. "Yesterday we were children, sitting about Valerias' knees, wondering what the future would hold. It was so distant then–it seemed it would never come. And now–now we are perched on the edge. And Valerias sits among the Elders. He is no longer ours–he belongs to the people." A surge of tears threatened to overcome her. She hugged her knees close to her chest, blinking them fiercely back.

         "Everything is going to change," she whispered.

         Fynn gazed at her sympathetically. "We knew it would happen one day, Vauna," he said softly. "We couldn't stay together forever."

         "Yes," said Gregory. "But are we ready?"

         The question was left unanswered. None of them wished to break the silence that followed in its wake. Gregory returned to gazing out the window, Fynn at the floor, Vauna at her hands.

         Then came a knock at the door.

Fynn leapt to his feet, startled. "That would be my summons," he muttered. "But so soon..."

         Vauna and Gregory glanced at each other. No–they were not ready.

         Before any of them could answer it, the door swung open on its own, admitting a grey-bearded man clothed in green robes. He carried a wooden staff, but it was clear he didn't need it as he strode into the room, more symbol than support.

         Gregory straightened and took a step forward but Fynn was there before him, going down on one knee with a bowed head. The old man smiled and waved a tired hand.

         "I do not come as an Elder, Fynnastus, any more than you three are gathered as more than friends."

         Vauna rose eagerly from her seat, her sadness momentarily forgotten.

         "Take this chair, Master."

         The old man smiled at the title she used, that of the teacher he had once been. He accepted her offer silently, and though weariness still hung about his eyes, it seemed a heavy burden had slipped from his shoulders. Vauna seated herself at his feet and he gazed down at her with warm affection.

         "Yes... I am but a teacher here. The Spirit has granted me these last moments years after I thought them lost." He sighed deeply and leaned his tired head against the wall behind him.

         "I am sorry, Master," said Fynn. "I should have offered you my place."

         Valerias laughed, a warm, clear laugh that broke the bonds of exhaustion. "Thank you, but I prefer chairs to tables when it comes to sitting, young Fynn." He glanced at him with a smile and a raised brow. The young man gazed back at him, puzzled, then realized with a start what his mentor was referring to, leaping up as if the table were a hot stove.

         "I... I didn't see..." he stammered, embarrassed. Quickly he regained his composure, and turned shame-faced to his friend. "I'm sorry, Gregory. It's... it's a good table." This being said, he turned to the piece to actually see it for the first time, eager to observe its perfection. He shook his head with genuine admiration, a wonder he possessed for all work his own hands could never do and his eyes could not judge.

         "It is excellent," he said, a bit loudly. "It will bring a good price in the marketplace."

         Gregory smiled in quiet amusement. "It isn't finished."

         Vauna stifled a laugh as Fynn's eyes fell. "Oh." He stood a moment, looking rather lost, then leaned an elbow against the wall and smiled ruefully.

          "And here I was about to make an offer! Ah, well.  You are a wiser man than I, Gregory. To conceive what isn't there, and make it real... I deal only with the present, and act on what is before me." He stroked the surface of the table gently. "And here you are, with your own shop, given to you by your Master on his death. He chose good hands to leave it in. A carpenter–you have made your life what you always wanted it. You are content."

         Gregory shook his head, staring once more out the window. "Yes, I am content. To stay here, to live quietly, to work with my hands; my life is as I wish, lived according to my own will. I never had higher dreams, not like you." He turned to his friend with expressive eyes. "You, too, have made your life into what you always wanted – you live for others. For the people. You have given your all."

         "And never once wished anything else,".  Fynn responded seriously, but with nonchalance, trying to avoid his friend's praise.

         Valerias, meanwhile, had been listening attentively, even as he used to do, long ago, guiding their own words to show them wisdom. "No," he murmured, shaking his head. "Not all–that is yet to come."

         The three glanced at him in surprise, wondering if he meant what was in their hearts. He surely knew, but to say it seemed too much to bear.

         The old man shook his head before they recovered. "Do not regret the paths you have chosen. Fynn, you are a leader of men. You make your own wisdom, and it is men like you who will save us from this war. And Gregory, but for you – and those like you – there would be no people to defend.

