by R K Lander
“On Elven Nature. Calro.”
White mist swirled before his eyes until a dark blotch began to wax and wane. Uncooperative eyes tried to bring it into focus, but that set his stomach to churning and his head aching. He blinked, and then cringed at the brilliant sun upon his face. He closed his eyes with a soft groan. He wanted to turn over, his body leaden and numb yet strangely restless, but he had no strength for it.
“Lie still,” came the short order, and Fel’annár was compelled to obey, resisting the overwhelming temptation to fidget.
“Open your eyes…”
He had already tried that—it was too bright, but the voice insisted, and so he gingerly opened them, just a little. Thankfully, the offending light had dimmed, and the dark blotch before him began to take form. He thought perhaps he might know this elf, but his mind could not provide him with a name.
A soft hand rested on his forehead, warm and kind. Silence save for the clink of glass and the trickle of water being poured into a container.
“Drink.”
Something hard pressed against his lips, and he drank, slowly, for his throat burned painfully. He lay on his side, he realised.
“Fel’annár,” said the elf, his eyes so close he could see the silver specks within the grey irises. A wave of anxiety hit him as memories crashed against his sluggishly awakening mind.
“What of...what of the...the warriors…” he managed to articulate with a hoarse whisper.
“They are safe.”
Safe, they were safe...they made it back.
“Open your eyes...”
They had, indeed, slid shut once more, and then he realised that his body moved awkwardly, even though he sensed, on some subconscious level, that he was not responsible for it. Was he dreaming? he wondered, for time seemed to move too slowly. The fog was before his eyes again, and then there were leaves, twigs, branches and beyond, the hint of a blue, cloudless sky. He remembered rain and frost, and then mist and yellow eyes, gnashing teeth and stinking hides, pain. He saw an oak Sentinel fight, protecting him from the relentless onslaught of hungry beasts; it had sacrificed itself so that he could live. Further into the fog, backwards, and he saw a child, a babe sitting in the lap of a tree, and despite the growing pain in his body, a feeling of bliss infused him and he looked to the tree, pressing his cheek deeper into the brown bark and feeling overwhelming love. The fog thickened, and the sky darkened. He was moving again, and something brushed over his forehead. A hand—a healing hand.
“Dorainen?” he whispered, and Arané smiled sadly.
The next time he woke it was night. His head pounded in time with his heart, and his stomach lurched. Breathe, he pleaded with himself. Something pressed against his lips. He didn’t want it.
“Drink.”
He turned his head away, and the room slanted sideways.
“It will ease your stomach,” said the voice, calm and steady, and again, the glass pressed demandingly against his lips. He drank. He could taste mint, feel the vapours as they tickled his nose.
“Open your eyes.”
He cracked them open, enough to see grey hair spilling over broad shoulders, but again, the world slanted upwards and then the light was gone.
He dreamed then, of towering Deviants, rotten mouths hanging open, screaming wildly, warriors falling lifeless to the ground, blood spurting from slit throats. He saw Alpine commanders step cruelly upon injured Silvan warriors, faces jeering and cruel, watching as they cut the Honour Stones from their braids and then tossed them into the fire…
Pan’assár stood silently in the open doorway, watching as Gor’sadén rinsed a cloth in a bowl beside the bed and then laid it carefully on the boy’s fevered brow. Fel’annár quietened, head falling still to one side, comforted by the cold relief, or perhaps it was the company of Gor’sadén that calmed him, the strength of his soul, much stronger than his own. Pan’assár had faltered—for grief and anger. King Thargodén, too, had faltered for the same reasons, and something clicked in his mind. It was the sudden realization that he needed to help his king, help return him to his former splendour. He owed it to Or’Talán, for he had loved his son, would expect no less.
And if he was forced to help this child so that he could carry out this task, then so be it. It was not personal; it was about duty—and atonement.
