by R K Lander
The other children ran forwards, almost crashing into their courageous friend for it seemed they would not be left out, and of a sudden, questions began to bubble from their giddy mouths.
“Is it true, are you The Silvan?” they asked excitedly.
Frowning yet smiling, Fel’annár nodded. “Yes, that it what some people call me. How did you know?” he asked softly, desperately trying to quell his mounting trepidation.
“Everybody knows The Silvan!” another boy shouted. “He is the mightiest Silvan warrior of our time, daddy has told me so!” he exclaimed.
Fel’annár was dumbfounded, but before he could ask, another child spoke up.
“It’s all true, look!” he shouted, making the others giggle with glee as he slowly reached out to touch one of Fel’annár’s Ari locks. It was enough to bolster the courage of the others and soon enough all five were touching his hair, until one little hand strayed to a short sword and Fel’annár stopped him. The boy startled, but then smiled when Fel’annár smirked.
“You see! He is the handsomest warrior of them all. Mummy says you are our champion, that you will protect the Silvan people and our forests! Will you?”
The sinking feeling that had assailed him moments before was back, and he answered dumbly, his mind not entirely on the child before him. “I will do all in my power to protect my people, child, for whatever difference it can make.”
The sound of someone clearing their throat drew Fel’annár’s attention back to the present and he turned to meet Lainon’s amused gaze.
Straightening himself and his tunic, Fel’annár saluted formally to his superior as was custom when wearing one’s uniform, and from the corner of his eyes, he could see the boys mimicking him. He tried to mask the grin that threatened to ruin his solemn stance but to no avail and he looked down in embarrassment.
Lainon had not meant to frighten them, but he certainly was not used to children, and his stern gaze was enough to send them running, squealing and laughing as they scampered into the trees, their voices shouting over and over.
“The Silvan! The Silvan!”
Fel’annár turned his perplexed face to Lainon, whose own expression was blank, all emotion channelled, it seemed, into his next words.
“News travels fast.”
“But why? I mean, many warriors have saved the lives of civilians, kept them from danger. Why do they talk of me?” Fel’annár asked, pleaded almost. “I have no rank! When I was their age I wanted to be a captain, not some lowly novice!”
“Perhaps it is not only the Silvans that speak of you?” he said cryptically as his hand patted the trunk of a nearby oak. Fel’annár swallowed, and quelled the cold shiver that ran down his spine for he had not quite reconciled himself to the idea of being a listener.
“Fel’annár,” said Lainon as he began to walk, “the Silvan people are ruled by their respective village chiefs and Spirit Herders, as well you know. They have representatives at court, but there is no one person they all feel identified with, one they can claim as their own. A brave warrior with the qualities you have already shown is the perfect candidate; you have been chosen, in a sense, not collectively but individually—by many. Does that make sense?”
“No, not really,” said Fel’annár. “You are saying they need a leader? A Silvan leader?”
“Yes, yet more than a leader they need a protector, a symbol of their waning identity. They are marginalised by the Alpines and they are hungry to state a claim, to show they will not be pushed into the background – not in their own homes. That honour stone is a testimony to that, a lost custom that Alfena has brought back into use, and you wear it – are proud of it, as well you should be.”
Fel’annár kicked half-heartedly at the dust, uncomfortable with the conversation and so he turned his gaze on Lainon once more. “Lainon. How am I to continue my training in Tar’eastór? Well you know the Alpines won’t take kindly to me and you will be busy with our prince.
“Are you telling me you’re scared to be left alone with them?” smirked Lainon.
“What? No, I’m not scared. I just want to learn, not waste my time in petty argument, to be constantly proving myself to others.”
“Well you will hardly be alone,” said Lainon drolly and something in his tone had Fel’annár’s eyes back on him. “There are three other novices travelling with you. One is an erudite, the other is a brute and the third has butterflies in his head…”
Fel’annár’s form straightened slowly as the frown on his face dissolved. “The Company? They are coming to Tar’eastór?”
