But he knew that he
must stand his ground.
Then slowly, so slowly that at first he thought his eyes deceived him,
the shroud began to thin, and a grey light to grow in what he knew
must be the east. The fog began to patch, as the stubborn light grew
stronger.
Then suddenly they broke into the open, and the red sun climbed once
more above the rim of the world. He lowered his head in exhaustion,
closing his eyes at the last.
And when he opened them again, there on his left hand he saw the ring,
still clinging, forgotten, to the middle joint of his smallest finger.
A sob escaped him, undeniable. Because through all the numbing
darkness, the anguish, futility and death, its single jewel shone hard
and clear and perfect, untouched by the ravages of time, or the
treacheries of men. The tears flowed freely, passionately, for he knew
the Bastard had not beaten him.
His love survived.
Epilogue
Michael sat before a warm fire in the small island cottage,
contemplating the ring about his finger. It had remained there since
the night of the escape, and he had vowed not to take it off until his
mother had been freed, and he gave it once more to his betrothed, this
time in marriage.
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