There are legends of the gods to accompany the wars. They are scattered and variable, but the common thread is this: Sabaed the Goddess of Warcraft and Night left her place in the Pantheon in secret to love Hehin. Some tales say she was tricked, while others say she tricked Hehin into giving her his power. Some even claim the power took the form of twin daughters. It is impossible to tell which texts are the most reliable as no original sources have been preserved.
-Fennorin’s Guide to Elven History, First Ed. UE 2342
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KRIDARNN
The sun beat down on him like the judgment of a disappointed clan. The leaves whispered failure and condemnation as the five of them passed, and Krid knew it was true. He had nearly been taken in one blow by nothing more than a giant bird. Shame scorched his bruised insides. What would Fridana say? “Don’t you give me a fatherless daughter.” That, or some reprimand. “Fight with the snake’s cunning, not the recklessness of the wild cougar.”
He huffed and shoved aside his feelings. His traveler’s pack was enough to bear on its own. It would be a more beneficial use of time to evaluate their mistakes and learn. He surveyed his companions. Galendria hummed her way through the grass and ferns, light as a morning breeze despite her heavy pack and drooping eyes. Mellark and Fenn followed behind her, weary but content. Syrdin limped behind.
How can they be this calm?
They had been agents of discord. Syrdin had pursued the Watcher, unyielding to the group. He shouldn’t have followed zhem. That was his mistake. His duty was to Fenn and his friends, not that goading gut-spiller. Then Fair Galendria had called out without awaiting consensus. Another mistake.
Then he had nearly died. Preventable, if only one of the others had indicated to him what the creature was saying before he goaded it. He felt his tail thump into a tree as it slithered with irritation.
Thank the Fates for the holy woman. Without her, he would have been lost to the Faeworld. All because this hodgepodge-stew of a squad would not heed one another. Communication, awareness, collaboration; they had none of it.
And now he had to cross this cursed realm with them, droughts take it! He balled his hands into fists. He would have them cooperate, even if it killed him.
Ahead of him, Galendria had slowed to match pace with the book-heads. “What do you think she meant by calling me ise-difen?” she asked Fenn and Mell. “Do you think it could be an honorific?”
The two looked at each other, and Mell pursed her lips into a determined line and shrugged.
Fenn sighed. “I know it for the same purpose as you: a familial designator, something I would call my sister. Even in Old Elvish literature, the term is used primarily between literal siblings, or at most by those of the same tribe referring to younger females.”
His sister. Krid wrinkled his brow with concern. Family was a private matter, yet Fenn mentioned her as though her existence were as open to the world as the sky to the sun. Does he not care for her safety? Krid could invent no other explanation. But it was Fenn’s duty to protect her. She was more years his junior than a drakeman’s lifetime if he remembered right. Krid glanced back at the mercenary. Syrdin is not his clansman. And definitely not his friend.
Syrdin dragged behind the others like a limp tail, not slithering around in the shadows as zhe usually did. Despite how the little gut-spiller had endangered them all, he couldn’t help but be moved to compassion. Zhe was clearly in pain, bent and lurching along. A maroon patch had begun to form on zheir lower leg where a wound’s dressing was soaked through.
He slowed and let the little elf catch up. He was not in perfect condition either, but at least he could walk.
“Come, gut-spiller, I’ll give you a lift,” he patted his shoulder, and then held out his hand.
Syrdin flinched as if his hand were a snake. “No thanks. I don’t need help.”
“He who refuses to aid the suffering dies alone. Yet also he who refuses the aid he is offered suffers alone.”
“Cute saying.” Syrdin made no move to take his hand.
“It is the creed I teach my company to uphold,” Krid reached out and grabbed Syrdin by the clothes on zheir back and began to lift, “even at the cost of their lives.” As he moved, aches cramped down his side.
Zhe squirmed and pulled a knife. “Let go of me!”
He dug his grip into the leathers he found under zheir cloak and heaved zheir small, lean mass to his shoulder, ignoring both his pain and zheir demands.
The threat was empty. Zhe grasped one horn of his head for stability, not sheathing the dagger. “Compassion is weakness and pity will get you killed. Do you think there is some honor in a death like that? It’s better to live alone than die beside allies.”
