“If history must remember me, let it remember this: no person knows themself until they have died; they do not live until they have touched death, seen her face, and been changed by the Breath of Life returned.”
-The Queen of Dorcha Ur, UE 2499
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FENNORIN
One moment he was reaching for the tree, and the next the bark ripped at the skin of his outstretched hand as he was hurled into a dark world of mist and rain. He plunged into the rush of waters beneath where it crashed over and around him, shoving him further from his former refuge. The great force of the waves pounded the very breath from his lungs. He rolled and spun under the water. A sudden, uneven jumble of roots wedged him between the crushing waters and the unforgiving ground. Just as he reached out a hand to catch hold of the roots, he was ripped away again. The torrent yanked him in another direction, and for a moment he felt his arms turn one way and his legs another before his middle slammed into a hard, round obstacle. If he’d had breath left, he lost it then.
Trunk!
Fenn’s instincts kicked in, and he curled around it. His body wedged against the tree, he worked one arm next to his legs. Then, with all the might of his numbed arms, he pulled up, shifting a leg to the other side of the tree. He battled the current with every motion as it wrestled to tug his feet from under him. At last, he managed to prop his knee against the bark and propel himself out of the water.
He tried to gasp as he shot himself upward. Instead, his body convulsed, working as hard to push water from his lungs as he worked to hold the trunk. When he caught his first rain-filled breath, he pressed himself to the smooth bark. It was one of what Mell called palms. Gusts of wind fought to rip him away. Above him, the palm swayed recklessly close to the clouds, begging to be struck with lightning.
Are the others alright?
He peered through the blur, but all that met him were shadows and the downpour of rain and hail in threatening grays.
“Fenn!” Another gust carried Galendria’s faint call. Thank the gods. If she was calling for him, then she was living and breathing, and not terribly far away. That boded well for the others, too.
“I’m alive,” he whispered back. There was no use in yelling. In good weather, his weak voice barely carried across a classroom.
He clung to the tree. Alive. His muscles ached from the first half of the storm. He was unsure he would survive the second half; though, apart from the pelting of hail, it wasn’t as deep or as violent as its predecessor. The rushing waters rose only to his thighs, but they pulled powerfully, and he fought constantly to keep his feet from being swept off the ground. The rain pelted him from all sides as the gusts chased each other rapidly and hail bruised his back. The cold of it penetrated beyond the skin and muscles, chilling him to the core with a terror he’d never known. A flash of lightning split the sky. Without his glasses, all he could see were glaring reflections and deep shadows that left him blinking at spots.
I’ve brought us here to die.
The realization crushed him more than the water ever could have. He’d known the Faeworld was dangerous, but now he lived it fully, facing judgement like that of the gods themselves. Boidhan’s wrath when he realized he had been betrayed by his wife could hardly have been more fearsome. For himself, this danger never mattered. But Mellark had a career, a job she loved, and some unresolved business with her estranged family. Krid had a daughter and an entire company of dragonfolk who would mourn him, even a wife who would hunt Fenn down to kill him for not returning her husband to her. And Galendria?
Her parents would never stop looking for her to come home.
He shook with a cold deeper than his body could feel.
For him, the only people in the five realms who might miss him, if he died here, were with him. It was unfair to the others.
Even if he fought and managed to survive, he’d be no aid to his companions. He was too weak. Too useless. He could not keep them safe like he wanted–like he’d promised Galendria.
The water tugged at his legs, splashes leaping at him, taunting him.
If he let go, if he slid away with the rush of waters, the others would give up this mission and go home. They could go live their lives. It was his fault they were here. It might be the only “help” an elf like him could offer.
The storm tensed, the air crackling with energy. He held his breath.
Crack. A flash blinded him for a moment, and thunder left his ears ringing. Over the tone, he heard a grinding and splintering of wood. Shadowy blobs were falling from the sky. He watched a lean shadow tumble. Not his tree, but one nearby had been struck and broken, the top careening down. It crashed into the flood with much creaking and splashing. The earth around him shook, and other trees rattled with pain.
That could have been his tree. Or worse, it could have fallen on the others.
I don’t want to die.
The realization was odd and sudden. He redoubled his grip on the tree. He had no rationale for it. He wasn’t worth much. He hadn’t contribute meaningfully to any society: just some stuffy books for people with niche interests. He’d even abandoned the only family he’d ever known: Kitaryn and his mother, to deal with a cruel father and patron. To Galendria he’d withheld his intentions and brought her ruin.
He simply didn’t want to die.
He wanted to find the truth, and present it to others, yes, but at the deepest level, if he had to choose between knowing and living? He would want to live. And if he lived, he would want to help, truly and meaningfully. More than just a dusty corner of books. Yes. If he was responsible for them coming to the Fae, then he could be responsible for their survival. And if they returned having acquired something meaningful…
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The truth.
He pressed his forehead into the tree, feeling the bite of the bark. He could take Gale to visit her people with new knowledge of their homelands. That same knowledge would make Mell’s career. Krid could go home to his wife. Syrdin… he still didn’t know what zhe wanted.
He shifted his feet, wedging them into the mud and roots. I will live. He hugged that tree with all the might he could muster.
That was when he realized that he, by some gift of the gods, was still holding his glasses in his hand. Not only could he survive this, but he had the tools he needed for what came next.
