…And After.

Rated: K+, T.

Disclaimer: All rights belong to Mark Shirrefs and John Thomson.

Characters: Ashka, Gareth-2, Mek, Aya, Gryvon and others.

Genre: adventure, family/friendship, romance.

Warning: This is the final part of my trilogy based on the TV-series. It is closely linked to the previous parts, which are recommended to be read at first. This one was started due to my friends' requests and the circumstances that inspired me. If you like the previous stories – hope, this one will be liked also. For the reasons familiar to those who read "Long Before…" and "Through Gryvon's Eyes…" Ashka's nature will be different from TV-series one, in order to match my interpretation. As before, comments are more than welcomed))

Story 1. Prologue (in alternative Spellbinder land).

Rain… Always rain. Rain was falling for about a week, either dying down and almost stopping, or pouring again so heavily that there was no wish to go the balcony once again. Today was not an exception. Dark grey clouds covered the sky in the morning, that's why the line between day and afternoon was more than blurred. Despite the bad weather, the window was opened, letting the rather cold wind in. Another rush of it, though perhaps it was because of the hand move, took the dust from the nearest book velvet cover, raising it into the air.

Gareth sneezed, looking at two rows of books, lying symmetrically on his table. During this week astronomy journals were taking the better part of it, and he didn't even want to take his belated collection and bring it back to the library. Maybe it was because of the weather that was lulling all the thoughts and intentions? Or maybe he just wasn't bothered with changing the outlines of things, which were comfy in a way?

Standing up and shaking the dust off himself, the Regent went to his chair, tapping out on wood carving and thinking of what to do. It was evening. Late evening. After all, the castle residents were having supper this hour. He'd rather follow their example and order to lay the table. He could deal with such a trifle as messing about with books later. After supper, for example. Or any other time, right?

"All right, of course, - Gareth thought, - you'd better tidy up your accommodation, or else you'll keep on sneezing. But now?" Indeed, book dust was depressing him sometimes, despite the fact that the man liked the books and had always been thirsting for knowledge. If only they didn't have that annoying feature that was making his eyes red…

Turning around awkwardly, the Regent hit the nearest book with his elbow and winced at the rattle.

"Careful as usual", - the man bent forward to turn over the book and suddenly froze. "Ancient legends of constellations"… When did he take it and bring here? Or was it lying here for so long?

"Ancient legends of constellations"… Slowly Gareth wiped away the dust from the book, leaving a thin grey trace on silk sleeve. Undoubtedly, it was lying on the edge of the table for a while, almost like a faithful friend, unnoticed but reliable. It was lying as if in attempt to attract his attention, make him remember…

And he couldn't say he was forgetting. Straightening his gown, the Regent sat down on the floor, between his table and the chair, not bothered with his clothes form. "Ancient legends of constellations"… His heart sank nervously and painfully in the chest, like every time when he was taking this book. A warm rough cover, corners a little crumpled … Even with his eyes closed Gareth was able to describe this book in details. For it was Her favorite book…

These yellowed pages, a narrow black ribbon bookmark nearly in the third. He didn't need to open and look where it had been placed, he knew. The story about extinguished stars…

The man put his hand to the chest, hoping to calm his emotions, suddenly overwhelmed with them. He had to take these books from here, to take them away or ask somebody for it. He had to do it long ago. For the rain and this mood were tormenting him the whole week long not for nothing. Now he wouldn't have any rest.

Gareth stood up again, squeezing the book with his hands, looking at old pages and the ribbon end. Sometimes, when he was calming down for a short moment, some detail like this book was appearing in front of him, nearly digging into his soul. Why did he hit the books now, today? Suddenly he lost all desire to eat…

He opened the door, going to the corridor as if half asleep. It was cool and a little livelier there. Servants were passing by with big trays with food; two guards went in the distance, discussing something. The Regent went forward, not seeing bows and greetings. Slowly but confidently, looking straight ahead, still squeezing the book. The third level and a corridor were left behind, leading him to the massive wooden door. His fingers touched a cold doorknob…

The room he saw looked as usual. Perfectly clean and neat. It seemed nothing changed. Closing the door behind him, Gareth observed the accommodation once again. He wished he could pass by. He wished, but every time he turned up to be there, as if there was a huge red-hot powerstone behind the door, attracting him. Indeed, the room looked as usual; he was always making sure no speck of dust dared to lie on the furniture or things. And only the heart was aching every time, as if trying to remind him inexorably that the room was uninhabited for a year and a half…

A year and a half… Gareth swallowed, closing his eyes. A year and a half passed since it had happened, and seemed everything was taking place only yesterday. Some things he wished to forget, but they were to be remembered forever, with no chance to be fixed, no chance to omit some details and ease his lot.

