Mera was crying. Not out loud, not now, but her soul was crying and Arron could feel it. Gods, he hated it when women cried. And now this woman was destroying him with her grief.

Arron was Shaman of his people, and the souls of the People were in his care, as was protecting them from vengeful spirits, and gaining the assistance of benevolent ones. Mera's son, Keth, had gone home to the Gods in a fever that raged through the small wandering tribe, the only one to be called home that time, and Mera was inconsolable, though Gods only knew Arron had tried to console her.

Arron's one true wisdom was the knowledge that the Gods wanted men and women to be happy, either on the earth, or in the skies with Them, and that Death was given to Mankind so that the Gods could call Men to other duties as spirits.

Mera knew only grief, and it didn't help that Keth had been her only child, and the Gods had given her much trouble even having him.

Arron sighed. He did not know what to do this time.

The People wandered because it was not often that another tribe of Men would tolerate them, for the People were different. In this season they wandered through a great plain, and they hoped to find a place to rest and live in happiness, and to teach their children in their ways.

The Chief, Laron, called a halt to the little band, and called Arron forward. Laron pointed to a spot of smoke a distance away. "I like not the look of that."

Arron nodded. "Fear you Man-danger? or Spirit-danger?"

"I fear not Man-danger, but the scar-faced people said that demons lived on this plain."

Arron nodded. It was hard for most men to move away from fearing all things of the spirit world. The scar-faced people were more frightened than most, and their fear gave rise to a terrible anger. The People had left them as quickly as they could, such anger could be easily redirected at other Men. "Spirits are not always demons. Spirits serve the Gods as easily as they serve the Nameless." He thought a moment. "I shall walk before the People as we walk towards the smoke. I shall speak to the Spirits and ask them to help us."

Laron's face flooded with relief. He was a man of action, and of the physical world. The world of Spirits was beyond his understanding.

And so the People moved towards the smoke, and Arron saw to his horror that it was a village, a village of tents that smoldered from the fires set to them only hours earlier. Everywhere the People looked there lay bodies slain by violence, Man-violence, Man-anger, and what horrified Arron was that the bodies were the bodies of Spirits. Beautiful, sometimes frightening Spirits, small of form, with large alien eyes and four fingers on their delicate hands. There were human bodies among the Spirits, they had not died without fighting, and the humans had scars running down their faces. So the anger of the scar-faced people had gotten the better of them.

There were few children among the Spirits, but those that were there were dead as well, slain as viciously as their elders were. That shocked Arron, who firmly believed that the young of any kind were sacred.

Then a woman cried out and Arron knew Mera's voice. He turned to see her kneeling over the body of a tiny Spirit-child. The woman looked up at him, "Shaman, the child lives." There was such pleading in her face, such desperate pleading.

Arron knealt down and placed his hand upon the little boy-Spirit's chest. Indeed, the child yet breathed, and his wound was shallow. He could be nursed back to health, perhaps, if Spirit-wounds were alike to Man-wounds. "The child lives," he agreed, keeping his voice neutral.

"Shaman, the Gods have given me a child again, in this little one." Her voice pleaded with him, and he found that he lacked the conviction to deny her. Perhaps the Gods had spared this Spirit-child so that he could comfort Mera. Arron could see that the woman’s soul was no longer crying, though tears filled her eyes.

"Take the child in your arms. You must carry him. When we camp this night we will call the Gods to witness. But know this, Spirits are not as Men are, they are different, andthe Gods call them to different paths. Be prepared to release him when the time comes."

Mera nodded. Already her face was looking better, and she held the child as if it were a Man-child and born of her womb.

They stood and the people continued their journey. Laron looked at Arron with a strange expression in his eyes. His twin had suprised him, yet again.

Mera named the small Spirit-child Kethi, after her son, and as one of the People, the boy grew and thrived. He kept only a small scar from his wound the day his former people were killed.