         "And you, Vauna." She looked up quickly at the sound of her name. He smiled at her. "So deep, so strong... I wonder, do our people realize how precious are our women, that the men who fight and the men who build would be nothing on their own."  He stopped, then, falling into his own thoughts.

         Vauna's gaze fell. "No, Master. I am not strong. This morning..." Her words faltered. Then she ended in a choked voice. "I fear loss more than death, and grief threatens to overwhelm me."

         Valerias turned to her and smiled, reaching out to place a hand beneath her chin. Their eyes met.

         "Daughter, in the tears of women lies the strength of men."

         They sat there, the two of them, Fynn and Gregory watching. The sunlight filtering in through the small window fell in Vauna's hair and eyes.  The scene was not lost on Gregory, who realized, in that moment, that she had never looked so beautiful.

         Fynn stirred. "Master Valerias, where are the rest of the Elders?"

         Valerias patted Vauna's cheek and left her to stare thoughtfully at the floor. He turned to Fynn with a slightly amused expression playing among the creases in his face.

         "You ask me why I am here?"

         Fynn reddened and began to protest, before he caught the twinkle in the old man's eye. Then he smiled and relaxed. "Well... yes. Aren't you required elsewhere?"

Valerias rubbed his bearded chin and stared at the door as if he hadn't heard the question. A deep sigh escaped his lips.

         "You do not understand, Fynnastus. We do not have a month, or even a week, to find the Anointed. There is no time for debate, for proposals and refutations, and reviewing all likely candidates. There are...decisions, ones that must be made immediately, but only by the Anointed. You, of all people, should know that." Fynn nodded quietly.

         Valerias was silent for a moment. His head bowed so that his chin rested on his chest with a weariness too deep for slumber.

         "It will be a selection unlike any other," he continued, voice dragging beneath the weight of his words. "The choice, the duty, lies on the individual shoulders of each Elder. We have been sent to pray, to seek the Spirit's will as we may. Our choice must be thrust completely on him."

         Valerias' hands were trembling on his knees where they lay, curled into loose fists. He no longer looked like the teacher of their youth. He was old and frail, his face sunken to the bone.

         "It is not an easy thing," he whispered. "I am but a teacher–I did not ask for this task." He gazed at the staff that lay across his lap, smooth and polished beneath his gnarled hands. The sight of it seemed to give him strength, but it was several moments before he could speak again.

         "We are only men," he murmured. "And in the end our decision will reflect our humanity. But we pray the Spirit will guide us, and trust he will use even our failures to a greater good."

         Gregory left his place at the window and sat on the floor next to Vauna. Noticing this, Fynn roused himself from the wall and followed his example. 

         And so it was that they gathered round their old mentor as they once had, years ago, before Valerias was called to give up his life as a teacher and join the Elders.

         "My brothers say the Anointed must be one already known to the people," he continued, as if to himself. "One who has gained their trust. They must follow immediately, without question, if we are to come through these times." He broke off, and his eyes strayed to Fynn. The young man shifted under his gaze, but did not look away.

         For a moment the Valerias watched him, thoughts known only to himself, but in the end he closed his eyes with a sigh.

         "I do not have the answers. I am an old man... I wish only to rest."

         Fynn opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated before doing so. "You will find the Spirit's will," he said, a trifle over-loud in that small room.

         Valerias smiled weakly, but did not open his eyes.

         "No," said Gregory softly. "The Spirit will fulfill his will in you."

         The old man's eyes flew open. All weariness seemed to fall away. He fixed Gregory with an intense, piercing gaze, one which the younger man could not meet.

         "I am sorry, Master," he murmured quickly. "I meant no disrespect. I... I didn't mean to voice that thought aloud."

         "No," Valerias said softly, almost to himself. "You did not."

         Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The older man looked at the three seated around his feet, and smiled.

         "So we are here, together, as we once were," he said quietly. "Do you realize, I wonder, the strength you give me? How the sight of you fills my heart! You have grown in the light of the Spirit."

         "All we have become is because of you," Fynn murmured.

         "No, no." The old man smiled. "I merely planted the seed. It was for you to let it grow." He gazed at each of them in turn. A sense of urgency fell on each of them as they met his eyes–of readiness, and waiting.

