Thoughts of the glade, deeds fair and foul, and an uncertain future turned the long kilometers of steady travel upriver into a passive span of time with sylvan scenes blurry before the weary man’s meandering mindscape. Behind it all though, what he was trying to avoid thinking about was the sluggishness of his core, the muted hum of his magical pulse, still dim after these weeks past the struggle with the Lich. Physically, he was more or less whole now. But even rudimentary magic use induced a twinge of warning that suggested he find a better use for his time, like sitting down somewhere doing not much. So, while he leaned against the railing to their humble barge and took in the sights of the heart of Elf land at peace, he devoutly hoped that a solution to his dilemma would present itself, even if it meant more magical horseshit.
Question was, how did he fix his own cooked circuits? He purely wasted the majesty of the river ride into Iriel with his labyrinthine worries.
Taipan sidled up to him casually, inducing mild terror at the lack of warning to his senses, with a customary smirk of knowing that he’d been completely unaware of her approach. No great detective work that, he jumped liked he’d been goosed.
After delivering a stolid glare of reproach at interrupting his unproductive brooding, Ulric took in the sight of the Elf woman who had, in spite of terrible, terrible wounds, kept him alive. She hid her hurts well, but the tightness about her eyes, the slight twitch of ears when she moved the arm in its sling, all were evidence that the great scar across her body hid deeper problems than his Shadow-Wife wanted him to know. Some measure of grace finally achieved, Ulric said nothing regarding his awareness of her injury. He could offer no aid on the matter and she would speak of it when she felt like it. Two peas in a pod, they were.
“And how have you occupied yourself, mine wife, when you are not stalking behind me like a murderer in the night?” Ulric inquired innocently.
A casual lean against him was all the reveal to that mystery he received. Ulric, a man of the classics, could not help but take this opportunity, even though he knew that none here would get the reference. It was too fitting.
“Keep your secrets then. I was getting along here very well I’ll have you know.” Ulric quoted.
“Were you? Because the chewing of your cheek was nearing a draw of blood, Oh Glade Chief.” She retorted without particular inflection.
Melodic sarcasm was an unfit use of so pretty a voice, Ulric concluded.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a wild year.” He groused mildly, “I’ll have you know, some of us weren’t trained to slaughter beasts and men from the crib.”
“Oh? Curious, because you seem to have spent your previous life well immersed in the ways of warfare. How is it, that a mere scholar of whatever witchcraft these ‘orbitals’ may be, deciphers the machinations of an empire as if they were privy to its founding, and finds the levers on which to turn it inside out within a mere month of being inside its borders?” She wondered aloud.
“I read a lot of history and most of it on my world was people recording the run up to, execution of, and fallout from, literally I might add, wars. You know that.” Ulric defended himself.
He’d told her this before, it wasn’t a secret.
“Ulric, most peoples have read the histories of strife, we tell these stories often and recount them to the youth in their preparations for adulthood. Few understand the implications of such well enough to outline a strategy to dismember an empire within a season.” She replied, amused at his refusal to see the obvious.
“As much as you claim to have no head for tactics, yours is a mind designed to find the means to take things apart. It is only because you enjoy putting them back together afterward, and have no particular malice in it, that you are not an incredibly dangerous creature that I would one day be forced to destroy.” His Wife dutifully reported.
A grunt was all the intellectual rejoinder that he found for that sharp observation. He did not often enjoy the thought that, after all the disgust he held for the peoples of his old world and what their instincts led them too, the fruit fell not far from the tree. His mate was correct. Ulric did have a mind for finding the seams along which structures, material ones and political ones, failed. It was an important trait in an engineer, one that carried his career. You had to identify the problems to fix them, after all. He’d never considered that form of inquisitiveness to be something dangerous.
Curiosity was, harmless, right? Riiiiight, he chuckled silently to himself.
“Well, try to make it quick then, if you decide I’m in need of a swift dirking to prevent catastrophe.” He said, after a minute or so.
A gentle laugh, preceded her promise, “Of course! You will not even feel a thing, my love.”
He didn’t, at this point, even have to question whether or not she was serious. Taipan was a taipan.
“Did you come over here with the intention of busting my balls, or was that just a bit of garnish before you sandbag me with something else?” Ulric complained, not really upset that his Wife made him think about things he’d rather not, but more so that she was in top form in their verbal jousting this day.
