Chapter 3: Grief

After Zabrac's departure it was as if time and nature themselves gave pause in memory of Quinlan Truesilver. I did not know how long I remained hidden, only that after a time a wind that howled with the grief of angels roused me from my stupor. I do not recall walking or climbing to him, but suddenly I was kneeling by his side and what I saw caused me to weep.

Oh, he had been defiled. That monster Zabrac had taken the cruellest of prizes, and now the spirit of the great man I had known for only the briefest of times was cursed to endless torment. Tears flowed from me as they never had before but it was not just for Quinlan that I cried.

Poor Anarion was gone as well, and though I had thought ill of him, he had been a far better person than I. Perhaps fortune had smiled on him in the end, though, by falling after the final blow had been struck. He had, at least, been spared Quinlan's cursed fate. This cliff overlooked a river, I saw now, and no body was visible in its depths. I had treated him poorly, and wished him well.

It shames me even now to say it, but in the wake of such great tragedy the one I wept most for was myself. Quinlan had hinted to me of a future more than stealing crumbs and coppers, but he had been taken from me before I could be shown the way to it. Even if somehow I managed to find my way out of this wilderness, I was forever lost.

I managed to wrap Quinlan in blankets, but he was too heavy to move and I was forced to leave him. I managed to free my gear from beneath the body of Goliath and cried myself to sleep huddled under my blanket. Though I hated the idea, I supposed I would have to leave with no marker laid of what had transpired at this tragic place.

I woke at dawn, for once without urging. I remembered a moment later that those who would normally have woken me or been surprised at my early rising were no more, and I all at once dreaded the lonely days to come.

I glanced up to where Quinlan lay and was shocked to see the silhouette of a man kneeling over him. I was for the first time filled with indignant rage, that any person would dare to loot or further defile the body of such a great man. Grabbing a stone to smite with, I rushed up to the cliff where he lay, but any wrath that would have spewed from my lips stopped stillborn. It was Anarion, and he looked as if he had never been harmed. I could see the rent in his armour where Zabrac's blade had struck him, and though flesh was visible beneath, it was unblemished.

He took no notice of my arrival and instead stared dumbly to the east and the rising sun while he cradled the remains of his beloved mentor in his lap.

I stood and watched him for a moment, unsure if what I saw was indeed flesh or a spirit from the heavens giving farewell. He seemed different, as if he burned with an inner fire. His hair and clothes still dripped with water, so I know that he had indeed fallen into the river, but that did not explain his healed wounds or the strange sword that I saw now resting at his side.

I do not claim to be an expert on swordcraft, but this blade was unlike any I had seen. Other than it's peculiar shape and handle, mysterious runes lined its length and it gleamed with an otherworldly power. Though I have to this day received no explanation for its arrival, I believe now as I did then that it is not from this world.

It was with much trepidation that I touched my hand to his shoulder, unsure what, if anything, I would come into contact with. To my relief, I felt warm, live flesh beneath my hand, though he took no notice of it. I had to gently shake him and call his name several times before he roused from his stupor and fixed his gaze upon me.

Oh, what loss and desolation I betook there. Whatever grief I felt for Quinlan's loss was but the smallest of grains to what this man felt. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, clearing the spell of melancholy that had been woven upon him.

Once roused, he directed me to aid him and together we bore Quinlan to the ground below. Anarion's manner was alternately bleak, resigned or angry and I did as he bade me without question, nor did I make any complaint when he spoke at me harshly.

Our gear was removed from the horses and two pyres for them were erected. Though there was scarce enough wood for either, they burned with an even heat until both noble corpses were nothing but ash. Anarion had fresh tears on his face as he performed the ceremony of parting, for there is no bond more unique or prized than that between a soldier and his mount.

We had made no pyre for Quinlan and I was reluctant to ask what was to be done for him. Anarion had made no mention of burial but obviously we could not carry him and our gear back to Cormyr. I had just about screwed up my courage to speak when I heard a piercing whinny from beyond the rocks. Before us strode the most magnificent horse I had ever beheld.

I am not an expert on horses (I seem to not be an expert on a great many subjects; why then do I feel compelled to write about them?) but this beast seemed to rest in a class above all others. Its coat was a gleaming white that shone with power and vitality, and its unshod hooves gleamed like black diamonds. Wisdom and intelligence shone in its dark eyes and as it steeped closer I saw that it was every inch as tall and wide as the late Goliath. It stepped confidently up to Anarion and once it had arrived at his head, it did a most unhorselike thing: it bowed.

I could only gape but Anarion took no notice of me; indeed he seemed utterly captivated by this radiant horse. "Asfaloth," I heard him say. The horse raised its head to him and nodded. This somehow did not seem unusual. "I accept you into my company with thanks." The horse —Asfaloth—nuzzled Anarion's face then butted his chest with its head. He smiled wanly and stroked its head gently.