         "The time of fulfillment is near," he said, earnestly. "Whatever path the Spirit sets you on – do not refuse him." There was a pause in which they each gave a silent promise in their hearts. Then Valerias spoke once more.

         "This is the last time we shall be together."

         He was interrupted even before he finished speaking by the third knock of the afternoon. It was he, Valerias, who rose first, grasping his staff as he climbed to his feet. He now leaned slightly on it to support his weight.

         "I believe you are needed, Fynnastus," he said quietly.

         Then he strode to the door and opened it, stepping out as another man stepped in. The latter was a soldier, sashed in the blue of a high-ranking Sub-Commander.

         "High Commander Fynnastus," he began, bowing. "All is ready. We lack only your presence."

         There was a moment's pause and then Fynn nodded and waved his hand.

         "Assemble the people–I am coming."

         People were already beginning to answer the call by the time the three friends reached the city's central square. A crowd was gathering around the swiftly-erected platform where the chairs of the Elders sat waiting for their occupants. The Guard stood in double ranks around it, keeping the milling people a reasonable distance away.

         The crowd grew thicker as they pressed further inward. There were dense knots here and there that were hard to press through, but Fynn's red sash and armor granted them ready passage as they pressed forward.

         They finally approached as near as the soldiers would allow. The platform was still several yards off but Gregory and Vauna would be able to see clearly when the time came. Fynn placed a hand on Gregory's shoulder and spoke above the murmur of the crowd.

         "I must leave you here. Hopefully, when this is over..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. Before he could find them, his name was shouted from beyond the platform.

         Fynn gave them a sad smile and then pushed his way past. The soldiers parted to let him through and he disappeared behind them and was gone.

         Vauna drew closer to Gregory and he took her hand in his own. They stood there in silence as the crowd grew around them, pressing ever inward towards the waiting platform. They were frightened, impatient–when would the Elders come?

         There was a shout and two ranks of soldiers began advancing towards the center of the square. There were seven men robed in dark colors in their midst, all bearing staffs of plain wood. Some were old and bent, trembling as they leaned on their staffs and some were less aged than that, but even the youngest of them had grey beards with little more than traces of color.

         They moved slowly towards the platform, surrounded by their guard, and the crowd fell silent and parted before them.

         They finally reached the line of soldiers, standing near enough to Gregory that he could see their faces–tired, yet stern. He watched as the guard parted and allowed Fynn to step forward to greet each Elder as he ascended the platform steps. Valerias was one of the last, and as he watched his friend kiss the withered hand, something caught in Gregory's throat. Vauna's hand tightened around his own but he didn't know if it was prompted by comfort or fear.

         The Elders were all seated save the youngest, who stepped forward.

         "My people, my brothers," he began, then stopped. "A great blow has befallen us," he said, and then his strong voice faltered.  He paused for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, he very will, and then he spoke what he must:  "The Anointed is dead."

         The soldiers braced themselves, preparing for an uproar.

         But there was nothing, nothing but silence–silence finally broken by a long, piercing wail. It began as the wail of a single person–man, woman, or child, none could tell. But it grew and swelled to something far greater in a matter of minutes. Several people, then many people took it up and carried it on as it was tossed from voice to voice. Then suddenly all the thousands had joined. An entire people was mourning the loss of a leader, a father, a beloved. It was a cry of grief–of despair.

         The Elder raised his hands and shouted for silence, but none heard or heeded him. The square was filled with an inhuman sound. Men and women fell to their knees, and many covered their faces, weeping. The crowd writhed with anguish. The Elder gazed hopelessly across the square, then returned to his seat. There was nothing more he could say.

         Gregory heard none of it. He was half aware of Vauna trembling at his side. But he saw only Fynn, standing at the back of the platform with head bowed. He was waiting... waiting... and then his waiting snapped. He strode forward.

         "People! My friends! Listen to me!" His voice was no louder than the Elder's. The crowd did not cease it's wailing, but a man next to Gregory paused, listening, and others soon followed.

         "My people!" Fynn repeated. "Do not despair. Darkness has fallen on us this day.  But fear not, for the darkness is always followed by the dawn!"

