Tharan wanders the artist’s alley of the market in Caerswë, the Miësin clan’s capital city. His visit with Krelä, one of his favorite artisans with whom to collaborate, concluded. He loves wandering the market, spending time studying the new pieces, discussing them with the shop keeps, and the artists themselves when they’re there. Sometimes the discussion is enlightening and delightful. Others bland and uninteresting.
The current conversation is, unfortunately, the latter. The shop keep clearly doesn’t understand these pieces at all, and for a clan that prizes working with material that is so dependent on interacting with light, one would think they’d have been a little more mindful of the positioning, both of the pieces, and the sources of said light.
Tharan is doing his best to stay focused on the shopkeep’s words, but is exceedingly grateful when Dorië mutters his apologies both to Tharan and the shopkeep, but that he requires Tharan’s attention. Tharan turns back to the shopkeep, offers a small, respectful bow, and follows Dorië to a clear spot in the alley.
“Apologies Master Tharan, but I’ve just received word that, ah,” Dorië checks the small piece of parchment, “Miss Alkara? Has returned to Three Rivers. She is alive, though badly injured. I believe she is the human woman who commissioned the mythril arrows from you.”
Tharan’s eyes widen as he listens but quickly returns to a neutral expression, “Yes, I remember her Dorië. Thank you.” He pauses to consider for a few moments, then says, “Please make arrangements for us to leave for Three Rivers with all haste.”
Dorië nods until he hears, “Three Rivers” and then looks up, startled, “Three Rivers? But… why?” He does not look pleased at the idea of taking this particular detour.
Tharan heads back toward the inn in which they’re staying, “I would like to find out how well the mythril arrows worked. You know that mythril is said to have anti-aberrant properties. Miss Alkara’s account should be most useful.”
Dorië furrows his brow as he follows, “But couldn’t we just send a letter? Or invite Miss Alkara to come visit us in Afanen?”
Tharan turns to Dorië with an eyebrow raised, “Do you think she would respond to such an invitation? Or even a letter?”
Dorië stares at his notebook. There is a hint of intensity, “Master Tharan, I don’t think she will respond well to anything. She was rather unpleasant, and I don’t imagine much of anything improving her disposition.”
Tharan nods, considering his words, “You may be right. All the same, I should like to find out for myself.” He turns forward and strides toward the inn.
They arrive in Three Rivers around noon two days later. Thankfully, the city is still buzzing about Alkara and her feat, so it’s easy to ascertain where she lives. Quite close to the sector where most of the extant Glohasin live, as it so happens. As they walk through the city, Tharan makes the effort to observe, curious.
Much of the city is changed. Tharan’s last visit was decades previous, so it comes as no surprise. He looks at new structures with bright eyes and wonder. What was once farmland is now a tavern. A well now sits within the courtyard of a larger estate. Vendors crowd a street that was last a dirt path.
The constancy of change within human society is not unlike that of the Glohasin. It’s a steady march. The rate is different, but every tempo has its time. He observes a petty squabble over some refuse between two mud-covered youths.
Not always a march toward something better
Not every problem can be fixed at every moment. Tharan continues on, retinue in tow. Despite the infrequency of his visits, the differences between cultures are appreciable. And appreciated.
Alkara lives in a newer part of the city. Or perhaps one that has had the most recently renovation. The home sits outside the old city walls. The exposed wattle doesn’t have have the haggard appearance from enduring decades of inclement weather. Or being too near the Laësin.
Tharan begins to swallow and stops himself. Giving no hints outwardly, Tharan examines his inner self.
Odd.
His heart thumps in his chest. The path through town is light; it couldn’t have been strenuous enough of an exertion. Tharan lifts his hand to rap on the door. With the movement he examines a flurry of emotion come unbidden. And with the briefest effort he keeps them in check to compose himself.
He knocks.
A young woman answers. Her eyebrows curve upward and her mouth parts a fraction. Her skin is fair and she is taller than Alkara. It must be Dreonna. Despite her red hair and brown eyes there is a resemblance between the two. Perhaps it’s the honest expression of surprise on her face.
“Um, hello. Can I help you?”
Tharan bows. It’s brief, that of respect but not deference. It’s the bow given for hosts that aren’t necessarily socially equal. Hearing Glohasin spoken by the young woman may have caused the bow to last overlong. “My deepest apologies for stopping by unannounced, I am–” He stops when a dark blue Glohasin appears in the doorway. His heart skips a beat and his eyes widen, losing that composure he had just reformed.
