Around the time Phil and I started writing this chapter, I lost my Uncle Stan to a sudden aneurysm, suffered while he was picking up the morning newspaper (yes, the one made out of paper left on the doorstep). I have been extraordinarily lucky not only to have a large and relatively tight-knit family, but also to have lost very few of them before their time. That said, you don’t attend any family funeral without getting shaken up a little. So I got to thinking on this reread if I was working out any feelings of grief or guilt through the story of Naror’Nj’s equally abrupt demise…

And I gotta say, not really. Not directly, anyway: some of Faer’s reaction may have come from observing that of Stan’s wife Mary Bet. But Byron’s reaction to Gr’Zl’s end is a lot closer to what I, personally, felt about losing Stan: I regretted not asking him certain things, getting to know him as a fellow adult, getting his perspective. We never know how much time we have. But for the loss of someone with whom you had a tangled love-hate thing, I had to think about my friends’ experiences, not my relatives’.

Let’s lighten this up a little with Mordecai’s comment on this page: “HELLO LADIES. LOOK AT YOUR WOOD ELF. NOW BACK TO ME. NOW BACK TO YOUR WOOD ELF, NOW BACK TO ME. SADLY, HE ISN’T ME, BUT IF HE STOPPED WORSHIPPING LADY-SCENTED DEITIES, HE WOULDN’T BE BURNING TO A CINDER IN THE ALL-CONSUMING FLAMES OF MY WRATH. LOOK DOWN, LOOK UP, WHERE ARE YOU? YOU’RE IN A FOREST CONSUMED BY THE GOD WHOSE SACRED FLAMES YOUR WOOD ELF WAS INCINERATED BY. WHAT’S IN YOUR HAND? I HAVE IT. IT’S THE ARM OF YOUR WOOD ELF GODDESS BEING SACRIFICED TO WAKE ME FROM MY DREAD SLUMBER. THE ELF GODDESS ARM IS NOW A MERE STICK BLAZING IN THE HEAT OF MY TERRIBLE POWER. ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE WHEN YOU WORSHIP THE FIRE LORD OF THE SAVAGE RACES. I’M RISING UP THROUGH THE EARTH.”