         It seemed to Gregory that the wailing had subsided, though it had yet to die. Away back they were still grieving, but here, where he stood, people wept noiselessly, heeding Fynn's words. They were listening.  They heard him, and Gregory, himself, was swept away on the spell of his words.

         "Night must fall before the rising of the sun! It is in despair that the Spirit fills us with hope.  You have trusted him before.  Will you not trust him now? He has given us the Anointed, and he has taken the Anointed away. Well may we grieve and fear. Who can replace him?  Who can we follow in his stead? We are powerless. But the Spirit shows his strength is in our helplessness."

         Fynn gestured urgently at the surge of people before him, his voice rising with increasing fervor.

         "Who will lead us? I answer you–the Spirit himself!"

         Gregory was suddenly aware of the silence around him. He tore his eyes away from Fynn to look around him. Vauna was listening, the man beside her was listening, the people behind him were listening–all were listening, hanging on every word. All their fears were forgotten in the sound of his clear voice.

         They knew him.  He had long since won their respect as the young, brave High Commander. Now he had won their hearts.

         They would follow him.

         "The Elders shall make their decision. The Spirit shall choose..."

         "Fynnastus!" a man's voice interrupted from the crowd. "Fynnastus!"

         "And no matter whom," Fynn continued without notice, "we shall follow."

         "Fynnastus!" cried another voice, this a woman's. "We want Fynnastus!" She was joined by others, people scattered throughout the crowd who took up her call.

         "Fynnastus! Fynnastus!"

         Fynn glanced around the crowd, startled. He stepped quickly off the platform and out of sight but he was immediately pushed back by two fellow soldiers. There was a brief struggle, but, with an anxious glance at the Elders, he gave in and let himself be pushed forward.

         The crowd erupted with one voice.

         "Fynnastus! Fynnastus! Fynnastus!"

         The throng was deafening. In their midst stood Fynn–a single man among uncountable others, all of whom were shouting his name. Gregory strained to read his expression, but he found his vision blurred with unshed tears.

         "Fynnastus! Fynnastus!"

         The moment was here... it was Fynn's time. This was what had been destined for him since childhood. Gregory knew it and his soul leapt to the platform where his friend stood. All his emotion, all his soul, welled up inside him, ready to pour forth with that of those around him. He opened his mouth to join the crowd.

         But instead of his friend's name, it was a broken cry that tore from his throat, and Gregory stood there transfixed by sorrow and sudden confusion.

         Vauna pressed against him suddenly.   "Come," she said.  "We must leave. Now."

         Gregory nodded dumbly. Throwing a protective arm around her shoulders, he turned and the two began the slow process of pushing their way back through the square.

         Fynn left the platform with the people still calling his name.

         They struggled onward through the endless press of people, then suddenly they burst free. Save for a few bemused stragglers, the streets beyond the square were completely empty. They walked quickly, leaving the crowd behind them. The noise receded as they drew further away, and when they could breathe again, they slowed their pace.

         For a while they continued in silence and then Vauna spoke.

         "He is going to be taken from us."

         Gregory hesitated before answering. "Yes."

         "We will never be together again."

         "We knew it was going to happen someday." A pause. "Do you remember the day in the woods?"

         Vauna swallowed hard. "Yes."

         "Valerias told us tales of the Anointed, of all the many through history. We were only children, and we were held in the spell of his words that day. Do you remember what Fynn said?"

         "Yes. He said that one day, he would be the Anointed, that he would be the greatest of all."

         They walked in silence for a ways.

         "He meant it, Vauna. And it was not forgotten–not by him, not by us. This is the single moment he has been waiting for his entire life. We all knew it would come. We simply weren't prepared. The Spirit has laid plans for our lives–the time has come to follow them."

         Vauna nodded silently, but there were tears streaming down her cheeks. "You said you wanted to be a carpenter, that day. That was always what you wanted, and you made it your life, just as Fynn made his. I was silent then, remember? But I knew, too. I didn't say, but I always only wanted to marry—to be someone's wife."

         "Yours," she said.

         She clutched his arm tightly. "Don't ever leave me," she whispered.

         "No," Gregory murmured. "I will be with you always." His hand slipped into hers, and he bent to kiss her hair.

         An hour later, an exhausted Fynn slipped inside Gregory's shop and collapsed onto an actual chair and rubbed at the bags beneath his eyes with a tired hand.

