She must reach out to him with living hands, and in death or
in life, calm the tortured spirit of her beloved.
The Standing Stone was just that, an uncarved granite tusk, thrusting
up from a high shelf which overlooked the ravine. She approached it
slowly, her senses returning. It did not need the reading of ancient
lore to make her stand in awe of it, or believe in its dark powers.
For this was a place known throughout the countryside, to be wondered
at by day, religiously avoided by night. It was said that the ghosts
of William Wallace and Mary Stuart could be summoned here by those
possessed of the black arts, as well as murdered warriors and
chieftains from the grim, violent times before memory.
She trembled at the sight of it, as everything beyond fell away,
shrouded by mist and distance. It was as if she stood at the edge of
the living world, opening upon the vague and endless sea of Death's
Kingdom. Her one desire was to turn and flee, back to the world of
daylight and living flesh. And yet she must not only force herself to
look upon it, but pass beyond, and standing in its far shadow, to call
upon the very darkness from which her spirit palled.
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