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Aron pulled himself out of the mud by one of the roots.
He gazed at the two entwining trunks and at the leaves
overhead, which now filtered out the sun. "Petal," he
whimpered, "forgive me. I believed my love was enough."
And there, in the shade of the two trees, Aron Dewweb
sat and wept. By the time the sun had set and the moon had
risen, sending its sprinkles of silver light through the two
trees' crowns, Aron died of a broken heart, and little green
leaves fell gently to cover him. . . .
So ended Barryn Warrex's tale.
When Aril Witherwind looked up from his book, he
detected in one of the old man's eyes a solitary tear. The
half-elf himself sighed from sadness and had to brush away
from his page a teardrop or two that threatened to make his
ink run. "Well, I must say, that is not a story I expected
from a knight," he said.
Barryn Warrex stirred, his eyes and ears once more
seeing and hearing what was before him. And when he
spoke, it was once more with his own deep but tired voice.
"I warned you," he said. "It is what has been in my heart."
With a creaking of his armor and bones, he slowly rose to
his feet.
"Well, now it's in my book, as well," said the half-elf,
blotting the page and shaking off his own sadness
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