         "Well," he said quietly, "we have one last hour."

         Vauna and Gregory looked up but said nothing.  Then Gregory stood, arms folded, gazing out the window, while she wandered listlessly about the room, straightening the tools on the clean shelves. Fynn's eyes followed her for a moment as she puttered. Then he sighed and shook his head, trying to shake sleep from his thoughts.

         "I am so tired. Give me a task, a job to be done, and I am in my element. But once the moment it is over and I have time to sit, and think..." He let the sentence trail away unfinished.

         "How are things?" Gregory asked softly.

         "Better than they could be, but also worse. I was informed as the Elders arrived that the enemy has made encampment at our border."

         Vauna started, nearly dropping the tool she was holding. "Oh," she murmured, and then, with a steady hand, she carefully placed it back on its shelf. Gregory said nothing, staring out the window with a face that was very, very still.

         "The Anointed will be chosen within the hour," Fynn continued. "And the moment the choice is made, he will have to decide." There was a long pause, then he spoke as if to himself. 

         "He should strike first, not wait for the blow to fall. We have avoided war long enough–we have spent too many men guarding our cities. They must fight."

         "No," Gregory murmured from his spot facing the window. "If we lose some men in the guard, we will lose them all on the battlefield. We are not a fighting people–the Spirit will protect us."

         Fynn shook his head. "The Spirit does not want us to stand idly by while our doom approaches. If I– " He stopped abruptly, then continued. "No–the Anointed must strike with as much force as possible on the enemy."

         "And then any chance we had of avoiding this war will be lost."

         "What chance do you think that is?" Fynn's voice rose, but then he caught himself, and took a deep breath. "It is too late for that–I wonder if it wasn't too late from the beginning. What, then, would you do?"

         Gregory turned and faced his friend.

         "I would reinforce the guard, and strengthen our cities. We have too many men spread too thin in too many places.  They need to be pulled back in to protect the people. If the army wishes to cross through our land, let them, but they may not have our cities."

         Fynn stared in mounting frustration. "Gregory–do you truly believe that? If you simply stood by... if you did nothing, there may well be no people!"

         "And you, when you fought and pressed your every victory, then returned home–I fear you would find the same tragedy waiting for you."

         Fynn leapt hotly to his feet, biting his lip to keep the angry words from spilling forth. The two stared at each other while Vauna stood in the middle off to the side, weeping noiselessly.

         After a long pause, Fynn shook his head.  "No, Vauna," he said softly. "We must speak like this–we must. Don't you remember? The days under Valerias's guidance, and all the days after... we have always argued. So many times, and this the last."

         He paced the room aimlessly, coming to a halt by the unfinished table. He stroked the smooth wood, while Vauna watched with tear-stained eyes. Gregory turned again to stare out the window, hiding his face.

         "We have always been so different," Fynn continued. "It is amazing... I will always be a man of strong words and swift action. This table–it's sturdy, well made, pleasant to look at. I see it for what it is, and I would buy it in an instant."

         He paused and turned to Gregory, who turned and met his gaze.  For a moment, neither said anything.

         "But Gregory," Fynn whispered "sees it as a shadow of what it will become. It will be made beautiful beneath his hand.

         "So different, so opposite, but never have I found a better friend." He turned to Vauna and smiled sadly. "It has always been deeper than words, hasn't it? We never needed to express it to each other, and as for others–they didn't matter. But now... the very heart of our souls is being wrenched from us."

         "No," Gregory said. "We have only to remain who we are, and where there is one, there will be three."

         Vauna opened her mouth to speak, but then a silver trumpet rang. Fynn gave the table one last stroke, then shook his head.

         "Let's go."

         He walked silently out the door, and the others followed.

         The square was as crowded as Gregory and Vauna left it. Fynn led the way through the crush of the crowd, careful to keep his head bowed, knowing things would grow more difficult were he recognized. His friends followed, struggling to keep together.

         "Fynn! Where have you been?"

         A Sub-Commander wearing a brilliant blue sash was pushing his way towards them. Fynn glared him into silence until he was close enough to speak without shouting. "We've been waiting your orders..."

