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Late spring made Andrew sneeze and cough as the cool air stirred the pollen about the old park he frequented so often this year. He’d taken up to watching children play during the day as a hobby, his tired old bones ached; gave him more than enough to grump at his physician to dare mention walking to relieve the pain. He’d rather be reading the latest spell book or working out the latest intricacies of new spells if his hands were still steady, his eyes not clouding and his mind firmer than a softening sponge. Everyone told him that a war mage was a risky but glorious career; full of tales, women, power and fame. Codswhallop in his firm and irascible opinion.

Dull aches shot through his hips as the moist spring air settled in his bones. With a grumbled curse that could change red roses to crying dandelions, he fidgeted and resettled himself on the old park bench, his gnarled hands clutched upon a white birch cane with a silver carved head in the shape and effigy of Magrana, Battle Magus of Winslow Isles. Andrew thought the park benches should be padded, or perhaps nicer, fancier, something more than worn and tired looking like he was. Weathered, used and forgotten, the feelings brought a scowl to his scarred and wrinkled face, wind playing with the few wisps left of his blond hair on his bald pate; his gray eyes thought of the comrades he lost, yet he had survived every war.

He felt a twinge in his chest, the tickle and burn and he rummaged his hand into his old brown robes, once emerald green now worn and weathered in aged velvet and rotting silk. An off white cotton handkerchief was drawn out, the faded color of red once vibrant on it now fading pink. Andrew coughed deeply into it with several racking expulsions. His hand drew away and he took a long moment to breathe in and out steadily, clear his fuzzy mind as his wet lungs sought air. His gray eyes met twin golden orbs with the cut and fire of topazes that could be set in finest silver rings and yet were housed in the quizzical face of a scruffy white German shepherd. They stared at each other for a long moment before Andrew yelled at the dog.

”Out of here, you plague carrying mutt! Get! Get! Get!” He shook his cane to add to his menacing zeal at the white dog.

The white dog wuffled and skittered a few steps away from the old man and the bench. It trotted behind a black trash can and peeked around tar coated barrel to watch him, head tilted in quizzical study still.

”I can still see you, you damn mutt!” _Andrew shouted out tiredly. _"Fevran.."

He uttered the strange word and lifted the cane shakily at the garbage can. A small zap of energy hit the barrel and ricocheted into a bush setting shrubbery to exploding. The white dog bolted from the trash can and beyond the shrubs out of his sight. Andrew gave a satisfied grunt that the mangy mutt was gone. He liked being left alone to just watch the park. He needed no one. Didn’t want anyone. Just wanted to be left alone to watch. The children in the park were still about playing and it soothed the ache in his chest and he breathed a little better. He couldn’t recall when he drifted to sleep on the bench for a short nap, but he was aware of feeling cold. His mind wished he’d had a warm fire to be beside and to hear the sounds of his friends once more. Warmth touched his feet, then thighs and slid up in a close embrace to his chest, down his arms and finally warming his nose and ears. He remembered the cold nights out in the fields where noses and ears never thawed till late summer time.

Andrew woke from his short nap to find the children still at play in the park and that an unwanted guest had returned. The white mutt was lying on the bench, its scruffy head rested on its fore paws watching him. His foggy eyes must have been catching the afternoon sun wrong cause he thought the dogs white fur had a slight glow to it. He gave the dog a menacing grump and raised his cane shakily to chase it off again. The white dog saw the cane rise and it rose onto its paws quickly hopping off the bench and skittering back to the trash can for cover. Andrew paused in his threat as he felt the warmth slip from his body like the ebb and flow of the tide as the dog moved from him. The cold stole back up into him and the twinge was back once more having him cough into the old handkerchief once again. Once the spell of coughing ceased, he looked up from the handkerchief, gasping for air and noticed those golden eyes again staring at his. The warmth of a camp fire was once more soaking into his body, setting every joint and bone to soothing ease. He gave a scowl at the white dog for a long moment.

”Do as you wish mutt. I’m a horrible grump and mean company.” Andrew said wetly.

The white dog just barked once, did a circle or two of its body to amuse him and then hopped up onto the park bench by him and curled up comfortably next to him, head on its paws, watching the kids play in the park. Andrew watched the dog get comfy next to him and gave a grumbled note of displeasure. He disliked dog hair on his robes but he did enjoy the warmth. He noticed how the dog watched the children play. He leaned back on the park bench and renewed his watching of them too.