Alkara’s foster-father is half-Raesin, half-Forsaken; Tharan had known this. But the uncanny resemblance in skin hue to Doë’s was unexpected to say the least. Tharan bows once more; this time lower, and longer. With the reports about the mentor he’d heard, it is appropriate. This must be Master Iroshi.
“What can we do for you gentlemen?” The smile on Master Iroshi’s lips can’t seem to sit still. It quirks from one side to the other.
“Master Iroshi, I presume, I–“
“There are no Masters in this house.”
Tharan’s mouth quirks a little, “I apologize again for arriving unannounced. I am Tharan onë-Naldo. I crafted the mythril arrows for Alkara and her mission. I had heard that she has returned and I was hoping to speak with her.”
At the mention of Alkara’s mission, Dreonna’s face shutters and she moves past Iroshi back into the house. Iroshi pauses, likely noting Dreonna’s response, before responding himself, “She is still recovering from her wounds, but I will ask her. Please come in. And uh,” His eyes flicker over the paladins, Dorië, then back to Tharan, the amusement still clear on his face, “Don’t mind the mess.”
Tharan offers a small bow in thanks, asks his paladins to wait outside, and then follows Iroshi. The front room is small. Four cots line the walls, each with a trunk at one end. Clothing and tools of their trade strewn about. He notes that one cot is bare, with what looks like a small shrine in front of it.
“Please wait here,” Iroshi says as he moves into the second room.
Tharan looks to Dreonna and a large young man with dark skin who must be Chiron and nods toward the shrine, “May I?”
Dreonna and Chiron look at each other. They shake their heads and shrug. The movements are slight, without commitment. “Uh. Sure,” Dreonna finally says.
Tharan nods his thanks and slowly walks forward, kneeling in front of the shrine to offer his prayers and respects for their brother. He notes the arcane runes carved into the shrine, remembers the profile he’d been given on Sengmar, and wonders what they might mean. But then hears Iroshi and Alkara making their way in from the other room and quickly rises.
He straightens to turn with a greeting on his lips but she’s already in front of him. Tharan feels the sting of her slap before registering the movement. It’s hard, emotion-filled. He staggers and has to twist to avoid stumbling into the shrine.
She breathes hard. Tharan touches his stinging cheek but the pain of having slapped him is evident on Alkara’s face. It must have cost much. She cradles her injured hand with the other.
But worth it, apparently
Dorië protests from the door. And her family respond in turn. A gasp. A snigger. “Alkara.” That one is pleading. But he has eyes only for Alkara’s. There’s a depth there. It’s like the smoldering of embers at the forge. It threatens to overwhelm the greens of her eyes.
“How dare you?!” The tone matches the fury of her eyes. Maybe exceeds it. “That cursed bell you hid on Guenwyvar went off out of nowhere and gave away my position! You ruined my plan and almost got me killed!”
Tharan’s eyes widen further. What? Too stunned to speak, his thoughts race so quickly he’s at a complete loss.
Iroshi chuckles from somewhere behind Alkara. “Uh, Tharan, was it? Why don’t you tell her what else the bell did?”
Tharan’s eyes flicker to Iroshi for a moment as Iroshi tosses a small round object toward him. Tharan catches it easily and examines the piece in his hand. It is indeed the bell he’d hidden on Guenwyvar’s collar, but it is cracked. So Alkara had died, and the bell’s magic had been spent. He lets out an involuntary sigh of relief and looks up at Iroshi, who nods his thanks.
Alkara watches the exchange and looks back and forth at both of them, still furious. When she sees Iroshi nod she whips back around at Tharan, “What? What did it do?” She snaps, glaring at him fiercely.
But Tharan, for the first time in his long life, finds himself speechless. He opens his mouth to explain yet no words come out. He closes his mouth, blinks, looks down, and takes a breath, trying to compose himself. But as soon as he looks back up at Alkara, the words disappear. His cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment. What in the Grandmaster’s Forge is going on?
Iroshi walks forward and puts a hand on Alkara’s shoulder, “Alkara, that bell also saved your life.”
Alkara’s eyes widen with surprise and she turns back to Tharan, who simply gives a wordless nod. A flush paints her cheeks as a whirlwind of emotions passes through her eyes that comes right back around to anger, at which point she sputters, “I… I knew that!” She whips around and stalks back into the second room.
Tharan exhales suddenly, not realizing that he’d been holding his breath.
