by R K Lander
She was angry, but now, so was Handir.
“Think what you will. Delude yourself if you must, but do not ask me to stand by and watch you hurt yourself. I cannot do that.”
She lifted her head, held his glittering stare and returned it with one of her own.
Handir bowed his head and looked to the floor for a moment. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he offered Llyniel a sad smile. “I don’t want us to be angry at each other. Come, let’s talk over lunch.”
“I am not hungry, Handir.”
His smile was gone. He nodded, regretful eyes lingering for a while, watching as she turned away from him, leaving him with her angry accusations echoing in his mind.
Later that evening, Fel’annár made his way to Gor’sadén’s chambers, his face still smarting and his mind on his meeting with Llyniel tomorrow. But so too were there questions he needed to ask Gor’sadén. How had Pan’assár moved so fast? What strategy had he used to break his defences in the end?—and why had he stopped?
He knew Pan’assár would not have killed him, but he had doubted that for one alarming moment. He glanced backwards and to Galdith, who nodded back at him, and Fel’annár damned the day he had given voice to the threat he had felt on their return from patrol. Since then he had hardly been left alone without a guard, and he wondered if it was not all a little exaggerated. Trees were not always precise in their warnings. He did not always understand them well.
He knocked on the door to Gor’sadén’s private suite of rooms, and soon enough, it opened. Galdith took up his place outside, and Fel’annár placed a hand on his arm as he stepped inside and then closed the door.
“Fel’annár, come and sit by the fire, and before you do, you are not on duty; we are equals here.”
Fel’annár smiled but could not help the respectful nod. He sat and then accepted a glass of wine from the commander and took a sip, enjoying the warmth from the hearth.
“Your new status is the talk of the entire palace—and the barracks, I would assume.”
“They recognised the braid, my lord.”
“Aye, the Heliaré. The Kal’hamén’Ar was almost extinct, but that does not mean the warriors of Tar’eastór have forgotten.”
Fel’annár nodded, his eyes drifting to the dancing flames.
“You fought well with Pan’assár; I had not realised you had some skill with aerial work. We should exploit that,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “He did not make it easy, did he?”
“No!” snorted Fel’annár. “About that . . .”
“You have questions, yes.”
“Will you answer them?”
The commander did not answer straight away, and he swirled the wine in his goblet as he considered his words. “No. I cannot do that. Pan’assár will answer them or no one will.”
“Then they will go unanswered, for certain. I am still surprised he even allowed me to test for the Kal’hamén’Ar. Have you ever noticed that he cannot even look at me?”
“All I ask of you, Fel’annár, is to keep your mind open as to his reasons, and as for accepting the test, that is because, despite what he may feel or think of you, he is a warrior, a Kah Master.”
“But he did look at me in the end, and it almost cost him his control, didn’t it?” asked Fel’annár softly, looking into his goblet and not at Gor’sadén. “I wonder what it is that he saw, when he did, finally, look at me.”
The commander stared at the boy’s profile. He wanted to tell him, but it was Pan’assár’s story to tell—if he ever would. Gor’sadén would not betray his friend’s confidence to anyone, not even to Fel’annár. But none of this was the reason he had asked Fel’annár to join him this evening.
“He may yet surprise you, tell you one day.”
“I doubt that.”
Gor’sadén stared back at Fel’annár. “You are sceptical, and that is a fault.”
“Can you blame me? I don’t think you have ever been discriminated against, Gor’sadén. If you had, it would not be so easy for you to criticise my scepticism.”
“Perhaps not. Yet still, it is a fault. It benefits no one, serves only to justify your anger. You must rid yourself of these negative thoughts, not feed them.”
Fel’annár turned to Gor’sadén, allowing himself to digest his mentor’s words. Wisely, he kept quiet, for admitting fault did not come easily to him—another fault, perhaps.
“And you are angry, aren’t you?” said Gor’sadén.
