Drake lay dying.  Beryl.  His sweet, precious Beryl was gone.  Her father had finally won out, forcing her onto a coach that would take her to a husband she did not love. Her brothers had made their argument against Drake’s pursuit with knives and swords.  They had taunted him, saying that Beryl had told them she could never wed a commoner like the young blacksmith’s apprentice.  He had lost his temper then, knowing his Love to be pure and true.  He winced as the thought brought to his body’s memory every cut and stab they’d rendered.

His heart beat faster, still unwilling to give up his Love.  No.  He must pursue her.  He found himself unable to move or speak when he tried to turn his head to tell Martha that he must rescue Beryl.  Tears filled his eyes.  He would not give up.

Martha knew that he would not give up, but the fever from his wounds was winning over even her skills, and the old woman knew it.  The thought of the young man being lost to the world vexed her sorely.  Never in her near century of living had she ever seen a love such as the one that was now killing him.  She must try to save this beautiful spirit.  She knew that she would be labeled a witch if others discovered what she was about to do, but she could not help herself.

Whatever the method, her work was righteous and just. As her fingers tore the final herbs, she made ready the vessel.  She just hoped Drake would understand in time.

She heard his breathing change.  She had completed the preparations none too soon.  She turned his head toward her.  “Don’t you worry, my boy.  You’ll find her again—for all things cling to the wheel of time and come again—in a time when the two of you will be unhindered. Free to love you—that she will.  In true love is freedom, dear boy.”

Too weak to respond, Drake eyed the implements on the table as she stroked his forehead and anointed it with rose oil.  His voice had been stolen by weakness, but behind his eyes, his soul and spirit burned bright, right to up to the point to when she took them.