Aftermath
She was gone.
All he could see was the fine outline of hooves. She had left him so tired he had not stirred-he had not heard her go. The world felt empty, but he knew what he would do. Part of him wanted to follow her, but he knew she would hate him for it. Part of him wanted to tell the others where she had gone, but he knew they would never understand. And then he went to see for himself--to return to the place where he expected to see the burnt remains of the caravan--and saw nothing. It was if it had never been, and not for the first time did he wonder what manner of strange things he might not witness, lived he long enough. He looked in all directions, unsure if he were right about the location--unsure of anything, even his senses. He could sense the madness coming upon him, as it had in the time before Anath-Sin--but he could not allow that.
And so he began to write the story in his mind-a story they would understand. They would not be able to fathom the words of the Oracle, or a fate that called her away, any more than they would fathom how he could let her leave.
He imagined that there was but one thing they would or could believe. And so, when he returned to the camp, he told them she was dead.
Caspian took it the hardest. He demanded to know where she lay. Methos would not hear of it. He told Caspian that she was buried in Holy ground.
Silas took it well. Or at least, he seemed to.
Nothing was the same. They went their separate ways. They would be reunited, eventually.
Nothing ever really ends.
He could feel something in his heart changing. He wasn't sure what it was. He only knew that he felt different. He couldn't care less what he did.
He wouldn't care, by the Gods.