         "I placed Barnabas in charge," Fynn interrupted sharply. "He knows what to do."

         The sub-commander stared without comprehension. "Yes sir."

         Fynn's voice lowered to a growl. "Felix. I am staying here."

         "But... Barnabas sent me... the Choosing..."

         "I am aware of everything. Please inform the Elders I am here."

         Now faced with a specific order, the commander overcame his bafflement enough to bow and shuffle back into the crowd. The three stood, watching him go as the throng swelled around them. Mere moments stood between them and separation... Fynn wouldn't leave them now. Now, when they were to be parted forever.

         "Whatever happens," Fynn said suddenly, "wherever I go... There all three of us shall be. I carry you both in my heart."

         The others said nothing. There was no need. Slowly Vauna reached out and clasped their hands–Gregory on one side, Fynn on the other.

         There they stood and waited, until the Elders were gathered. There they listened as the Spirit was invoked, petitioned to make his will known. And there they watched–watched as the famous quill passed from hand to hand, until each of the seven Elders had written a name on his own scroll.

         These scrolls were bound, and passed to the High Elder, a man in green, older than the rest, with a staff of polished black. He gathered them in a large basket, then came to stand at the head of the platform, facing the crowd. Two servants scurried up behind him, but he waved them away without glancing back. Slowly, he raised his hand in blessing. The heads of all present bowed.

         Gregory stood in the unbearable silence, staring at his feet. His hand felt sticky in Vauna's... he wondered if the sweat was hers or his own. Licking dry lips, he closed his eyes to breathe deeply, pleading for the end to come.

         Let it be over. Please, let it end...

         "Brothers and sisters." The Elder's thin, cracked voice resounded deafeningly in the silence. "The Spirit's will be done."

         The basket was brought forward, along with a small table. Both were set beside the Elder within easy reach. He waited until the servants that brought them retreated, then he reached in with a single hand and pulled out the first scroll.

         The knot was tied more tightly than it should have been. It took several moments for his shaking fingers to loosen it, but none stepped forward to help. It was his task, and his alone.

         Finally the knot was undone, and he slid the string from the scroll. Carefully, he unwrapped it. His old eyes scanned the parchment, making doubly sure of its content.

         Thousands of ears strained to catch his words, and three more than the rest, all sure of what they would hear, and three more sure than all of them.

         "The first scroll," the High Elder announced quietly. "Gregory of Corin."

         Gregory stared. Something was horribly wrong. He had heard his own name–his own, instead of Fynnastus. He must have imagined... his mind was playing tricks.

         He watched as the Elder reached for the second scroll, heart pounding in his throat. His hands were cold... no. Not his. Vauna's. Why... No! He wouldn't look at her.

         The Elder unrolled the next scroll with much more ease than the last.

         "Gregory of Corin."

         No!

         Gregory turned in panic to Vauna. She was pale and drawn, as if she were about to faint, but she stood steady. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

         But it wasn't true... not until he saw the expression, devoid of all emotion, on Fynn's face.

         "Gregory of Corin."

         The fourth scroll was already being unrolled. That was enough... the rest were Fynn's. With but four scrolls the vote would be recast, in his favor...

         "Gregory of Corin."

         He tried to cry out, tried to stop them, but no sound would come from his parted lips. A wave of despair swept over him.  He must leave. Must run! Back home, to his shop, to his table...

Vauna was trembling. No... it was him.

         There was nothing he could do but stand and listen; hopeless. The seventh scroll was set aside, and not a single name had passed the Elder's lips but his own. The vote was unanimous. Such a thing had happened only twice before... such oneness in the Spirit's will.

         "The Spirit has made known his chosen one," the Elder said. "We call forth Gregory of Corin, the Anointed."

         "No," Gregory heard himself say. "No." He couldn't move–couldn't ascend the platform to be anointed leader of all those watching an not–of Valerias, of Vauna, of Fynn...

         Fynn!

         Gregory turned to find his friend staring, staring with burning eyes. Hurt–wounded. Anger–hatred. A wasted life.

         The two held each others gaze for one long moment. Then Fynn turned on his heel and walked away.

         "Fynn!" Vauna called, rushing after him. "Fynn! Don't leave us now!"