The Regent went to the table, gently putting the book onto the polished surface. A year and a half passed since that fatal day when Ashka and Gryvon flied away secretly. For both of them it was their first joint flight. And it happened to be the last one. The man touched the book binding, tracing the title outlines with his fingers. Was it really today a year and a half? He looked through the window and saw it was still raining. It seemed the nature was going to mark the date he was unable to forget anyway.

It seemed just yesterday… He remembered himself, as he woke up from his nightmare. If only he knew that moment the nightmare would turn into reality, there would be no one in Ashka's and Gryvon's rooms, one would follow the other… He was waiting for a shadow of the flying ship to appear, moving to the Tower. He was putting on the powersuit and waiting. And when the Eyestone on his table started working, he already felt it wouldn't appear… When a Westfield Summoner started speaking fast from it, he understood it was over. That there was nobody to listen to his tirade about safety measures and rules saying that Apprentices weren't allowed to take the pilot's seat without the Council permission…

He thought nothing more horrible could happen in his life. But he was wrong. Because then he mounted his horse, forgetting about the saddle, and rushed to the rocks. In his thoughts he was already seeing a broken rusty flying ship at the stones. In reality he found the ship on the platform, tilted but still landed. The top part of the Tower was broken and bent; Gareth didn't even understand or imagine how the landing had happened and what the falling speed was. For a moment timid hope came to his soul saying that it was just his nightmare continuing, that he was to wake up right now, having an awful headache and realization that it was just in his dream. However, his hope faded as soon as he examined the Tower one more time. Gryvon was lying near its base, so very small in the powersuit. His heart skipped a bit.

"Careful, yes, yes, slowly!"

Only then he noticed people on the ladder on their way to the hatch. Some peasants from Westfield climbed the steps one by one and looked upwards, where another local was seen, carrying a woman in black-and-scarlet clothes in his arms…

Gareth wished he could say the rest wasn't remembered. But no, his fate decided to mock, as if could be worse, and made everything terrifyingly clear. He remembered the first seconds of his shock, he remembered his own cry flooding the surroundings and making those present turn around. He remembered himself dismounting and reaching the base of the Tower in two big steps. He kneeled next to those he couldn't call dead. It was too unreal. He remembered somebody's hands touching his shoulders – apparently Spellbinders went there right after him. He remembered the tears burning his eyes and not stopping. The Face of the Summoner, who tried to tell him something, was blurred because of these tears. Gareth wasn't listening, wasn't hearing. He was crying, still kneeled, with fingers of his left hand grasping Gryvon's wide palm. Fingers of his right hand were clutching Ashka's slender wrist. Get up, just get up! Open your eyes! Silly naughty children! Don't you dare, don't do this! It seemed he was trying to connect to them, to give, if it was possible, a part of his own life, to divide for three, to measure out the lost. He was trying yet he knew he would never succeed…

Never… What a horrible word. He didn't believe, couldn't make himself believe. Could life be so cruel? Had he ever done anything to get such a punishment? Was Gryvon, this boy in love, never to be nineteen? Gryvon… Gareth felt bad thinking of the necessity to go to Clayhill… But heaven had compassion on him for the first time during the morning – Aaron and Malie, still weak after her illness, had come there, pale, not believing like him…

…It was still raining, though maybe not so heavily. Gareth returned to the present, coming to the window and opening it. It was easier to breathe, not much easier, but anyway… It was always hard to breathe in this room, as if the air tried to crush him, drive out into the corridor. The events one and half a year old were revived again, engulfing him and opening the old wound. Only later, when all reached the castle, when Stogar broke through Spellbinders crowd and gave the Regent a cup of some liquid, his perception finally became hazier. He had no idea of what the drink was. Wine? A kind of medicine? That didn't matter, the thing was that it worked.

