From out of his shirt came a misshapen hunk of metal. To anyone else, it would have been a hideously meaningless trinket. To Azeron, it was the most precious gift he had ever received. He held it up to his eyes and stared at it. It was a common coin, battered by a hammer around the edges, and the face of Lord British marred by a hole in the center. It was discolored with shades of green and black, which stole any hope that this coin might reclaim its past luster. But Azeron still held it close to his heart each and every day.

Randal, his younger brother, had given it to him when they were children. Back then, it was held by a crude leather strap. And at the time, Azeron had laughed at the offering. But his mother had reprimanded him and forced him to keep it and wear it from time to time. In later years, he was happy she had. Now, it was one of the few things that Azeron still had since the Affliction had claimed the life of his sibling. Now, to him, it was priceless.

He thought about all that had happened recently. The defeat of Baal’morda. The cure to the Affliction. He thought about Khyrian, and how close he had come to losing himself. He thought about his parents, and the distance that had grown since Randal’s death, and their concern at Azeron’s own illness. But mostly, he just thought of Randal — how he missed him, and how he wished that his brother had been able to make it through to the end, like the rest of them.

Pulling out a scroll, Azeron began to write a letter to his parents. It was time to tell them what had happened here. It was time to ease their fears, and let his mother know that she would not be losing another son. And it was time to tell his father that Randal’s death had been avenged. The letter was hard to write. It took hours. But he forced himself to.

It was dark outside the window now. The quill once again found its way into the well on his desk, and Azeron sat back from the parchment, waiting for the fresh ink to dry. He let out a sigh, letting his shoulders sink a bit, taking the coin into his hands again, and letting stray tears fall when they wanted to.

Goodbye, Randal.

With his eyes shut, his mind cleared a bit. It had been some time since he physically felt as well as he did now... but he was tired. Yes, he was tired. And so he sat, the room totally silent, save for the clock across from him that quietly ticked away the minutes. After a while, he opened his eyes, staring at the clock, watching the minutes pass. Surrounding the clock, the paint on the wall was a lighter shade — a reminder of the larger portrait that had once sat there. The portrait had been moved the day that Lord Hezekiah had issued his notice, and Azeron knew that the painting needed to come down.

He had convinced himself that he was moving on. He had told himself he had succeeded. But, beneath his leather gloves, he had left himself one small token, one small reminder of all he had lost. Pulling off his glove, he stared at the ring. A circle of eight tiny emeralds graced the top of it. It had once had a partner, just as he had, with the exact pattern on it. He wondered if that diamond-laden match still existed.

Even now, Azeron wasn’t sure why he had kept it. But, in the introspection of the moment, he thought about all that this ring had meant. He searched himself for feelings of pain, of loss, of yearning. His search found nothing. Now he knew — ever since their encounter a few mornings ago — that any trace of the meaning it had held was certainly gone. Now, it was only a beautifully meaningless trinket.

He lifted himself from his seat, making his way out of the office and down the stairs of the guildhall. Opening the front door, he walked south and west. He did not notice the late night crowds still stirring in the Arrow. He did not take notice of the Great Hall or Thrand’s log cabin. He made his way to the to edge of the water, where he had spent so many evenings in a life long since passed. With a deep breath, he swung his arm back. And then he tossed the ring into the sea.

Goodbye, Melyanna.

The cool ocean breeze caught his hair, and sent it blowing into his face. As he brushed it from his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the white that still remained. Though he had started to see the darker colors returning at the roots, he knew it would be a while before the full length of his long hair was the dark brown that it had been. It was a reminder of all that had happened. It was a reminder of the life that had been taken away from him. And he didn’t want to remember any longer.

He marched back toward the guildhall with a quickened step. Once inside, he made his way to the metal chests that lined the wall upstairs. He shuffled its contents, moving things around until he found what he was looking for. Picking up a bottle, he shook it a bit, making sure some of its contents still remained. Satisfied at the sound of liquid within, he walked into his office, pulling out a small, polished sheet of metal that served as a hand mirror. He untied his hair, letting it flow across his shoulders. And he took one last good look at the way the streaks of white contrasted against his black doublet. Then he began.

A half-hour later, he stood in front of the mirror, examining his work as he waited for his hair to dry. In the reflection, he saw the Azeron he remembered. The gleam was back in his eye. The smile had also returned. The vitality was also as strong as ever. And, now, his hair was as dark as it had ever been. He looked at the reflection and saw no trace of the Affliction, or the pain it had caused him. He saw the image of a man who had traveled to hell and back, defeated the daemon, and had emerged triumphant.

He looked up from the mirror, and back out the window. The moonlight illuminated the clearing in a bluish glow, and a low mist hung over the grass in front of the temple. But the daemon that had profaned that place was gone. And Azeron couldn’t have been happier.

Goodbye, Baal’morda.

He returned to his desk and cleared it off before moving back into the hallway. Making sure the bottle of hair dye was tightly capped, he placed it back into the chest. He shuffled the contents, trying to get the chest to close all the way, when something caught his attention. He knelt in front of the metal chest and pulled out a leather-bound runebook.

It was an ordinary runebook. There was nothing exceptional about it. But he held it delicately nonetheless. His fingers turned from page to empty page — this runebook had never been used. It had never had enchantments placed upon it. It was as pristine as the day that it had been given to him. And he was determined to keep it that way.

Idly, he turned the pages, noting how the leather still smelled fresh and the pages were still crisp. He thought about the book’s maker, and how much effort had gone into it. He thought, and he smiled. And, as he gingerly turned the final page, he found something he had never noticed before.

There, on the back of the eighth page, was a ninth — enchanted already with a location. He examined it for a moment, wondering if the aberration had been intentional. As his hands traced over the runes, he knew it must have been. Because, at the bottom of the page, was a small inscription written by a delicate hand:

“In case you should ever need me.”

And at that moment, Azeron realized that he did. He lifted himself from his knees and breathed in deeply. When he exhaled, the worlds “Kal Ort Por” rode on his breath. His face wore a smile that was half excitement and half nervousness, and, too late, he wondered if this was a good idea. Then, he felt himself being moved by the magic.

When the world reformed around him, and his eyes readjusted to the moonlight, he took in the peaceful, Oceanside villa in front of him. A light was still burning downstairs, and inside, a quiet figure moved gracefully. Azeron straightened his doublet and smoothed his pants and walked toward the front door…

Goodbye, loneliness.