The Tale of Two Mountains– pt. 36

The Wanderer

Isabella snuffed the lantern and waited at the window, watching patiently as one by one the few lights left in the village blinkered out. When the mountain fell into its evening serenity, she transported herself to the entrance to the tunnel. She gave a guilty glance around, through the trees, knowing neither the Mdrai nor the Felimi would approve of what she was doing. Even so, she gathered up an orb of light and slipped into the dark.

Following the wanderer’s way with tender steps, Issa gritted her teeth in frustration, as she hurried past the branch that led to the cavern where Noel Loveridge disappeared altogether minutes before. Over the past few weeks, she had spent hours in that cavern, searching for hidden entrances or residual traces of magic, to figure out where the wanderer went and how, on nights like these, when he severed their connection, but she was weak and lucky for what reservations of talent and energy she retained, when so many of her abilities had been lost to Moag. She exhausted every power she had, in her search of that cavern, and found no answers. She had even asked Harvey if the Mdrai ever spoke of how the elf broke their connection, but he told her their elders only ever spoke of the wanderer with regard to broken prophecies and no one spoke of possession—she should not either, he warned. She did not know who else to ask, who else she could trust.

Given her erratic behaviors, Issa understood why the Mardraim was so concerned with making certain she had time in these saner hours, but whenever the elf left her, when she was alone on the inside, aware of her weakness, she could only take solace in knowing Noel Loveridge would eventually return to her, faithfully. As the Mardraim told her, the elf could overpower her whenever he wished.

Issa was at his mercy.

She had no intention of remaining that way, if she could help it.

It was clear the wanderer was using forbidden fahmat, and the Mardraim was complicit, at least in his use of the Llendir light well. Without knowing what other works Noel might be performing, there was not much else she could do, outside of lying in wait for his return, to demand how he controlled the bonds of possession. She doubted simply asking would do her any good. Besides, she was not willing to do something so bold yet, and not only because she was sure the Mardraim would put her under guard, if he discovered she was following the elf into the tunnels.

Noel Loveridge was different than when he first made his way to their mountain. In the beginning, Issa felt such a desperation in him, unlike any she had ever known. His passion in seeking out the meaning of the prophecy he brought with him, his longing, had intrigued her. While she should have been leery of the elf, as many of the other empaths were, Issa wanted to understand what he was after, why it stirred in him so deeply this need to find his way to them, against all odds, even against Om. Now, each time he mingled with Moag and drew out a prophecy, he flew to her hut, fearing the worst for her, that same sort of desperation driving his intentions now, but to her.

Of course, the Mardraim strictly controlled their interactions, only allowing Noel to see her for a brief moment, to be certain she was still as healthy as she could be, and they were never allowed to speak, not since the night she saw the Fragments of Divinity. Each time he came, the Mardraim ushered Noel quickly away, and Issa was fairly certain she knew why.

On the night of that prophecy, she realized she had begun to understand Noel’s fears, not through empathy, not the way she used to commiserate with what was at the soul of a person, but rather, she felt an odd impression of his reasoning— something of the very thoughts of his mind. They were merely fragments of ideas, barely there, but one in particular came through strongly. When he touched the Moag, Noel felt something in the darkness, and Issa, herself, had felt it through him, an agony belonging to her and yet not truly her own. To his mind, this feeling was far away, as though stretched out through time, but it enthralled him. Neither Issa nor Noel wanted to believe it at first, but again and again the elf returned to her, after each prophecy was delivered, and this feeling was always the same. Something of Isabella’s soul lingered in Moag, and Noel could feel it there.

Honorable as it was that he would keep rushing to her, Issa could feel something else between them, whenever he was near, something that did not belong to this world, as though together they violated both Om and Moag. It was almost as though they formed a fault in the universe, waiting to erupt with more changes. She believed the Mardraim had felt this too and was afraid of what might happen, if she and Noel were together, which meant her original plan, to confront Noel and find some way to take back the piece of her soul, harbored within him, would have to change. Whatever Issa was going to do, to regain control of her life, she needed to avoid Noel Loveridge, to avoid any more disasters being brought out of Moag.

