Annmarie

Annmarie

"An' here's ol' Delby, takin' his medicine fer the evenin'," greeted the barkeeper merrily. Guffaws and salutations filtered in from down the bar as Delby took his seat, touching the brim of his short hat in acknowledgement as he did.

A very inebriated man beside Delby peered at him over his mug. "I saw 'er again, I did," he slurred, his voice light with a squeaking lilt as he complained. "None o' these lot'll believe me."

"And what'd she do for you this time, Brogan? Find you a new liver?" jibed the husky-voiced town baker, Gimm. Laughter accompanied his comment, and the din of earthenware and conversation seemed to lull as people listened in on the events at the bar.

"She didn't know I was watchin'! But, strange as can be, when she'd gone I found the hole in me boot filled in," Brogan announced triumphantly, holding his foot up for emphasis. A murmur of interest ran through the tables nearby, and heads bobbed forward to examine the boot in question.

"I saw her too! She walked through me fields near two weeks ago," interrupted a proud voiced farmer. "She was cloaked an' hooded, an' I didn't see her face. An' I don't know how, but me ol' mare, well, she's been healed o' her lameness!"

"Don't you talk about your wife that way, Erian!" a voice from deep in the common room yelled, to much merriment. But, one by one, the townsmen from the inn came forth with their own sightings of the strange maiden, and the boons she had visited upon them. Even Gimm admitted that his bread seemed to rise higher and taste better lately, as all the townsmen agreed.

A man at the bar cleared his throat softly, and the discussion around him fell silent. Delby had turned and faced the ring of gathered villagers. He surveyed them with a keen eye, and scratched his pointed, stubble-covered chin.

"They've seen her in Halford, and they've seen her in Wyltenn, too. They say she wanders, and does not know where - but where she goes, her blessing follows. Some say, she's a witch," Delby suggested smugly, to which many of the audience paled, "but I don't buy into that. I don't have to understand something to know it's good."

He nodded at Erian, who pulled up a small mandolin and began strumming a crisp, but familiar folk tune. Delby added his voice in a slow jig a moment later, and his was a clear and polished baritone that filled all the inn with his melody:

There is a young maiden, she wanders alone The grasses bow low at her passing And at her behest, all danger does rest So soft and so gentle her voice and song So soft and so gentle her song.

She wears low her hood and she wears long her cloak Her steps are gentle and sprite-like The trees hold her court, and with sadness import That such fairness they cannot hold and keep That such fairness they cannot keep.

She wanders a-wilder, she wanders alone No path to take but her own And where she goes by, her blessings come nigh And grant us weary men grace and peace And grant us weary men peace.

The night air was chill on the exposed skin of her hands, and through the hood of her cloak. She clutched them tighter around her as she wandered, aimlessly, with no clear direction to sustain her. The paths she took, she gave no heed to. Only to walk, and wait, and remember those great men and women with whom she had wandered before.

At length, she came to a narrow old cobblestone road. A lantern was hanging over it, from the long branch of a broad willow at the side of the road. As she approached it, she saw two hooded monks waiting beneath it.

She regarded them curiously, but kept her distance from them, passing under the light where it was at its brightest. She saw only the chins of the monks as they regarded her - one young and pointed, and the other old and covered by a gray but neatly trimmed beard.

She had passed them by, when the young monk called out to her.

"M'lady,"

She turned and looked at him questioningly, not saying a word.

"Do you have a moment, M'lady? We would have words with you."

She walked back under the light and let it wash over her cloaked figure as she tried to find their eyes under their hoods. She felt safer under the light. It was the young monk who began speaking, in a low voice.

"We are emissaries from a faraway land, M'lady. We have sought you out, to tell you a few things. And, if you'll have them, to give to you the gifts of our kind," he began.

"My father was well-traveled, and told me much of his journeys," she replied. "Tell me the name of your land, and I might know it already."

The monks looked at each other, and it was the elder that spoke next, a purposefully solemn expression on his lips. "Your father is known to us, and has not journeyed that far - not yet. Rather, it is on your mother's behalf that we are here."

They lowered their hoods and revealed fair hair and skin beneath. She did the same, and the lantern lit up the features of her face - the face of a fair young woman, but shaped more slenderly and with a set to her eyes and nose as of the nobility of old. Those eyes grew bright as she began to understand.

"I always thought I took more after my father," she said incredulously. "Andreas, my twin, took with him my mother's complexion."

"Nonetheless. The fact remains, m'lady Annmarie - you are half Angel-kind, and it is time that you are asked to embrace your heritage." At once, both monks flexed wings of gossamer, and their robes fell away to reveal shimmering finery beneath. Their skin glowed with a celestial radiance of their own, and stars that were not visible before adorned their long hair. She was overwhelmed by their fairness, and filled with strength all the same. These were her kin, who had sought her out to give back to her the immortality that was her right by birth.

"Did you never wonder," the younger began, "at the small miracles that took place around you each day? The blessings you conveyed to others by your mere presence? These are the mark of Angel-kind. Find that part of yourself," he gestured broadly, "and release it for all to see. Let your birthright become you, m'lady. Rejoin your kin."

Annmarie fell then to her knees, and was enshrouded in a heavenly light - Tamazi's watchful gaze, finding her from afar in the dead of night. Her shoulders seemed to reach out with an energy that she had never anticipated could have been housed in her body, and they materialized into silver wings that stretched for their first time into the night sky. She wept then - not for the pain of the changes taking place inside her, but for the beauty that picked her up and made her soar. She would return to this realm, yes... but now armed with the strength and grace of her ancient people.

That and something which no one could have predicted. It would seem that her fathers' influence upon her was not yet spent, and held for her a new gift that she had yet to uncover.