I stand before the crowd, Eurydice at my side, and feel the familiar stirring in my chest that comes before song. My voice has been tested by trials no mortal should survive, shaped by encounters with forces older than civilization, proven in battles against despair itself. Now it's time to use that power for its truest purpose—not to fight darkness, but to celebrate light.
I begin a sea-shanty that every soul in Milthar knows by heart, my voice booming clear and strong across the harbor:
"Home is the sailor from the wine-dark sea,
Home with his treasure, home safe and free,
Home to the harbor where the heart finds rest,
Home to the love that we treasure best."
The familiar words ring out with new meaning, transformed by our journey from simple song into something approaching prayer. But as I reach the second verse, something magical happens—Eurydice's voice joins mine, her soprano weaving through my bass with the perfect harmony we discovered in the depths.
"Two voices singing of the paths we've walked,
Two hearts united by the truths we've talked,
Two souls as one beneath the morning sky,
Two made eternal by love's battle cry."
Our voices blend and soar, creating music that seems to make the very air shimmer with possibility. The crowd joins in, hundreds of voices adding their strength to ours, until the entire harbor rings with song. It's a promise to the city and to each other—that we are two voices but one home, two hearts but one love, two souls united by trials that only made our bond stronger.
The anvil-carol continues beneath our song, providing percussion that drives the melody forward with the rhythm ofhonest work, of community effort, of people building something beautiful together. The silver bell in Eurydice's hand chimes in perfect time, adding its pure note to the symphony of celebration.
As the song reaches its crescendo, I wrap my arm around Eurydice and lift my voice to the sky, pouring all my gratitude and joy and love into the music. We survived the impossible. We proved that some bonds cannot be broken. We walked through death's realm and chose instead to return to the light.
And now, surrounded by community and blessed by belonging, we begin the next verse of our song—the quiet, beautiful music of a life built on love that conquered death itself.
The harbor rings with celebration, and somewhere in the distance, I could swear I hear the faint echo of children's laughter, carried on the wind from waters that no longer hold any terror for those who know the power of love made audible.
38
EURYDICE
The silver bell chimes warm against my palm as I reach into the deep pocket of my evergreen shawl, my fingers finding the gift I prepared while Theron worked with the smiths through the night. I couldn't sleep after our return, too full of nervous energy and overwhelming gratitude to simply rest. Instead, I spent the dark hours creating something that would match his generosity with my own, something that would honor what we've accomplished together.
"Your turn to receive," I tell him, drawing out the new evergreen wreath I braided with careful hands and grateful heart. The pine boughs are fresh-cut from the sacred grove behind the temple, each needle still heavy with the scent of winter forests and blessed earth. But woven throughout the green are additions that make this crown unlike any other—fragments of our journey transformed into symbols of triumph.
The red ribbon that bound our wrists through every trial now threads through the evergreen like a river of silk, its crimson bright as heart's blood against the deep green of the pine. But it's no longer just a ribbon—it's become something more precious, asymbol of love that endured when all seemed lost, of faith that held strong when doubt tried to poison our hearts.
And scattered throughout the braided crown like captured stars are shimmering shards of sea-glass—pieces I gathered this morning from the tide pools where the waves have polished broken fragments into jewels. Green as deep water, blue as summer sky, white as seafoam, they catch the morning light and throw it back in rainbow patterns that speak of beauty born from destruction, of treasures created by forces that were never meant to create.
"I made this while you worked with Korven," I explain, holding the wreath up so he can see how the sea-glass catches the light. "The pine is from the sacred grove, blessed by Tidemother Antea herself. The glass came from the shore where we first kissed, where you first told me you loved me. And the ribbon..."
"The ribbon that saved us both," he finishes, his voice thick with emotion as he recognizes the silk that carried us through our darkest hour. "Eurydice, it's beautiful. It's perfect."
Thecrowdthat has gathered around us on the docks begins to cheer as they understand what they're witnessing—not just the exchange of gifts between lovers, but the creation of something new. A tradition reborn from trial, transformed by love into something entirely our own. The festival crown that began our adventure becomes something deeper, more personal, weighted with meaning that goes far beyond simple celebration.
I stand on my toes, the snow crunching beneath my boots as I reach up to place the wreath on his horns. He bends his great head to help me, his amber eyes bright with tears as I settle the crown into place with infinite care. The evergreen feels warm beneath my fingers, alive with the sacred power thatflows through all growing things, blessed by our journey and sanctified by love's triumph.
The Tidemother who gave me the shawl catches my eye from the edge of the crowd and winks—a gesture of approval that speaks volumes. She understands what this moment means, recognizes the transformation of simple tradition into something profound. This isn't just a festival custom anymore; it'sourtradition, reborn from trial and tempered by fire into something that will endure long after the snow melts and spring returns to Milthar.
The wreath settles perfectly on Theron's horns, the sea-glass catching the winter light and throwing rainbow sparkles across his golden mane. He looks magnificent—not just a retired sea-captain or even the Singer of the Deep, but something approaching mythic. A hero crowned by love, marked by trials that would have broken lesser souls, adorned with symbols that speak of death conquered and hope vindicated.
As the city's bells begin to peal in celebration, adding their bronze voices to the anvil-carol that still rings through the streets, I pull Theron's head down and kiss him with all the passion and gratitude and desperate love I've carried through our darkest hours. Our lips meet as the crowd roars its approval, as the snow falls harder around us, as the morning light turns everything to gold and crystal.
The kiss tastes of salt tears and winter air, of promises kept and faith rewarded. His massive hands cup my face with infinite tenderness while his mouth moves against mine with the desperate intensity of a man who thought he might lose everything and found it returned to him transformed. We're both crying, both laughing, both overwhelmed by the simple miracle of being alive and together and home.