It was going to take some real effort on his part to stay even, he could feel it.
A toss of hair, just long enough now to require tying back in a sort of silken spray from the back of her head, whisked across his cheek, “Is it so wrong to want to enjoy the smell of one’s mate, and their warmth, Ulric?”
The words themselves, innocuous enough, were not matched by the devious twinkle in her emerald and bronze flecked eyes. Ulric knew better than to fall for evil’s lies. With a long roll of his own orbs, he made certain the cruel wench knew he was on to her games.
In truth? The problem was that his lovely Huntress was bored. Hell, he was bored, in a distant sort of way. Since just before spring and on into summer, six months by his reckoning, he’d been pretty much immersed in high adventure. A calm, relaxing boat ride along a gentle river in tamed lands was damned near unnerving for its lack of stimulation. Taipan lived for the test, to walk the razor’s edge against the creatures of the forest. Ulric hadn’t before, his idea of a challenge was a more intellectual exercise, but he couldn’t deny the immediacy and sheer life that came amid battles. The purity of a single moment was tantalizing. He got that same rush from creating magic though, whereas Taipan didn’t have any other outlet than to throw herself into the wilderness.
She needs a hobby, he decided. One that isn’t Glade Chief baiting. When her wounds were properly treated, he’d have to find her something to occupy her talents, lest the beast become restless. For now, Ulric would fulfill his lover’s needs and play the game they both enjoyed: putting needles in one another for no reason.
They filled a few hours that way, perched along the railing, quietly shitting on each other. Taipan carried the day, and Ulric conceded his loss by yelling “Damn it, Woman! I’ll buy another boat if it means I get to ride it in peace!”. The tinkle of her victorious laughter was his reward for playing.
The rest of that day, and most of the next, they sprawled along the deck in various places or hung in bed hammocks while his Wife helped him learn to read. A ringing of brass bells heard not so distant outside their cabin announced that they had returned, at long last, to Irielhos, and the great city of the Deep Woods Elves.
Waterwheels that had been unattended when first he was escorted by Brighteyes through these woods were now mated to their respective mills. The smells of grains, herbs, compost, a host of small rotundas powered by the course of the river running around the roots of Irielhos, like a child romping around their parents’ legs, was pervasive. Taken together, it lent the undercity an almost medicinal smell.
Gardeners were cutting back overgrown plots, preparing beds that spiraled up the trunks of trees, connected to the upper city by lifts, rope bridges, and winding, tortuous paths through the lower branches of the great [Heartwood] trees that grew around their demigod sire. Ulric watched skillful hands peeling bark, pruning arbors, and giving off the feel of leafcutter ants busily tending their groves.
Like bats in the twilight, silhouettes barely seen for their swiftness and grace, the flitting forms of Hunters moved about the canopy highways on their way to and from tasks dire and minor. Sleds pulled along the well-established roadways declared Hunters returning from successful hunts.
Iriel’en were not much on livestock raising, preferring to obtain their goods from the bounty of the forest, but they did still cultivate a fair few yaklike critters, six legged and sharp beaked though they were. These had been absent when Ulric had been through, and he saw that they were yoked to great polished stone wheels where berries, fruits, and other plant-based substances were mashed beneath the heavy rollers, their handlers moving behind with rakes to stir the materials for further processing while those in front led the beasts with a branch laden with large orange chestnuts of some kind.
Iriel had come back to life, revitalized by the return of its people from their hiding places in the Havens and, for a short time, upon his own Plateau, from what Taipan had told him. Speaking of, his Elven partner drank the sights of her kin returned to peace with obvious satisfaction. His spirits lifted at the display of these people interwoven with their forest with such harmony, even through the burdensome tiredness that haunted his limbs and lingering worries that refused to completely loosen their grips on his thoughts.
Awareness of the large band of gladefolk was unavoidable, they stood out amongst the predominantly dark skinned, black haired Iriel’en like a sore thumb. No little reason for that was the presence of nearly half their number being of the Valin and Jormun races. Infrequent enough had been the representation of the other Aes’r tribes in Iriel, the Otherkin were unheard of for a long span of years. Fortunately, word must have traveled well ahead of them because they received nothing more than curious glances from the busily working Elves of the Deep Wood. Warrior caste Elves were shadowing the pilgrims he led, no doubt under instruction from the substitute Lord of Iriel, Brighteyes, to ensure nothing untoward happened.