Her plan would have changed anyway. So far she had recorded five whole Moag prophecies, and though he returned to her each time, she had not seen the light of her soul with the elf, since that first night he touched Moag and she saw the prophecy of the Drowning of Multitudes. Perhaps she was mistaken about what she had seen, she thought as she continued along the path through the darkness. It wouldn’t be surprising, as she still suffered great absences of time and was often self-destructive, especially before Noel discovered his means of disconnecting them. It was hard to admit, but it was possible what she thought was the spark of that piece of herself, bound to the wanderer in possession, may only have been a delusion, brought about by her own instability. In the weeks since, she had mostly given up hope of ever seeing it again, whatever it was. But that would not keep her from returning in the night, to the forbidden place, and following Noel’s way, to try and uncover exactly what he was doing with Moag.

Tonight, she thought, she would finally make it to that place where the elf went to bring forth the prophecies, and with any luck, she would find some clue as to how Noel interacted with the source of Moag itself.

It was difficult work, moving through the tunnels. While she carried a light to see by, Issa knew she must rely only on her memory of Noel’s fears and not upon her own senses. Until he memorized the path, Noel proceeded with grave purpose, as though the way was extraordinarily narrow and himself in constant danger. He could feel Moag, looming all around him, and Issa felt it as well, in that curious place in his intellect she could access through the possession. Once he knew the way by heart, his movements were so precise they never varied, so Issa followed his precision through the dark.

As she reached the point in the path where her orb dimmed to nothing and Ohamet’s fear veered left, she took a deep breath, because every time Noel came to this place, he breathed in deep, as Moag’s presence intensified. In these times, when the blackness consumed everything, leaving only the chill of utter absence all around her, Issa found herself trusting in the intrepid wanderer she had been intrigued by since he first landed in the gorge. That part of him, she believed, she could trust.

As his steps slowed, her own steps slowed. As he squeezed his fingers tight, as if to take care she did not fall behind and join the lost parts of herself in the darkness, she squeezed her own fingers, smiling, in part because Noel Loveridge would never know she was actually there, following in his footsteps, but also in knowing much of his worry had nothing to do with his own safety and everything, curious as it was, to do with protecting her. He seemed to be afraid of what that part of her, bound to him in the possession, might do there in the tunnels. Knowing this almost made her weakness and reliance on him bearable, but Noel had nothing to fear from her. The possession was incomplete and the parts of Isabella that remained in this world were far too insubstantial, to ever overpower the elf.

Issa may not have seen the light of her own soul with Noel after all, but in his fears, she had definitely felt that piece of herself, lost in the dark. Though it made no sense, he seemed to think that part of her was still alive in there. That he wanted to somehow reach her was curious, that he felt some sense of obligation to try and rescue her defied logic, but she could see it in the wild look of him, every time he came rushing to her door and pulled away the sheath of light that concealed him, to look her in the eyes. She could feel it in the desperate racing of his heart, in the constriction of his veins, in the rapid succession of his breaths and his painful swallows. He was scared to death of losing her and looking for any way to bring her back from beyond. He did what he was supposed to do, what the Mardraim told him to do, just as Issa did, but most nights he ventured into that tunnel in trepidation, yearning to set her free, knowing he could not.

This did not make her despise Noel Loveridge any less. He was a fool, who wanted the impossible. He had always been a fool—a desperate, wild, determined fool, who changed everything… including her.

After an hour or more, Issa made it the farthest she had come so far and paused on the path to muster some courage— to borrow some of his foolishness, she supposed. Beyond this point, Noel always changed. Her orb had not shown a hint of light for quite some time, and by now she was completely blind, so she shut her eyes and tried to imagine him there, only a step ahead of her. She tried to understand, as the eagerness inside him swelled and his motives grew conflicted, where his concern for her faltered, if only slightly, and he began to feel the importance of The Wanderer Lives— his own prophecy, his purpose for coming to the mountain. Issa could feel the prophecy like a stone set on his chest, weighing him down, pulling him closer, drawing him nearer to Moag, until he was practically drowning in the waves of emptiness all around them. There was something in the dark, she thought, something besides the portion of her soul, lost there for eternity. There was something Noel Loveridge was meant to do, and it was vastly important to him.

Try as she might, Isabella could not remember the elf’s prophecy in Moag, only the words Echteri Amu Schripat, and the fact she would meet her end, when his prophecy was complete. She shook her head against the memory of Noel, lingering beyond of himself, as his soul clung to his battered body, in the entrance to their mountain. She tried not to think of the impossible need that welled up inside her, to breathe into him the Breath of Light. She could still taste his blood on her lips, sealing her soul to his, like a curse.