”Often watch kids play at this park, boy?” Andrew asked.

The white dog gave a disgruntled snort and wiggle of distaste. Andrew worked his mouth into thin line.

”Fine. Girl. Girl. Happy now? Hard to tell boys and girls apart with dogs with all that fur on you. So what, you belong to one of the kids out there? Looking for an owner? Lost?” Andrew said.

Andrew was given a silent look from the white mutt that spoke volumes about any thoughts that it was lost or owned. Andrew gave the scruffy dog a poke in the ribs with a gnarled finger.

”Magdelyn had a mutt like you once. Scrawny thing, ornery cuss too. Why she never got rid of it for a more proper familiar was beyond me. You can’t understand women, especially witches. Have a lot of bizarre notions about the proper course of magic and the like when used for wars. She always tried to play by the good books, be nice, do no harm, avoid bad juju, and she fell first in the wars. She always wanted kids, went on and on about how children were the future and some madness about cycles and circles. Never saw the archers that flanked us and pinned her to the ground like a wild quail.”

The white dog gave a small woof and wuffle at the rib poke and comment about women but its ears canted forward as the old man spoke. Soon those ears were folded back by a gnarled hand that began to stroke its white furred head.

”She would have loved seeing the kids playing in this park. That little blonde tike there has the same carefree smile and dance Magdelyn had. She wasn’t the only odd one of our small band. She was the tamest by far. Santerlorn the Red was a kook that loved the moons, their ways and paths and quite fond of skinny dipping in the lake under the pretense that full moonlight and bare skin in water was the best way to restore ones energy after a long days battle. We all knew it was just his way of getting as close to the women for quick affairs as possible.

_Rumors about the camp say he’d come from a heritage that hid a dark secret. Satyr blood or some sort, so being amorous was quite the way with him. Telling him not to love was like telling a man not to breath or drink or sleep. He was fast with spells, a quick study and could always adapt to the fields every changing danger during war. Yet the dangers of war are not always on the field with spell and sword, arrow and spear. No, he was found after a nights hold over at an inn, poisoned in an empty bed that he’d taken a girl or two into that night. Enough coin will buy anyone’s loyalty and a man’s life. He was in such a twisted, agonized state in his final repose that it was a cruel poison used upon him. He was full of life and snuffed without any chance to defend himself. He’d be the one out there that keeps taking the ball away trying to get some of the brunettes to chase him.” _

Andrew chuckled and covered his lips for another cough or two. The hand stroking the white mutt had slowed until it weakly perched upon its head. A small wiggle forward and the dog laid its shaggy head in his lap. He looked down at the dog with a bit of amusement.

”Getting pushy and too cozy are we? At least you have better matters than Erin. Son of a cook, that boy was. Rotund as his father’s cook pot and noisier than an ogre after a large sampling of cabbage and beans. Social graces of a gully dwarf as well but a natural at Geomancy. He could turn the battlefields to quagmires in seconds, bog down whole armies. He had a love and passion for herbology like no one else I knew. You could sniff that grass and wet it mutt and he’d tell you what you just ruined. We could talk on end for nights on the various cultures of loam weeds and hops used for various pipe smokes and brewmeisters. He was always telling me the right type of leaf to get for my pipe at a fraction of a price.

Had he not been such a robust lad, I could have held onto his hand longer. No one saw the avalanche coming along the mountain side, then again it was not natural, and the enemy had once again paid for our whereabouts. He was thrown off his mule and over the side of the cliff trail. I was on foot, my horse had thrown a shoe and I was giving it light treatment. Even then, I barely caught his hand, looked into his brown eyes and heard him casually say, ‘Just remember Andrew, it’s the Tippum leaf you want, not the Birnum leaf.’ And like that he slid out of my hands into the crags and chasms of the Royver Crags. I always imagined he’d be the child over there that’s always carrying a small box of treats and never really playing at all with the other.”

The petting had stopped and he just sat there watching the children, forgetting the scruffy companion keeping him warm. His gray eyes misted some as he thought more.

”They say battle mages live grand, glorious lives that are short lived, full of fame and glory and full of songs and lore. They never speak of the old battle mages. The ones that live, that never died in battle and are never remembered in songs and lore. You have to be dead for that. If you live, you just sit, and age and watch more and more people fade from you. Magrana, the Battle Magus of Winslow Isles told me on my first day of training that I’d have a lot of potential. That I’d make a name for myself and die gloriously. I was assigned to his battle unit personally yet, here I sit rotting away. Magrana, the best mage we had died in his tent on the last week of our campaign by a deadly snake bite. He’d lived through countless wars, traded spells with the best of them and in the end, a lowly serpent got him while he slept.