Ulric noticed that he was rather less a focus of the stares than Taipan. Here, amongst her direct kin, she had not at all gone unobserved. Many and profound had been the changes in his partner since their initial meeting. The peoples of Iriel were not likely to be privy to all of the details of those changes, not all of them so flattering to her person. A former princess, turned Shadow to meet debt of honor, become bride of a Valin Lord of no repute, other than the rumors not to be taken seriously that the unimpressive looking man had slain the [Forest Lord], among other doubtful doings.
He hoped nobody felt like getting even on a grudge against her, his partner had left a trail of hurt feelings a league wide for nearly a century in her more abrasive youth. Elves didn’t dwell on the past overmuch, but they definitely knew how to nurse a grudge and did enjoy the balancing of scales.
His misgivings were unfounded. Taipan whispered into his ear, in reply to his concern, “They are fools if they continue to hold animosity for a dead woman. Geyrt Iriel is long gone, stricken from the rolls of House Iriel. Taipan of the Glade strides with her face and her limbs but only a fool would ignore the significance of mine hair, among other things. To their ill, if they think to test me in that woman’s stead.”
Granted, Taipan’s already impressive skill set had expanded greatly since their meeting. She’d trained every bit as hard as he had with her Royal Guard kin, polishing her abilities. In their adventures since leaving the safety of Irielhos she’d elevated her class and broken through several long-standing plateaus in those abilities, courtesy of their facing off against monsters and enemies in droves. Even so, he knew that the lingering injuries she bore were not even close to mended completely and wasn’t confident in himself to be able to brute force their way through any potential problems, his magic was stiff within his body, his core only fitfully driving the Ceraun to its cyclic run through damaged pathways of power.
Far from ill will, the Reforged man became cognizant of a distinctive atmosphere of deference from the hardy Deep Woods Elves. And, he was much pleased to note that, while the common folk with which he’d had no contact did not fail to note his presence, he wasn’t the target of their regard. The once unwilling princess was gone. In her place a hero of their people had come to guide them from dark times. It did him no little good to see her shyness when she realized that she was the source of a budding sense of hero worship, the sort her parents had to endure. Taipan had, once, come to expect deference. The open gratitude of her folk had her flummoxed to no small degree.
“What?” Ulric teased lightly, when he saw her expression grow cagey at the adulations, “Didn’t expect to find a much-deserved savior’s welcome?”
She blushed a bit, the tips of her ears reddening.
“No savior am I!” the serpent hissed at his side.
“Are you not?” Ulric countered, somewhat gleeful that he could give her a hard time about it, “Flying like an arrow through the lands of your people, shattering slaver’s circles, and hunting dread assassins before uncovering foul plots, which were unmasked in the moment of their crisis.”
Her protestation was further hampered by the growing murmurs from her kinfolk, their praises and adulations becoming a litany of great deeds and warm comparisons to her sire and dam.
“See?” He whispered, “They all know who came to their aid, and who went from one battlefield to the next to free their cousins from worse than slavery, slay a butcher of Elves, and join to strike their greatest enemy dead where it lived.”
Taipan sputtered, “But that was all your doing! I followed your path, and left it only because you asked it of me! I did not know that there would be a Void Born sitting at the heart of the web, or that we would wander across those camps in furthest reaches of Prespang’s wilds! And Vars was a glorified guard dog for that Lich, a rabid one that had to be put down.”
“True,” Ulric conceded, “And so what?”
Normally it was him that was too busy being thicker than a rad shelter wall. It was good to walk in the shoes of the socially enlightened.
“Your Iriel’en don’t care why their ex-princess became a hero, or that her heroics were born of happenstance, only that she did and that her doings were. Face it, Wife, you’ll have to kiss babies and suffer their adulation at every turn.” He gloated.
“Why are you enjoying this so much, Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]?” Taipan asked archly, trying not to cringe from the pressure of her people’s approval.
In her own way, she was more hermit than he, having virtually fled from court life to hide out in the wilderness.
“Because schadenfreude is a genetic legacy of my species.” He returned, grinning happily at her wilting from the almost parade that had formed as they moved through the city.
She sighed and cursed softly, “Myert.”
More than one of the Royal guard chuckled at her discomfort.