The man lifted his hand, stretching out of the window, feeling tiny cool droplets on his skin. He spent hours sitting in the old passage, where the dead were taken. He didn't eat, didn't drink, didn't answer any questions. The castle came to a standstill, waiting for the unknown. Lukan and Tark appeared in the passage for a couple of times, he recognized their steps and felt their glances with his back – sad, sympathetic. Gareth didn't care. He was sitting still, not even moving. For here they were, here, lying as if sleeping. Why wouldn't they wake up? Why weren't those sad belated reproaches with irresponsible behavior needed anymore? Tears were running down his cheeks again, but he wasn't crying anymore, just mourning, quietly, soundlessly, as if admitting his defeat slowly.

Then, later, Stogar brought another cup and Gareth drank it again, not asking. Tears subsided. They weren't over, no, but for that moment the powerstone of his eyes was depleted. There was no more strength for crying. The man stood up, feeling dizzy. He didn't even have breakfast in the morning, so now he remembered about it. And then guards said a Summoner of Westfield was waiting for him at the gates, despite their attempts to chase him away. He didn't plan to see anyone. Though, despite that intention, he went out of the castle. And he heard what he was supposed to hear near the Tower, when he didn't pay any attention to those faces blurred because of his tears. The Summoner told him how he went to the Tower in order to inform the Council tribute had been collected and sent to Rivertown. And then he saw a ship, not flying but falling, he understood it at once. By some miracle the ship didn't hit against the highest rock, it fell almost right to the center of the Tower, tilting a little. The Summoner flinched in horror, taking several steps forward and not knowing what to do. Nobody was going down from the hatch. And the Eyestone in his hand was silent. But then the man saw a young guy was rushing down. An Apprentice, according to his uniform. However, before the Summoner had a chance to reach the base, the Apprentice put his foot on another step awkwardly and fell down…

He was still alive when the man ran to him and kneeled. Frightened, Gryvon was looking upwards, to the hatch from which he rushed.

"She saved me…, - he whispered with desperation and some superhuman faithfulness in his glance, - she saved… And I couldn't…"

Those were his last words.

Much later, when Gareth was replaying the whole situation mentally, repeating that phrase, he got it. He understood that Gryvon, who took the pilot's seat, was to be pressed into the dashboard by impact force. And Ashka had time to secure him somehow, whether she pushed him out of the seat or put herself in front of him – nobody knew it. "She saved me and I couldn't save her". This was what he tried to say. Faithful Gryvon, loving his ginger Fairy, rushed to the ground, hoping he would have time to call for help… And Gareth, who had always been sure he was the only one to stumble on the stairs, flinched at this understanding…

…The rain stopped, he didn't even notice new droplets weren't falling on his wet palm. The Regent turned away from the window, taking a deep breath. His old well-known remedy was recently useless. And new tears were sometimes appearing, though he was sure he'd already cried his eyes out. The pain was too great to be measured. Pain and a sense of guilt. He couldn't believe, but everything came later. When he stood near the funeral pyre, realizing that from now on his world was growing dim. That that very moment his life was left by the inexhaustible source of happiness, presented by his daughter and her Apprentice. That there would be no more duel practices at the higher levels of the castle, no loud rattle and shouting: "Gryvon, enough of daydreaming!" No more picnics and heart-to-heart talks. The three of them wouldn't gather together and ride in the evening through the castle surroundings. Gryvon wouldn't pass by with a sufferer face expression, being scolded after another lesson, and his Fairy would always be thirty, no year more. No one would start breaking the rules, rush into his room, flash with eyes or have an argument. There would be none of this…

Standing next to the Spellbinders, Malie and Aaron were clinging to each other, firmly, desperately. He explained to them what had happened, though he didn't tell the discipline and the rules had been broken actually. No need to know. Yes, it was Ashka's fault, but she wasn't the reason of the death of their son. Her fault was the fact she hadn't put on her powersuit, had no extra powerstones, which could change everything. However, that last deed of hers… he could be proud of it now, if it wasn't too painful yet… Too painful to watch these flames and think of how horrible it was – to outlive your own children…

Taking another deep breath, Regent walked through the room. There was a violet cover with Spellbinder symbols on the bed; the wardrobe door was ajar, as usual. Near the bed there was a candelabrum with slightly melted red candles. They were lit up a short time ago. Servants kept this room clean and tidy every day, as well as Gryvon's one. He entered that room also, but less often, as if being afraid to lose control over his emotions. Silly boy… He'd been fond of flights, waiting in the wings, the day when he'd been considered ready. And Ashka thought so…

The castle and Clayhill were in mourning. Grief marked both Aaron and Malie, making their features older. But Gareth was aware of the fact that every glance in the mirror reminded him of the gray mixed with his wheat-colored hair, of his eyes, which almost faded and dimmed because of tears. And there was nothing to do with it. He didn't want to live, but he had to keep on somehow.