A smile was Lainon’s only answer.
“How, how is it possible? We have served in different patrols for the last year. The chances of this happening are …” he trailed off as realization sank in. “You did this?”
“And Turion did this – he cannot accompany us but he made sure you would not be alone in Alpine lands.”
A disbelieving smile had stuck on Fel’annár’s face and he shook his head as his eyes danced around the glade, as if he could not quite understand.
“Lainon. I bless the day Turion sent me to you. No one,” he whispered harshly as he turned to fully face the lieutenant, “no novice could ever have a better master, a better friend.” Fel’annár stepped forward and clasped the Ari’s forearms with his strong hands. “You must join my Company, for only those I consider my brothers can be a part of it, only those closest to me . . .”
“I would be honoured then,” smiled Lainon, and then laughed. “You will have to find me one of those fancy names!”
“Fear not, for I already know what I will call you,” said Fel’annár slyly.
“Oh? And what would that be?” asked Lainon with a quirk of his brow.
“You are an elf of few words and great deeds. You speak little but say much. You, are Dim’atór, the Silent Warrior.”
Lainon stared back at Fel’annár blankly, before slowly smiling and nodding. “It is well chosen. I shall be Dim’atór, Dima the Ari!” he proclaimed pompously and Fel’annár grinned at this little-known side of his mercurial mentor.
“Welcome then, brother of The Company—now we are four.”
Lainon nodded humbly, his eyes resting calculatingly on Fel’annár. Every time he looked at the boy, every time he gazed upon this young elf that would, one day, be his superior, he just wanted to tell him the truth about his family, his lineage, and then help him accept it so that he could get on with his life, finally know who he was, his family, and the sad story behind his own existence, not to depress him but to give him closure and set him upon the path towards his destiny, one he knew was marked by greatness.
“Warrior Fel’annár.”
“Sir,” answered The Silvan, the smile still on his face. “Look to your left.”
Fel’annár’s smile slipped as he complied, eyes swivelling to the tree line, but before Lainon could say more, the boy was loping forwards, his long hair streaming behind him until he crashed into Ramien’s chest, and then was hugged from behind by Idernon. They were all safe, despite the odds.
Lainon took his time as he walked towards them, noticing Carodel the Silvan bard player did the same from the other side. Soon though, all five stood together, and Fel’annár spoke.
“Brothers! We have made it! Look at us! he exclaimed proudly as he pushed and pulled on his friends’ leather jerkins playfully. “And you Carodel! Did you three serve together?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Idernon with a wide smile, one mirrored on Ramien’s face – until it slipped and the Wall of Stone frowned, eyes resting on the strange twists in Fel’annár´s hair and then the amber stone in his braid. “What—is that?” he asked with a jab of his finger.
“Those, novice, are Ari locks—anything to object?” asked the Ari’atór as he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing dangerously, and even though they twinkled with mi
schief, Ramien swallowed thickly, stepping back in respect, scowling when Idernon snorted.
“Nothing to object, Lieutenant. They are very fine locks,” he said lamely and then smiled stupidly. Fel’annár and Idernon chuckled, but then the Wise Warrior carefully took the honour stone in Fel’annár’s hair between his fingers, admiring its beauty.
“You have stories to tell,” he murmured. I have rarely seen these in the hair of our warriors – I thought it a thing of the past,” he said, almost to himself, but Lainon heard.
“And perhaps, it is a sign of the future,” said Fel’annár.
Idernon and Lainon shared a glance, a soft smile pulling at their lips.
“We must tell you that we have a candidate for The Company,” said Ramien, glancing at Carodel and then turning to Fel’annár.
“What have you done to deserve such merit, Carodel?” asked Fel’annár as he clasped forearms with the bard player and smiled.