The lift that would carry them up to the fortress winding around great Irielhos was exactly as he’d remembered it, with its great ropes, and the effortless glide as it rose to the lower limbs that sheltered the city beneath, some hundred fifty meters above the ground. The towering pillar held an almost overwhelming aura about it now to Ulric’s heightened mana sense. He’d come far in the use of his core to decipher and catalogue mana flows and Irielhos was something more than mortal in its power. The protective magics were almost audible in their buzzing potency.
“Whoo boy!” He exclaimed, “Am I imagining it or does this old tree pack more of a whollop?”
It was the leader of the Royal Guardsmen who answered, one of the men he’d had pleasure of training with but not one whose name had stuck with him. The Elf carried an unusual set of weapons, crescent bladed tonfas whose front blade would curl in front of his fist when the weapons were held ready. They would demand the career warrior to close, sacrificing almost all the reach advantage of a bladed weapon. That he lived still to use them was a testament to his ability.
“With the Iriel’en returned beneath its boughs, great Irielhos strengthens its protection, the barriers and wards woven around the havens no longer draw at its might.” Explained the commander.
He did not worry that he revealed secrets to a foreigner, not with this one, tied to the Deep Woods by blood and more. Taipan was not the only one who had earned a place amongst the Iriel’en, it was only that far fewer knew of the human’s role in things.
Ulric scratched his beard before asking what seemed like a stupid question, “So why then, if the guardian’s power grows, did you hide your folk away? It seems hard to imagine anyone could force their way through so puissant a defense.”
The Elf smiled, having given nearly every young warrior to take training that asked this very question the same answer, “Because an enemy that does not know where to aim their strike is easier to vanquish, rather than to repel them through direct force.”
It was obvious, when he said it, and a very Elf way of doing things.
“Ah. Yeah, good point,” Ulric said, “There’s no fight if they don’t even know where to start looking. Whole lotta trees and wilderness to get lost in out here in the Deep Wood.”
“Precisely, young Lord. The roots need watering, but we would rather our enemy not know where or when we choose to do so. And, so, we sent in times of war most of our people to safety in the Havens, where Irielhos would lend them its strength from afar.” The warrior said.
A grim look lowered his expression, “A thing of the past, I am afraid, for we know not how far and wide the secret bastions were revealed. No longer can we rely on the Havens, not until other means of ensuring their obscurity can be found. Lady Shor and many of our sages already bend their talents to the effort. In the meantime, an enemy will have to come through Irielhos to harm its people.”
The press of complexly braided powers woven around him promised that to be a thing that would take no little doing.
Ulric, for once, didn’t concern himself with what ifs on the matter. Anyone dumb enough to try to cut their way through the Aes’r just to come face to face with a demigod tree and every last gram of Iriel’en firepower was going to get what they deserve.
“It will be well, Guardsman. I didn’t have long to learn from them, but I did not leave Shor’s lessons, nor Gother’s believing that they were not up to the task. Only that they had never been given cause to consider it.” Ulric said, confident.
Shor had been the only person he’d met in this world that actually understood when he explained electrodynamic theories or energy-wave interactions. Gother saw the weaves of his personal magics and instantly saw a dozen ways to improve them, to tighten his casting and improve its output. Other masters of the arcane were no doubt available with their own insights. This, again, was not a problem for Ulric Einar.
The lift rose up, and up, carrying them through the boughs of the fortress city. They left the lift and circled to the other side of the tree at the third level. No lift to the very top existed. It was a way to force any who managed to make it past the barriers to fight through the city. Another lift took them to the seventh level, the largest jump possible, after which they circled the half kilometer of trunk again to take another lift up. Yet again, an enemy seeking the fastest path to the top would have to fight its way around the city. From the seventh they made the twelfth level, much smaller now as the spreading crown diverged into myriad smaller avenues, diffuse. From there they took a now familiar path through the fortress to the last lift to the thirteenth and final level which held the citadel’s keep, the great hall in which resided the chief of Iriel, its King, and his family.
Ulric found himself a little antsy. In part, it was because he was actually tired, and afraid that he was showing it. The physical effort of, at a rather brisk pace, rounding the circumference of the fortress was almost alien to him, so used to a bolstered physique had he grown. Remembered life as a cripple came unbidden to him and he shook it off with difficulty. Even now, he was better off than in that previous life.