Of all the prophecies Issa had seen, the one thing she had never seen quite clearly belonged to Noel. She knew only that he would live and she would die and that it had been a mistake, a change, that he flew out of Moag and saved her life in return, rather than completing his purpose there. Though she supposed she had only herself to blame for that. She had called him to her, after all, as she lay in the cloister dying. Like all of her memories from after the possession, the memory of what happened in the cloister was vague, often full of holes, but she was certain she had not wanted him to save her— at least not at first. She thought she had merely wanted him to know her, to understand what he had done, what he had taken from her… what she had freely given, the night she accidentally breathed a piece of her own soul into him.

This place, where Noel felt the importance of The Wanderer Lives, made it certain he would one day complete that prophecy, though she wondered if perhaps it could no longer be completed in its original form and that was why she could not remember it. Either way, on that day, Issa would cease to exist altogether on earth, in Om, and in Moag, as was her destiny. It was frustrating to know Noel was wasting his time, looking for a way to recover what was lost of her in Moag, when he should work to complete the prophecy that was so important to him, as quickly as possible, to end all of this. It was not as though her life had any other meaning, beyond this purpose of Ohamet’s. He did not understand how important the present was to the future, how inextricable the two were. He would find saving her impossible, she knew, because her life was the very bargain made in the exchange, to bring him there. Noel needed the possession to survive Moag, to find the answers he was looking for. Issa could not say what was in the depths of Moag, waiting for him, but she understood how vital it was he complete his task. She had felt that the moment she first felt him, in his flight, and her heart raced with the thrill of his impassioned intentions.

Yet, she had called to him, as he flew through the darkness, she thought with a sigh. And he had been flying to her, ever since. Perhaps she was a fool too and simply never knew it. She suspected Harvey had known, though. At least he had stopped calling Noel Loveridge her wanderer.

The thought of her friend strengthened her resolve.

Important as Noel’s prophecy was, seeing all of the changes he made in Om’s way was imperative to the future of her own people and to Om. At present, Noel and the Mardraim had them on a schedule that would leave Issa suffering under their control for years, moving from absolute insanity, under a flood of half-visions, to clarity of only one vision at a time, to no visions at all, and back again, in this endless cycle that wounded both Issa and Noel and got him no closer to his goal— to their goal. And that was assuming she and Noel changed nothing else along the way, she thought, shaking her head at the impossibility of what lay before them.

If she could understand what Noel was doing with Moag, if she could see Moag herself, interact with it somehow, perhaps she could hasten things along, choose when she would receive the clarity of a prophecy for herself, and let Noel Loveridge get on with what he had to do, sooner rather than later. Even if she could not figure out how he was breaking the connection between them, even if she could not regain the piece of her soul he kept tied to him, even if she would never be able to control more than the flicker of his fingers, in this partial possession, perhaps she could touch Moag herself and see all of the prophecies again, record them on her own terms, while he hid himself in their disconnection.

Her hands trembled as she inched forward.

His mouth grew dry. Her mouth grew dry.

His heart sped with excitement and worry she would dive into the darkness with him. Her heart sped, trusting her sense of his path was true.

One small step at a time, she drew ever nearer to that place where Moag nearly overwhelmed him.

He turned to the right, as the corridor bent. She turned right as well, but as she rounded the corner something felt out of place.

Issa opened her eyes and gasped, temporarily blinded, her words spluttering out, as she raised a hand to shield her face. “Y-you are here? But how?”

A few meters ahead of her, hovering before a fork in the tunnel, at the very place the wanderer went to touch Moag, a slender shimmer of indigo light, stunning after such absolution of darkness, turned, as if to face her, though it had no face, no true form at all.

Why would the elf need to be invisible in the tunnel? And why could she not feel him there? He was still disconnected from her, yet she had always sensed him, when he used the light well before. At least, she thought so.

Issa glanced down at the orb in her hand, still cast in totality of darkness, the surface of it sparking only slightly, reflecting this ghostly glow. As she looked back to the thin shimmering before her, a chill crept over her shoulders, causing her to shiver. “How did you get here?” she demanded, looking back in confusion, knowing it was impossible Noel could have passed her along the way, without her noticing, even if he was invisible and blocking their connection, though that he needed to do either of these things in this place made no sense. He had never done so before. Or maybe he had done so all along, and she simply could not feel when it happened, she thought, scowling at him. Could he have used some other fahmat to make his way there? If so, why not always use it, rather than taking the same arduous route so often? “Noel Loveridge?”