It would be just before dawn, thought Fel’annár, turning his head cautiously. A large figure sat at his side, like a bear under a gibbous moon.
“Ramien,” he whispered.
“Fel’annár! Here,” said the Wall of Stone, shooting to his feet with surprising speed and gathering the discarded pillows.
Fel’annár shifted one leg under the sheet and rolled painfully onto his back with a groan. His side screamed at him.
“How long have I been lying here?” he whispered, trying and failing to hide the grimace of pain.
“Nearly three days,” said Ramien as he towered over him.
“Feels like a month,” he mumbled. Ramien stuffed the pillows behind Fel’annár’s back so that he could sit up. A groan was his reward, and Ramien patted him lightly on his good shoulder as would a mother her wayward son.
“Here,” said Ramien, holding a glass of water before Fel’annár, who took it with his own, shaking hand.
“Just so you know, The Company is well,” he said as he worked, fussing with the bed sheets.
Fel’annár closed his eyes for a moment and then stared back at Ramien, his eyes a little clearer. “And Galdith?”
“He has been welcomed as a brother, as a part of The Company.”
Fel’annár’s brows rose, and a pinched smile danced over his pale face. His sluggish mind dredged up the memories of the aftermath of the battle, their fight for survival, Dorainen’s strange death. His smile faded, and a stabbing pain wrenched another moan from him.
“Have a care, brother. Lie still. Arané or Sontúr will be here shortly.”
Fel’annár mumbled something unintelligible as he settled himself as best he could. He knew he was going nowhere for the moment, but he would ask the healer how long it would be before he could return to active duty, to his training.
“Fel’annár,” said Ramien, interrupting his thoughts.
“Um...”
“They know.”
Fel’annár stared back at his friend as though he would continue. But Ramien didn’t, and so he nodded slowly. Anxiety rose from the depths of his mind, but he was too tired, in too much pain to pay it any heed, and so he lay his head back once more and closed his eyes.
“What will the day bring, my friend?” he whispered tiredly.
Ramien shook his head but did not answer, and soon, Fel’annár slept once more.
The following day, the healers had told Gor’sadén that Fel’annár was sleeping and not to be disturbed, so he had gone in search of Vorn’asté and perhaps answers to his questions. He found the king in his study with Sontúr.
“My king, prince.” He bowed and then sat before Vorn’asté’s impressive desk.
“Well? Did you get that report?”
“I did. There are some small alterations I have made to the duty rosters, and Lord Sulén’s son has been suspended from duty until further notice.”
Sontúr sucked in a breath while the king tried to rein in the smirk that pulled at the corners of his lips. “That is a pity,” he said lightly.
“Indeed,” replied Gor’sadén. “However, there is something I would ask you, Vorn’asté, something I know you have studied extensively.”
“And what would that be?” he asked, still distracted with some paper that Sontúr had placed before him.
“Magic.”
King and prince froze, and then looked to Gor’sadén askance.
“We have a Listener in our midst, or so says Lieutenant Galadan.”
“A Listener?” repeated Vorn’asté, already rising to his feet, eyes darting to his private library, to the books upon the highest shelves. “Tell me everything you
know, Gor’sadén.”
And the commander did. As he talked, the king listened and then pulled book after book from his shelves until he sat before a desk piled high with leather-bound tomes on mythology, anthropology, and lore. Prince Sontúr had left, unimpressed with his father’s ever-growing excitement: Gor’sadén well knew of the scepticism of this prince to all things that ‘could not be explained.’ Magic did not exist, he said, only unexplained phenomena that would one day be explained.
Gor’sadén had finally wrenched a nod of agreement from the king when he had suggested speaking to the boy, broaching the subject and measuring his willingness, or otherwise, to speak of his abilities, but the king was lost in his passion for reading, and so Gor’sadén left in search of his own answers.
Lainon had searched everywhere—and damn it, but he did not have much time. He had left Fel’annár with The Company and Galadan, yet still, the responsibility was his. He would not stay away for longer than was necessary, even though Galadan himself had insisted he take the afternoon off.