The other reason was that he wasn’t certain where he stood with the powers that be. He’d been a guest, once, but now no longer. Ulric wasn’t here as a guest, he was here as a Lord of Men and Elves, with all the responsibilities and duties that carried. He wasn’t trying to peddle a few wares and haggle a bit of good faith, he was trying to ascertain the fate of his newfound people, and to lay the foundation of a new city, a new nation, for all he knew. The [Plateau of Ancients] was vast, its riches untouched for many generations of the Fae, and considered holy ground by most of them. Ulric and his crew were in uncharted waters to found a settlement there.
Those great burnished doors opened wide without a gesture by their guards, the same pair as last time, now that he looked. In he walked, huffing a bit, with his wife at his side. Even her robustness was being tested by the somewhat uncomfortable pace of their course through the fortress. The gladefolk were on the level below, being permitted to rest and receive attention from the Duties of the fortress and healers notified of many that had been harshly wounded in recent months. That they had already been tended mattered not, Doctors most always figured they knew better than the last bone saw that had been let loose to savage their patients.
It was all so familiar, the arching curves of living wood intertwined with the architectural demands of the great hall, the artistry carved into every post, pillar, wall, or piece of furniture, the arrangements of tables, magical lamps that cast soft even light throughout the hall, gently filling out the shadows cast by sunbeams that entered through the apparent gaps in the ceilings, through which the surrounding forest might be viewed. And, there at the dais, upon a central throne sat Bald’rt Iriel, Lord of the Deep Wood, and his three wives sat to his left on their own comparable seats of power. Their dress was the same as his first meeting with all of them together and he got a sense of déjà vu, having stood powerless before them once, with all his future uncertain, and now again.
Time marches on for everyone. The months had restored much, if not all of the presence to the three jewels of the ruling family. The Elf at the front was still a hollow shell of his previous self, but Ulric noted that there was a distinct vibrancy to the man that had been absent last he’d left these halls. Bald’rt Iriel was regaining what had been taken from him, slowly, but certainly.
A quick scan of the hall, not empty in the slightest but the various side tables where seated were the minor ladies and lords of the land, whose houses represented the various interests of the Iriel’en population. Many of these faces were familiar, he had seen them here and there, and had taken classes with their children, part of a boon and prank granted by the wily Elf in his now seemingly too large throne. There, to the side amongst a group of senior Elves in robes and with many scrolls laid out, sat Brighteyes, the but only recently interim Lord of Iriel and Crown of the Orlethrem, who had set aside power to take up again the mantle of a princeling Elf child. A quick grin and a wink from one of the bold eyes from which Ulric had first named him, set the man more at ease.
The leader of the group of Royal Guardsmen announced them without preamble, a basso “By your Lordship leave, I present you a friend of Aes’r Iriel’en.”, before withdrawing himself to the side, leaving the tall Valin man and his similarly towering Aes’r partner alone before the dais.
It was a somewhat surprising introduction, absent pomp or ceremony, neglecting titles or oaths or any of the trappings of statehood that could so complicate affairs. Ulric couldn’t help a small smile at being welcomed so. Some of the tension in his shoulders left him, and the attention of a few score entities hundreds of years his senior, used to navigating the currents of stewardship of the lands and jostling for position amongst each other, did not press so insistently upon him. There would be time for all that shit later, but, at least, it wasn’t now.
Wisdom of the last few months glued his trap shut, and Ulric let his Wife do the talking.
Taipan wore solemn dignity like a cloak, and spoke softly but in a smooth, serene manner that seemed to fill the room, so very unlike her usually brusque nature, “We are glad, Lord Iriel, for the hospitality of your hall, and the courtesy of an Honor Guard. It has been not long since our departure, but many twists of the road have we taken ere we returned. We bring good tidings: The Enemy is slain, and his empire broken.”
A silence followed that statement as many almond shaped eyes widened at the declaration, except for those who sat at the helm of the gathering, who had already had the news from their agents abroad. A general cheer rose up, voices jubilant with the passing of a conflict that had long shadowed their lives.
With a gesture to the room, Bald’rt calmed the exclamations and restored order to the room, but many were the bright expressions that remained.
The Elf King, his deep voice at odds with the relative beauty of his face, a male echo of his daughter’s glory, replied thusly, “What took you so long? It’s as if you lost the road and wondered aimless half the spring, it is small wonder you appear so road-worn!”