         He turned and stared at her with a gaze she couldn't meet. His voice was horrible–she cringed for the pain it inflicted and the pain it revealed.

         "It is already lost."

         He turned once more and continued, and wouldn't respond to her call.

         When Vauna turned, Gregory was gone.

 

         Valerias approached the door, raising his hand to knock, but hesitated. It was already partly open. For a moment he stood, listening, but there was no sound inside. Softly, he knocked. No answer.

         He placed a firm hand on the door, pushed, and stepped inside.

         Gregory sat motionless, bent over his unfinished table, face buried in his arms.

         "I know why you're here," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't do what you've come to ask."

         Valerias leaned heavily on his staff. His eyes were clear and piercing, but grief hung in the shadows beneath them. "It is not I who asks this of you, Gregory."

         "No. I am too young."

         Valerias answered in a stern voice. "Youth is no matter if it is the Spirit's will." Then his eyes softened, and he added gently: "You did not think Fynnastus too young."

         Gregory raised his head, but he stared unseeing at the wall before him, not meeting the Elder's eyes. His face was haggard, drawn tightly across his cheeks beneath his dry eyes.

         "Fynnastus," he repeated in a hollow voice. "Fynn... You chose wrongly. The wrong man! I am a carpenter!  I can't lead a country to battle, nor save it from war. You, of all people–you should have known. It was for Fynn–it was always for Fynn!"

         Valerias laid a weary hand on the window and gazed out into the street. "Yes," he murmured–whether to himself or otherwise, it didn't matter, for Gregory was not listening. "Yes. Fynn, too, must make his sacrifice. For the first time he must truly give his all."

         "You knew," Gregory continued blindly, his voice rising. "You! And yet you chose with the rest of them." He suddenly smashed his fist on the table. A fire sprang into his eyes, unquenched by the tears that threatened to overflow.

         "They didn't even know my name," he whispered, choking on his own words. "They didn't know me!"

         "Yes," Valerias answered quietly. "It was I who told them your name, though I didn't believe any would choose you but myself. I am sorry you see it as a betrayal of your trust."

         "Not mine..." Gregory's voice broke, and he buried his face in his arms once more, shaking with grief and anger.

         Valerias watched him several moments, leaning on his staff with a bowed head. "Gregory," he said softly. "Fynn will not always hate you." He watched, and waited, but there was no response.

         Suddenly the door swung silently open, and Vauna slipped inside. Her eyes immediately found Gregory, and she moved noiselessly to his side without noticing Valerias's presence. The old man looked at her several moments as she stood by him, waiting, then he nodded and slipped out without being seen.

         Meanwhile Vauna remained, a range of emotions struggling on her face. It took her several moments to subdue them, but in the end all were replaced by a quiet strength. She placed a hand on her friend's shoulder.

         "Gregory," she called softly.

         He responded immediately. "Vauna," he murmured wearily. "What are you doing here?"

         She smiled softly. "Where else would I be?"

         Gregory lifted his face to gaze at her. The door was open behind her, and the light streamed in to frame her with a soft glow. Everything about her was beautiful. His mind was a whirl of darkness and despair, but the quiet strength in her eyes cast a light on his thoughts. The haze before his eyes began to clear.

         "No, Vauna," he said, sensing the meaning behind her words. "I can't do it.  The people don't know me. They won't follow."

         "They will. You have been chosen."

         "But... I can't lead."

         "You have the Elders' wisdom to guide you. The Spirit will give you strength."

         "No!" Gregory shook his head and looked away in frustration. "No... I can't do this. It was supposed to be Fynn. He knows he's ready..."

         It was Vauna's turn to grow frustrated, but she waited to speak until it was under control. She spoke firmly. "Gregory, Fynn was not chosen by the Spirit."

         "They are human. They are fallible."

         Vauna hesitated. "Do you remember Valerias's history lessons? Those who wanted power were never worthy. Fynn..." She paused. "Fynn tried not to want it. He thought he succeeded. But he was wrong. You have seen."

         "Yes," Gregory whispered. "I have. He shall never forgive me." His face twisted in pain.

         Vauna bit her lip to hold back tears, and stroked his tangled hair away from his brow. "His wound shall heal. In his heart, he knows all has happened as it should, and he will be reconciled to that."