For many times Regent was asking himself of what could happen if his conspirators had extra powerstones. How could everything change? Practically it was rather difficult to change them and turn on the power of flying ship. Theoretically it was possible. And the most important thing – both the madcaps would be aright now, safe, somewhere in the castle, perhaps in that very room… Gareth went away from the wardrobe, entering the bathroom. Every thing looked as if their owner had been there and just left her accommodation for a short time. There was her clothes on the shelves, hairbrushes, her jewelry for occasions, there, in the big casket in the room. Ball gowns were in the wardrobe. He found even found a vial of her favorite jasmine oil, almost full. Gareth opened it carefully, feeling the familiar delicate fragrance. Ashka had been seven, when Stogar had called for the Spellbinder and his not really Apprentice. He'd given her a small vial of jasmine oil, saying very seriously that had been "a miracle thing for such beautiful hair as yours". The years passed. An interesting experiment turned into a habit. As sharp as she was, Ashka didn't like sharp fragrances, preferring her jasmine oil…

Gareth put the vial on the bath rim and returned to the room. It turned out to be a tradition for him to come here. Some sort of a ritual. Sometimes staying in this room was rather calm, so to speak. But sometimes emotions were overwhelming, and he had to retreat cowardly, having no strength to stay in the uninhabited room any longer. Despite all the efforts and the fire being made every other time, the air was fresh here, but cold. Lifeless. For some time he was considering the whole castle the same cold and lifeless. Even in summer, but especially in autumn. Sometimes he was able not to notice it, hiding his realization behind the show. But sometimes he looked at the things in the room and understood nobody was touching them, except for him and the servants. Nobody was putting flowers in that vase on a shelf; nobody was coming to the map on the wall. Nobody was touching a statuette on a sill; nobody was combing hair in front of the mirror. Nobody was using the jasmine oil… it was even harder to breathe these moments.

He would never make a complete recovery from it. Never. He was to remember when it was easy not to think about, he was to go back to the base of the Tower in his dreams, he was to enter this room and shiver every time. And the post in the Council with all his duties wouldn't help. Gareth went to the table, opening the book where the ribbon was. Extinguished stars… His stars had extinguished not in a tale, but in reality. They had extinguished too soon…

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Regent, - a maidservant opened the door and bowed, - I was going to look if everything is alright… Shall I make to fire here?"

"No need, - Gareth shook his head, straightening the ribbon between pages, - look, go to my room, there are books lying on the table. Ask somebody else and bring them all to the library together, alright?"

"As you wish, Regent", - the maid bowed and left. And the man stayed near the table, looking at the opened book. One might think somebody was taking it not so long ago, reading favorite extracts. Just like it had been read a year and a half ago and before, when there had been three of them – the Regent, the Spellbinder, the Apprentice. Stubborn naughty children. Ashka had always been fond of having the final word. This time she didn't change her tradition. Though this time became too cruel, cutting down everything that was precious for Gareth.

"Why weren't you thinking of the others? – He asked aloud, addressing no one. - At least you might have thought of yourself…"

He was asking the similar questions very often here. Questions, which would never be answered. Vainly. Nobody to blame, nobody to cry to. In life they had been together, happy with their strange union of a sarcastic teacher and her obedient ward. So they were gone together… And after that only his post in the Council and the state matters were that little thing, which made him cling to life…

Leaving the opened book on the table, Gareth went to the door. Enough of ghosts for today, every next time was like a previous one, anyway. And now, leaving this room behind, he would be able to pretend and respire. Till next time. The past would never leave him, despite all his efforts. Today he spent there more time that he was going to, one moment forgetting his intention to deal with the books. But all right, let servants do it. Even their accuracy, absent sometimes, didn't seem too problematic. All right…