In which Grandma Luna says farewell.

The little village by the sea thrived and prospered around Luna, and there she remained for many long, happy years. Seventeen winters went by, howling winds stripping the trees bare, and seventeen springs came, breathing new life into them.

Her garden was ever in bloom, come sun, rain or frost, but a strange coldness crept deeper into her very bones each day, a chill that not even the warmest fires could chase away. Streaks of white shot through her hair, until not a strand of brown was left. Her winter was approaching.

She could feel herself growing old.

It was high time that Alvar took charge of things. He'd turned twenty last month, big enough to take responsibility. He managed the shop quite well, handled housework and much of the heavy lifting around the garden--all the digging, carrying, pruning and cleaning. He pulled out weeds, watered the plants, made repairs and kept track of all sales in the big ledger at the shop. Luna needed not even lift a finger.

But it was the magic he shied away from. It seemed he did the other chores just to leave that part up to her.

Each time she brought it up, he'd try to put it off. One morning, she caught him on his way out of the shop, when the first of the customers had left. His answer was no different than before.

"I'll do it later," he said. "Gotta repaint the fence. The old paint's chipping off."

"Later this and later that! When is this later, my lad? Next year?"

"Well..." Alvar shrugged, grinning. "Why not?"

"What if I'm not around next year?"

He chuckled, and swung open a cupboard, grabbing a can of paint and a brush. "You going off on a trip without me, Gran?"

Luna sighed and leaned against the counter. "I'm growing old, you know."

His smile faded. "I know."

"You should learn the craft when you still have time. That way, you'll have no trouble figuring things out when--I'm not around. There is magic in this very soil, dear, and magical things require special care," she said. "The flowers can withstand the hardest winter, but not neglect."

"I won't neglect them," he said quietly. He reached up and took his straw hat from where it hung on a hook. When he put it on, it hid half his face. "I'll learn those spells. After I'm done with this."

But after the fence was painted, there came many buyers, one after another, and later, he ran to the market to buy a new pair of shears, and later, it was time to hang up the washing. One thing always came up after the other, and he never made the time.

Luna knew he didn't put it off because he was lazy.

"It's because he's afraid," said Ilaira. "Taking up your work means he has to face the truth--that you are not long for this world. He's running away from that notion."

"For how long? I'm not getting any younger. A few years at most is all I've got, you know," said Luna. She leaned over the water and saw her own worried expression staring back. Her journal lay cast aside, forgotten. She'd come here by the lake, to clear her mind a little and get some writing done, but had not been able to put down a single word in hours.

Ilaira's eyes were downcast. "This is the hardest part about befriending humans," she said. "It feels like we met just yesterday, and you are already growing old!"

Luna smiled. "And look at you, you haven't aged at all."

"I will not, not in a hundred years nor a thousand, so long as this lake remains and the forest lives on. Parting with old friends is sorrowful indeed, but I would still have the trees, the mountains and the stars to keep me company."

"I wish I could say the same about my boy," said Luna.

Alvar never quite got to know his siblings or parents, who were but distant memories for him. Elena was away at sea most of the time. The village folk were kind to him, and Ruth would take him in any day, but in terms of family, they only had each other.

"He's not a child anymore, I'm sure he will get by somehow. But things won't be the same once I'm gone," she said. "I'm not sure he is ready to face that yet."

"Change can be fearsome," agreed Ilaira. "Even I sometimes fear what I would do if this lake dries up one day. The world is ever changing, and we don't know what awaits us around the corner."

"Then what should I do?"

"Why, you'll do what you have always done." Ilaira swam closer. Reaching over, she took up the journal and placed it back in Luna's hands. "Finish what you began. Leave your wisdom behind on paper. When the right time comes, he will learn. Let him do things at his own pace."

She flipped through the pages, each one cramped with notes and pictures. What had once begun as a means of jotting down home remedies and recipes for soup, had essentially become a guide to gardening magic, interspersed by passages where she talked at length about life at Frostspire --the deep forest, the misty mountains, the windy beach. She'd heard about a magical gemstone called the Ocean Stars, and the locals said they were found at the bottom of the sea, and she'd written about them too. There was the picture of the ursanthus tree, and here were the instructions on how to summon a demon, seamlessly hidden within a harmless recipe. She'd come a long way from where she began.

She had only a few more pages left. A few essential spells to aid the growth of plants--and she was all set.

Luna spent the next few days working on the last pages. Now that Alvar handled most of the work, she had time enough to pick up knitting once more--something that she hadn't done in a long while.

She began working on a scarf. For that, she picked a deep crimson red yarn--like the red chrysanthemums that bloomed by the gate in autumn.

"Who's that for?" Alvar asked when he saw it.

"Don't look!" she said, covering it up with her arms when he peeked over her shoulder. "It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Fine, fine!" He surrendered and walked away. "I'm not looking!"

And when no one was looking , she imbued the threads with protective wards. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary scarf fit for a chilly day, but she enchanted it so it would protect the wearer from greater harm when the need arose.

It was supposed to be a last gift for Alvar. Her days were limited. She worked hard to finish it, even if knitting for too long gave her headaches nowadays.

One day, a newcomer showed up at her shop.

She was watering the tulips, and Alvar was near the gate, readying a pile of white roses for sale. A young man in a green cloak strode in. He had hair like spun gold and eyes a deep blue-grey like the sea. He had a staff in one hand, a big green stone set on top of it. One look at him, and Luna knew his trade.

