Taran missed his mother.

He felt ashamed and couldn't say so to the elves he knew. They would taunt him without compassion.

He felt selfish, knowing she was an unwelcome guest in a strange land, working tirelessly to build a life for him. He felt he already had a life and he only wanted her to come home. He felt helpless, unable to do anything useful, to make a contribution.

Vayla, his mother's mother, cared for him. She was responsible for much of his teaching. His study of lore, of medicines and stories. She was a loving grandmother, and a stern teacher. Taran could tell which hat she wore from her demeanour.

If she smiled - Vayla. Scowled - teacher. Embraced him - Vayla. Struck him - teacher.

She was often the teacher.

Taran was not wild like other elves his age. He did not disappear into the forest for days and return with wounds and stories. He did not fight, and sang only the songs his Vayla taught him.

His favourite was the Awakening of Gavar. He sang this as he visited the graves of the ancestors.

They steal our food
And we sleep
Take our homes
And still we sleep
The time is nigh
We're dreaming deep
Asleep
We are asleep

The garden now
Is overgrown
The flowers spread
Across my land
It's time we rise
And overthrow
This rough green
With our own hands

And so Gavar
Awakens now
To till the field
And drive the plow
To turn the flower
Into grain
And see the people
Rise again

Take back our food
And still we rise
This is my home
You'll see me rise
The time is come
I'll show you how
Arise
Arise
The time is now.

"Do you know what this song means?" Vayla asked him as they arranged flowers on the grave of her husband. "Tell me what you think."

Taran wrestled with this and the battle was writ large across his furrowed brow. He knew the words, but understanding them was a greater teaching that eluded him like a swift hare.

Vayla remained patient and silent, allowing him to think.

"It means..." tentatively, uncertain. Not wanting to disappoint her. "We are afraid."

Vayla continued to arrange and rearrange flowers on the graves of their ancestors. She said nothing.

"We are afraid..." Taran continued, emboldened slightly. "That if we stand up to those who take power from us, we will fail..."

Vayla paused, betraying nothing.

"Unless we stand together."

Vayla looked into his eyes, and for a moment Taran thought he had the heart of it.

"Wrong. What sort of foolish notions are planted in that empty head of yours? Who teaches you such things? Not I, surely. Silly child," she grumbled, although she offered no correction.

Taran allowed himself the tiniest grin. For his pride, he earned a smack on the crown of his head.

With a flower, on a long stem. The teacher. If it'd been the grandmother it may have been a broom.

Vayla began to turn away, but as she did, Taran saw what he was certain was a smile. The teacher was not given to praise. The grandmother also couldn't conceal her pride completely.

***

Taran awoke in the night, startled. He heard a sound like wind, and a chill hand seemed to grasp his spine, making him tremble.

At first, he thought it was a breeze under the door. Then he thought perhaps the spectres of his ancestors come to admonish him for cowardice.

Taran whispered an invocation to appease the spirits, but then realized the sound was made by living lips.

Vayla.

He leapt from his mat and rushed to her chamber, where he lit a lamp. Vayla sat up in her bed, eyes tightly shut against the pain, her breath coming ragged and rough like wind before a storm.

"Vayla!" he cried.

"The letters," she rasped, followed by a wracking cough. Taran rested a hand on her back and tried to soothe her as her breaths came in wheezes.

"Vayla, what do you need? Can I make tea?"

She began to wave him off but he stood firm and she relented.

"Fine, bring me tea, silly boy."

Taran set a kettle on the hob and began to gather medicine from his grandmother's cupboard as she'd taught him. He found myrtasy in a jar and withdrew a long leaf. The water boiled and he poured it over the leaf in a cup.

The aroma was pungent, like honey and mint. He handed the cup to his grandmother and she breathed it in, sipped it slowly, nodded gratefully.

Gradually, the breathing returned to longer, less noisome gusts, then breezes. Then the storm gentled and his grandmother lay back on her mat.

"Go back to sleep, oneen."

Taran heard the endearment and knew that his grandmother was fickle. One moment calling you oneen and cursing you the next. But this felt important and worth the risk.

"What letters, Vayla? What did you mean?"

Now that the episode had passed, she seemed reluctant to elaborate. Taran ignored her trepidation and pressed on.

"Vayla, tell me about the letters. Are they from my mother?"

She frowned, seemed ready to put up a defense, then began to cough a little and it seemed she lost all of her will to argue.

"Your mother has sent me letters that she wished for you to read when you were older. But it seems I may not have that sort of luxury so you must know of them sooner. It would not do for them to be overlooked."

"What do you mean luxury?"

She held his gaze with her rich brown eyes like cocoa.

"Time," she said. "I'm running out of time."

Her words hung between them, like a spider descending from a thread. A distasteful and unsightly thing that compelled you to act while at the same time repelling you.