“There is no joy in a life like that.” Now I am certain–Krid released zhem and the aching dulled, leaving Syrdin perched on him, zheir legs dangling over his breastplate–that zhe never lived among the Brikhvarnni. Mell and Fenn seemed to believe that to be the case. If it had been, Syrdin would have learned to rely on others. The colonies of Night Elves in Brikhvarnn had learned to abandon the callous ways of the Dark Ones. Zhe is not to be trusted. Not fully.
Out of respect for zheir abilities and loyalty to Mellark, he would not yet reveal his knowledge. His Brikhvarnni Honor demanded him to keep his agreement with zhem and not mention zheir ethnicity or gender. Besides, the book-heads would realize the truth sooner or later.
He felt a tapping vibrate through one of the horns atop his head.
“What?” He snapped.
“Hm, so you can feel it.” He felt the even pressure of Syrdin’s grip resume.
His hands itched with the urge to throw zhem off his shoulder. Patience. He pressed toward the front, passing the book-heads once more. They weren’t paying attention to where they were going anymore.
“Hey, dragon?” Syrdin spoke casually, as if the tapping had never occurred.
“I am not a treasure-hoarding murderer.”
Zhe ignored his hissed statement and went on. “How would you feel about a little spar, once this bum leg is healed? A friendly little test of strength?”
He puffed his annoyance out of his nostrils. “Why?”
“Hmm,” Zhe shoved a tree-branch out of their path as zhe spoke. “I want to practice fighting big things.” When zhe released, it swung over Fair Galendria’s head.
“HA!'' The laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and he found his annoyance cracked with a smile. “Sure, we can spar.” It would be good to know whether, if it came to it, he could protect the others from Syrdin. He would never again leave his friends at the mercy of an enemy. That single blow had been the most embarrassing moment of his life. He could only hope…
“Hey, gut-spiller?”
“What skitts?” zhe sounded almost friendly.
“Is there–” he cut off, surprised by the unfamiliar question.“What skih-what?”
“What’s skittering around in the dark? Y’know, of your mind? What skitts?” Syrdin tapped an impatient heel against his chest.
He shook off the unusual saying. “Is there any damage on my backplate?”
He felt zhem shift around and heard the brush of leather gloves on metal. “Just one chip under the left shoulder blade and some fresh dirt.”
The sun’s judgment eased, carried away on a gust of hope. The incident left no new scars. He could be allowed to forget the dishonor of falling to the mere wind of a foe. A smear could be polished away, but dents and scars could only be renewed by the hammer.
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FENNORIN
There was a lapse in conversation; all three of them were satisfied to assume that Dara’s magic provided the “little sister” connection. With heavy limbs and a sense of awe, Fenn observed Gale’s gliding through the colorful forest. Her accomplishment had completely lifted her spirits, and that lifted his. He let himself enjoy the incredulity of what had occurred. “I still can’t believe we met a Watcher. That is a living piece of folklore. Mell, you and Krid may be the first Trueplane natives to ever meet one.”
“Obscure folklore at that!” Mell rejoined. “I just hope whatever we meet next is less angry with us.”
“Imagine, Mell, because the Watchers are real and they wield the powers as described in the legends, then it stands to reason that the pantheon, the tribes, and even the nature of the gods are also true to the legends.”
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He barely noticed Mell nodding along as the thoughts swept him up.
“It is exactly as I supposed. The ancient history I grew up with–of savages in the Wildlands and of symbolic celestial deities–that version is the lie. It’s likely all true Mell! From Boidhan’s creation to Cialmara’s blessing, and even Sabaed’s love affair. There could be a god walking around in this very forest!” He could hear his own voice growing too rapid, but he couldn’t help it. “Or we could find Watchers in other territories, not just uchavon–that’s Ferngal’s type–but centaurs and fauns and treelings. And we could find ruins of places like Yatndrena or–! Mell, even the Underfae will be hidden here somewhere with its grand dark cities! Ghost cities, but cities! It had all been lies–everything simply fabricated out of our history.”
It was one thing to have believed, all that time, that his country had been wrong and the collections he found on Hethbarn were right. It was another to experience it. The last notes of cognitive dissonance that had lingered in his mind finally left him in peace. It left only one question: why lie?
“Lies? What lies?” He turned to find Gale, her brows pinched over her little nose, staring at him in wild confusion.
Mell took a pointed step away, swiveling her braided head to the canopy. This conversation was his to have.
