Markos hurried back to the villa- the only home he'd ever known, it was as stately as it was ancient, having been built by his ancestors over many centuries, or so grandfather's stories would say. The manse predated the rise of the Eldinn family, and even the toppling of the dragon-riding Kings of Dubia. By the time he and Theodotos arrived, their mother was standing outside the door. Lady Artemisia Nemos was tall, dark, and beautiful- she could be as imposing as the fiercest of men when she wished, but today her countenance betrayed nothing but joy.
"I assume little Theo told you the good news?" she asked, looking to Markos with a soft gaze.
"Yes, ma'am." Markos replied, turning his own view down to his feet.
"Is something the matter? I should expect you'd be overjoyed! Your father is coming, and your uncle too." she said, her sweet voice to a more characteristic tone.
"No, ma'am. I just-"
"Good, then get yourself ready immediately. I expect you to be looking your best when your father and uncle arrive. I've had the servants prepare your supper clothes, and I expect you'll be in them and on your best behavior when you are summoned, am I clear?"
Markos simply nodded in agreement. There was little point in trying to speak to her when she was in this state. Mother was nothing if not particular when it came to planning a party. Woe unto the poor soul who sought to dissuade her from the course she'd chosen. His next stop, then, was his room. Once, Markos had been in the nursery with his brother, but that had all changed when Father left for Illia. Half the household had left with him, and Mother elected to give Markos a spare room so he might study in privacy. When he arrived at his chambers, Markos found the clothes in question- an old, red woolen tunic with gold trim, and cream colored trousers to go with it. A pair of fine slippers were also placed at the foot of his bed, which he had not seen before. Mother often gave gifts in this way, seeing little point in ceremony but gaining some small joy in surprises. Markos found the new slippers quite comfortable, though the wool of his old tunic irritated his arms, which were not covered by his undergarments. Would that he were able to roll the sleeves, but Mother wouldn't like that one bit.
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To take his mind off the discomfort, Markos perused the books his tutors had left on his desk. A copy of The Farkanlied was still half-opened from a history lesson the day before, with an annotation on some battle that Markos did not feel compelled to remember. The Elf-king it sung of won every battle but his last, so the minutia were easy to forget, though the imperial examination was not kind to those who chose not to study topics such as history or poetry, least of all historical poetry. The other books were treatises on law, architecture, and medicine, however, so Markos read the Farkanlied all the same, turning his eyes toward the page on the defeat of Farkan's enemies:
In the hills of SACTIS, his enemies made their stand
The last of the forces the Helvani could command
Slain in full, the path was open for the new Sylvani liege
For all the world to witness a new kind of siege
...
I can't believe I need to memorize this, Markos thought. Poetry was one thing, but ballads like this stirred something of a disdain in the young man's mind. There was something so untruthful and self-satisfying about it. What really happened? he wondered, closing the book in a huff. Nobody in the real battle knew they were going to be defeated. They all thought they were going to win, surely, otherwise they wouldn't have bothered fighting Farkan at all. All the elves in Helvania wanted to kill him, now they worship him as a god. It's stupid...
Before Markos could finish that line of thinking, a rap came at the door. It was time to go downstairs. It was time to see Father.