In Which Bernver's Spirits Are More than Dampened

March 2, 1164

He knew he was going to be late for supper if he took much longer, but Bernver was determined not to return home without some sort of gift for his wife. It was the fifteenth anniversary of the day they met, and he had always considered that to be even more important than the anniversary of their actual marriage; how could he have married her if he'd never met her in the first place?

He could remember his first glimpse of her as if it were yesterday. She'd been a mere girl of not yet fourteen, wildflowers braided in her coal-black hair. Wildflowers... he meant to bring her wildflowers.

There had to be a patch of them somewhere. He'd seen many a young man from around these parts present a sweetheart with a bouquet, and he doubted such lazy boys would bother wandering far. Indeed, it surprised him that they would even wander this far--perhaps he was better off searching nearer the villages.

The only splash of blue he could see was the sky; other than that, the world was green and brown. Surely any nearby flowers would jump to his eye the second he caught sight of them, the deep reds, the sunny yellows, the subtle violets...

Ah-ha! From the base of one of the trees, a glimpse of color caught his gaze. Crimson... golden... lavender... a whole rainbow in one bouquet! A fine centerpiece it would make; his daughter would love it for its beauty, his little sons would love it for its colors, and, most importantly, Avine would positively adore it. He couldn't wait to head home and see her smile.

Grinning to himself, he made his way toward the patch of flowers. Nothing--absolutely nothing--could dampen his spirits now.

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