The unrest is still in Her. He can see it in her gait, walking across the courtyard. A deep sigh, gazing towards the dim horizon, where heaven and earth meet. The lofty refuge has been breached. The windows now opening towards earth, no longer towards the heavens.

The only way is to tell and hope. If She is ready for the truth. If She can be reconciled.

Soft barefoot steps in the stairwell. Door sliding open and shutting. Gentle rustle of sheets. Turning around.

She sits on the bedside, wan smile. Expectant. One step towards Her, then another. Reaching out. Bracing himself.

That is when he sees it. The rune.

Cannot believe his eyes. Rubbing them to look again. Still there. Yet a step closer, leaning forward, frowning.

The Apprentice. How dare he? What is the meaning of this?

Realising that he, almost unconsciously, has begun calling the forces. Studying the rune closely. Mirroring itself inside out, weaker on the outside. Coming back to itself, a single thread without breach. Good though not masterly craftsmanship.

Drawing breath, sending a tendril of force to penetrate, find its root, dissolve it. A serious word to be had with the Apprentice. No children's game, this.

A giddy sensation. Jerking back before being pulled in entirely. It consumed the force, looking for more. Inconceivable! Is this a trap? The little cuckoo! Wrath rising. This must cease.

Sending new tendrils to probe from outside. Mumbling words of power, beads of sweat gathering over the eyebrows. Must know its shape better to destroy it.

The rune tells of strength and weakness. Drawn into itself, carrying its own root. Spreading through a vast deep, a great mass, a multitude united. Beginning to descry it now.

The Apprentice is more like the commoners. The masses. This is his rune, thus also theirs. A rune of the people, the mob. A rune of those amongst whom he was never welcome, ever rejected, for the sake of his powers, his insights.

Now they have invaded even this sanctum. The place hallowed to himself. Not even here, they will leave him in peace. Bile rises and floods. Just too much.

Gathering all the forces at once, those already enticed to swarm about him, those hovering around the edges, reaching even further. The rune must go. Raising his arms and his voice. Seeing Her face, faltering.

Still that smile, anxious, pleading yet assured. In vain. She has taken the rune, chosen sides. If She must go along with the rune, then so be it. This is untolerable. Steeling himself.

Hurling a gale of forces straight at the centre of the rune. It glows and fades. Unperturbed. Her smile unchanging.

He knows what it means. The commoners, the masses, mocking him. The eternal disdain. He is the strong, but they are the legion, by right of numbers deciding what is the right and only path. Their path. Casting his own as the errant, lost trail.

Leave your path, they say, forsake your strength and join us. We will welcome you, incorporate you, if you will only let yourself be devoured. If you abandon your powers and your dream of flying. If you will stick to earth.

He envisions himself by the hearth, supping his broth. A listless, feeble, bitter shadow. Abandon himself? Is this the core of love, the creature that has eluded him? Yield all dream, bow to the laws of the earth?

Never! If this is the truth, then his life-long dream has been a wild goose chase. Then the truth stands: masterhood and love, oleum and aqua. Never will the two blend. The one or the other, never both.

Time to correct his error. Time for cleansing. He unleashes all, giving the rage of his life full rein.

Feeling the forces mounting in him, behind him, around him. The room is glowing. Her smile gone now. Excellent.

A rumble rising in his ears, growing into roar, a thunder. The light blinding. Room quivering. Wrath tugging and tearing at his chest, hungering for release.

All is light and then dark.