Kethi grew older, and as he reached his maturity the maidens of the People took notice of him, and many sought to draw him into their arms. Kethi, though, bestowed his intrest on the gentle Sira, the youngest daughter of his chief. Sira was a comely girl, lithe, bright of eyes, with hair the color of the sun, and a welcoming smile. She was also a very spiritual girl, and would listen to Arron teach for hours on end. Kethi wooed her simply. He did not seek her attention with desplays of his prowess as a warrior, as the other young men did, but with nosegays of flowers, with little trinkets he made with his own hands, and with the force of his own feeling for her. Sira grew to care for him as much as he did her, and a tryst was arranged. Unfortunately for the lovers, it did not go well, and Sira became frightened. Rather than hurt her, Kethi ran from her, and cooled his blood in a nearby river. Sira, gentle Sira, did not hold this against him, for she still loved him in her heart. But the Gods made Men and Spirits for different paths, and that was the way of it.

In all their travels, the People did not come upon any other Spirits like Kethi, who grew long, after his kind, though small of stature, and slim, and handsome to look upon with his flowing red-brown hair and his piercing alien black eyes, and his long ears like wings on the sides of his head. Kethi seemed happy among the People, who treated him kindly, unlike some of the other human tribes they came upon, who had terrible stories and legends of the demons.

It was the spring of his sixteenth year with the People when Kethi was given something of the path the Gods had for him. Sira was with child, a young one concieved during one of the infrequent times the People were sharing space with another human tribe. Having always been almost as unearthy as Kethi, she had declared to the People her intention to bear children and raise them with Kethi, who was ever the husband of her heart, if not of her body, and the union had been solemnized by Arron. Unfortunately, Sira was having a hard birth. The child was positioned wrong within her, and as Shaman, it was Arron’s duty to watch over the birth and plead for the help of the Spirits and the Gods. The midwife had to reach into Sira to move the child, and Kethi held the birthing mother and supported her as he could, but as the child emerged, Sira was injured, and blood flowed, more blood than she could spare. She was bleeding to death, and the Gods were calling her home.

In that terrible moment something exploded around Kethi and flowed from his hands into Sira and knit her together. The Gods gave him a Healing gift, and the people welcomed the child into their number, and were grateful that the mother was allowed to stay with them. Over the years Sira bore other children, and Kethi helped her raise them, and then her children bore children and they in turn bore children, and as the generations passed, Kethi, who became known as Healer, helped raise them and teach them, and watched them grow old and be gathered home to the Gods.

Mera grew old as well, and she had reached her sixtieth year when she became ill with an illness Healer could not touch. It was deep in the wintertime, and all the People suffered, but Mera was old, and she suffered more than those younger and heartier. She had started to cough much, and not even Healer’s magic could completely remove the illness from her body, though he could, and did, give her easement. All the People knew that the day would come when she would go home, and so did Mera. She was tired, and ready for rest. She called together Sira's children, and their children, who were as her grandchildren. She spot with each of them, and then let them go home. Finally there was only Healer and Sira in the simple tent with her. Healer knealt next to her bed, holding the woman who had become his heartsmother as darkness crept into her sight and she went home to the Gods. "Guard the People," she told him with her deathswisdom, "the Gods have a special path for you, my son. Walk it with goodness, walk it well. I thank Them that They sent you to me." Tears fell down Healer's face and onto Mera’s and she died with a peace in her face that comforted him.

In time Sira was called home as well, and Healer held her as she died. He spent days in his tent afterwards, broken with grief. He felt as if his heart had been torn from his breast, and he did not walk among the People, for his grief was too much to bear. In the end it was the children who came to him, seeking their friend. Poppia, Sira's young granddaughter, was the one to find him. Poppia had only recently reached her fifth year, and she was very curious. She crept into Healer's tent and found him sitting on the bed, silent and stricken. The child calmly walked over to him and sat in his lap. His arms curled around her of their own will, and he held the little girl close.

"It's alright," she said. "I miss Grandma too."

It was strange, but the child's sympathy touched his broken heart, and began to heal it. He rocked her back and forth, and began to sing to her, and soon the child fell asleep. That night Healer ate with the People for the first time in three days.

Time and again Healer watched as the People grew old around him and were gathered home. His heart ached with each loss, and was renewed with each birth. And as is the way with Men, there were more births than losses, which comforted Healer.