“Please forgive her. The hunt cost her much and she is still mourning a brother.” Iroshi says, looking up with an apologetic smile.
Tharan’s eyes don’t leave the spot where Alkara had disappeared, “Indeed.” His gaze lingers a moment longer until he notices a snapped bow on a cot in his periphery. He stares at it for several moments, thinking hard, and turns to Iroshi, “Where are the creature’s remains?”
Iroshi’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise, “If it’s still there, likely about a mile north of the Lost Stone in the Deadwood. Why?”
Tharan’s head tilts down as he contemplates, “I have heard that Aberrant remains sometimes have interesting crafting properties. I should like to find out for myself.”
From the doorway, Dorië protests, “But Master Tharan, we’re due back in Afanen for a Council Meeting.”
Tharan nods, “Yes, we’ll need to notify them that I will miss it. Thank you for the reminder Dorië.”
Clearly not the answer Dorië was hoping for, he pulls out his notebook to make the note, scribbling a little more quickly than usual.
Dreonna stands, “I’ll help you find it. I could use some fresh air.”
Tharan shakes his head again, “Thank you, but that will not be necessary, I have–“
“I said I’ll help you find it.” There’s a glint in her eye that brooks no argument, “I should be able to help you figure out if these remains have any of the properties you’re looking for. But I lay claim to the rest.”
Tharan looks at her for a moment longer, then nods. “Alright. Thank you.”
Dreonna shrugs, “Apparently you saved Alkara’s life. It’s the least I can do.”
Tharan pauses, then nods again and turns to Iroshi, bowing deeply again, “Thank you all for your time and your service.” He nods to Dorië, who’s muttering to himself furiously but follows Tharan out.
Two days later, Alkara lays on Uncle Iro’s cot in the second room, staring at the wall. True to form, Uncle Iro had made sure her life was out of danger, made sure her hand would heal properly, and then stopped using his magic to help her heal. She has her own magic now. She could use it. But she doesn’t. She understands the lesson he’s trying to teach her. He hadn’t even let Dre use any of her potions.
A tear slips down Alkara’s face. Dre had argued with Uncle Iro on that. Hard. Even as hurt as she is. Alkara squeezes her eyes shut in pain. Both Chiron and Dre are furious with her. She doesn’t know if they’ll ever forgive her. She won’t blame them if they never do.
Perhaps this is how it ends. This is how I lose my family. And it’s all my fault.
Stop being dramatic. They’re not going to leave because you lied to them.
Even if they do forgive her, things will never be the same. It’s not like they can trust her after this. She can’t lead them anymore. Sengmar is still gone. And even though she’d destroyed the creature that had stolen him from them, she doesn’t feel any better about it. There’s nothing she can do to make up for the horrible thing she’d done. She wonders if she’ll ever be free. She doesn’t think so.
I could have been free. Bitterly remembering Tharan’s visit. He’d meddled. Saved her life. What if she hadn’t wanted to keep living? What had given him the right to… to…
Alkara rolls over and groans. Why had he even bothered anyway? What’s so important about her sticking around? Especially to an elf. Especially to a fancy pants elf like him! It would be so much easier if she’d just died and stayed dead. Her spirit would have rejoined Urdima. And that would have been that. It doesn’t sound so awful. It certainly sounds better than what she’s having to live through.
The nightmares she’d hoped would disappear once the creature was gone had only gotten worse. It’s one of the reasons Uncle Iro has her in the second room, besides her recovery. She’d learned how to swallow her screams, but she still wakes up thrashing and gasping for air, and often with a bloody lip from having bitten through it to contain the scream. Dre had pointedly asked Uncle Iro if she could at least start trying to find a solution for that, which Uncle Iro had allowed. But so far she hadn’t had any luck.
Alkara rolls over again, wincing at the pain of the movement, feeling wretched and miserable. It’s just as well Uncle Iro won’t help her heal faster. It isn’t even the physical wounds that plague her the most. It’s knowing that Sengmar is gone because she’d made one wrong call. It’s her fault. If she’d been a better leader… she should have known! They’d done so well. They’d done everything right. She’d done everything right. Except… then she hadn’t. And she hadn’t even been the one to pay for it. Sengmar had.
Alkara curls up in a ball, trying to stifle the sobs. Dre and Chiron are working today, but Uncle Iro is in the next room. Alkara doesn’t want to bother him more than she already is.
Then the door slams and the lock clicks. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as Alkara gets the sense that someone is in the room. She sits up and sharply turns toward the door, gasping as she sees the intruder.
