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Valerian passed through the doors without waiting for them to open. Having learnt to misty-step at a very young age, he'd been a genuine nightmare to keep track of. It had taken an entire fortress of half-elven servants and Lerendar to keep him from harm as a child; a debt he was still finding ways to pay back.

Now, though, he burnt manna like beeswax to flit past the heavy wood door, getting away from that wretch of a druid. That… Shagbark. His heart was hammering and his breath came rough, but he straightened. Took a moment to adjust his appearance as the guards pounded the shafts of their halberds upon the stone floor, tiltinAg the weapons outward in smooth unison, then snapping them sharply back.

He knew both young men, for they'd all been named in the same year, and… for a time… Val had been able to range the fortress and lands with them. Rapid aging and differing rank had pulled his old friends away, but still he remembered.

Coming in, he'd contented himself with a brisk nod. Now, Valerian spoke to them, saying,

"Jaik… Perry, good morning."

The pair relaxed their rigid on-guard stance, both of them turning their heads to look at him.

"Good morning, Milord," they responded, smiling.

"All… is well?" he prodded, still troubled by Gildyr's strange questions and hints. "Nothing seems out of order, to you?"

The pair glanced at each other, then back to Valerian. The taller guard, Perry, said,

"All seems as it should be from our station, Milord… Well enough. A bit boring, even. Arms practice feels like a waste of time, with peace on all sides, like this."

"But no one reveals state secrets to a lowly guard," cut in dark-haired Jaik, with a quick, impish grin. "So maybe adventure is coiled to strike, even as we stand here yawning and scratching."

"Keeping watch, rather," came a new voice, as the Lords Keldaran and Reston strode into view. "Anyone yawning at their post will find themselves guarding a sewer grate, in the third watch," snapped Reston, clearly mired in one of his three better moods (angry, morose or suspicious, take your pick; all of the rest were still worse).

The guards froze back into alert position, looking like statues once more. Val bowed deeply, saying,

"My lords," as his father and uncle came forward. Keldaran snorted.

"My second heir," he responded, reaching over to clasp Valerian's right shoulder. Gave him a brief, affectionate shake before adding, "Reston informed me of our night visitor, and that the fellow demanded to speak with you. Why is he here? What word does he bring of the Greenwood, if any?" Keldaran had rushed back in from a border ride, no doubt having a mage send him home. He was still dressed for patrol, in splendid armor; sword at his hip, helmet hovering in its faerie pocket. His long hair, a mixture of red-gold and grey, was plaited severely back… not tumbled in dirt, or stiffened with drying blood.

Val reached a hand up to clasp his father's, awash with confused emotion and half-glimpsed, awful visions.

"He…" the young elf-lord floundered. "Is just passing through on his way south, Dad… He's, erm… met me before at… the fair, or some such, and has come here seeking a traveling companion."

Neither his father nor uncle found this thin story convincing, Val could tell. Two sets of bronze-colored eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You are not due to leave for Karellon until spring, Lord Valerian," said Reston, who was older than Keldaran, but a half-elf, so not in the line of succession. "Not until after your life-mate gives birth. Would this fellow linger till then, as your guest?"

"More importantly, Son, do you trust him?" probed Keldaran.

Valerian blinked. Surprisingly, his reply was griffin-swift and came from the heart.

"Yes, Sir. I do." Rather as everyone treated Val like a hero, despite his having done nothing to earn such faith, so he trusted Gildyr and… and… someone else. Someone he couldn't quite call to mind, who hovered just at the edge of his thoughts.

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Turning to regard Reston (grey-haired, bearded and scowling), Val added,

"As to his status here, Uncle… I will be answerable for him as a guest. He is a druid. Doesn't eat much and mostly takes care of himself."

Keldaran shook his head. Seemed more amused than forbidding, though.

"Woodlings," he scoffed. "Half-wild from living in trees, the lot of them. Well, see that he doesn't track mud in the house or attempt to hunt in your mother's menagerie."

Reston found less humor in the situation, but gave his brother and nephew a cautious nod.

"You have spoken for him, and I accept your judgment, Valerian… but it is my business to be wary for you and all the rest of the family. I shall be watching him. Closely."

Valerian nodded, groping for armoring facts.