“That is a long story,” said Ramien, “suffice it to say we have served and suffered together – we would tell you of his merit later, with wine and a song. I think though, that you have your own story to tell,” said the Wall of Stone, his eyes searching those of Fel’annár and then glancing warily at Lainon.
Fel’annár smiled, somewhat enigmatically, for where to begin? “I do, but that too must be told with wine and song,” he smiled, his eyes slipping sideways and to Lainon.
“Surely not?” blurted Carodel, and then smiled falsely, embarrassed that his words had come out wrong. “I mean that is wonderful, I just hadn’t expected . . .”
“For an Ari’atór to join you?” asked Lainon drolly. “And why not? Are you not here for the same reasons as I? What has rank or race to do with it?” he asked, not unkindly.
“Nothing,” replied Carodel boldly. “If you are here for the same reasons as I, then you are most welcome in my eyes, but of course that is not for me to decide. If Fel’annár says it, then so say I.”
Lainon smiled. “Do I intimidate you, novice?” asked the Ari carefully.
“Yes,” was all Carodel said, and it was enough for them all to chuckle for it was true, the Ari’atór was a strange-looking elf who was unnerving at best, and downright terrifying at his worst.
“They need names!” said Idernon slyly and Fel’annár smiled as he answered.
“If – you are deemed worthy,” he smiled slyly, “then Lainon here is Dim’atór, The Silent Warrior for he speaks little and says much, and you, my friend Carodel, are Lorn’atór—The Bard Warrior,” he finished with a flourish.
Lorn’atór bowed, as did Dim’atór, but the Ari could not help wondering at this game they played, for it was surely that—and yet there was something in the young ones’ demeanour that contradicted that idea. He resolved to observe their dynamics, discover what it was that made him unsure of the nature of it.
“Well, well,” said Idernon, holding his arms out to the sides. “Three Silvans, one Ari and one . . .”
“Half-blood,” finished Fel’annár, not angrily but with a rueful smile on his face. “I am honoured. May we fight and serve together for many centuries!”
Lainon placed a heavy hand upon Fel’annár’s shoulder. “Come,” he said, a lieutenant once more, and Fel’annár nodded, falling into step with his superior, the rest of The Company right behind him.
Before long, they stopped and Lainon turned to face Fel’annár.
“Attention!” he commanded, and despite his puzzlement, Fel’annár squared himself, aware that the rest of The Company had moved away. He barely resisted the urge to look behind him for his neck prickled—elves were approaching from the tree line but protocol demanded he stand still, eyes to the fore.
A sparkle of metal caught his attention and before he knew it, Captain Turion stood before him in full, ceremonial uniform, the one that marked him as a member of the Inner Circle. His combat decorations shone upon his right arm and Fel’annár battled with his hands so as not to reach out and stroke his fingers over the carved metal that spoke of mastery in swords and knives. He wondered if he would ever wear such a glorious thing, if he could ever make himself worthy of such finery.
His awe soon gave way to the realisation that he was to be formally invested as a warrior, now, in this very glade, by Turion no less. Indeed, he was called upon to repeat the vows of service to Crown and land. It was a solemn vow but Fel’annár’s joy was so great even Turion could not hold back a soft smile. When it was done, Turion saluted formally, to which Fel’annár replied in turn.
A novice no more - a warrior at last.
But Turion had not finished. Taking one step towards the newly-appointed warrior, the captain produced a leather band, at the centre of which stood a finely carved silver symbol; two crossed arrows.
Fel’annár’s eyes bulged and then shot to the captain.
“You have been granted Master status with the bow. Congratulations, warrior,” he said formally. “Not many can make such a shot in the air,” he said, his head cocking to one side and allowing his smile to finally blossom. “Your feat was duly noted.”
Fel’annár blushed and then bowed in humble gratefulness, for never in his wildest dreams had he imagined being a master so early in his career. It was unheard of. He closed his eyes slowly, as if the darkness could, somehow, slow down the rush of emotions—happiness, pride, determination, resolve. He thought it was the happiest day of his life so far, one he would never forget.
