Chapter 2

Guard

Arethor awoke to the smell of sizzling lamb and eggs. It was a scent he had begun to long for, and was enough to help him rise from his bed with ease. His legs were still sore from the riding, and his back aching from the fall, but his hunger drove him down the stairs and into the tavern in just a few beats.

To no surprise, Hemm was already wide awake. The smells spilled from the open kitchen door, and a light layer of smoke caked the ceiling of the common room. Sitting at the bar, a blanket around her shoulders, was Amber. Her hair was a mess despite her vigorous brushing the night before, with sleep in the corners of her eyes. Exchanging a smile, he disregarded his annoyance with her and sat down on the stool next to his sister.

"I missed Hemm's breakfasts…" Amber murmured drearily, running the back of her hand over her mouth which still held remnants of drool.

"I was gone only a month and I was having dreams of them." Arethor brushed away crumbs that had been left behind. Hemm's cleaning was always a bit subpar, rushing around at the end of the night to get home only to wake up at the crack of dawn. And within only a few minutes, Hemm exited the kitchen with several plates balancing along his arms. Sliding them in front of the two elves, Hemm merrily sat himself down before them.

"Lamb, eggs, bacon, and of course bread with butter and honey." He announced, before lightly tapping salt onto their meals. Somehow the Mylian always knew the exact amount needed for any given meal. Never had Arethor needed to complain about it being too salty, or needing more. And the elf could see it in the twitch of his lips that Hemm knew he'd perfected it.

"Thank you, Hemm. And again, thank you for watching my tavern." He nodded in respect to the Mylian, who chuckled and waved a hand at him playfully.

"Twas nothing, sire." He then began to tear into his own plate like a dog on the street. There was no cue needed for the two to follow his example, and both began devouring their meals in no time. By the end of it, their faces were covered in grease, bits of egg and lamb sauce. Arethor didn't care if he looked like a fool. After all, if he felt safe looking foolish with anyone, it would be the two mischievous youngins before him.

After their meal, Arethor returned to his room to prepare himself for the day. Equipping his tan pants with his leather coat and white undercoat. The collar poked out at the top, to which he quickly folded down. His mother always told him he looked like a fool when he left it up, that only bullies and pinheads did such things. He always had listened to his sweet mother, even long after her passing.

Grabbing his Oaken Sigiled satchel, Arethor determined how to spend his day. He knew at the very least he needed to check on his good friend Otis, who had been worrying about since he'd heard of the attack. Deciding he could kill two birds with one stone, he managed to wrangle his sister into getting ready, as to accompany him.

"My stomach hurts, I just ate." She growled, dredging behind him on the staircase, leaning against the railing as if she was about to keel over and die.

"So we shall walk it off. Perfect opportunity, no?" Arethor smirked, looking over his shoulder at his supposedly ill stricken sister. "No use postponing the thing that could possibly save your life, after all." She murmured something under her breath, jumping the last few steps and thomping onto the wooden floorboards. The ground creaked as if it would break, but held.

"I'm sure you're exaggerating." Amber raced her brother to the door, and stepped in front of it. Arethor sighed, rolling his eyes. Both of them knew he could throttle her out of the way with little effort, but as always he entertained her nonsense.

"I promise you, I am not." He grabs her by the shoulders and gently pushes her out of the way. "I've seen it myself, Amber. Dozens of times." The word 'dozens' seemed to strike something within Amber, who's eyes widened and lips sealed. She remained silent as they left the tavern and walked up the flourishing street of Brightrock.

Carriages escorting hay, barrels of syrup, and livestock paraded down the busy road. Children and elderly alike flocked upward toward the town square where the market was finally starting to come back to life. Only halfway up the Arch, they could already hear the shouting of prices and products from merchants eager to make up for lost time. But it seemed the customers were just as thirsty to make up for the time as well, waving bags of Cryy's into the merchants faces trying to outbid those around them.

Cryy's were Riverdens main form of currency, which was not seen in most other places. It was considered the currency of the Elders, who naturally had to adapt as their exile from Everdale centuries ago led to them naturally spawning their own culture. The Distantints refused to disperse the standard gold, silver, and copper coin to the Elders. And thus they resorted to using the small transparent crystals that were plentiful in Riverdens many mines. No one is exactly sure why they were called Cryy's, but they were worth more depending on their size rather than the material inside.

"I've got two-full's with your name on it!" A man bargained, waving two large Cryy's in the air.

"Try two full and a half!" Another shoved up two large Cryy's with another half their size into the merchant's face. A foreigner would've most likely been utterly lost when it came to how their currency worked. But Arethor had lived long enough that the math was done instantly in his head, and at the end of the day, it was just about who had the most and largest crystals. The merchant greedily snatched the second man's offer, and threw the pelt into his open arms.

