Olindoir clung stubbornly to life for another year, his wasted body increasingly wracked with pain. It was, thought Ainfean each time she saw him, a cruel death for a warrior who had once stood tall and proud by her side as their enemies fell around them. Olindoir declared her to be an idiot when she tentatively suggested as much; he got to spend all that time with Ilyasviel. It was, he said, a fair exchange.

Ainfean didn’t think there was much fairness in evidence but she couldn’t disagree. Ilyasviel anger towards Ainfean had cooled somewhat; there was still frostiness in their exchanges but they were, at least, polite. Ainfean’s nose had received no further abuse at Ilyasviel’s hands.

Olindoir had been unconscious for several weeks, seemingly beyond the reach of the pain at last, before he finally slipped away.

The message reached Ainfean just after dawn. The sky above her head as she stepped out on to the balcony of her room was a mix of yellow and pink, and the air was still and gently cool upon her skin. The last of the one hundred, the last soldier of what had become known as the Iron Legion, was gone. Only she now remained. There was an ache in her chest, like the muscles of her heart were cramping up; she looked out over the city that was just waking up and wondered if this was a foretaste of the future. Was that her destiny, standing alone at the end, the last one left?

There was another feeling though, something lurking guiltily at the back of her mind: relief, the feeling of a burden being lifted from her shoulders. There was only the song left to sing; the final act of her friend’s life. They would gather at sunset and stand in silence until Ilyasviel began to sing. Again, for the hundredth time, Ainfean would hope for the wind to blow.

“To die:—to sleep:

No more; and, by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished,” she recited from memory. Olindoir had always poked fun at her love of quoting from the few human books that had found their way into the realm of faery, and he had rolled his eyes in despair when she occasionally referred to her father as Oberon, or at least he had once she had explained the joke.

It was a small gathering in the temple by the lake, only five other people, and of them Ainfean only recognised Ilyasviel. It was fewer people than Olindoir deserved, thought Ainfean; even now, centuries after the Iron Legion’s first and last battle, the old suspicion and fear lingered. Each of them wore a simple robe of deep red that swept the ground and had wide, billowing sleeves. Only if you looked closely could you see the faintest embroidery, delicate swirls of silken red thread.

The temple itself was open on all four sides, the peaked roof held up by spiral columns of glass and stone. Around them, long white candles burned, their flames straight and true in the still twilight air, the smoke giving the air the faintest hint of a sweet, teasing scent.

Olindoir lay on a plinth in the centre of the temple, wrapped in silken blankets that did little to disguise his wasted body.

Ilyasviel was staring straight ahead, her back as rigid as Ainfean’s sword, her blank expression set in stone. Only the thin glittering trail of a tear running down her cheek betrayed the emotional storm that raged behind the mask. Elves were always composed, never slaves to their feelings.

Ainfean’s eyes were dry - she had stood at too many of these ceremonies over the years to let the pain show through - but she had always thought the insistence on composure did more harm than good; she had seen elves on the battlefield howling for a fallen comrade and she had never thought any less of them. She certainly didn’t think that her own lack of emotion was a good or healthy thing.

They waited in quiet contemplation, waiting for Ilyasviel to begin. When she did, her voice was barely audible at first, a quiet note that was little more a breath of wind. As the mournful notes rose and fell, her voice strengthened, finding the cadence of the ancient tune. The other five joined in, their voices providing a supporting harmony, creating a chorus that swept around the pillars and across the mirror-smooth waters of the lake.

Ainfean’s voice couldn’t match the purity of Ilyasviel’s - a life spent shouting commands in the heat of battle had left it too coarse for that - but she could hold the notes well enough and the tune was all too familiar to her. The music soared, an ancient lament of loss and grief, calling forth the wind to come and carry the lost elf home, back to the west.

As the song reached its crescendo, a final imploring call for the wind to blow, Ainfean felt the muscles in her stomach coil up, just as they did each of the previous ninety nine times, hoping against hope that this time the air would stir. The song ended, the last ringing note echoing around the temple, and they waited, each of them holding their breath, hoping.

The lake remained mirror-flat, not a ripple marring its surface, and the candle flames stayed standing straight and true.

Ainfean closed her eyes at the too-familiar ache in her chest; she could feel the effort the others in the temple were putting into not looking at her. Looking up, she saw that Ilyasviel had collapsed to her knees on the polished stone floor, her body shook with silent cries. One of the other mourners went over and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off.