When Fel’annár finally answered, his voice was a little strained and his jaw was clenched, eyes staring into his goblet.
“Yes.”
“That is a start,” came the quiet words. “A little advice, Fel’annár. You are good, very good, and at your age that is almost unheard of, but heed me. You are not perfect; you do not have to be perfect. Do you understand me?”
Gor’sadén’s words took him completely by surprise and he froze where he sat.
“You do not have to be perfect.”
“You have never seen it that way, have you?” asked the commander. “I first began to understand when I saw your temper—so like Or’Talán’s—it gave you away. You strive for perfection in order to be accepted. When you are wrong, it irks you, because it leaves you open to criticism, and you cannot accept that because you have spent your entire life thinking that you don’t deserve it . . . because you have had too much of it.”
Gor’sadén’s words reverberated in his mind, his skin alive with raw emotion, and still, his mind screamed at him to reject the words: they weren’t true, Gor’sadén was wrong.
But he wasn’t, and Fel’annár knew it. Still, he could not say it. Anger stirred in his chest once more.
“I ask only that you think on my words, Fel’annár. They are meant to help, not to hinder. Now, I have things to say about your apprenticeship, things you may not know.”
Fel’annár turned to Gor’sadén, grateful that the commander had seen fit to end the uncomfortable moment. Still, only Gor’sadén could have spoken to him the way he had, like a father guiding his wayward son.
“I have spoken with Captain Comon. He is aware that I have taken you as an apprentice, as is every other commander in this army,” he added with a smirk. “Admittedly I have done nothing to contain the news. The return of the Kal’hamén’Ar is something I believe will renew us all, motivate our warriors to strive for greater things, as it once was centuries ago. And yet that is not to say this will be flaunted; it won’t. Our training will be carried out beyond the Inner Circle and the fields. Out of sight to the uninitiated. Do you understand the reasons why?”
Fel’annár had read about the prohibition in the Warrior Code, but he could not say that he understood, and so he shook his head.
“The Kal’hamén’Ar is to be contemplated in the Dance, or on the battlefield, nowhere else. Your preparation, your physical and mental training is not secret. It is the moves and their combinations that must not be revealed. Centuries ago, Kah Warriors trained openly upon the fields, and those who had not yet made the grade as an apprentice would often emulate what they saw. One warrior broke his neck as he practiced the Gorahei, and another accidentally ran his opponent through the chest as he tried to perform the Den’ab. There were other, less serious incidents, until it was finally written into the Warrior Code that all training should be carried out in a place where only other Kah Masters or apprentices could see.”
The commander’s gaze lingered for a while before he turned to the fire. “You are to wear the grey sash of a Kah Apprentice with your uniform but you must bear the Heliaré at all times. All this is law, Fel’annár. You must not go against it.”
“I won’t, Gor’sadén. But tell me, why does Commander Pan’assár not comply with this law? He wore the sash for the test, at least but where is his Heliaré?”
“That is not for me to say. Suffice it to say I believe you will see him wear them, one day.”
Fel’annár nodded. It was a part of Pan’assár’
s story that Gor’sadén would not speak of. It was related to why the commander had lost his control, why he would not look at him, why he did not wear the Kah symbols.
“It is also law that an apprentice can only become a master if he or she is proficient in three weapons. You are already a bow master, but you must think on your other two weapons of choice—one, though, must necessarily be blades, and you must soon decide on the other.” He stood and walked to the fire, eyes unfocussed. He still remembered his previous apprentices, recalled the day he had asked them of their weapons of choice. Benolá and Semu’lán, Cavena and Por’ya. They stood in stone now, upon the crenulations of the city walls, and in his heart, in a place he revisited fondly from time to time.