"I'm sure Otis is having a great time watching over all this." Amber teased, keeping a grip on Arethors sleeve so as to not lose him to the crowd. The elf patted the city-goers gently on their shoulders as he brushed them aside, paying mind to not step on any toes. It wasn't rare for someone to take a gesture the wrong way and turn around swinging. But by now, most knew Arethors as the owner of The Whine, and wouldn't dare lay a finger on him.

A large part of him was happy his reputation had switched from mysterious veteran to beloved local ale brewer. But another part of him felt lonely in that forgotten part of himself.

"I think I see him! They got him on the Palace Steps again." She pointed with a snarky smile. Amber had thrown on her white dress, which she knew Otis liked above all else. It wasn't that she wanted to impress him so much, but she did care what he thought of her. Either way, she'd never dare admit it to herself that he influenced her choice.

"Poor sap." He grimaced as he pushed his way through the last of the crowd. Otis stood attentive, his fork beard leather armor tight against his well kept body. He always worked out much more than Arethor, who relied more on fasting simply to stay light and quick on his feet. For Otis, it was all about muscle, and being able to kick a door down with one move. He'd never seen him do it, but Otis swore it to Hyvale that he could.

The human's eyes lit up with excitement when he saw the two, his lips parting as if to shout his joyousness, only to quickly realize his position and close his mouth. Arethor chuckled to himself as he found himself a seat on the cobblestone railing just beside him. Behind that was a sheer drop several hundred feet into the forest.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

One of Tavernkeeps many interesting geological challenges outside of being dead center inside the second largest forest in all of Hyvak, was that it was built on a massive cliffside. The palace sat at its peak, all sides dropping off into a dizzying freefall onto jagged treetops. The inclination was subtle, though, and thus the city didn't suffer too much from loose barrels rolling down streets at alarming speeds. That's not to say it didn't happen occasionally though.

"At ease, soldier." Arethor said, smacking the Oakmen in the back and nearly sending his halberd out of his hands and into the streets. Amber took a seat next to Arethor, but was immediately distracted by a young boy running between legs with a sack tightly clenched in his fist. It was clear what was happening, but she sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. Turning back to Otis she held back a chuckle.

Otis grumbled, unclipping one side of his mask so they could properly see his face. "You don't have the authority to do that anymore, if you recall." He teased, flicking him a sideways glance. Arethor shrugged, running his fingers along the bumpy texture of the railing. It was a nauseating drop, but heights had been one of the many fears Arethor naturally had conquered in the Oak. He wasn't given much of a choice.

"And yet, you still listened? But how are you, given everything?" Arethor didn't want to avoid the topic too much. It was most likely obvious that was why he was there anyways, other than a friendly chat. But the Guardsman simply scowled at the question, with a twitch in his eye that spoke volumes.

"I was here of all damned places. Watching from a few hundred feet away as those bastards tore apart our people." Otis pointed toward the library that lay only a stone's throw away. “I had started toward it, but the other Oakmen told me to stay put, that I'd be discharged." He huffed, shaking his head as he ran his tongue along his teeth. Arethor had seen better people be discharged for much worse, he understood the pain better than Otis could imagine.

"You still did your duties. That is honorable on all fronts." Arethor frowned, knowing his words could only aid his friend so much. But not much could be done for a man with bleeding pride, but to try and convince him that his efforts were not a waste.

"Heathgrim did a damned good job, but he just…" Otis paused, looking round him briefly. "He just took too long. Let them get ahead, far too ahead." The other Oakmen beside them gave nothing but a glance, minding their own business.

"What matters is that it’s over, Otis. And you did everything you could." Arethor watched as the town square started to thin ever so slightly. Otis shook his head, unsatisfied.

"I could've done more. I am capable of more." Otis growled, biting down on his tongue as to hold back the words it may let loose.

"I know this. Anyone who knows you, knows this. It just takes time."

"Like it took you time?" Otis snapped, his eyes wide with anger. Not at Arethor, but at the process that held him on those damn stairs. But the human quickly realized what he'd said, and his face drained with guilt. "I'm sorry, brother. It's been a grueling few years."

"You're fine, Otis. You're doing everything you can, and it will pay off eventually." Arethor turned to his sister, who had long since distracted herself with a flower that had grown between the cracks in the brick road. "I do have a slight favor to ask of you, though." The elf nudged his sister, who dropped the flower in shock before looking up at Otis. "Care to explain?" Her face went red, and her mouth hung open with empty words.

"She ditched the Mission without an appeal." Arethor spoke for her, rolling his eyes.

"That's not fair! I came home for you, asshole. I thought you might be dead!" She smacked Arethors arm like a little kid, to which he quickly pushed her forward into the street. Otis laughed at the two, something he clearly needed in his life at the moment.