"Oh Vayla," he sighed. "Don't say that."

"Hush," she said. "Words do not kill, and silence doesn't save. I cannot put off the end by avoiding the subject."

Taran knew the truth of it, but didn't welcome a discussion about dying. He loved his Vayla dearly, and couldn't bear the thought of all the little daily tasks without her scolding him.

"Shall I read them now?" he asked.

Vayla shook her head, and it seemed a seed of curiosity had begun to germinate in his heart. Taran wanted to know what his mother had written. But he respected his grandmother's will, even if it pained him.

"When you were a young man, I was to share them with you. To explain. That is unless your mother can bring you to her in the Garden."

"But I don't want to leave..."

"The Shield?" she interrupted.

No, you, he thought as the idea tore at his heart.

"One day you must, but please..." That caught his attention. Vayla was not one to plead anything, not of him at least. "Don't read them yet. I fear what you will do in the heat of your youth..."

Taran was struck dumb. His youth was anything but heated. What did she think he was going to do?

"When the time comes, if I'm not here, you'll find them in the sylvan chest in the greatroom, wrapped in leather."

Taran knew it well, for hadn't he wondered many a time what was in that chest with its ornately carved wood and silver furnishings?

"Why can't I read them now if they're from my mother?"

Vayla hesitated.

"They're... not from your mother."

"But Vayla, I don't understand. Why...?"

"They're from your father."

Taran felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room. Then Vayla began to cough. Her breath sounded like a storm in a flute. The colour rose up in her face, and Vayla clutched at her chest.

"Vayla! What do I do? I don't know what to do!"

Then she collapsed, and Taran began to cry.

"Vayla. Vayla!"

But no amount of tears or pleas could reach her. His Vayla was already travelling along the passage from life to the next place, her body left behind her to be mourned over by those who remain.

Taran brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen across the weathered lines of her face. This woman, this matriarch, was gone.

He wept till he fell out of time and mind and sleep stole over him like an eclipse. Taran was alone, and afraid.

***

When he woke, Taran lay stiff and shivering on the floor. He felt his Vayla next to him, and placed a hand on her arm.

"Vayla?" he said, but her body was cold. Realization dawned and he cried once more.

Yet he knew what needed to be done. With all manner of spirits gathering he had to hold to the customs. Taran grabbed a satchel of ravenweed and ran out into the heat of morning.

He found a pasture where the bullocks grazed and the bees danced from flower to flower. He whispered to them of the passing of his grandmother, though he did not use her name. To do so would be dangerous for her soul that lingered, and perhaps a dark spirit would gather her up.

So he spread the rumour amongst the bees and bullocks till he found an elf priestess. Her veils hid her face, and she gathered medicines as she walked.

"Priestess," he said, greeting her. He reached into the folds of his tunic and produced the satchel. He handed it to her and looked into her veiled face, wondering how her eyes could see him through the fabric.

She accepted the ravenweed.

"What is it, small one?"

"'My grandmother," he said. "She's...travelling."

The priestess seemed to understand this.

"Take me to her."

Taran led her home where his grandmother remained on the floor. The priestess repositioned his grandmother's body so that she lay on her back. Then she lifted her veil and kissed his grandmother's forehead, gently. As a mother would.

"Clear a space in your greatroom," she ordered Taran. "Her spirit lingers. We must help her in the passage and shine a light. Light all the candles and lamps. And gather together those who loved her. And be quick."

Taran did as he was told. Soon there was a great flickering inferno in the greatroom. And then many elves began to arrive. Each carried a satchel of ravenweed.

Six strong elves carried his grandmother's body to the greatroom where they began to sing and cry out.

Now Taran spoke her name and lit more candles. And the elf priestess wailed and shrieked. She danced wildly and she led the elves as they sang a travel song. She would call, and they would answer.

The grasses grow so tall on this road.
This road.
The branches block the way.
On this road.
The darkness is complete on this road.
This road.
So we must shine a light as bright as day.
On this road.

As they took up the song, more elves arrived and on into the night. When the sliver of an old moon hung high in the sky, the song became a dirge with trumpet moans and drums rattling out a measured beat.

Then they carried her body to a pyre that had been built outside. The elves each in turn laid their ravenweed all around her. And as the moon reached its peak, the priestess lit the flame.

A great smoke began to billow and roil above Taran's grandmother, his Vayla. Or rather above her body.

After all the gathered host had disbanded and had gone, even the priestess, Taran watched the coals glimmering in the dark. When morning came at last, he broke his vigil and went inside where the candles were spent puddles of beeswax all around. His home felt barren and unwelcoming.

Taran ate. He slept. And cried. And then, he remembered the sylvan chest and the letters.

"My father," he whispered.