         Gregory stared at the table beneath him. Dropping to her knees so that her eyes were level with his own, Vauna studied his face carefully. "Gregory," she murmured. "You are the Chosen One."

         He swallowed hard before he could speak. "I don't want to leave this place," he whispered brokenly. "I want to spend my life here... with you." He turned to her with a searching gaze.

         It was all she could do to keep from crying out–then stay! refuse them! marry me!

All her strength seemed to rush away.  She couldn't tell him to do what she knew he must, yet everything in the world hinged on her next words.

         "You must do what you think is the Spirit's will," she said.  Quietly.  Clearly.

         Gregory gazed at her awhile longer, then he slowly nodded. "Yes. Vauna... if you hadn't come... I wouldn't have the strength." He took her hand and began to speak earnestly. "I will come back for you. After this time is past–it is not forbidden for the Anointed to take a wife. I will come, and bring you back with me, if you will only wait."

         Vauna gently pulled her hand from his. "Forever," she whispered, then she slowly walked the door and on out into the night.  As soon as the darkness hid her from his sight, her steps quickened. Several tears escaped onto her cheek before she silently wiped the corners of her eyes. She would wait for what was lost forever.

         Gregory got to his feet to follow, but his door was darkened by several men. They entered one by one until the small room was full–seven men. 

         Valerias was the last to enter.

         "Master!" Gregory exclaimed, falling to his knees. "I am sorry... forgive me..."

         Valerias lifted him quickly to his feet. "There is no need," he said quietly, and while he still looked tired, all grief had left his face. "Are you ready?"

         Gregory glanced at the robed men around him in surprise. "Here? Now? But..."

         "Yes. We have little time."

         He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes." He suddenly straightened, as if a heavy burden had fallen from his shoulders. "I am ready."

         Valerias nodded to his fellow Elders, and the ceremony began right there and then. Gregory was anointed right there in the humble secrecy of the shop at Corin. It passed for him like a dream, taking at once mere moments and an eternity.

         Afterward, the Elders filed out of the room to wait outside, while he was left to assume the white robes of his new role. As he stripped off his old garments, he suddenly realized he was shedding his old life with them. He stood there for a moment as nobody, as nothing, belonging nowhere.

         Then, slowly, he pulled on the new robe. It felt unfamiliar, but not unnatural.

         He would grow used to it entirely in less than an hour.

         But for now... He now stood alone in his shop for the last time, and he remained a long while.

         And then, suddenly, he was not alone.

         He turned to see Fynnastus step into the room with bowed head.

         "I have come to renew my vow my loyalty as guard for the Anointed."

         "Fynn!" Gregory stepped towards his friend. "You've come!"

         "Yes." Fynn fell to his knees and grasped Gregory's hand. His voice was low and rough, and sounded in danger of breaking. "Forgive me–I am last when I should have been first."

         The other smiled, and would have laughed but for the twist in his throat. "And I am first who should be last."

         Fynn raised his eyes to meet those of his friend, and they gazed several moments in silence. Then the oath was given, the sacred words falling clear in the silence. No sooner were they said than the two embraced with silent tears, and then Fynn, too, was gone.

Gregory was left once more alone.

         He gazed around him at the tools in the shop, going slowly about the room to touch them one by one. Some he simply brushed with the tips of his fingers, others he took off their shelves and held, grasping them to stamp their feel forever in his memory.

         Finally he came to the unfinished table itself. Smiling, Gregory ran his fingers gently across the surface, and found a place where the wood was still rough. He had missed it! Finally he came to the unfinished table itself. Smiling, Gregory ran his fingers gently across the surface, and found a place where the wood was still rough. He had missed it! He reached for the nearest sander, then stopped abruptly.

         These were no longer the tools of his trade.

         Gregory bowed his head and stood silent a single moment, fighting back the tears that threatened to overcome him. Then suddenly his shaking shoulders grew still. He looked up with steady eyes and the quiet expression that was his own, straightened his back, and left the room forever.

 

Copyright 2005, Rosemary McMillen

Rosemary is a Pennsylvanian college student who commutes to school from her home with her family and her dog. An aspiring novelist, her other interests include playing piano rather poorly and square dancing rather well.