You held the mushroom to your lips, cold and strange, and felt the bitter taste crawl down your throat. Immediately, the world shivered. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, the river pulsing with color and sound that should not exist. The wind carried voices, distant and near, laughing, crying, whispering truths you had long avoided. You stumbled, the ground bending beneath you, and felt yourself fall—not into earth, but into memory.
The desert rose around you first: relentless sun, sand like fire beneath your hands, the weight of abandonment pressing down as though the sky itself had turned against you. You saw the faces of those who had left you there—comrades, friends, allies—hollowed by fear, greed, or duty. The horizon burned with a cruel light, and in it, you realized how much you had carried alone: the burden of truth, the hope for love, the dream of reclaiming what was stolen.
Margaret’s face appeared next, luminous amid the shifting sands. She knelt beside you, brushing the sweat and blood from your brow. “You are not alone,” she said, and though her words were simple, they struck like lightning. For the first time, you saw the desert not as a tomb, but as a place of testing—a crucible in which love and loyalty had survived.
Then the rest of your life unfurled before you: the rebellion in Moravice, the stolen banners, the cities reclaimed and lost, the men who had died for your name, the blood spilled by your hand and others’. You relived every decision, every triumph and failure, and felt the futility of it all: the crow’s black wings, the banners, the crowns, the titles—everything meant nothing if it had to be taken again by force or fear.
Margaret remained beside you in each vision, unwavering, unjudging. You saw her counsel, her courage, her laughter amidst the smoke of your campaigns. You remembered nights on the cliffs, the quiet walks, the warmth of her hand on yours. You felt the truth of it now, laid bare in the hallucination: what had endured was not kingdoms, not gold, not revenge—but her, and the life you could choose together.
The hallucinations turned inward next, into yourself: every fear, every ambition, every whispered envy and selfish desire. You saw how greed had shaped you, how power had once seemed the only measure of life’s meaning. And yet, alongside that, you saw the moments you had chosen love: the small mercy to a friend, the refusal to harm unnecessarily, the quiet loyalty to those who trusted you. Bravery, loyalty, love—they had survived the desert, the war, the exile.
The mushroom’s glow pulsed in your veins, and you understood: happiness was not a reward earned by conquest or revenge. It was this: Margaret, your hand in hers, the quiet world you could build together, and the children you might raise far from the shadow of crowns. You could live simply, humbly, and still be rich beyond measure.
You staggered back to the cliffside where the house stood, the vision fading, your mind clear but your heart burning with certainty. Margaret met you at the gate, her eyes questioning and radiant. You took her hands in yours. “We leave,” you said. “Now. Everything we’ve known… everything we’ve held… it’s not worth keeping.”
She nodded, a soft smile curving her lips. “Where we go, no one will follow.”
The next days were spent in quiet preparation. You sold what could be sold without suspicion, packed the treasures you would carry, and hid the rest in a secret place only you knew. Letters were written to those who might notice your absence—goodbyes carefully phrased, containing no truth of your past identities, no hint of your lineage. Every link to your previous life, and to Margaret’s, was severed by choice. You became outcasts, not by force but by will, free in the only way you had ever truly been: together.
You left Aldebryn before dawn one morning, the wind at your backs and the sea’s salt on your lips. The world seemed immense and empty, a canvas for the life you would create. Names were discarded; new ones were taken. You called yourselves what you wished, and no one asked. No one needed to know.
Years passed quietly. You built a home in a small, hidden valley, humble but full of light. Margaret’s laughter filled the rooms. The children you had together grew strong and healthy, their eyes full of curiosity and hope. You taught them love and courage, the value of simple work, and the joy of living unburdened by greed. You never looked back at crowns or banners, never measured life by gold or vengeance. The past remained a shadow, but one you no longer feared—it had no power over you.
In the evenings, you walked with Margaret along the river or through the orchards, holding hands in silence. Sometimes you spoke of your travels, of the desert, of the far-off lands you had known. Other times you spoke of nothing at all, content simply in the warmth of another heart.
Happiness, you realized, was not a goal to be seized. It was this: presence, love, and choice. You had abandoned greed for love, and in doing so, found more wealth than the Empire could ever grant. Every day you rose, every meal shared, every word of laughter from your children reminded you of it. And that was enough.
You, Margaret, and the life you built together—outcasts by design, but rich beyond measure—lived fully, humbly, joyfully. The desert, the wars, the crowns, the failures—they became stories told at night, lessons woven into the life you had chosen. And as the sun set on each ordinary day, you held one another, knowing that in the end, it was always enough.
You have carried crowns that were never yours to wear, banners that bled the lives of men who trusted you, and gold that gleamed like fire but weighed nothing against the emptiness in your chest. You learned too late that greed is a quiet predator: it whispers that power is life itself, that possessions and revenge define your worth. And yet, all you truly sought—what your heart had always sought—was not a throne, not the favor of emperors, not the fear of enemies.
Love, you realize now, is different. It does not demand titles, armies, or loyalty to legacies. It asks only presence, courage, and trust. Margaret has been that presence, steady as the tide, unshaken by loss, unbowed by fear. With her, the storms of desert, exile, and war shrink to a distant roar. With her, even your failures become bearable, and the weight of the past transforms into lessons rather than chains.
You understand, finally, that the treasures you amassed, the battles you fought, the vengeance you sought—none of it will endure. But the life you build with her, quiet and unclaimed, will ripple beyond you, in laughter, in hope, in the hands of children who will know love more than fear. Greed offered you control, but love offers freedom. And in choosing it, you see that survival alone is meaningless, but a life shared—truly shared—is a kind of immortality.
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THE END
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