He was a wizard.

"Good day!" He greeted them with a soft smile. "Do you have black henbane?"

Alvar, who ought to have gotten to his feet by now and answered the question, was dumbstruck, staring at the stranger in awe.

The wizard was ever at ease. He lowered his hood and knelt beside Alvar, looking at the roses.

"These look incredible," he said. "Do you grow them with magic?"

As Alvar fumbled for an answer, he got his finger caught between the pruner blades he'd been working with. Blood spilled over the white petals, spoiling an hour's worth of work. He hissed in pain.

"See, dear, this is why I tell you to be careful with these things!" Luna rushed to him and freed his hand from the pruner.

"Hold on," said the wizard as he began to fumble through his satchel. Potion bottles chinked and clattered together. "I can fix this."

And so he did. The newcomer wizard was well-versed in the art of healing. She was so pleased to meet a fellow practitioner of magic, she gave him a bunch of henbane for free.

Later, she learned his name was Lars and he'd taken up residence in the house high in the mountains by the cliff.

He came by her shop quite a few times, looking to replenish his stock of herbs--but mostly to ask Alvar if the wound was healing well. That was a silly thing to ask indeed, for such minor injuries healed by magic always healed well, but Luna did not mind. He was a charming fellow to be around. He admired her flowers and purchased many. The chrysanthemums were his favourite. Alvar even gave him a bunch for free.

Luna could not finish making the scarf. Her vision worsened day by day, and she slept for long hours, much longer than usual.

Autumn passed into winter, and the cold got to her at last.

Leaving the unfinished scarf on the armchair, she went to bed early one afternoon, just to lay down for a bit. But this time, she did not recover.

Her vision blurred, and a dull ache rose in her chest. At times it was hard to breathe, and she was cold--so very cold that she could not even feel her legs.

Alvar was devastated, but still hopeful that he could nurse her back to health. He didn't open the shop anymore, didn't look after the garden, investing every waking hour in her care instead.

"You haven't watered the flowers for days, have you?" she said, when he entered with her supper.

"I've got no time for them," he said. "Here, have some stew."

He offered her a spoonful, but she turned her face away. "You promised you wouldn't neglect them."

He forced a smile, trying hard to hold onto the last bits of hope. "Don't worry about it, Gran. You can work some spells and make them alright in a moment. But for that, you gotta get well soon. Isn't that right?"

Luna did not answer. Alvar fed her supper in an increasingly unbearable silence, until he blurted out, "should I go and get Lars to have a look at you? You know last week he--"

"No," she said.

"Why not?"

She leaned back against the heap of pillows and closed her eyes, feeling one of those bouts of dreamless sleep beginning to take hold of her once more. She'd worked with magic for many long years of life, and she knew its inner workings, its strengths as well as limitations.

"Magic has no cure for old age," she told him.

In Alvar's eyes, there was disbelief. "No. I'm sure he can save you. Wizards have that sort of power, don't they?"

"This is a fate that awaits all mortals, dear. No one has the power to reverse that."

All the light drained from his bright eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he looked tired. He'd been working himself to the bones, but only now did the exhaustion show.

She reached up to touch his face and he flinched. Her hands were ice cold.

"You're freezing!" he said. He put another blanket around her. Slowly, he sank to his knees by the bedside. "Why are you so cold all the time?" he muttered, rubbing her palms to keep them warm.

Soon, hot tears streamed against her hands as he began to sob, clutching them close to his heart.

"There's a journal on the table upstairs," she said with an effort. "Red cover. It's got my name on top. That's for you. Read it when I'm gone."

He sobbed harder. Luna didn't think he heard her. She drifted off to sleep.

She knew she had little time left, and wished to spend it with the ones she loved the most.

A day later, Elena arrived. Ruth and her family seemed to be present all the time. She heard them talk around her, and listened to their footsteps. It was hard to tell who was who. Voices mixed together and faces blurred.

She could hear everyone except Alvar. He never spoke after their last conversation. But he was always at her side, until the very last night.

That night, her vision seemed to return all of a sudden, all clear and bright as if she were young again.

She was young again.

There was dirt on her hands and flowers in her hair. Long waves of dark brown cascaded down her back, not a trace of silver left. The terrible coldness was all gone from her body and her limbs were strong once more.

She stood upon a bridge, below which ran a river of stars. There were stars overhead too. Around her, the very air seemed to shimmer.

"Luna!"

She turned around, hearing a familiar voice call out to her.

They stood there, at the far end of the bridge. Her granddaughters, Linnea and Hazel. Her son, Filip. Amelia, his wife. They all looked healthy, so very full of life, as if the plague had never so much as touched them.

And at the lead, there was Oliver.

Even he was young once again; the wonderful man whom she had fallen in love with on a summer afternoon so many years ago, whose bright eyes and gentle smile she cherished in her heart forever, who had built her that beautiful home in Eastmoor.

He stretched out a hand to her. "It's time, Luna."

Far away from this scene of sweet reunion, the old woman in her deathbed smiled, a lovely smile that would linger long after her heart ceased to beat.

"Time for what, dear?" she murmured, drifting off to sleep from which she would never wake.

"It's time to go home," said Oliver.

The young Luna upon the Bridge of Stars began making her way to the far end, to join the others.

She was going home at last.

The End