Suddenly, the running spigot in his mouth went dry. He didn’t know where or how to begin. “W-Well most of Etnfrandia’s official history from before… well, from before Highfather Goldencrown, it is… is in conflict with the rest of Hethbarn’s account of it.” He tensed in preparation, unsure how she would take the news.
She balked. “What? ‘In conflict?’ As in different? That’s absurd! Different how?”
Not unexpected. He took a deep breath and thought of how he’d explain it in a lecture hall. He’d start from what she knew well. “Do you recall the Battle of Etnfrandia?”
“Of course! It’s only the most important day in history! A battle was won, an army undone, the Night Elves defeated, at rising of sun.” She recited the children’s poem musically, pleased to be standing in territory she recognized.
He cringed his way past a cluster long-leaved bushes, avoiding a stink-spitting flower bug. “You see, the rest of Hethbarn records it as a victory for the Night Elves. We were the last nation standing in a continental war against them.”
She flinched from him as though he’d been the stink bug. “That’s preposterous! Then why don’t they rule us? Or all of Hethbarn? We won, clearly, or we would have dissolved!”
Fenn shook his head sadly. “The barrier cut them off from us, so we were just a remnant of survivors who made a home in their little refuge city. But for the rest, the Night Elves and Hehinnians did rule. From 0 UE until about 1100, when the kingdoms of men and dwarves rose up and threw off their reign. There were humans that fought alongside us who could not cross the barrier. None of them lived except for a few scouts, and their accounts are recorded in history.”
“No, it must be the Night Elves and the Hah-hey… hah-heenn–whoever they are! It was they who lied!” Gale’s hands squeezed her skirts, white-knuckled. Fae mice scattered from before her as the Etnfrandians had scattered from before the Night Elves.
Fenn grew silent for a moment, watching the little cloasamora scurry away. Gale clearly didn’t want to believe him, and that was the hardest to argue against. “To alter history like that would require some kind of authority over others, wouldn’t it? Authority that only rulers would have.” He hoped brick-solid logic would work; something one could build a house of information on.
She changed tactics, her voice rising. “But why? Why lie? Why change history?!”
The image of splintered shelves and burning books invaded Fenn’s mind. He could see his father’s face, lit by the flames, grim with the sick approval only those who have tasted the massacre of knowledge could know–done in the name of cultural preservation. More accurately, cultural manipulation. He could see a hint of panic, the same discomfort he had once felt, darkening Gale’s eyes.
But a history could not be fully destroyed without destroying the people. If he had learned nothing else from Professor Spacklebottom, Fenn had learned that.
He opened his palms toward her. “Gale, someone–or rather some group–decided to hide the truth. We were taught there are no real gods, only symbols of power. We were taught magic was dangerous to us, not a natural tool or a gift. I know you understand that the second is a lie. Why not the first? Why not the rest?” He took a deep breath and spoke softly. “But I don’t know the reason for it. If I did, I wouldn’t have come here.”
Gale huffed in frustration, turning her head away, toward the shadows of the forest. An insect somewhere nearby screeched its wings angrily. Then Gale looked back at him, a small, stiff smile planted on her face. “I’ve been wondering, if we can’t enter Etnfrandia without facing arrest, what is the plan for our return?”
She changed the subject. He felt the eyes of the others fall on him. They had all been wondering the same thing. I’ll just tell them what I’ve thought so far. “For the return journey, it will depend entirely on what we find, and whether we can convince Ferngal to allow us back through her lands. Even then, there could be some complications on the other side. Perhaps it would be better if we could find, or make, another exit. After all, there were once other Doors.”
Gale perked up “Another Door? How do we find that?” Hope glittered in her eyes.
His palms had gone slick and his hair itched under the arms of his glasses. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Oh,” she deflated to her usual level of optimism. “Well, anyways, if we do have to return the way we came, I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it happen. And for the Etnfrandian side, I know once we explain everything to my father, he’ll advocate to the Council for us so we can at least leave Etnfrandia.” She sighed. “I’d rather not leave home, but I understand what we’ve done is illegal. Unforgivable, even.” She peeked at him from under her lashes, ready with another little smile. Concern overshadowed her expression. “Fenn, what’s wrong?”