Ulric gritted his teeth and immediately dispelled any warm thoughts about the black-hearted jackal disguised as a noble lord.
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Not content to begin their long running exchange with a light volley, Bald’rt Iriel brought all the weapons he had to bear, trying for an overwhelming victory, “Indeed, so long were the two of you gone, I have already made arrangements to have you replaced, Daughter Lost and Found. The child will likely be full grown before either of you find your way back to Irielhos, if certain peoples are permitted to lead the party.”
Vedyr, mother of Taipan and first wife, rolled her eyes at the uncouth reveal of her only barely confirmed pregnancy before the hall, coming in the form of a joke toward their daughter and her mate. Bathe, third wife and mother of Brighteyes, patted her hand consolingly, and mouthed, “Soon.” at her sister in suffering, promising reprisal at a time of their choosing. Shor contented herself with a nod that sent shimmers of motion through the fountain of crimson hair around her.
Seemingly ignorant of the punishment that awaited him, the [Lord of the Deep Wood] pressed his attack, exclaiming “Fear not though, Friend of the Iriel’en, and fellow Steward of the Varda! My generosity is not so short lived, a blessing not all share. I will have a wheeled chair, the very one you once described to my physicians, provided to make easier that journey. I may even permit my skin to wrinkle, once, in solidarity with your dotage. Impending mortality aside, tell us, Ulric Glade Chief, how did you enjoy your walk across Aesvartheim?”
A light hum of muffled conversation and predatory gazes fell over the center of the room at these carefully lofted arrows. The Iriel’en knew when a game was afoot.
Ulric nodded and sucked a tooth, considering now his options. He raised his voice then, and returned in mellow joviality that belied the content of his rebuttle.
“As always, the hospitality of Bald’rt is boundless, and none of any vast experience can impugn his character.” He began, which used the King’s commentary on his limited life span to suggest that he did not have vast experience, and was impugning said character, not a hard line to follow for the attendant Aes’r lords.
The assembled Elves glanced to their Lord noting his earnest attention on the counteroffensive, though that was merely the softest of initial jabs.
“So greatly does he struggle for the good of his people that his clothes fall slack and his throne seems grown larger. Forbid the thought of wrinkles upon your person, your Lordship, no matter what appearances may be, you are in the prime of life, or so I am led to believe. To have so bamboozled your rivals with a caricature of impotent feebleness is a trick I have attempted, though you do it better than myself, how convincingly I might add!” Ulric declared, starting with the obvious frailty of the Elf.
Smiling widely directed a glance toward the youngest of Bald’rt’s children, “Before I bore my hosts with unworthy doings, it seems congratulations are in order for the leadership of the young Crown in wartimes. Many have regaled me in my travel of the dignity and wisdom of Crown Lumyt’seit, and none even thought to mention the sire, that role having been so fully filled by a lad of tender age. I must credit your grace his decision to marry so strongly in favor of a blood line that shores up one’s own wants.”
The jab at his health went largely unnoticed, the mighty Elf was still potent enough to birth fear in the hearts of men, even absent much of his strength. The commentary on his son’s perhaps more effective leadership though, stung, by the slight twist of lips. Bathe Iriel delivered a smug side eye to her husband at the commentary of who’s blood line might be leading whose in their arrangement, and that certainly did not go unremarked, judging by whispers carrying in the hall. They were being treated to a real contest on this occasion.
With the slightest frown from the Elf Lord to bolster him, Ulric put into play the line of attack he’d anticipated months ago in this long-awaited battle. He hadn’t expected Bald’rt to make the mistake of so completely putting his foot in the trap, but he was ready.
“Glad am I to answer your Lordship’s question of timing and doings.” Ulric proclaimed, without exaggeration, but as he went on, his sincerity decreased faster than a Senator’s at the victory dinner, “I must plead youthful impatience. Unpleasantness makes the Twins’ dance slowly, but it scarce feels like six moons since departing that long elusive slavers and their allies were purged from Orlethrem and ages old enemies should be vanquished. I hope you don’t mind the abruptness of their removal, a thousand years of protracted conflict seems like a sudden adjustment for the longer-lived races, especially when one goes to their sick bed with familiar foe awaiting, only to rise from to see lingering difficulties dispatched cleanly.”