The light drifted toward her, but he did not speak. She could sense nothing of him there. She could sense nothing of anything or anyone. In truth, she had never felt more alone than she did in that moment, as the wisp of illumination came to a stop, mere inches before her.

Suddenly, her heart was pounding, fear washing over her. She should have felt the heat of his body, radiating off of him. She should have heard the hiss of his breath or the shifting of his feet along the ground. Whatever this manifestation was, it could somehow light the tunnel, when actual light could not. She squeezed her fist, angrily, hoping to get a rise out of Noel… if he was there, if he somehow found frightening her amusing. But if the elf was anywhere in that tunnel, he did not respond.

“Answer me, Ohamet.” Her voice quavered. “Please?” She despised her own weakness, as she squeezed herself tight against the desire to run and the sweat moistened her armpits.

Just as she began to worry the light could be something far worse than Ohamet, perhaps something of Moag itself, it inched forward unexpectedly, and Issa stumbled backward, rounding on the path with it, as it passed— within her, through her— meandering for the exit. She would have cried out, but she stood frozen in childish fear, because for the briefest of moments, as the emanation mingled within the atoms of her, she felt him there. It was definitely not Noel Loveridge, himself, not as she knew him, not in any way physical. It was as though he hardly existed at all. Startled, she reached out a hand to snatch him back to her, and had a vivid memory of the Middle Mother snatching at the spirit of her, when she died the first time in the cloister. But the light was like smoke, with far less consistency. It could not even be called matter. Whatever this was, she did not know, but it was no earthly thing. This was something else entirely, something ethereal.

Yet, it was still Noel.

Isabella shuddered out a whisper. “Noel, what is this? I do not understand.”

The apparition stopped before rounding the corner. It moved, swirling, as though glancing back at her, waiting for her to follow.

It was only then she remembered the Mardraim telling her of the piece of Noel’s spirit, which wandered their mountain since his arrival.

“Why can’t I feel you?” she hissed.

The Mardraim said that during her delirium she sometimes spoke of the fragmented presence of the wanderer, though not even Harvey, with his profound abilities, could sense this piece of the elf, in any of the places she claimed him to be. And she did not feel him now, though he was only feet away. If this was Noel’s wandering spirit, surely, she thought, swallowing an anxious lump in her throat, it had been weeks since she had seen, for the first time, not her own soul, trapped with the corporeal elf in possession, but this minute fraction of him… trapped without form.

“I do not understand, Noel. Please, answer me… somehow… if you can.”

The aura moved in a way that could only be described as reaching out a hand to her.

Trembling, Isabella lifted her fingers, taking a careful step forward. As she drew nearer, the edge of the light stretched slightly toward her, and she shivered against a feeling of having been there before, many times. As her fingertips brushed the surface of this fragile glimmering, a warm knowing rose within her. Yet it was not practical knowledge she found there. There were no words passed between them. This was pure energy, an understanding, built of sensations that defied the mundane senses of the material world, as though they were made of the essence of the senses themselves.

Issa immediately felt running away from the scent of red. Danger and escape were as whispered breaths, beaded on her brow. Pleading exhaustion, weakness, alone, lost were residual tastes that haunted her belly like meals long since digested. He wanted her to leave with him.

“But Moag,” she said, turning back for the fork. As she broke contact, her sense of understanding the fragment was gone. Quickly, she reached back for him, even as the sliver of Noel’s soul moved toward her once more, as though trying to stop her, though what he might have done, being little more than an amorphous glow, somehow possessed of something resembling consciousness, she had no idea. The outer edge of the light entered at the surface of her, and a prickling of energy ran through her flesh, like the shifting of air through a quietly opened door or the faint brush of footfalls in the distance might stimulate some ancient warning. He was more frightened than she was, more lost and alone than she had ever felt, even after losing everything.

Issa pitied this shade.

The light of him smelled like the coming rain and, strangely, like the notes of an old song she knew well, yet never heard. She shook her head and swallowed hard against the bristling of a thrill that raced over her, like he was speeding up the side of the mountain again, in search of the entrance, and she flew with him. If the real Noel Loveridge had been there, he would have been pressed against her, bracing her to him. Issa felt her cheeks redden and stepped away, stretching out her hand as she went, to mingle at a more appropriate distance, in this place of understanding between them.