He had been to the barracks and then had stalked the training grounds. Nothing. He had taken lunch in the mess hall and still nothing. He visited the stables, the logistics halls, the public baths. He had asked every warrior he crossed...but Tensári was nowhere to be seen.
Defeated, Lainon walked without purpose, his feet taking him through the city gates and downwards. He walked for a while, lost in thought, and when he finally snapped out of his introspection, he found himself in a spot he had not visited for over a century—a low ridge, on top of which was an abandoned watch tower. His smile was sparing as he looked upwards and to the crumbling tower at the very top. It was an echo of a splendid past in which he had known love in its purest form. His feet were moving, upwards and over the rugged ground. He would sometimes have to haul himself up with the help of his hands, and when he finally crested the ridge, he stopped dead in his tracks. Upon the ruined tower, some six feet above him, an Ari’atór sat upon what was left of the wall, one foot dangling over the edge and the other bent at the knee, below her chin.
Tensári.
His heart leapt into his mouth. He had not thought to find her here because he had not thought she would wish to be reminded of this place. He had been wrong, and his feet were moving once more, eyes trained on her back as he climbed.
She did not turn, even though Lainon knew she had sensed him, and when he finally stood behind her, she spoke. “And so you see, I have not forgotten.”
Her words took him by surprise, and for a moment, he did not know what to say. Instead he remembered the days they had shared before Lainon had left her. On their numerous sojourns from Valley to the capital city of Tar’eastór, they would often come here, sometimes to talk, sometimes to grieve a fallen warrior, yet most times it was for the love they shared. This place was ripe with memory of lighter days and hopeful hearts, until Lainon had spoiled what they had—for duty—for faith in something he had not understood at the time.
“Neither have I, Tensári. I could never forget you,” he said as he stepped closer to her, looking down upon the crown of her head, but she did not turn, eyes still fixed upon the jagged horizon beyond the tower, northwards and to Valley, where their brothers and sisters battled to defend the Source, where he had thought she would still be.
“Yet some things are more important. Your faith in Aria, a faith I have all but lost.”
Lainon frowned—at her words and the tone she had employed. “You have lost your faith?”
“How could I not?” she asked, collecting her feet below her and standing, only slightly shorter than Lainon. “She had shown me my soul mate and then taken him away from me as if to mock me.” Her final words were curt, and she turned to where her pack lay. She picked it up, even as Lainon was speaking once more.
“It is not wanton cruelty, Tensári. Aria does not seek the suffering of others. There is a succession of events, an array of opportunities that life offers us: we either take them or refuse them. It is the outcome of those opportunities we accept that shape the nature of our lives. We cannot blame the powers of this world for the decisions we make.”
Tensári lifted a dark brow and smiled. “You would have been an excellent Spirit Herder, Lainon. Your faith is much stronger than mine.”
“And that faith has led me back to you,” he murmured as he stepped up to her with a soft smile she did not return.
Instead, her rough, calloused hand came up to cup the dark copper of his cheek. “It has led you back, but you will leave again, to follow your destiny.”
“Yes,” he admitted as his own hand reached for her face, allowing his fingers to softly caress her skin, the curve of her ear. “But tell me, what stops you now from returning with me?”
“Pride—that and the doubt I harbour for your feelings.” Lainon made to speak, but Tensári held up a hand for silence. “Doubt, because you follow your path; your destiny revolves around something I cannot understand—you would have me fit with those plans, but I am not the instigator of them.”
Lainon stared back at her, for he could not refute her words. With a long breath, Lainon rested his forehead against hers, words from the heart whispered flush against her skin. “I did not know what that path was, Tensári, only that it existed and that I should follow. I left you for duty,” he said, holding her head in both hands now, thumbs brushing over the corners of her slanted eyes. “But this is not about love. It is about Aria, not a warrior’s duty to his king but an Ari’atór’s duty to this world. I cannot refuse Aria, as surely as I cannot stop loving you.”