There, reminder that Ulric had, in rather expeditious fashion brought ruin to the enemies of enemies foreign and domestic. And, now, for the finishing touch, the coup de grace.
Ulric used the tone and timber of a bored departmental manager describing quarterly project goals.
“I might have finished my task of empire felling and Lich hunting sooner, but I had a wedding to attend and was honor bound to deal with some gate-crashing Magisters and their pet Barons, whom I was forced to inhume for insults to the bridal party, and the slaying of a fast, yet dear friend. After a short rest to cripple Bartala’s ports, destroy most of the ships at anchor, and slaughter the Magisters leading armies to assail the two rebellions in Western Prespang I was able to motivate to action, I was compelled to take in some wayward Aes’r souls that had been set upon by evil men.”
The audience became more attentive, many had received rumors of foul doings in Prespang, of torture and worse. The one-time engineer ignored their rustles and murmurs and continued speaking as if he intended to kill everyone with boredom, though he favored his wife with a warm smile for a moment as he continued gathering rope for the noose made specifically for his nemesis on the throne.
“My Wife joined the efforts to purge the evils of manufacturing soul poison and, after putting down a Greater beast and nursery of [Gilded Queen’s Rose], we put to rest a legion sent against innocents founding their own free town. With yet more worthies in tow, I then broke the yoke holding the City States of Prespang prisoner, severing any control the Gilded Thrones might exert over Generals, Barons, and mage’s alike through their subtle mind poison, a runic array of surpassing deviousness. On our brief rest in Kistalfer I did some consulting work for how to properly dispose of an irreplaceable navy with a typhoon summoning, in which the Merchant Lords themselves were dispatched handily, though Master Geras Blackskies gave himself nobly to see the task to its completion. From there my dearest Taipan did help me negotiate a rather lucrative set of trade accords with the Barony of Kistalfer and a network of artisanal chefs around Prespang, where we took a minor detour to slay the Lich guiding Prosper’s hand these thousand years or so.”
Iriel’en faces went slack as the dull sounding rendition of what might as well have been Odysseus narrating his voyage home for the in laws with all the enthusiasm of a bank teller. With the major events recounted, Ulric put the finishing touch on his rebuttle to Bald'rt's suggestion that he had been slow or ineffective.
“A full, if not so hasty schedule, I know, but I am certain the Orlethrem would have gotten around to handling the problem in another few generations. My fall is free, if other millennial wars arise that need settling within the season, but I suspect I will have less time on the next year with babes in the wings ready to busy doting grandparents.”
The litany of achievements that matched bragging rights of any three people delivered as a nuisance of a business trip worked its magic. A few twitches of the eye here and there were most of what he managed to visually extract from the Elf King, who was practiced at giving away little where the court could see. At the mention of the nursery of [Gilded Queen’s Rose] he had twitched as if he wanted to interject something, and again at the typhoon summoning.
Ulric had twisted the knife by mention of the inevitable grandchildren, and the [Lord of The Deep Wood] became contemplative. It was a dirty play, given how the man adored his first daughter, but rabid animals had to be put down without mercy, and letting Bald’rt off the hook wasn’t going to happen. Now, he had the high ground, for if the Lord of Iriel wanted to dandy his favorite’s children on his knee, he had to come on them first to Ulric.
All according to Keikaku!
Taipan delivered a steady stare to both of the men that gave her headaches and decided that something needed to be done before her father said something rash. Mention of grandchildren was too much, if Galed Uldin had been in the room he might have broke decorum altogether and charged the dais to squeeze her lifeless for his enthusiasm. That was a consideration she needed to keep ready in her thoughts for her inevitable meeting with her godfather.
“Perhaps my mate is being a touch hasty, there is much that needs tending on the Plateau of Ancients to make a home for the Gladefolk before we should be ready for heir making.” She said, somewhat unnerved by speaking of parenthood before the highest men and women of her kindred.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Bald’rt, but Vedyr that cut her legs from under her, placing her back to a figurative wall.
“Perish the thought! As a newly established Lord of an adjoining territory, it is in Iriel’s best interests that the stability of an heir be bestowed on our neighbors. I expect you to do your duty with all haste, daughter. This next spring, if I recall correctly.”