“The Master teaches but so too does he guide,” continued Gor’sadén, swallowing the bittersweet memories. “Our relationship will not be that of a weapon master to a warrior. It runs far deeper than that, Fel’annár. It is why I previously required the permission of both Pan’assár and my king to carry out this task. You see, it is my duty to teach you the Kal’hamén’Ar, but in doing so, my obligations extend to you as a whole. I will train your body and cultivate your mind. I will teach you to synchronise them so that they work together in harmony. You will be a priority to me, as much as my own duty here as commander general. The time that is left before your prince must return to Ea Uaré is insufficient to fully learn, and so, should circumstances permit, I must return with you to the Forest in order to complete your training.”
Fel’annár’s head snapped to the commander. “How is that possible? Who would take over your responsibilities here?”
“Comon is my second. If circumstances allow, if this new threat of the Nim’uán can be neutralised, then he will take over for the time I am away.”
“And if it is too dangerous for you to leave, what then?”
“We wait. You return and I will follow when I can.”
Fel’annár’s heart was racing in his chest. Gor’sadén would travel back to the Forest with him. He would have his mentor at his side to face whatever it was that awaited him in Ea Uaré.
“I never realised. I feel like a fool for taking so much for granted, for not understanding how much it would affect you. I can’t even understand why you would do such a thing, give up so much in order to teach me.”
“And there you have it. Who are you to be taught, you ask. Why would I wish to teach you. This is why you strive for perfection, because you feel imperfect—because you think perfection will make you worthy. I am giving up nothing, Fel’annár. It is a great honour to train a warrior in the Kah; it is written in the Warrior Code, yet more than this it is etched upon my very soul. I would see this honourable art come back. I have everything to gain . . . we all do. There are many enemies to face, both here and in the Great Forest. Our warriors must be the best they can be and then some. Bringing back the Kah will inspire them to greatness and as we walk that road, I will show you your imperfections, make you a better elf.”
Fel’annár listened, nodding at the things Gor’sadén said, but above all he struggled to contain his joy at the prospect of having Gor’sadén at his side.
The commander turned from the hearth to face Fel’annár.
“In order to do this, you must know what I will expect from you, what I want from you in return.”
Fel’annár stood, worry stirring in his chest. Perhaps there was another test he must pass. He nodded.
“I want everything, Fel’annár. I want your best effort with the blades. I want your honesty, your sad story, and your childish dreams. I want your cries of pain and your tears of bitterness. I want your self-doubt and the anger you think you hide so well. I want to see your defences so that I can smash them to pieces and see you, you who hide behind your walls and your armour. I will break it all to pieces and reconfigure you, set you upon the road of a warrior, upon the path of the captain you want to be—and more if I can.”
Fel’annár could feel his eyes straining wide, wet and hot, could feel a searing tear burn down his cheek, but he could not bring himself to care. He was suddenly adrift, floating above unknown territory as deep blue eyes of ancient wisdom watched him, as if they could read his thoughts.
Gor’sadén stepped back, satisfaction in his eyes while Fel’annár sagged where he stood.
“Will you give me everything?” asked Gor’sadén.
Fel’annár bowed his head in respect, and when he faced Gor’sadén once more, a smile graced his bruised face.
“I will,” he said, words echoing oddly in Gor’sadén’s ears. He nodded and then returned to his chair before the hearth. He did not expect Fel’annár’s next question.
“Does your father live, Gor’sadén?”
“No. He died in battle. He was a captain under the rule of King Car’enár, before he too fell and his son Vorn’asté was invested.”
“You must miss him.”
Gor’sadén wondered what a fatherless elf would know of such things; or perhaps it was precisely that he didn’t have a father to miss that he understood so well.
“Every day. He was sometimes harsh in his expectations for me, demanding of what I did and how I did it, but I learned to understand that it was for the faith he had in me, the pride he held for me. It was love that drove him to push me, make me what I am. I don’t think anyone else believed in me quite as much as he did, except for those of The Three,” he said. “I cried the day he fell, but the memory of him carried me to new heights. In honour of him I became lieutenant, then captain, general and then commander.”