The human gingerly grabbed Amber by the arm, guiding her back to the ledge and sitting her down. Her face couldn't have been more red, but the Oaknight was nice enough not to comment.

"Relax, you two. But look, this isn't going to be easy. The Mission treats this like a soldier running away from battle, or abandoning their post."

"I tried to explain this-!" Arethor started, to which Otis quickly waved at him to be silent.

"Regardless! I'll try to speak to Heathgrim…" His words trailed off as the name left his lips. "He might be able to handle this better." Otis finished with a cough. Arethor knew that he most likely wouldn't be able to solve the problem entirely himself, but he didn't like the vague time window in which this solution presented. There was no telling how soon the Mission would reach Tavernkeep, especially if they were after a deserter. But he wasn't about to push his friend anymore than he had, and instead smiled.

"Thank you, Otis." He then turned back to his sister who had somehow dozed off once again. "Amber."

"Yes! Thank you, Otis." She blinked wildly. "I need to get some mugs for the tavern, yours are groudy." Before Arethor could ask any questions, his sister had already disappeared into the crowd. Otis chuckled to himself and slapped the elf on the back. There was a long moment of silence, as if the two were both waiting for Amber to be far out of earshot.

“You know, Arethor, if you’d been here I think things would’ve gone a lot differently.” Otis said with a drop in his voice. It seemed random, but he knew Otis was only trying to cheer him up in some weird backwards way.

“You’re the third person to have said that to me, and the third I’m having to tell that I’d have been of no use.” Arethor boarded on pouting as he sat back down on the railing, watching the ocean of heads swim around the market. He could see the subtle swaying of his friend in the corner of his eyes.

"Then I'm sure you were also told that skills like yours don't simply vanish." Otis raised a brow, to which Arethor raised one in return to confirm his assumption. The human smiled as he shook his head, his red hair glistening in the dense sunlight. "You just need a bit of practice. I'll tell you what, since I'm such a good friend, how about after rotation we meet at the city gates? I know a nice spot for sparring. We can chip off some of that rust." Otis clipped his face guard back on, as much as he didn't want to. The offer made Arethors heart pound for some reason. Looking at his hands, he saw the deeply rooted calluses in his fingers from the decades of wielding a sword. He wondered if the feeling of his blade meeting others would jar him as much as it had his first time, now that it had been so long.

"I'm not sure." Arethor muttered, letting his arms fall back to his side.

"Stop thinking, just say yes. We should've been doing this years ago after all! If you don't do it for you, do it for me, I need the practice myself." Otis pleaded, though he kept his gaze straight ahead and his posture upright. He was surprised the other Oakmen hadn't hissed at him to shut up yet.

The last time he had really swung his sword at someone had been on the beaches of Greyholde, just before he and Heathgrim had managed to snatch a boat and paddle it back to the shores. They had stumbled across where their weapons had been held on their way out of the castle. He hadn’t thought he’d see his sword again.

And Arethor had of course not thought it would be his last time using it, but he sure as hell remembered every moment of it. He had already been rather tired by then, his abilities not what they used to be. It was not because he had weakened physically, but rather his will had. He no longer held onto that rage that had once fueled him, pushed him beyond his limits in the Green War. It was partially the reason he had left the Oak right after.

But he imagined Tavernkeep in flames, cultists running up and down the streets with heads piked on their swords and spears. And then he imagined himself. Standing in the street with a sword in his hand, useless, quivering in doubt and fear. He wanted to believe that wouldn't be how he reacted, frozen in terror and unable to help. But, how could he ever know unless it happened? And how could he ever prevent it other than by wielding his sword once again?

Arethor didn't need to be as ferocious as he’d been in the Green War, no, he just needed to be able to protect his friends and family. Amber, Hemm, even Lordely and Ritlan.

"Fine. But where's this spot you're speaking of?" Arethor rubbed his hands together as he stood back up. The guard smiled behind his faceguard, and answered with a chirp in his voice.

"An old hide-y hole where all the cool kids went back in the Academy." Otis said smugly as he brushed a bug from off his shoulder-plate. The elf recoiled in confusion and shook his head.

"Why haven't I heard of this, then?"

"Think that speaks for itself, mate." Otis laughed.

"I was top of the class! I won almost every spar I was in!" Arethor argued, remembering the times he would outsmart even those who had several feet on him.

"Yeah, man, kicking everyone's ass doesn't exactly put you in the best light." Otis scoffed, flashing Arethor a playfully ugly glare. There was one time when Otis had tried to convince Arethor to purposely lose a spar. That is, so he wouldn't be jumped by his fellow classmates outside the academy. To which Arethor said he'd love to see them try. They never did.

"Whatever. I'll see you then." Arethor played off his hurt and saluted a goodbye to his friend. Otis saluted back, though he lost sight of the elf almost immediately as he plunged into the market.