“Then tell me, at least, that you have come to understand, so that I, too, may understand.”
“I have. There is one I must protect. There is a Ber’anor in this world.”
To any other elf, the comment would have been cryptic at best, but to an Ari’atór it made perfect sense. Of a sudden, all the years of her wilful solitude fell away, crumbling into the past as surely as the tower she stood upon. Blue eyes welled and then tears spilled over her cheeks, tears of utter relief.
He did love her. He had never had a choice.
The following days were a blur as day turned into night and then day came once more, but Fel’annár did not feel the passage of time. Today, though, as he awoke, he thought perhaps his head had ceased its mutiny and his body did not pain him quite as much. He had even managed to eat a little, much to Ramien’s delight.
Later, Arané, who Fel’annár now knew was the master healer, had visited. He had poked and prodded, peered into his eyes and asked far too many questions, only to promptly declare him out of danger and on the way to a full recovery. The Company had cheered, wrenching some toothy grins from the passing healers; even Arané had rolled his eyes affectionately and then batted their hands away as they patted his shoulder and back.
Fel’annár lay back now, listening to the quiet chatter of The Company and Galadan, much to Fel’annár’s surprise, for he remembered the lieutenant as an elf of few words.
“We are to report to Captain Comon at the barracks, once Fel’annár and Carodel are fit for duty. We are to be incorporated into the routine patrols of Tar’eastór, it seems,” said Galadan, crossing his arms over his chest.
“We, as in all of us?” asked Idernon.
“Yes. But there is more,” continued Galadan. “Ramien, Idernon, Carodel. You are to be counted as warriors from this day forward. You will have your ceremony when we return to the forest, I will make sure of it.”
Idernon stood abruptly, his chair scraping over the stone as it was pushed back, but he did not speak. Ramien and Carodel slowly stood beside him, and Galadan rose to meet them.
“Do our nation proud, warriors. Serve with me in the Tar’eastór guard: show them what it is to be a Silvan warrior.”
The three newly-appointed warriors blinked at Galadan’s unexpected words and then beamed proudly, and Fel’annár could do no less. Galadan’s face, however, was as straight as it always was. How did he d
o it? mused Fel’annár. The only thing he did know was that the stonier the lieutenant’s face became, the more deeply he seemed to feel; it was a defence mechanism, perhaps, mused Fel’annár.
Alpines were strange.
They chatted well into the afternoon, and Fel’annár dozed for a while, comfortable for the first time in days. They left him then, save for Lainon, who stood at the foot of his bed, leaving Fel’annár alone with the jumbled mess in his head: the battle and its aftermath, Silor, Dorainen, his gift—his father.
He remembered Lainon saying that Thargodén had loved his mother, a Silvan commoner. Together, they had created a child for reasons Fel’annár could not fathom.
He needed to understand why.
They were protecting you.
It was not necessary. I would have understood; I would have remained silent.
We were protecting you.
But why? The king had an illegitimate son that no one needed to worry about. He would simply be ignored by most, scorned at the worst, but surely that was all. What did they think they were protecting him from?
He suddenly realised his dialogue with Aria had not startled him at all; indeed, it had seemed natural to him, and he thought perhaps he would miss it should the trees wax silent. For the first time, he realised that he had always done this; it was as natural to him as breathing.
His eyes fell to the journal in his lap. Its appearance was nothing short of a miracle, for everything else had been lost that day. The Deviants had destroyed everything in their path: food, chests with supplies, and gifts for Vorn’asté’s court, everything—except this one, unassuming diary. A cut and bruised hand smoothed over the leather cover and then opened it. Galdith’s face stared back at him, his latest sketch, and he rather thought he had captured his expression well: so fiery and passionate, so expressive, so very Silvan.
