The following is a collaborative story being written by Brennen and Brent as a writing exercise.

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''<Brent>'' She stepped into the room and took a deep breath.  The room smelled of age, of dust and books and beams of moonlight.  It was a perfect circle of marble, its bloody veins faded with the passing of many suns.

She stepped into the center of the room, beneath the dome and into the patches of moonlight that gleamed dully on the well-worn floor, and she began to sing.

''<Brennen>'' Her song was soft at first, halting and slow to build.  But out of the shadows came sounds of encouragement, and her voice grew stronger, more sure of itself.

It seemed to her an eternity until the others joined.  This was as it should be, she knew.  This must be earned.

''<Brent>'' She sang of her childhood, of the cold water sluicing across her skin as she dove deep down the canals, of chasing her sisters amongst the Guardian Trees, of warm glow of the feast-fires and the dagger of hunger.  She sang of her first love, of his body and heart and mind.  She sang of losing him, and her song faltered but continued to flow.

Woven throughout her song was the song of the others, as each added a memory of love or loss or happiness or pain.  The others encouraged and advised with their song, which was also as it should be.

Her song ended, and a small figure stepped from the shadows.  It was draped entirely in a large white cloth, so that it formed a squat pyramid.  It said, wetly, "Your life has indeed been full and well-lived.  What do you wish?"

She took several deep breaths before she could answer.  She clenched her fists and replied, "I want him back."

''<Brennen>'' The voice that replied was laced with sorrow and weariness.

"This, you must know, is a boon we cannot grant.  Those who have gone to the long sleep are beyond the reach of our art. What you ask may have been possible once, but it is lost to us.  Even we who were once counted wise must wait the day of Wakening, whatever the stories may say."

He fell silent, and her gills fluttered with dismay.  Even such an admission was more than she had dared to hope for. And yet there must be more.

A second figure stepped forward - smaller still, its movements visibly crippled by age or some infirmity.  When it spoke, the voice seemed feminine, though it was barely audible.

"There is another way, child, though it is costly.  You too may go down to the long sleep, and though I pray you reconsider, it may be that the day will come and you will see your love again. This we will offer you."

''<Brent>'' She immediately replied, "I accept."

"No," interrupted the first figure.  "You may not go down to the long sleep until you have passed the tests.  Then you may accept."

She nodded rapidly, eagerly.  "I will undergo any trial."

The figures were silent for a moment, then they parted as the smaller figure moved away from her, towards a circular door set in the wall.  The smaller figure zig-zagged slightly across the floor on its way to the door.  Its voice called out, "Follow me, child."

She stepped forward, until she and the smaller figure stood side-by-side in front of the door.  Up close, silvery slivers of moonlight shone from its intricate scrollwork.

"Say your name, child."

"Alyas," she said, her voice cracking a bit.