A soft smile graced his face as memories raced through his mind, memories Fel’annár had brought to the surface with his questions. Only when he had stopped speaking did he realised he had disclosed far more than he had intended. His gaze fell on Fel’annár once more, and what he saw there took him to sudden realisation . . . of why Fel’annár had asked that question in the first place. He watched as his pupil rose and then knelt before the fire, carefully feeding it with another log. He turned to Gor’sadén from where he knelt.
“Will you do that for me?”
Gor’sadén was struck by the intensity in Fel’annár’s eyes. They were open, he realised, unguarded, revealing unashamedly what lay beyond. All his weaknesses, all the things he had always hidden: his yearning to belong, to feel loved, to know he was cherished. It was a rare gift, he realised, an act of utter humility. Fel’annár was giving him everything, and Gor’sadén felt privileged beyond his ability to express with words.
This was what Fel’annár had missed his entire life. That older, wiser figure to guide him, one that would see his faults and not blame him for them, would not judge him as weak. His recent conversation with Fel’annár in the gardens rushed back to him.
“Why do you trust me?” he had asked. “I won’t let you down,” he had vowed.
A sense of responsibility slammed into Gor’sadén, and then came the tingle of nascent realisation. This was what he had sensed. This was the feeling that had been growing in his mind, the feeling that something important was about to happen, that he would be needed to serve some purpose. That purpose was before him, kneeling with his back to him once more, stoking the fire but with every sense trained on the one behind him. This bereft child had come to understand what it was to have a father, to realise what he had never had, what he had always needed.
Will you do that for me? were his words, but what Fel’annár truly asked was whether Gor’sadén would be as a father to him.
Gor’sadén had never had children. He had always been too busy with his calling as a warrior. But to look at this extraordinary boy, to understand him as Gor’sadén had come to do . . . his heart was reaching out. He wanted to protect him. He wanted to make him the best elf he could be. He wanted to feel proud of him, brag that he had, in some small way, been responsible for his successes and achievements.
“Yes, I will do that for you.” He smiled as he uttered those words, glad that Fel’annár’s back
was turned away from his watery eyes, unaware of the soft smile on Fel’annár’s face and the resolution in his unfocussed eyes.
This was the start of a new era, a return to the glory days of the warriors of Tar’eastór. Gor’sadén would make this son of Thargodén, the son he chose for himself, a warrior the likes of which Elvendom had never seen.
It was the dawn of a legend; Gor’sadén would see it done.
In the early hours, Fel’annár and The Company sat in a remote corner of the public gardens. Sontúr had led them here, claiming they would not be disturbed. How he could possibly know, Fel’annár couldn’t say but Sontúr seemed confident enough they were free to oaf around without restraint. He laughed now as Galdith imitated Silor’s arrogant bragging.
“As trainee lieutenant, under Commander Pan’assár himself,” he said, eyes wide, one eyebrow riding high on his forehead, “Silvan warriors do not come close to us Alpines,” he shouted, throwing his arms to the heavens. They all snickered, all except for Galadan. He had been entrusted with teaching Silor the ways of a lieutenant by Pan’assár himself. Silor had learned nothing, because he had always known his future position had nothing to do with his skill—with his ability or his motivation to serve. It had been a futile exercise from the very beginning. It was a travesty, and Galadan could find no humour in it.
Ramien poured wine down his throat. He swallowed and then let out a mighty gasp, wiping his sleeve over his mouth.
“You’re drunk!” Fel’annár snorted as he swiped another bottle of the wine from Idernon’s lax hands.
“So are you, Fel’annár, soon to be apprentice of the Klamenen . . . Arrr.” Ramien shrugged his shoulders and then burped for so long that Galdith sent peals of laughter into the night air.
They laughed and slapped their thighs, for Ramien had never been able to say the word. “Ramien, just say Kah. Everyone else does,” explained Galadan in mock irritation.
“All hail Lord Fel’annár, apprentice of the Arrr!” shouted Galdith and then chuckled at himself.