I returned home that year, the wars over, the only mage left of the Winslow 1st Wand, the Staff of Magrana in my hand, the ghosts of my four colleagues as my only companions. Though naturally I couldn’t let their memories go by the way side. What monster would I be if I did? Magdalyn was sung of for many years in the chapels and halls as the Saint of Peace and Protection dying on a bridge to hold back the hordes as wounded were pulled to safety. Santerlorn lives forever as the mage that bested the Black Cloak in a duel securing victory at the loss of his life after the last blows left him cursed to solidify to stone. Erin is now the patron Saint of Eternal Slumber and Rest as they sing heralds of how he collapsed and entire mountain complex upon the western army of the Mordala Empire.

Magrana’s tale though was a piece of work. To this day he is sung and lauded as the Magus that continues the eternal battle between good and evil keeping the Ember Druid at bay from entering the Winslow Isles realms. As for I, Andrew Olenton, Mage 1st Class, Veteran of the Burning Wars, Sole Survivor of the Winslow 1st Wand, am nothing. Just a man that did his duty, and was unremarkable and unable to save the greater heroes from their doom.”

Andrew felt coolness begin to seep into his toes as if he’d begun to wade into cold water for a dip. He kept watching the children play as the white mutt nuzzled his hand that lay gently upon its head.

”None of us had asked for glory or fame. We just wanted to do our duties but for the most part we just wanted to enjoy life again like those __children at play. We’d often talk about _ what it’d be like to be kids once more, how our childhoods were like, what we’d do over again had we the ancient power to cheat fate. The irony is, I get the feeling I’m watching the memories of my comrades out there every day at play, for who could mistake the joy and exuberance a child has as universal to what we all want to feel as children or the aged pining to be young again. I do not envy my friends, they were spared the cruelty of living long lives dealing with minds warped and enfeebled by horrors beyond description. They were spared watching their bodies grow old frail with the rot of death. For that is what is happening every day I come here. Slowly more of me dies upon this handkerchief, then I will be gone and no more. I will have no song, no hymns, no stories, just a marker and a faded memory on the pages of history.”_ Andrew said.

The scruffy dog just wuffled and nudged the cane in his hand and began to bathe his fingers. It looked from him to the kids, then back to him again. Andrew watched the scruffy dog act oddly and felt the coldness move up to his knees then he noticed his hands were young again, no longer gnarled and aged. He felt the pains of age and time melt from him as he sat there. The feeling of health and freedom gave him fantastic boldness to be young again and feeling full of vigor he stood. He was shorter than he remembered, younger and in the clothes of a child. He felt he had nodded away into sleep again, the coldness he still felt at his knees, but if this was a dream, he wanted to enjoy it. He left the bench, the white dog forgotten as he left the cane, the sorrows, the memories all abandoned to play with the children. The white dog remained on the bench, on guard with the cane and the napping body of an old man in brown mage robes. Golden eyes glowed as it watched children young and old play in the growing dusk of the day.

Andrew must have played for hours with the children, reveling in the games of youth once more, showing off little magic tricks he had learned as a child and regaling the fondness to be a travelling magician performing for people. As they played he could see the other children were familiar to him, a laugh here, a talk about nature there, herbs and tobacco leaf dancing among conversations of cookies and candy. Even the false bragging of little boys trying to be leaders reminding him of Santerlorn and Magrana. He must have been in a dream for they all smiled at him while they played; secrets held deep in the eyes of the young.

_”You’ll be playing with us more, Andrew. Soon. Really soon. We’ll be waiting here at the park for you when you’re ready to play some more. Everything moves in circles and cycles.” _They all said to him.

Andrew looked at them all with confusion and he felt the coldness was past his knees and up to his chest now. He couldn’t feel his hands. He was no longer with the children. He was on the old worn park bench, watching them play from afar as if he'd never scraped a knee playing tag, looked at blades of grass, even held a small hand as they all ate cookies. The campfire warmth was flagging around him, failing to keep him warm. He shivered, but with his full mind back he understood some things now that Magdalyn had said. He felt ashamed for calling her crazy and dumb. Numbly he felt a warm hand gently squeezing his gnarled, grave cold fingers. He looked over to the white dog and instead found a woman wrapped in a lavender robe, her skin tanned richly, hair as white as snow, and golden eyes staring into his grey eyes. He felt a stammering astonishment to see that the dog was not a dog. His mind had grown so feeble that all the signs before him had gone unnoticed.