The being in front of her is not human. That is immediately clear. She can’t even tell if they’re male or female. The air seems to shimmer around them. They’re graceful, tall, and lithe. With pale, green skin, they have a full, multi-pointed rack of antlers sprouting from their head of dark, rich, flowing brown hair. Their clothes are so form-fitting, Alkara briefly wonders how on Urda they get in and out of them. Her eyes flicker to the sickle-shaped sword hanging at their side.
Alkara quickly looks around for a weapon in reach, but she has none aside from her dagger. Fat lot of good that will do. She draws it anyway. “Who the hell are you?”
The being blinks at her impassively. They don’t react to the dagger being drawn at all. They answer in Pretton with an ethereal, androgynous voice, “I mean no ill will.”
Alkara snorts, “Yeah, that’s nice. Who are you?”
“A family friend.”
Alkara furrows her brow in confusion, “That doesn’t tell me who you are. And you just locked out the only other person here who might know.”
“A family friend of house Alfur,” The being calmly amends.
Pain spears through Alkara’s heart. Sengmar’s family. Tears prick her eyes. She clenches her jaw. “Great. What do you want?”
The being gestures gracefully at Alkara, “To determine whether or not you yet carry Sengmar’s child.”
Alkara starts as though the being had just slapped her in the face, and it seems to her that time stops for a moment. Her mouth drops open, but there are no words. She dimly registers the front door open and close as she stares at the being, incredulous. Sengmar’s… child?
The being watches Alkara for a few moments and quickly scans her body for signs, “You don’t seem to be showing yet, though that is hardly confirmation. Are you carrying Sengmar’s child?”
Anger and pain finally punch through the shock. Alkara raises her dagger and moves to stand. But as she leans she puts too much pressure on her bandaged hand. She winces and hisses in pain, drawing her injured hand toward her even as she keeps the dagger raised.
The being furrows an elegant brow, scanning Alkara again, this time noting the bandages, “Are you in good health?”
Alkara narrows her eyes. “I’ve been better.” She grinds out, “But why the hell would you think–“
Alkara gasps as little flowers suddenly bud and bloom both on the being’s horns and on Alkara. The blooms on Alkara release spores that seem to concentrate around Alkara’s remaining wounds, her bandaged hand, and the bite on her ribcage.
Alkara squirms as she feels a heightened crawling, creeping sensation. She can literally feel her skin and connective tissues mending. She looks at the being across the room in alarm, “What–?
Working to suppress making any sort of noise of discomfort from whatever spell the being is casting, she cries out in surprise as Uncle Iro suddenly drops down into the room next to her. Where the hell did he come from?! Then she remembers the window set high in the wall.
Uncle Iro seizes the other being up quickly, and by the scowl on his face, he doesn’t look too pleased with what he sees. He turns quickly to Alkara, “Are you alright?”
Alkara slowly nods, “I think so…” She unwraps her bandaged hand and turns it back and forth, flexing it a bit to test it out.
Uncle Iro’s eyes widen with some surprise and he turns sharply to the intruder, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The being ignores Uncle Iro completely and calmly answers Alkara’s question, “It is a natural conclusion. You are to join House Alfur.”
Dropping her hand, Alkara furrows her brow. “What–?”
Uncle Iro cuts in, “Don’t accept anything. Don’t make any deals.”
Alkara looks at Uncle Iro in exasperation, “I’m not!”
Uncle Iro doesn’t look at her, but addresses the being, “Alkara is not with child. Not that that’s any of your business. Or the Summer Court’s.” He says with an edge in his voice, keeping his hand next to his rapier.
The Summer Court? So this is a fey? Alkara’s thoughts are interrupted as the fey being speaks.
The fey continues to address Alkara, “Sengmar made it clear that with your betrothal you would be expecting shortly.”
Alkara’s mouth drops open at the fey being’s words. What the hell are they talking about? She’s starting to wonder if they’re talking about the same Sengmar. But they’d said House Alfur…
Uncle Iro steps in front of her, his voice firm, “Sengmar was killed in battle a little more than a month ago.”
Alkara starts at the pained cry. Climbing off the cot to stand next to Uncle Iro, she’s even more surprised to see tears and anguish on the fey’s face as they bow their head. She looks up at Uncle Iro, who watches the fey with a frown, but with compassion. Alkara looks back at the fey, guilt crawling back up into her chest and threatening to choke her again. This is her fault.
