They had traveled south as warriors of Widejaw, men of might. They returned north as gods.

JEID

 
JEID

Jeid Blacksmith, now known as King Aeternum, sat upon the Oak Throne of Requiem and gazed upon his realm.

He didn't have to gaze very far.

"A few hills," he said. "A few birch trees. A view of the mountains. Marble columns. That is our kingdom."

Laira stood at his side. The Queen of Requiem placed her small hand upon one of the twisting, polished branches that formed the Oak Throne.

"The mightiest oak grows from a humble sapling," she said. "The tree we planted here will last for eternity."

Jeid looked at his new wife. Whenever he looked at Laira, soothing warmth filled him, her light and goodness holding together the broken shards inside him. He thought back to that night Laira had first come to him. She had been a famished, wounded, dying youth fleeing captivity, bleeding from a dozen wounds, so thin she could barely walk. Today, in his marble hall, Jeid saw a proud queen. She had not grown taller—years of hunger had left her stature short, her bones small—but her skin now showed the rich hue of health, and light shone in her green eyes. Her black hair, once sheared close to her scalp, now hung down to her chin, strewn with wildflowers. Her jaw was still crooked, her mouth still slanted—that old injury would never heal—but those slanted lips were now wont to smile. She wore a rich garment of deerskin trimmed with fox fur, and a circlet of gold topped her head.

"Dorvin carved the throne too small." Jeid reached out and held Laira's arm. "He should have made enough room for the both of us."

She poked him. "The throne is large enough for two. It's you who are too large." She smiled—one of those new smiles, the beautiful smiles that always seemed so pure, so hesitant, a ray of sunlight shining through a storm. "I'll find some room."

She hopped onto his lap, so small and light, only half his size, and he kissed the top of her head.

"I think I like the throne this size after all." He wrapped his arms around her. "I want us to stay like this forever. Just like this. This is perfection."

She leaned against him. "Just like this," she whispered.

The columns of Requiem rose around them, a dozen in all, soaring taller than any structure in the known world. Their capitals were shaped as rearing dragons, and they held no roof. The palace of Requiem was not yet complete; it would be many moons, perhaps years, before it stood in full glory. Birches rustled beyond the columns, their leaves orange and gold. Many of those leaves glided down to carpet the hills and to scuttle along the marble tiles of Requiem's hall.