Corpses riddled the ground as far as the eye could see. They had lost as much as the Merdendi, maybe more. But that was a worry for another man. For the first time since he set eyes on her in the battle Ezril ventured towards Lenaria, closing the distance that had once served as a forbidden zone of sorts. How could he not when she stood in place rooted to Vayla for all she was worth. Her swords dangled from her grip on both sides. Her face was turned to the sun. He would have thought her entranced by its beauty had her eyes not been closed.

No. She simply bathed in its glow, although he didn’t think it warm enough that she should be able to feel it. It was a nostalgic scene enhanced in every way; rather than snow there was grass, where there had once been merely two bodies laid countless, and where the blades had belonged to another, today, they were hers.

Ezril stood before her, everything else lost to him but the sight of her. She was stained with blood. Her vest and trouser of brown leather bathed in its scarlet. The white of her hair was stained red at odd angles and yet it retained its beauty, its uniqueness. It was hair that had once upon a time been white as the winter snow. The careful single braid she had kept it in before the battle was loose, revealing blonde-white locks. They cascaded down her face and neck to stop just below her shoulders. If the heathen gods did exist, Ezril had no doubt one of them would look as she did.

He wondered at how he’d thought them colored when he’d first met her at the fort. Her hair was more white than it was blonde but, even now. Its change began from its roots, drowning out the white. Perhaps it was age that caused it. Perhaps there was no white left, and the only reason he still saw the color was because he wasn’t ready to accept that it was gone. Perhaps…

“Ezril…”

Ezril made an incomprehensible groan. It was hard to pay sound much attention.

“Ezril?”

His gaze focused. It met with green eyes, clouded, half closed in mild satisfaction. He saw her smile in them. “Yes?” he answered, his gaze still lingering on her hair.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she began, voice husky, “but is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he mumbled, scarcely paying her much attention. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re touching my hair.”

“I’ve touched your hair before,” he replied. A fair truth.

“True,” she agreed, “but not like this.”

She was more than correct. He had touched her hair more than a few times as a child and in the time they spent at the fort. His gaze wandered away from her eyes. Beside her face, in his hand, he held a handful of her hair. He’d never touch it the way he did now. It was admiring, almost venerating.

He hadn’t even been aware of his actions. It seemed his hand had simply acted on its own. His grip loosened. Lenaria spoke almost immediately.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“Like I said; not that I’m complaining.” She sounded whiny.

A smile tugged at the ends of Ezril’s lips. “Why’d you color it?” he asked, curious. “It’s color is artificial, isn’t it?”

The smile fell from Lenaria’s face. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke, the sorrow behind it, unimagined. “Yes, it is.”

Ezril knew how much she’d loved the color as a child. He understood her sorrow. Though he didn’t want to remind her of it, he wanted to know. “Why?” he asked again.

There was a moment of silence. When he thought he had asked a question that would gain no answer, she said, “For my safety.”

It was a revised mantra if he ever did hear one. The words were not hers. He heard it as surely as he felt her hair. He twirled a lock of hair around his finger then let it fall.

Lenaria pouted. “I was rather enjoying that. Why’d you have to go and stop.”

This time he couldn’t resist the smile. It spread his lips teasingly. “I have to find my brothers,” he said. With that, he cast his gaze across the battlefield, unable to shake the irrevocable awareness of her presence.

To the south Salem sat upon a dead Merdendi not too far away, his face stained with blood. His poleaxe rested against his shoulder. Ezril had a feeling not once had his brother drawn his Sunders in the battle. Upon closer attention he realized that this battle had captives, something nonexistent in past battles. He’d thought it something they needed to work towards. However, he hadn’t expected it so soon.

“Lord Bilvion said it was necessary to take prisoners this time,” Lenaria told him, reading his expression.

Ezril turned to her, confused. “For what reason?” he asked. “We don’t speak their language. There would be no point.”

“The king sent a message.” Lenaria sheathed her swords and began tying her hair up in a bloody knot. “It says there’s a young scribe who claims he knows a bit of it.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he can be of use.”

“Perhaps…” …But why were we not told?

He spared the captives one last glance. The few females amongst them surprised him less than he expected. “And how did you come to know of this scribe?”

“The soldiers talk,” Lenaria replied, the fatigue of battle was absent in her voice. “They talk more than the sisters at the convent.”

He paused, looking at her as one would a child who was happy for no reason. “What?” he asked.

Lenaria cocked her head to the side. “What?” she repeated.

“You’re smiling.”

Actually, she was beaming. It was one of the smiles she often gave. It revealed the white of her teeth and was accompanied with a gleeful stare.

She blinked twice, as if he was asking something odd. “I’m happy.”

“Perhaps too happy?” he suggested.

She shook her head impishly. “No. I don’t think so.”

He’d almost forgotten how eccentric she could be. Or perhaps he had. “And why are you happy?” he dared to proceed.

“Because we’re talking,” she answered without skipping a beat.

Ezril nodded in acceptance, but not understanding. “But we always talk.”

“I know.” Her voice was tiny, almost childlike. “But I’m still happy ‘cos we’re talking.”

It was a difficult thing dealing with her whenever she became like this, so he let the conversation end. He said nothing more while she continued to beam at him, her upper body swaying from side to side.

High noon saw what was left of the soldiers gathering the bodies of the dead under Noem’s command. It was a tasking affair that proved too challenging for some of them.

Killing was one thing. But having to look upon those slain in battle was a different thing. On a few occasions Ezril watched the faces of the men cringe in disgust at the sight of fallen foe. A few emptied the contents of their bowels at the sight of allies. These were the ones that told the true tale of the battle undertaken. Ezril caught sight of a dead soldier with a sword of the realm thrust through his back, no doubt the killing blow.

Death at the hand of an ally, he thought with mild solemnity.