Daphne wasn’t sure how exactly she made it back down the prose-shaft to Runar.

One minute, she was standing on top of a boulder on the Silent Plains, too stunned to move, staring at the spot where her boyfriend had been eaten by a sentient whirlwind. The next thing she knew, she was underground, back on the Lorist Way, kneeling beside a wounded griffin.

Runar’s golden eyes were wide open now and horribly bloodshot. They stared past her at the door to the prose-shaft, apparently waiting for someone else to descend from the surface into the tunnel.

“The Reader,” Runar croaked in his hoarse, weary voice. “Where is he?”

“Mark.” Daphne’s own voice was much deeper than usual, and tight with rage. “His name is Mark. And he’s gone.”

The griffin’s gaze bored into her. “Gone?”

“Gone. The Wind ate him.”

Runar’s golden head bowed once, all the way to the floor. When he looked back up at her, his eagle eyes were full of tears.

“I am sorry… Daphne.”

Suddenly, Daphne’s fury evaporated, and with it, all her remaining inhibitions. All her high ideals about griffins being noble beings, proud creatures, vanished in a wave of shared grief.

She threw her arms around Runar’s neck and sobbed into his magnificent golden shoulder.

They stayed there for a long time, Daphne’s face buried in sweet-scented feathers while her hair soaked up the griffin’s tears. She could have stayed there a lot longer. Forever, actually. Mark was gone. What was the point of being anywhere, or doing anything, ever again?

And he wasn’t just gone. He had been eaten. Worse, he had been snatched away by an evil wind-monster born from Daphne’s own sick imagination.

She kept remembering bits from their last conversation, when he had stood in this very tunnel and comforted her as only Mark could.

I know you.

You’ve got a beautiful brain. It creates beautiful things.

Amelia didn’t have a friend from home to keep her on track in Euloban. You do. I’ll keep an eye on you.

Not only had Daphne lost her best friend and love of her life, but now she was the lone ‘real-world’ human in this dangerous fantasy world, just like Amelia had been. With Mark not there to keep her in check, what chance did this or any world have of surviving the Daphne Disaster Train?

As if in answer, Runar gave one last shuddering sob in her arms, then raised his head.

“We must away,” he said softly. His voice was clearer, as if the tears had cleansed and strengthened it. “Our supply of water is gone, and we are both wounded. We must reach the Dalamelle of Clarity.”

Daphne’s own voice had vanished, but her face must have expressed her dismay and protest. The griffin rested his forehead gently against hers.

“Remember, the Devouring Winds do not kill. They take. Mark has not perished. He is a prisoner, but he is alive.” Runar leaned back, fixing her with one more golden gaze. “And we will help him. But first, we must heal. We must rest. Agreed?”

Daphne felt numb, but somehow found herself nodding. Runar began struggling to his feet.

“Didst thou close the prose-shaft behind thee, on thy return?”

She couldn’t remember, but at least this was an easy fix. After helping Runar stand, she left him leaning on the tunnel wall as she darted back up the prose-shaft. There, she found that she had actually been quite efficient in her state of traumatized shock. The top entrance was mostly blocked by the large rock she’d noticed in the ditch on her first trip out of the prose-shaft. Around the rock, she could glimpse a screen of dead branches blocking off that part of the ditch.

And if all that failed, there was always the invisible air-shield, penetrated only by the mysterious phrase.

That reminded Daphne of a question she’d been in far too much of a hurry to ask earlier. Now her vocal cords were parched and shredded by sobbing, but once she made it back down to Runar, she managed to croak out the words.

“He wouldn’t have been able to get in,” she observed. “The Wordmage. Even if he saw where the prose-shaft was, he didn’t know the entrance words. So what was the point? Of hiding it from him?”

Runar’s eyes were grave. “The Wordmaster has grown strong. We cannot guess the full extent of his strength, nor its limits. If he knew the exact spot, he would bend all his might thither, and send the full might of his forces against the secrets of that prose-shaft. No power of the Lorists, however ancient and wise, could long withstand such a concentrated assault.”

She could read the subtext in his golden gaze. Mark’s sacrifice was not needless. His actions saved what is left of the resistance.

But she didn’t want to see it. She couldn’t stand to think about noble sacrifices, or epic battles, or that anything could make this agony worthwhile. Nothing could — not really.

So she just nodded, took up her place by Runar’s side, and helped him resume the journey down the Lorist Way.

Their progress was agonizingly slow. Even with all her support, the griffin could only manage about a dozen steps before stopping to wheeze painfully for several seconds. The welts left by the smog-chain all over his body showed no sign of healing or fading, and were clearly causing a great deal of discomfort. A few times, when Daphne could not help but brush against one as she repositioned her support-arm, Runar actually cried out. The sound was a strange mixture of an eagle’s screech and a lion’s yelp, and it tore into Daphne’s heart like a Devouring Wind through stagnant air.

Daphne’s hands were also in pretty rough shape. Even their brief contact with the Wordmage’s weapon had left them scarred and burning. The lingering effects on her mind were even worse. Every so often, especially if they’d stopped to rest, Daphne’s brain would do a brief tailspin. Her stomach would lurch, like she’d just taken an accidental step down, and her thoughts would scatter in panic.