Also in time Healer became Teacher, for he was taught by Arron, and was the only one of the People who knew the ways as Arron taught them. Conflicts arose after Arron's death as to what the proper teachings were. None of the People alive remembered Arron as well as they could, in the end, only Teacher was left who had known the man in life, and it was natural that they should turn to him for guidance in the ways of the Spirit world, and in the teachings the People covenanted all those years before to follow, when Arron gained his first wisdom. Indeed, Arron’s name may very well have been lost had it not been for Teacher’s memory. But the Gods had a different name for the Spirit who lived with the People.

He was sitting with the children, telling them tales of the old days when a spirit of whimsey overtook his heart and he asked the small girl-child in his lap who he was. Sarai, in her childswisdom looked up at his face, innocent and trusting and replied, "You are Forever." and the name stuck. Indeed, Forever was as endless and eternal as the stars above, having been among the People for one hundred and seventy-nine years.

Often, as he assisted in helping one of the People home to the Gods, he wondered why he was not gathered home, for his years weighed heavily on his shoulders. But the Gods had Their ways, and the paths of Spirits were not the paths of Men.

Years passed one another, and Forever remained as young and as hearty as he had been at sixteen, though his face grew in maturity, and his manner gained the touch of wisdom. Perhaps it was the belief of the People in him that kept his heart from growing too old. Perhaps it was the children, the eternal innocence of youth, that helped him stay young, but he was ageless, even though the People followed the Cycle around him.

The People had found a place to stay, and they built a good sized village, in time, on the banks of a river, and they were happy for a long time, as humans reckoned these things, when another human tribe settled near them, and it seemed as if peace would be hard to find. The Newcomers feared and distrusted Forever. Their tales said the Spirits were evil, and devilish, and that they stole children from their beds at night.

Forever felt sickness in his belly as he saw events roll on, and knew that he was helpless to stop them, however he might try, and try he did.

He spoke as eloquently as he could. When fever raged in the villages, he offered to use his powers to Heal their sick as well as those of the People, but the Newcomers would not let him near them. His gift was a demon’s taint they said, and that the demon sent the illness so he could "heal" them of it. Human fear was strong.

Forever should have expected that night, but in truth, he was afraid to expect it. One evening the Newcomers cam to the People. The grievance was genuine, to them at least. A child was missing, and the Newcomers blamed the People and demanded that they destroy Forever.

The People refused, they were in the land first, and Forever had never done anything to harm the Newcomers, for all that they spoke of hexes and evil spells cast upon them. Indeed, they blamed all the actions of the Gods and the Nameless upon Forever, and all the People knew that one Spirit could not do all that they blamed him of.

Then the Newcomers drew their weapons, and the end had come. Forever fought them as he could, turning the Healing gifts the Gods had give him to terrible ends. If he could knit torn flesh and broken bones then he could reverse the process, and reverse it he did.

He was a horrifying demon, wreaking havoc and death until at last the Newcomers turned and ran from him, but by then it was too late. The People were gone. From the frailest elder down to the babe born yesterday, the People lay around him, slaughtered, the victims of the fear of their own kind, and their houses burned around them.

Forever stood silently as the two moons rose in the sky and the fires faded to smoldering ashes, until at last his grief found voice in a heart-rending howl of pain and he fell to his knees, shaking an impotent fist at the sky and the stars above him.

"Ye Gods! Why will Ye not let me die?!"

The shout, forced from a throat hoarse with the burn of unshed tears and unvoiced sobs, faded away, answered only by silence.

After a long time Forever stumbled to his feet and started walking, he cared not where he went, eventually finding his way to a forest, and collapsing at the foot of a large tree, sobbing out his grief and pain. His years had never felt so heavy on his shoulders. Three hundred and fifty two years were too much to bear. He curled up as he cried, cradling in his hand the one memento he had caught up as he left the Village, a cloak-pin Sira had made for him.

He didn't notice the cocoons around him, or the lack of life in the forest, or the strangely colored beings watching him. He only knew his sorrow and his exhaustion, and that sleep felt so welcoming. If only he could sleep away his pain . . .

Forever fell into a deep sleep, and never stirred as the strange little spirits spun a coccoon around him that froze his body in time. He only knew sleep and, for the moment, comforting dreams.

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