He realized he was gaping at her. He snapped his mouth shut. Oh gods. She has no idea. She had pieced together her predicament, but had not realized… “Gale, your father…”
Her optimistic gaze bit into him, and he found himself unable to complete the sentence. Fenn felt suddenly aware of the breath in his nostrils and the beads of sweat soaking into his clothes. Will she spiral into panic again?
“Aren’t you worried about him?” he managed.
She blinked at him. “I’m sure he’s awfully worried about me. He’s very protective and–” she cut off, reading his expression. “Oh,” realization crossed her face, followed by a horror that drew in her cheeks. Her skipping steps stopped in the dirt. “Winter’s frost! Fenn what have we done?! He could be in trouble!”
“Gale,” he started to reach a comforting hand towards her, but thought better of it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. All of the blame was meant to land on me. But when you got involved...”
“Oh, no no no. It’s my fault.” She raised a delicate hand to her forehead and seemed to waver in place between determination and panic. “I should go set the record straight.” Fenn couldn’t tell if that was a decision, or merely what occurred to her in that moment as right.
“But you’d put us all in danger by going back,” he pleaded. “And he isn’t in danger of anything except perhaps a bit of jail time and a demotion. If they have the magic I suspect, they’ll discover he had nothing to do with it beyond allowing Mell in. ”
“But they’ll ask him so many questions!” Gale closed her hands into fists. “He’ll– he knows about my magic. They’ll ask about me–he’ll lose everything! And it’s my fault.” She turned to march back in almost the direction of the Door, determined to fix it.
“Now listen here, girl,” Mell boomed. “Fenn has explained to you already that you wouldn’t be righting a wrong, but creating a new one. Or does only your father matter now? He is a very capable man of very high standing. I think he can take care of himself.” Mell softened. “Don’t you? Besides, wouldn’t he want you to look after yourself? And not throw yourself into trouble for him?”
Gale’s jaw quavered, and tears shimmered in her eyes. Mell opened up her arms and spoke gently. “Come on, you didn’t mean for this. None of us did. And we can’t change it now. Let’s cry it out so we can figure out how to move forward, not back, hm?”
Gale hesitated, and Mell wrapped her up in a bear-like squeeze, one that Fenn had been the victim of many times. It was the kind of hug that left you breathless, half-choked, and somehow feeling better.
It must have had a similar effect on Gale because when Mell finally released her, she was wiping her tears, appearing almost resolute. “Alright, we should move onward.”
How does Mell do that so easily? How is it she knows just what to say? He couldn’t reach out without hesitating, couldn’t comfort anybody without making something worse. He traced the palm Gale had leaned her face into earlier. It had been hard not to withdraw, like his hand had been searing on the stove. He rubbed it, scratching at invisible blisters left by her cheek. He’d made her cry, then panic, then almost faint, and then somehow in the middle of it all he had encouraged her more romantic feelings. Meanwhile, Mell could simply quell all fears with three sentences and a hug.
He realized Gale was looking at him, searching him. “My father will be alright, won’t he Fenn? They won’t hurt him?”
Fenn dropped his hand, suddenly gripped with anxiety. If even Mell’s words weren’t enough, what could I say? “He’ll be just fine.” He nodded his most reassuring nod.
“Promise?”
It’s not something I control, Gale. He couldn’t understand what it meant to worry for one’s family. He couldn’t relate to what she felt at all. But he could see the suffering it brought her. He sighed. “As far as I know. But a promise like that shouldn’t–” matter, especially not from me.
“Please,” she cut him off, reaching for his hand.
He took a step back, withdrawing from her touch. Not again. Yet her gesture chased the words from him. “I promise. He'll be fine.”
A matroniage, her protection, her father’s safety, how many promises am I willing to make that I can’t keep? Two of them he already meant to uphold–even with all his might. But he knew he had very little might to offer. In time, her faith in him would prove him a fraud, intentional or not. Useless.
Somehow, his words seemed to satisfy her, and they marched on in weighty silence. Before long, they came upon a clearing sufficient for their tents. Fenn’s feet throbbed with their request to stop. He was ready to rest, even if for a short while. “Mell, could you divine whether it is okay to sleep here?”
“Yes, I would be glad to.” Relief was evident in her voice.
Behind him, Krid grumbled about reading fates, but unloaded the sentient package from his shoulder anyway. Syrdin winced as zhe was forced to stand on zheir own again. Every single one of them was in desperate need of rest.