Still, these episodes were fairly manageable. If she closed her eyes and took a few intentional deep breaths, the dizziness faded. The world came back into focus. She’d be woozy for another five minutes or so, but all the memories and thoughts from this horror-show day were once more sharp and clear… yay.

All this, from her hands touching the evil smog-chain for about ten seconds. Runar had been fully entangled in the foul thing for several minutes. She couldn’t imagine what his episodes were like, or how he was able to stay upright at all.

He didn’t complain, and she didn’t ask. It was a silent agreement not to give the faraway Wordmage and his punk of a boss any more satisfaction. They couldn’t shove the oily chaos-rope down Mud Man’s throat and make him eat it, but they could bear the lingering torment stoically. That was their revenge.

The revenge sucked.

Still, they kept going. And, eventually, Daphne began hearing a faint sound — a sound she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the sweetness of it stole into her ears like a healing salve.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

It was the sound of running water.

Runar must have heard it too. A tremor ran through his mighty shoulders, like a shudder of delight. The lovely sound seeped into their veins, strengthening their blood and allowing them to quicken their pace. Within a remarkably few minutes, woman and griffin were collapsing together on the shores of a small, bright stream.

The Dalamelle of Clarity was far smaller than the only other dalamelle Daphne had seen. This was not a meeting point of three great tunnels, but a waystation along one tunnel. The cavern roof was less than half the height of the Dalamelle of Triunity, and the open space between the Lorist Way tunnel entrances measured no more than thirty feet across.

The stream took up half that space, cutting across the path from the right and running to the left wall of the cavern. There, instead of continuing on into its own tunnel under the rock, it flowed straight up, disappearing into the ceiling. Daphne kept glancing at it, just to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks. But this was no optical illusion. Just like the perpetual fountain in the center of the other dalamelle’s lake, the water followed its own rules.

Despite its smaller size, this dalamelle still contained three alcoves, each complete with a bed. The walls were likewise lined with storage chests which no doubt contained preserved letter-fruits, writing supplies, and shiny bottle-pendants to outfit any number of Wordsmiths, Lorists, and Readers.

But at the moment, Daphne and Runar were heedless of all these comforts. Their tired, burning eyes saw only the stream, flowing with the pure waters of eloquence. As one, woman and griffin dunked their heads fully into the stream and drank deeply.

When they finally emerged several seconds later, Daphne’s head was spinning — not from smog-chain backlash, but from the potency of the water. It was such a pleasant change that she lost no time in going in for seconds.

Maybe I could get drunk, she thought dizzily. It was not usually a sensation Daphne relished, but no one could deny that it had been a hell of a day. If losing one’s boyfriend to a nightmare of one’s own devising wasn’t a good excuse to get absolutely wrecked, she didn’t know what was.

Unfortunately, Runar was recovered enough to exercise some practical, tough-love friendship.

“Thou must bathe thy hands,” he said, drawing her back from the water’s edge by a single talon hooked into her jacket collar. “And we both must eat. Then, if thou wouldst assist me…”

He looked grimly at the welts covering his body, and Daphne’s brain clicked into place.

“Right. The water.” Her head was still spinning, and her senses were suddenly, painfully sharp. The ‘Clarity’ part of this dalamelle was no joke. But that just meant she was at last able to function like someone with a reasonable Dexterity score. She knew what to do, and could do it quickly and expertly.

Euloban and its stingy level-ups could suck it.

First, she plunged her damaged hands into the stream. It was like pouring peroxide on a wound, then immediately wrapping the wound in soft gauze with soothing antibacterial lotion. She gasped at the initial sting, then sighed in contentment as the rapid healing reached the second, more comforting stage.

I wrote this, she remembered suddenly. The healing powers of Eloquent Water had definitely been part of her worldbuilding for the series. And that power reached all the way to her heart as she felt something brittle deep inside begin to soften.

You’ve got a beautiful brain. It creates beautiful things.

Maybe that was actually true… sometimes.

The healing waters, as her writing brain now recalled, worked fast. She allowed herself only a few seconds of reveling in the gorgeous feeling of relief before turning her attention to the far more pressing needs of her companion.

After a brief assessment, her newly heightened clarity told her that the easiest way to treat Runar’s wounds would be to immerse him fully in the stream. The griffin was reluctant at first, protesting that he didn’t want to taint the Eloquent Water with the Wordmage’s foul toxins. Daphne reasoned that said Eloquent water was far more powerful than any stupid Wordmage and his even stupider poison weapons. She further reasoned — quite eloquently, if she did say so herself — that Runar should quit being a baby and take his medicine.

Finally, the griffin allowed himself to be persuaded. She helped him into the pool, holding him upright through the first few stinging moments and using her hands to pour additional water over a few particularly troublesome wounds.

With a chill, Daphne realized she could actually see the poison leaving Runar’s body. It floated briefly, like a cloud in the clear water, then dissolved. Then the stream flowed on, just as bright and potent as before.