His eyes slowly slid open, and of a sudden it seemed to Fel’annár that the whole world had changed, or was it him that had changed? His body hummed and his mind cleared itself; everything around him was now startlingly clear, as if some small piece of a puzzle had slipped effortlessly into place. He was startled by honey-coloured eyes that stared at him—too close. He could see himself in them, and yet not entirely. Blood of his blood, but not his mother, whoever she had been.
It was Amareth, his aunt.
“My son,” she whispered, her eyes wide and misty. A gentle hand reached up and cupped his cheek lovingly.
“Amareth,” was all Fel’annár could say for a moment, for she was, in everything but the womb, his mother. “You came.”
“For you, for this day,” she said softly.
“You have never left Lan Taria, or so they say,” said Fel’annár in wonder.
“I am not a traveller, Fel’annár,” she smiled, but he could see her words for what they were. There was a reason she had never left their village, one he had never understood; even now she would not explain, just as she never had about anything of import in his life. It was frustrating and it curbed his exuberance, soured the joy he felt at her presence.
“Already a master archer, I see,” she smiled in pride and Fel’annár returned it.
“I cannot believe it myself but yes,” he said, brushing his fingers over the silver symbol reverently to better appreciate the workmanship, or perhaps to convince himself it was still there, that it was all true.
“Fel’annár!” came a shout from behind Amareth, who stepped aside to make way for a charging Thavron, who promptly crashed into his friend, rattling them both as they embraced and thudded each other upon the back.
“My favourite forester!” shouted Fel’annár.
“My favourite warrior!” shouted Thavron of Lan Taria. “You have made us all proud for do not think we have not heard of your deeds in the North!”
Fel’annár’s face paled a little and his smile slipped.
“Oh, enjoy it while you can—you are a hero! you are The Silvan!” chuckled Thavron as he held Fel’annár out at arm’s distance. “Your hair—what have you done?”
“What has Lieutenant Lainon done, you mean. It’s an Ari style,” he said somewhat defensively.
Thavron smirked, hugging his friend once more and then latching on to his arm. “Come, say hello to everyone for there
is a party tonight, just for you. We will dance and drink, eat and frolic into the night for we are Silvan!” he proclaimed with a flourish, and more than one voice shouted “Aye!” as they passed.
True to Thavron’s word, woodland fiddles soon echoed throughout the secluded glade and family and friends began to celebrate, the crowd ever growing as others from Lainon’s village, and even further afield, joined the festivities.
Merry jigs were accompanied by lively percussion—drums of different tones and timbers wove complex movements that were sometimes slow and romantic, and at others, rhythms that set the feet to tapping and the girls to swaying and smiling at the boys. Likewise, the lads’ eyes roved over the pretty lasses until they fixed on their next dance partner, only to reel her away in a swish of fine clothes and silky hair.
And while some danced the night away, others stood and talked. Every corner of the glade was occupied by small groups of elves that conversed as they drank and then drank again, their eyes occasionally straying to the music and the gaiety of the younger members of their society, and especially to Fel’annár and his group of faithful friends.
In one such group, Amareth stood talking with Lainon. The Ari had taken it upon himself to inform her of Fel’annár’ progress, yet only to the point of not trespassing on his young friend’s privacy; indeed he said nothing of Fel’annár’s budding gift with the trees.
As he spoke, he was reminded of a much younger and lighter Amareth, a woman who still enjoyed life. Now, however, he found her light much diminished. She was still alive, for it was not so much grief that afflicted her, but time and the events it had brought with it that had curbed her enthusiasm for life, leaving in its wake a quietly dignified woman who spoke little and transmitted less to those that did not know her.
“Lainon!” shouted a well-dressed elf from afar, his face flushed with the dance and the wine and Lainon prayed to Aria he would not approach now, for if Calen had a loose tongue when sober, it would verily flap if he were into his cups, as he suspected was the case.