Suddenly the fey looks up with a sharp inhale, “YOU LIE! You lie about Sengmar and you lie about the girl. She must be with child!”
Alkara’s anger finally flares, “You can go to hell! Why would I—?!”
Uncle Iro cuts in firmly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what Sengmar told you, but he never took Alkara into his bed.”
Alkara recoils with revulsion, looking at Uncle Iro like he’s crazy for even suggesting such a thing.
The fey being looks from Iroshi to Alkara, tear-streaked face now expressing their own confusion. Their gaze settles on Alkara, searching. “How can this be? Sengmar spoke of your love often.”
Love? Alkara furrows her brow as she thinks. But then her face suddenly clears with realization as horror creeps into her heart. The blood drain from her face. It’s hard to breathe.
“Of course I want them there, but I was hoping to speak with you about something.” He sighs. “Something confidential.”
Her throat start to close as more tears come. She looks up at Iroshi, her voice breaking, “Uncle Iro…?”
Uncle Iro sighs heavily as he meets her gaze. She’s never seen this much sadness and regret in his eyes before.
The fey slips several pieces of folded parchment out of a pouch on their belt, holding them out to Alkara. “This is the last letter Sengmar sent home.” The being’s voice is heavy and full of sorrow.
Alkara swallows and reaches for the parchment.
She cries out as Uncle Iro suddenly slaps her hand away. “Accept nothing!”
Alkara clutches her hand and looks up at the fey in fear. That would have worked. I would have…
Uncle Iro’s voice is full of suspicion, “What do you want in return for the letter?”
The fey looks at Iroshi for a moment before replying. “Nothing. Sengmar is dead. I give it freely.”
Alkara looks at Uncle Iro nervously. After a few moments, he nods briefly.
Alkara turns to the fey, reaching for the letter once more. She opens it to find Sengmar’s familiar, precise hand-writing. Tears immediately streak down her cheeks and she looks back up at the fey.
But they’re gone.
Alkara looks at Uncle Iro, who’s still frowning at the empty air that no longer shimmers. She goes to the cot and sits to read the letter. She scans through it quickly until she sees her name. Her heart stops.
As for the matter of proposing to Alkara, I recently obtained Iroshi’s blessing. You should have seen his face, mother. Like he’d known my intentions all along. Perhaps longer than I had. And that’s likely the truth of it. We humans must be so predictable to him, and yet he never condescends. He must know how long I had agonized over asking him, for he informed me that he would be traveling soon. He said that I was to either have told Alkara how I feel before he returned, or he would do it for me.
Do it for me! How embarrassing. I may never have measured up to my brothers in strength and physical combat, but I am still a man, aren’t I? And yet I have not yet had the courage to tell her.
But I must. I will. I wish you could meet her mother. Though she would vex you so! She has no respect for the stations of nobility, of which I have written in many a previous letter. She could give my brothers a run for their money in a fight, even though they’re twice her size. But underneath the abrasive front she is kind and gentle. She cares for people, in her own way. She is fiercely loyal. And if you could but see her smile during a hunt. I love her.
Even so I know that you will not approve. I only hope that you can be happy for me mother. For I have at last found happiness that is most profound. Weep not for my life in exile, for it has lead me to the most precious, beautiful woman on all of Urda. Someone I’d have never found in the court of the Duke of Heath. If all goes well, in my next letter we will be married. A wonder I never believed I would experience.
Till then, I bid you farewell, mother.
Your son,
Sengmar.
Alkara stares at the letter in misery. In spite of her best efforts, her face soon crumples. She drops the letter on the cot next to her to sob into her hands. What is she supposed to do now? The idea of doing anything romantic with Sengmar fills her with revulsion. He was her brother. But he had obviously started to see her differently. And she’d never even noticed. He’d wanted to take her out to dinner. Practically begged her for a chance to be heard. To be understood. And she’d looked at him like he was crazy. How could she have been so awful? And the question that nags at her in the end…
Could she have learned to see him differently too?
It doesn’t matter now. The sobs wrack her body. He’s gone, his dreams, hopes, and aspirations with him. He’d never marry. Her or anyone else. He’d never get to experiment on material components with Dre again. He’d never learn or improve a new spell. He’d never…
Uncle Iro’s arms gently circle her, holding her close. But she doesn’t turn to him. She doesn’t deserve the comfort.
After a long while, when exhaustion overtakes her, she’s left with one singular thought.
Why couldn’t that damned elf have just let me die out there in the Wastes?