Daphne pointed this out to Runar as evidence that Eloquent Water beat Wordmage poison any day of the week. He nodded, but she wasn’t quite sure if he’d heard her. His eyes were closed, and a low sound kept rumbling from deep in his chest, almost like he was purring. Seeing that, she made the executive decision to shut up and let the griffin enjoy the healing-immersion to the fullest.

Many peaceful minutes later, Daphne helped an already much stronger Runar back to shore. They sat on the bank, eating preserved letter-fruits from the dalamelle’s stores and letting the sound of the water continue its healing work as it ran through their minds.

It still had a long way to go with Daphne. Now that the injury-crisis was resolved and the bustle of activity was over, her insides were swinging back to the emotional side of the day’s agonies. She was putting up an effort, at least. Mark hated seeing her get lost in the darkest parts of her soul-swamp, so for his sake, she was trying. She was trying not to think about the last time she’d sat by water in a dalamelle, tasting her first letter-fruit with Mark. She was trying not to think about where he might be right now, and how frightened and weary and hungry he must be. She was trying very hard not to think about words like ‘dungeon’ and ‘torture’. She was trying —

Something flashed in the water.

Daphne stared. She blinked. The ‘something’ flashed again.

“Runar…” Daphne nudged her companion, pointing a half-eaten ‘E’ at the stream. “What is that?”

Runar looked, gasped, and nearly fell in as he tried to stand.

“By all the Legends — I never thought — a Phrase, Daphne! ’Tis a Phrase!”

She stared at the flashing thing. Was it a fish? Or maybe, somehow, a bird? Finally, as it leapt out of the stream and back down again, she got a good look and realized the answer was… yes. To both. Sort of. It was like a fish and a bird got together and had a baby — a baby made entirely of light, so that it was almost transparent as it ‘flew’ through the water.

You’ve got a beautiful brain…

She swallowed. “A Phrase? Are you sure?”

Runar gave a reverent bow as the light-bird/fish performed another leap. “I have heard the tales, but never dreamed I would be so favored. Did thou never learn of the Phrases, in thy travels hither?”

“I — I did,” Daphne stammered. “But I thought they were, um, gods. Like, the pantheon of Euloban.” That’s how I wrote it, anyway, she thought, with a brief return of her earlier dizziness.

Runar smiled. “Nay, Wordsmith. The Phrases are not divine themselves, though they are signs and servants of divinity. They are vessels of the Great Story and messengers bearing its light. My kin do them honor, indeed, but we do not worship them.”

At that moment, the Phrase gave a third leap, then hovered just beneath the stream’s surface, sending up a single stream of water from its mouth.

Runar stared at the miniature living fountain, itself seeming to be made of pure light, while his beak cracked open. “By all the Legends,” he murmured again. “Daphne, it wishes us to drink.”

“Really?” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the shining arc of water. “Why?”

“We do not ask why. The Phrase is offering us a rare gift. We simply receive with thanks, and together.”

Daphne’s mind felt fuzzy. The clarity-dump had worn off, and she was just about at her wonder-limit for the day. Or for the rest of her life, honestly. She couldn’t muster up any of the awe Runar obviously felt appropriate for the occasion, but she also didn’t have the will to argue.

She nodded, then copied Runar as he bent his head to the stream. They drank the light-water from the Phrase, first the griffin, then the woman. As soon as they drew back, the fountain ceased, and the bright creature sank back into the stream. The water was so clear that Daphne saw the instant the creature dissolved. It was there, and then it was suddenly… not.

“Where’d it go?” she asked.

Runar bowed his head. “The Phrase offers such a gift only once,” he said somberly. “When it is done, so is the Phrase’s life. It hath spoken its word, and goes back to the silence from which all words come.”

Daphne was aware that she should be feeling something. Sadness, maybe, or at least interest. But she just couldn’t. She hadn’t even really tasted the light-water, or whatever it was. She was tired, down to the marrow of her soul. She wanted to sleep. More specifically, she wanted to fall asleep and wake up in her own bed, realizing this had all been a dream. She wanted to call Mark and ask him to meet her for breakfast at the corner deli, instead of lunch. But also lunch too. She wanted to tell him all about the dream, and see his eyes light up at the weirdness of it all. She never wanted to let him out of her sight again.

The Prism was buzzing in her pocket. It had gone cold again, sending out icy waves through her jacket and throbbing almost painfully against her side. She read the message loud and clear: I’ve had enough.

Me too, buddy.

“I’m tired,” she said out loud. She knew her voice was hollow, and flat, and not at all right for someone who had just received the incredible unique life-gift of a semi-divine Phrase. She didn’t care. She barely waited for Runar’s response before she wandered to the nearest alcove, pulled the curtain shut, and curled up in bed.

Her right hand nestled in her pocket, gripping the icy Prism.

Hey magic pen, she thought dully. If you’ve got any juice left, how about writing me a way home? Or even better, writing a way to Mark. Wherever he is.

Home, Mark. It was the same thing, basically.

The waves of cold from the pen rolled over her, pulling her consciousness down into a dark, shivering sleep.