Turning away, Ainfean slipped away quietly; she had learned that her presence was rarely welcome at this point in the ceremony. She walked along the lake shore, thinking back over the battles she’d fought alongside Olindoir, the narrow escapes they’d had, crazy mission that had no right to succeed that they’d somehow made work, and the wild smiles they’d shared. And she remembered they way he’d talk about Ilyasviel, the way his eyes would light up whenever he thought of her. For all its beauty, this was a cruel world.

“Ainfean.”

She turned round to find Ilyasviel standing behind her, tear trails streaking her face, dark spots on her robe where the tears had fallen. “Ilyasviel, I’m…” She stopped. Saying sorry seemed inadequate and she couldn’t think of any other words that could make things better.

“Just tell me,” said Ilyasviel in a hoarse voice, “why did he do it? Why did he follow you?”

“He did it for you, and because I asked him to,” replied Ainfean. “We thought - I thought - that it was the only chance we had.”

“You didn’t order him?”

Ainfean shook her head. “No orders. We all knew some of what the cost would be, and everyone was given a choice. I thought for sure some would say no after watching me put it on.” She smiled sadly. “None of them did.”

Ilyasviel laughed, soft and bitter. “As if they wouldn’t follow where Ironheart led. Was it worth it?”

“It was worth the gamble. Without the war to worry about there was a chance we could find a way to counteract the Blight, or move away from it.”

“But that didn’t happen did it? It was all for nothing.” said Ilyasviel. Her heartbreak cracked through the final word, turning it into a whisper.

Ainfean looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, it was all for nothing. I’m sorry.”

Ilyasviel crumpled, collapsing in on herself and dropping to her knees on the damp sand of the shore. Ainfean closed the distance between them and knelt down in front of the sobbing elf, enveloping her in a strong hug, as if she could somehow keep the pain at bay the way she had fought off so many enemies down the centuries. There wasn’t anything she could do now but let Ilyasviel cry herself out.

“So what happens now?” gasped Ilyasviel at last, looking up at Ainfean with red-rimmed eyes. “They tried to tell me before but I refused to listen. I was so sure the wind would blow for him.”

“There’s a place set aside for him in a hall where he can rest in peace. The priests will carry him.” Over Ilyasviel’s shoulder, Ainfean could see them waiting by the body.

“Can we go with them?”

Ainfean nodded. “If you want to.”

They followed the priests into a long, low hall that Ainfean had ordered to be constructed after the war ended. It was open at the east and west ends, and the walls were covered with soft pink and purple drapes. Ten rows of ten waist-high tables filled the space; all but one was occupied with a statue-like figure, some dressed in armour, others in robes. They were each lined up with their heads at the east end of their table, their feet at the west.

The priests gently lay Olindoir’s body down on the last table, bowed to Ilyasviel and retreated silently, their footfalls barely making any noise despite the cavernous, echoing space. Ainfean watched them go and then stepped back, letting Ilyasviel have a last quiet moment with her partner.

Ten rows of ten, every one now filled. The Iron Legion. A hundred elves who had followed her to their deaths now lying as if asleep, exactly as they had been when they died. Silently, she thanked them and apologised, as she always did whenever she entered the hall; she could still name each and every one of them.

Ilyasviel kissed Olindoir on the forehead and, with a last lingering touch of her fingers on his cheek, she turned away and walked over to stand next to Ainfean, facing the serried ranks of the dead.

“Why keep them like this?” said Ilyasviel, wiping away her tears with the sleeves of her robe.

“So the wind can blow,” said Ainfean. “I believe it will eventually, somehow.”

“You believe or hope?”

Ainfean smiled slightly. “A little of both, if I’m being honest.”

“I hope you’re right.” Ilyasviel leaned back against a single stone table that stood alone at the bottom of the western end of the hall. She looked round at the smooth, flat slab of stone that made up the top of the table. “Who is this one for?” she asked.

Ainfean looked down at it then up at Ilyasviel, her smile broadening. “That would be for me.”

Ilyasviel jumped away from the table. “Oh, sorry!”

Ainfean shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m not occupying it yet,” she said. “I have tried it out, however - it wasn’t as uncomfortable as you might think.”

Ilyasviel was staring at the table with wide eyes. “Does it not trouble you?” she quietly asked after a while.

“It did, back when we first realised,” said Ainfean. “We were all a bit shocked. I’ve had a long time to get accustomed to the idea.” She reached out and squeezed Ilyasviel’s shoulder. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

Ilyasviel looked back at Olindoir for a long moment and then shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll go home now.”

“You can come back whenever you want to,” said Ainfean. She looked at her old comrades one last time and then followed Ilyasviel out of the hall.