You flung the mushroom into the river, watching its pale glow drift away until the current swallowed it. The moment it left your hand, the world seemed emptier, colder, as though a door had closed. That night, sleep came fitfully, tangled with unease and half-formed fears.
And in that sleep, she came again: the woman, the witch, the magus, whatever she truly was. She appeared in the shadows of your dream, standing beside the riverbank, her eyes the same pale, unearthly light you had seen before. “You’ve been escaping from something you cannot escape,” she said, her voice echoing as if from a deep well.
“What is it I cannot escape?” you asked, though your throat was dry with the fear that had gathered over weeks.
“Fear itself,” she said simply.
You laughed bitterly, even in the dream. “I am surrounded by Claudius’s Empire—his soldiers, his power. What does fear even mean here?”
Her head tilted, faintly amused. “Fear is not given. It is chosen… by you.”
And then she showed you the visions. The desert, blistering sun and empty sand, the abandonment, the despair. Margaret kneeling beside you, offering comfort and unspoken devotion. The campaigns, the rebellion, the losses, the victories—all flashing past, unmoored from time. You saw the futility of crowns, the emptiness of gold, the weight of vengeance. You saw how greed had shaped your life, how it had blinded you to what mattered.
Then the vision turned inward. You saw yourself, unmasked: all your fears, your failures, your selfish desires. And then you saw the moments that had mattered: love, courage, loyalty. Margaret’s hand in yours, the quiet support, the shared triumphs and defeats. You felt what you had ignored for too long: the present, the life you could still shape.
You woke at dawn, the memory of the dream vivid as if the witch herself had stood at your bedside. Margaret slept beside you, her hand resting on yours. You looked at her and knew what had to be done. You rose quietly, not speaking until she stirred.
“We leave,” you said. “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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