She felt the gravity of the tunnel, drawing her down, its presence all around her. The taste of Moag consuming her was like water slipping through the cracks it made in the mountain over the ages, eventually turned to canyons within her. She had to go home, where he left her, safe. She had to follow him out now, carefully, so she did not slip further away.

“No,” Issa hissed, stepping back toward Moag once more. “I do not know what you are or care what you believe I should do. I will not leave here, not until I know how Noel Loveridge brings forth the prophecies from Moag.” She turned away, hurrying to the place where the light lingered when she first encountered it, where the wanderer went to work with Moag.

Swiftly, he filtered through her, drifting in and out of her way, within her and without, and the sense that she must not go any further overwhelmed her. The shrill prickling of danger intensified. A memory of not being able to save her grew up inside, like an unspeakable horror, chilling her bones. She could hear the notes of the song now, not in her mind, not in her hearing, but far away, outside of the mountain, home, in a memory that tasted of hearth fire and caramelized sugar and laughter and relief and flight. He wanted to go home, where the music played, where they would be safe, together. He wanted her to leave with him.

In spite of him, Issa lifted her hand toward the tunnel, as she felt Noel Loveridge do many times before. Energy pulsed through her fingers and up her arm, as the light of that wandering part of him swarmed, with desperation and the calling of her name on the wind, like the helplessness felt on the cusp of waking from a nightmare. Now he knew what she felt like, to be always at his mercy, Issa thought, inching her fingers forward, biting her lip, but her own fears had been piqued. She tried again, to muster the courage to breach the gap between herself and Moag, but she could not bring herself to touch the dark.

In that pause of uncertainly, as she panted in her angst at her own cowardice and the wanderer continued to storm through her, she saw, within the branch where Moag was most concentrated, the faintest hint of a glimmering flicker and caught her breath. In disbelief, she watched, as the aura continued its furious flow through and around her hand and fingers, as the tiniest flashes of light could be glimpse on the surface of the darkness, just as she had seen, moments before, on the lightless orb she gripped so tightly in her other hand. As once more the shimmering hint of a reflection of Noel’s fractured spirit flashed upon the darkness, in that reflection she saw the surface of Moag stretching slowly toward her fingers.

Shuddering with a gasp, Issa pulled away.

But she was angry.

“Why should I not? You do it! You force me to see!” she spat, furious with herself for the fear that kept her from acting, for the shards of memories that plucked at her curiosity, and for her strangled sense of mortification, at seeing Moag move toward her and knowing Noel Loveridge, the physical man, had stood here countless times before and seen it too. He ad returned again and again to touch the beyond.

What was in there? What was Moag?

In answer, she felt her own death at the cloister, through the smell of the soup the Mothers had served.

“H-how?” she whispered, stunned, stepping away from both Moag and the wanderer’s drifting spirit. “Were you there?”

The light resettled within the space of her, all around her. She felt tears that were not her own streaming down her cheeks, as Moag slowly devoured her. She felt the panic of flames racing to hold on, to grasp, to cling to any part of her, with nothing to cling to or with. She tasted his blood on her lips again, trying to save himself, losing her, and an endless remorse. She could smell the Old Mother’s words, like violence rising in her chest, on a wave of air, from that mouldering room where the Felimi took her to die. “We will leave you now to Moag. May you find peace quickly, knowing no one will ever know what you have done.” These were her memories, memories she had mostly lost since her soul was drawn out of her body and into Moag. Yet, this fractured piece of Noel Loveridge knew these things.

“You were there!” Issa hissed. “She believed I would be lost forever in Moag, and the wanderer too, but what did she mean no one would know what I had done? What had I done, Noel? Was she talking of the possession?”

In answer, there was only an impossible lack of knowing. Instead, she felt her life slipping away again and his misery flooding her with the scent of a cold winter’s night. She felt her absence from this world. The taste of watching from a distance, as Noel breathed life back into her body. He was again like the coming rain. She lived, but she was still absent from him, far away, lost in a vessel entire too large for what little remained of her, unable to fill herself in her minuteness. The light of Noel had been forced out. He was alone, diffuse, incapable of anything but observing. She felt him come and go, as she lay sleeping, mingling within the space of her, as he did now. Slowly found her way back to the light, to the scent of the rain, to the flavors of home, to the loss of her, impossible to bear. When she woke, he left her.