He would live, he would see his friends alive again, and–frosts take it–he would find out why the gods abandoned the elves in the Trueplane. The world needed to know. He needed to know. Maybe it was not worth the lives of the others, or even his own. But he would not die. Not if he could help it. And he’d help them survive, too, somehow, and make it all worth it.
The terrible winds and frightful torrent did not last as long, this time, as they had in the first half of the storm, and that was a great mercy. When several gusts had spun themselves out without shoving him around and the downpour had slowed to a steady rain, he finally braved replacing his glasses.
The fallen tree loomed near him like a felled dragon from tales of old, its body of the more serpentine type. Its toppling had damaged a great many trees, their branches scattered far and wide around it, washed into piles at the bases of trees. The water streamed in one direction, lapping at his booted calves.
Perhaps it collects in pools like the pond we saw.
He released his grip on the palm. He couldn’t feel his hands and had to visually inspect them. The bark had rubbed away a layer of his skin, leaving his hands, which were purple from cold, with a red veneer on top. He peered around, but the others were nowhere in sight. He couldn’t even recall what direction he would find his companions in, but he knew his pack, if recoverable, would be downstream.
His notebook was safe, at least. He had enchanted that with a spell of waterproofing ages ago, and it was tucked in his satchel, which was still tied tightly across his stomach.
But the share of rations he carried may be lost forever, as well as his tent.
Beauty’s Blessing if I’m not lost myself.
But when he lifted a leg to step forward, his knees buckled out from under him, sending him splashing into the gray waters below. He scrambled to all fours, but every movement of his numbed legs burned with the fury of a thousand ants. And they were heavy, like rods of steel. He couldn’t lift them to stand. He squeezed the mud between his fingers, seeing nothing but the blur of gray clouds reflected at the top of the water. Or perhaps the water was gray. He could not tell, for his glasses had fallen into the water.
He had held them through the storm, only to lose them now.
His chest tightened. All of that energy, that defiance, fled him. He closed his eyes as a tremor ran through him. If I ever find them, if I’m not eaten by wild animals, I’m putting a locative spell on every one of the others. And, for beauty’s sake, a recall spell on my glasses! But for that, he’d have to be able to go on. And he had neither the tools nor the strength on his own.
“Fenn?” Mell’s rich voice washed over him like the warm rays of the sun. He looked up, leaning back on his knees. He could feel himself trembling all over. A shadow approached, and he heard the sloshing of her feet as she waded through.
“Mell?”
The sloshing turned rapid as she ran toward him. “You’re alive!”
He blinked at her. She was getting close. “Careful! I’ve just lost my glasses here!”
She slowed. “Are you hurt?”
“I–I’m not sure.” his voice shook. He was a bit bruised, maybe, but gods was he tired. He could just collapse into the water. His hands were beginning to throb, and he couldn’t feel his feet at the end of his legs. “I can’t stand up just now.”
“Oh, Fenn.” The shadow that was Mell lowered by his side, a warm hand landing on his shoulder. The warmth radiated from her hand, to the bruises on his back, down to his burning hands and even his feet. The pain dulled. Healing. He shuddered. He wanted to cry. He wasn’t lost, not quite. Mell was here.
For a moment, the world itself turned bright, white reflecting into his eyes almost painfully, and the air turned warm. It was only a moment, then it was cool and gray again.
“Aha!” He heard a splash in front of him and saw some movement. “Here! They caught the sunlight.”
He felt two hard shapes press into his shoulder, bridged by a thin line.
My spectacles. The means to the truth he sought. “You found them!” He unburied a hand from the mud, shook off the water, and reached for them. He rubbed them quickly on his shirt, then put them on.
He blinked at Mell. Through blurry droplets, he could see her braids drooped with water, her robes sagging over her form. The straps of her much smaller pack still weighed on her shoulders.
She smiled at him. “Better?” she asked.
He nodded. The urge to cry nearly overwhelmed him again. Here, he had tried to find the strength to seek the truth, to help the others, and to live, only to have it all saved by Mell. “Thank you.”
“Breeze’s bliss.” She shook his shoulder then let him go. “Any clue what direction the others are in?”
She was blown out of the tree, too, he realized. He shook his head, appraising her. She must have healed herself because she seemed heavy with exhaustion, but unharmed. “No, but I think my pack must have washed that way.” He pointed toward the fallen tree. An abundance of sticks and brush had collected against it where it blocked the flow of water, creating a pileup.
“Then we’ll start there.” She stood, reaching out a hand to him. “Are you able to stand now?”
He accepted her help and tried his feet. He found them achy and still tingling, but willing to obey. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”
He led the way. After some deduction about the variation in currents and consideration for the fact that the storm had blown them in approximately the same direction, they did manage to find his pack. It was a ways further downstream than the fallen tree. It rested in the water with just the blue tent poking out against the ruddy color of a low tree. He heaved it out. The rations would be ruined, but at least the tent was still attached.
He was glad for Galendria’s help securing it that morning. If it had not fallen loose, they would not have double-tied it.
Galendria! If Mellark had also been blown from their tree, there was no guarantee the others had managed to keep hold. Gale had called out from not terribly far away. What if she’s alone? Or Krid? Or Syrdin?
He turned to Mell. “Do you think–”
As always, she’d read him before he fully knew his own mind. “We’ll find them.” Her voice was warm and sure. “All of them.”