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We, the sons of Dâr, knew, later, that she was not Tamsin.
We had seen Tamsin dive down into the sea, we had seen him reach the fire, and for a moment we had seen the fire - the branch of the flame imperishable for which our father had sold his soul - gutter out. And then we were once again clothed in flesh - in skin and bone - in the square that held the basin with its honey-amber crystals as our mother cried out, “O my sons! Look how you have returned to me, beyond all hope!”
And there before us, kneeling before us, fair of skin and hair like shadow, was the Singer.
We had not forgotten Klara, exactly, but we were a set of seven, and we had only ourselves for those long long ages Tamsin wandered alone, unhearing, unseeing, cursed. We had seen Tamsin grasp the flame imperishable, and here was a Singer, hands burnt as our father’s hands had been burnt, the flame imperishable alive once more in its crystalline bowl.
And then Klara stood, and without a word she walked away.
Even with the midnight blue of her dress, even with the silver stars arrayed in her hair, even with our mother gathering us close, it still took us longer to realize that it had been Klara standing there in the square with us, and not Tamsin, who we had last seen at the bottom of the sea, his hands burning as he cupped that branch of the flame imperishable we had all thought to be irretrievably lost, down in the deeps where it had been so cold and dark that even we, spirits that we were felt fear, let alone fear for Tamsin who had been used so sorely by life -
We knew, later, that she was not Tamsin.
But oh, the cry we let out when she walked away.
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We, the sons of Dâr, were thrice strangers to this new world we found ourselves in. We had been dead and now we were not. We had spent an age at war, and now we were not. And it had been more than an age since we had been to the City of Those Who Make, and we were surprised to find that there were so few in the city who gave truth to its name.
We had known the King of Elfland of course, and he reigned here as he had claimed to Over the Waves, but he had grown older in a way we hadn’t know immortal beings such as we were could.
And the fourth morning after we had been returned, our mother came to us, still lost and huddled together in her home, and she told us that Tamsin was not lost and gone forever, only waiting, sleeping, healing as we had been told so many of our people had rested in the Halls of Rest.
We had not known, then, of those of our people who had already returned, and we had not known, then, of those of our people who faded or were otherwise lost even with after returning from their rest.
We had not known, then, that none but Klara Sang any longer, nor that few seemed to make music or sing at all.
We, the sons of Dâr, had only that same confidence, then, in the promise out mother related as our father had in trading his soul after death for the branch of the flame imperishable. We knew more of death than our father had at the beginning of the world, but we did we know of life returning?
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We were not alone in seeing her shadow-dark hair and assuming that she was Tamsin. We would have thought, after an age of Tamsin’s absence, after an age as an important figure - the Great Enchantress of the Old City she was, the Lady of Starlight, the Lady of Shadows - that enough would know of her in her own right to know the difference between our brother and her.
And yet, even we who should know better sometimes saw her out of the corner of our eyes and turned with a question for Tamsin. She did not truly look like our brother if one looked closer, but few did look closer. We remembered sometimes that Tamsin used to wear gold, before we left to go Over the Waves. He’d worn gold to match his golden voice, and silver only after we left and left Silver Voiced Klara behind.
Klara did not seem to care about the mistake - certainly she never said a word to correct anyone.
Our mother named Klara her daughter, and thus she named Klara our sister, and so there were seven of us again for now, if not seven sons of Dâr.
We learned of the fates of those who had returned from the Halls of Rest as they came to us, in ones and droves. Some asked why Daerleon, the eldest among us, did not take up the crown of Elfland.
The King of Elfland hated us for it, as ever he had resented us for our influence as he followed us Over the Waves. But the King of Elfland was too canny now to refuse when Daerleon requested a meeting, and thus did Daerleon set himself the task of organizing a tournament of arms.
There was archery, and sword duels, and jousting, and melee, and all the other martial amusements that would send the crowds to their feet in gleeful cheering when one side or the other landed a good blow.
There was no Singing, though some singers did ply their trade in the carnival of stalls outside the fighting grounds and among the camping tents of those who came from far and wide to participate.
The tournament was a success, and so of course it was to happen again, and then again, and then again and again ad nauseum.
The years passed.
It became known that Tamsin did not return with us.
The years passed.
Our names were no longer associated with the pall of war, but not so his.
He was still Tamsin Korrokaith, the Thrice Accursed, Tamsin Tamurzîn, the Death Singer.
Daerleon had led him, had ordered him forth, but always always Tamsin took the blame in rumor and memory. Daerleon had lived the longest, but for Tamsin. Daerleon had been there with Tamsin as they both threw away every other consideration but the Oath, and yet he was not so reviled.
The elves of Elfland still sung the Dawnsong, all unknowing that Tammorath, the Golden-Voiced, was Tamsin.
Klara wrote songs about him. Klara wrote songs about all of us, had written songs about all of us, had sung and Sung about all of us, had controlled the narrative. It had started Over the Waves perhaps, but it had been an age and more since then. This, then, was the narrative Klara wanted? This was the story that those born later were to be told?
She played the flute Forro made for her and relearned how to enjoy singing.
It was spring, eventually, after the King of Elfland’s wedding. Always spring and never summer.
(The sun was difficult to bear at times even so. We had spent ages under its light, so different form the soft light of the lamps, and still, it was so bright.)
We all . . . settled. Klara found herself a house in the Old City, and her neighbor Minyana was two ages younger, and Minyana’s daughter Juniper younger still. We took up our crafts again, though it was not the same, never the same.
We imagined sometimes what Tamsin might be like as we hung on the promise of his return. The Halls of Rest healed - but how much could they heal? Tamsin lost his voice Singing the dragon to death. Tamsin lost his hands protecting Armion’s corpse. Tasmin, silent as death by the end, and as deadly. Tasmin as he left to go Over the Waves, as bright and terrible as the sun.
What would he be like in returning? How would his wounds heal?
Would he return? Klara promised, our mother promised, but after all he had endured . . .
We had endured longer than we had waited, haunting Tamsin. And no longer were we enduring life, even if we were still learning to live it.
Sometimes still we saw Klara, and thought she was Tamsin, but more and more she was only ever herself in our minds.
Always spring, and never summer, but our hope was evergreen. Perhaps it would die one day, as even evergreens must, but for now it lasted. For now, we waited.
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And then - there he was.