The Mardraim had told her he believed the possession had not been properly done. If the magic had been complete, Issa would have had this piece of Noel Loveridge within her and would have been able to exert some control over the elf. Moag would have been unable to attack her, because she would have been protected in the binding, as Noel Loveridge was, since he held her spirit. It seemed this piece of Ohamet was never quite attached to her being, but had somehow made it through Moag with her anyway, only to lose her, as she slowly unfurled into the darkness, when the left later made his own way through Moag. It seemed her death in Moag had separated them somehow, for good. She could feel this fragment of Noel now, but only barely, and only when he lingered within her. He was utterly alone.

But where had the light of him been all these weeks? What had he been doing, since she woke? Why had she seen him with himself the night she received the Drowning of Multitudes, but not any other time? Why had he not come to her since? Could he interact with others as he did with her, causing them to feel his senses? And what was he doing there in the tunnel with Moag? There were so many questions she wanted to ask, she was uncertain where to begin.

“My Mardraim said—”

“Issa?” came the voice of Noel Loveridge, echoing through the dark.

She heard his footsteps now, drawing near, and uttered a curse, even as she felt a great relief that did not belong to her, which tasted salty, like the spark of light that reflected off the surface of the ocean and the laughter of birds. Grimacing, she stepped away, both from the fork in the tunnel, where Moag remained an enigma, and from the light of the wanderer, who she hoped had all of the answers.

As she turned to face him, the corporeal Ohamet appeared around the bend. Immediately, he uttered some nonsense she could not understand and stared at her in disbelief, his mouth hung open, like a dimwitted takin that forgot it was chewing its cud.

Why did he always have to ruin things?

After a moment, he shook his head, as though realizing his idiocy, and said in the language of her people, “Issa, do not move, please.” He held his hands up, as the Mardraim would, and spoke anxiously. “It is not safe here! Moag is everywhere. Stay very still, and I will come to you, to guide you.” The light flew for him, dancing there in the space he filled, as though fighting to become one with himself, or perhaps fighting to make him go. If the real Noel Loveridge noticed this, he gave no indication. “Come with me now, please,” he whispered, stepping gingerly toward her, holding out his hand for her to take.

Issa gritted her teeth against the irony, closed her eyes, and transported herself back to the safety of her own hut, letting the string of curses fly, even as she appeared there and fell into pacing furiously, in front of the door.

He would go first to the Mardraim, she thought, manically chewing her thumbnail. Any moment now, she would feel Noel Loveridge flying at her again, and the Mardraim would come as well, and she would never be allowed to leave her hut again. She would never find out how the wanderer caused Moag to give the prophecies. She would never find out how he broke the binds of possession. She would be locked up, a true prisoner.

Could she run? If she did, what good would it do? She wanted to record the prophecies faster, not to escape them altogether. Why hadn’t she felt Noel return to their connection? Why couldn’t she feel him, even now? She should feel him by now, with his endless fear for her, always rushing to her side. If he cared at all, he would be there.

The knock on the door, though low, caused her to stop short in her fury. She held perfectly still, unable to sense anything besides the wrath of her own heartbeat, her shame at being caught, the ridiculousness of the idea she would care whether or not he cared, and worry she would never see that spark of light again.

“Issa, please…” came Noel’s whisper, on the other side of the door.

“Go from here, Noel Loveridge. We are not to be together,” she answered bitterly.

He laughed a quiet laugh, then sighed, “Issa, let me in.”


Tale of Two Mountains, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6, Pt. 7, Pt. 8, Pt. 9, Pt. 10, Pt. 11, Pt. 12, Pt. 13, Pt. 14, Pt. 15, Pt. 16, Pt. 17, Pt. 18, Pt. 19, Pt. 20, Pt. 21, Pt. 22, Pt. 23, Pt . 24, Pt. 25, Pt. 26, Pt. 27, Pt. 28, Pt. 29, Pt. 30, Pt. 31, Pt. 32, Pt. 33, Pt.34, Pt. 35, Pt. 36

36 questions to fall in love books about elves books about fairies books about gods books about spirits books about wizards Character Development Drawing elves epic fantasy fairies fanfic fanfiction Fantasy fate ghost stories Isabella and Noel learning through experience love stories Luthien Kennedy Magic mythology Om and Moag philosophy possession prophecy prophecy in fiction prophecy of the drowning of multitudes prophecy of the last hope of the elves Reading research stories about beasts stories about elves stories about fairies stories about gods stories about spirits stories about wizards stories with morals The Eleventh Age The Tale of Two Mountains the war between beasts and spirits Writing writing distractions writing prophecies writing prophecy

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