"Understood, Uncle Reston. I shall require companions on my way to Karellon for Imperial Guard duty, anyhow, and…" Well, he did not mention Cinda. No need to bring up past scandals, although the short-tempered ranger would surely come, too. "...and a druid's skills may prove useful."

Keldaran heaved a great sigh, rubbing at the back of his own neck.

"Well, there's time yet before you must leave. It is only midwinter, and the worst is behind us. From here on, Oberyn willing, Order prevails." Then, nudging his son with an armored elbow. "Go see your mother. She will certainly have some advice and magic to offer."

And, as a life-bearer, herself, preferred to remain in the family compound, above. Valerian nodded again.

"I will do so directly, Sir," he promised.

Keldaran relaxed enough to alter his clothing, magically switching from armor and riding gear into comfortable, slightly creased red-and-grey robes.

"Be off with you, then," he said fondly, dismissing his second heir. "I shall see you upstairs at dinner. Bring the druid, if he's well-mannered enough for the dining hall. I would meet and speak with the fellow, myself."

"As would I," added Reston, surly-alert as a wolfhound.

Valerian left his father and uncle, fighting the urge to forget all of this and drift back to cozy assurance; that "one perfect day" that Gildyr had spoken of.

Because… what if it all went wrong again? What if he let matters go, only this time, he wasn't clever or strong enough to prevent disaster?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Very far off in a bleak, distant future, an awakened young elf gripped his sword and stalked forward. Creatures had moved amid scrubby trees and low boulders, keeping to cover. Maybe friendly, but probably not. They smelled bad, too; like something dead and curled up at the side of the road. Not a good sign.

Moving cautiously, he made as if to edge past a stone outcrop, then just sort of… flowed right through it like smoke, instead. Became solid again on the other side, behind those scuttling watchers.

There were six of them. Muscular, greyish and warty, with bats' ears, patches of shaggy dark fur and very alarmed expressions. Armed with knobby clubs and short spears, the creatures snarled and spat, spreading out to surround him. Tried to, anyhow.

Letting go of conscious thought, he flowed into a fighting stance, using the smoke trick and broken cover to move and lash out at will. Got in under one creature's guard and impaled it, driving his blade in right up to the hilt with a crunch and a spatter of gummy, dark blood. Shifted location again as the others rushed to attack, and the first monster crashed to its knees. Lofted himself onto a boulder, then dropped to the ground behind a second snorting and grunting assailant. That one went down to a skull-crushing pommel strike and a blast of frost from the sword. After that, the others turned and ran for their lives, which he let them keep.

Fighting felt good, like something he knew how to do… but then you were left with cooling bodies, drained power and utter confusion. Found out that he could summon fire; make it come forth to dispose of the dead. Set a few trees alight in the process, but was able to unmake it, too; smothering flame with a thought, if he held his mind the right way.

Then, having nothing better to do, nowhere to go, he went back to the cracked stone from which he'd emerged; walking this time, instead of transporting. Touched an outcrop of glossy black rock there, not even knowing enough to ask the right questions. Just feeling completely bereft.

Caught sight of his own reflection in the shiny black surface. Glimpsed pointed ears, long, pale hair and light eyes. No answers, though, and no real sense of familiarity. That was him because the rock said so, not because he remembered his own appearance.

There was something scratched on his chest, where the decaying cloth of his shirt bared the skin. A mark of some sort; like a flame and a spiraling line, but its meaning escaped him.

Then he turned, for someone had spoken, soft and cajoling. A woman was standing there. She was shorter than he, with ears that were hardly pointed at all, and braided grey hair. Her clothing was rough, mostly tan-and-brown woven stuff. Her face was marked at the forehead and cheeks with dots and swirls of blue paint. No weapons… or at least, none he could see.

She said something to him in a weird, lilting voice, using words that were utterly foreign. Nothing he recognized, and no hand-signs, either. He shook his head, stepping backward on loose, sliding rock. Too tired and heartsick to care what she wanted, or why. All that he knew was…

He'd done something wrong.

He was here.

Whoever had sent him did not want him back.

…and he had nothing at all left to lose.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

In that other place, never-when, Midworld had lost touch with its gods as well as its magic, lurching from disaster to crisis to globe-spanning war. Alone on the planet, now, humans used science to help them break free of unending chaos, but whatever they tried only seemed to make everything worse.