Of Strings and Strength: Epilogue

It was many years later as the four women, tired and old, stood next to the structure. The day was cool and mist was in the air. The land had changed; goen were many of the trees, and much of the ground near the crumbling stone was as a clearing. Chunks of fallen stone were about, and there were holes in the walls, and the outside was covered in moss.

Her uncle had passed away some years before, around the age of seventy. He’d died peacefully in his sleep, slipping away into whatever his dreams had been. They buried him in a shallow grave near the bridge and the brook, which had been one of his favourite spots.

Much of their story had been known throughout the town for decades. Renald once in a while had come by to visit, but his visits became less frequent as the years had flown. He reported that he was going to become one of the Masters of Librology due to his discoveries and contributions following their journey and since then. He’d ridden into town on a new horse, black as jet, which he’d named Inkwell. Scribe had passed away too, and was buried near the librologist’s house on the coast of the Eriks, surrounded by a sea of lupines.

Rain was going to come soon; Alna could feel it in her bones. She gave the building one last glance as they turned and walked back towards the small village, where she and Calypsia would sit by the fireplace in their small blue house. As they walked away, she thought that she could hear music; faint, delicate, sweet, and sad all at once; it sounded both new and familiar. Her old heart grew bittersweet with thoughts and memories as the notes met her ears. They all walked onwards, and the music faded away before its cadence could resound.

But it could’ve just been the wind.