”Such a fool I was. Such a cruel man I am for chasing you off too. I feel I now know why I have come to this park. I know why now that you are here." _Andrew held out his cane weakly. _"_Take it. Take it. I know you will find the boy that awaits my soul to awaken in him. You know what to do with the cane, don't you, Ahmeh, maiden of Chaos, the Sun Bride." _

Ahmeh gently accepted the cane and held a small smile upon her face. "Few meet me in this form Andrew. Few see beyond the fur, the dirt, the fleas and more. You have had the grace granted to you by nipping darkness of eternal sleep to see past my illusions. I am pleased and honored to hear your request. I will grant your rebirth, than you may join your comrades once more in the joys of youth. I know of a boy three blocks down, he just received a magicians kit, his parents know of his delight in making coins disappear. He is a bright boy, but his mind and soul glow dim, waiting for the right hand to adjust the wick and burn bright. You will be his watchmen, his tenant, married to his soul Andrew. I will make it so or give up this form for another century to be reborn myself. Now take thy ease, the even time has a chill."

Ahmeh gave his hand a few more squeezes then she was but a scruffy white German Shepherd once more. They sat together watching the children more, the late afternoon boasting a wintry cold for a spring day. Andrew shivered a few moments more feeling lighter and feebler of mind. The white dog pressed close to him, sharing what warmth she could. His gray eyes watched the sun setting on the park, the children all called to their homes for supper, leaving the park quiet and lonely save him and the white dog on the bench. With his last breath he uttered words into the cooling evening breeze.

”Sing of the tales of Andrew Olenton . . . The Saint of Friendships and Keeper of Tales . . . may he . . . forever . . . be . . . remembered, Ahmeh.”

Andrew saw no more sunsets as he felt the cold completely wash over him like an undertow beneath a lake frozen over. The white dog sat up on the bench and gave the old man’s cheeks several nuzzles that brought no response. Its golden eyes watched the body then its gaze trailed sky ward as a few stars glimmered in the new born twilight. The park echoed as the white dog filled twilight evening with three, long sentry howls, lonely and valiant in their sound like a guard finally calling an end to a sacred watch. The white dog took the cane in its muzzle and leaped off of the park bench. A Watch patrol was coming, no doubt the howls and the white dog knew the mages body would soon be found and handled. Head bowed for a moment in respect, the white dog left the park.

Three days passed and a mother was sitting on that old bench at the park. She was watching her son play with the other kids and performing magic tricks with a cane of white birch with a head of silver carved in the form of some magician. It was her son’s 13th birthday today and they had found the cane on their doorstep, a gift from some distant relative that could not be remembered with certainty. Now she and her son were at the park, a birthday treat for him to enjoy entertaining his new found friends. She watched him making rabbits disappear, card tricks and having the time of his life. She never did understand why her son Bill Olerton picked the stage name Andrew Olenton. Perhaps it was a new hero in a book he read during a long, fatiguing illness that had kept him in bed for months. She was just happy he was happy with his friends and succeeding in something where her son usually failed in normal childhood hobbies. Her son somehow seemed finally complete and healthy.

The scruffy white dog entered the park and sat near the trash can, it took a long moment to watch the children play. Each child glowed with health and vitality with a shadow belonging to those decades older and wiser. The white dog's golden eyes seeing the real truth, glanced up to the sky where the stars were sleeping during the day. Several of the stars were dimmer in the heavens as they shone brighter on the mortal realms once more. Scratching its neck the white dog trotted away amidst the laughter and delight of children entertained by a budding stage magician. The Circles and cycles moved in the celestial clock of life. As the white dog trotted down alleys and bustling streets, a voice would echo wherever it went; a soft, lulling sweet voice that any singer would desire.

"This is the tale of many tales, of brave and fancy delights. Listen well my dear people about the feats and adventures tonight. Have you heard of Saint Andrew, the Keeper of Tails? Have you heard of Lorlen the Saint of Friends this night? Grab mead and grog, bed down with lover and roast hog, for tonight we delight in heroic fights of the Winslow 1st Wand ... __This is the tale of many tales, of brave and fancy delights. Listen well my dear people about the feats and adventures tonight ..."