Flabbergasted at this betrayal, Taipan couldn’t stop the rising color in her ears at having been sold out before the court. From the smug smolder in her mother’s eyes, she knew what she was doing. She had waited long, long decades for this chance, and struck the blow without hesitation. Her diminished Husband straightened slightly in anticipation, feeling rejuvenated at the prospect, and took no pains to join his first wife's expectant expression.
As a singular force, the room's attention now bore down on her, the weight of their expectation crushing her chances of escaping the trap. She turned her glare, wasted on her Mother upon the dais to the cause of this debacle: Her Husband.
“Ulric! Damn your eyes, what have you done?!” His wilting mate hissed at him, the very picture of Elven apoplexy.
“I am Winning, Taipan, and that is all that matters to me right now.” Came his staunch answer, pleased by the hopeful twist upon Bald’rt’s face, in spite of the well crafted outmaneuvering of his cunning fellow Lord, unconcerned by the displeasure of his cornered mate, confused by the obvious approval of various mothers in law, and satisfied by the acclaim from the attendant lords of the forests. He had the feeling that he and his opponent were not the only players on the field any longer. A new challenger had appeared, ready to attack from the flanks.
Tomorrows were a hypothetical in the best of times. Ulric had waited a long time to settle his score with the Elf King, first for saddling him with a Shadow he hadn’t wanted, then with a Wife unasked for, and lastly a debt of gratitude and hospitality he hadn’t been able to hope to reciprocate. Leaving aside all the joys those events had led to, and the good it had done him, Ulric Einar was not a man to forget a debt owed, and he had dreamed of his chance to punish Bald'rt Iriel. Now, at last, he could taste victory. No matter the cost. If being crushed between hammer and anvil was what it took to crack the brown nut in his royal chair, then Ulric was willing to be the sacrifice.
He saw the look in the three Dragons sitting to the side of the King's throne, and nodded to accept his fate.
Shor, knowing now that the opportunity long awaited had come, joined her partners in royal crime, commenting almost vapidly, “It will be lovely to hear the babble of babes in these halls again. Surely you both will bring your own to play with their uncle, or aunt, as it turns out to be, often? My Lord would be well pleased to put aside some time from his many duties to see his legacy, when the [Lord of the Ancient Glade]and his Lady find time to visit again great Irielhos, for what necessary obligations of alliance inevitably arise between great powers. We should, as elders, offer to host these events, not all can so easily endure the rich Field of the Forest of the Forgotten."
It was a fitting punishment for the wayward daughter that had given them so many headaches through the years, dealing with her sharp temper and the fallout of beating noble sons, various suitors of houses in good standing, or disappearing for months into the wilds to avoid playing her part in the guiding of allies and deterring of rivals in Orlethrem. Dereliction of her duties at court were not forgotten, now, just when she had thought herself free of them entirely, the Dragons would bind her more tightly. Especially with reminder that before the hall stood a new Power in the lands.
The Lord of Iriel tried to follow his second wife's corralling of his eldest daughter, conceding defeat toward the well prepared offensive of the young Valin warrior, determined to angle her into a commitment of joining them again with a fresh babe come the next year and for the accompanying celebrations throughout those coming seasons. He would have the first among the stars in his eyes nearly living in the citadel before he let her say otherwise!
He was foiled, utterly.
Bathe completed the route of Taipan, unstoppable, as always, and also took the opportunity to violently blast the wind from her troublesome consort's sails.
Melodic alto brooking no argument, the Golden Beast settled the exchange with finality, “Certainly two valiant men would be bored attending saplings so newly budding. The Lord Husbands can be found occupation while mothers enjoy the fruits of our labors, perhaps a Hunt or sport to taste the excitements of the Deep Wood, and keep them from under matrons' feet. But enough waste of the court’s sufferance, dear Taipan, you must find us later and we can speak of Names. I am afraid the newly risen Crown will be busy with affairs of the Orlethrem and won't be able to join us. Now, our guests are tired from journeys long and arduous, as we here have been so earnestly accounted. Let us enjoy a repast.”
Bald'rt's horrified expression at being left out of the naming and coddling of his youngest and also his only grandchild as babes left no doubt as to his feelings on the matter, and it was an effort to restrain himself from undignified outburst.
Already, duties were executing the tasks of offering courses of steaming soups and plates of freshly butchered monsters, greens, fresh fruits, and all the bounty of Iriel on display. The King could not break the taboos of taking meals in silence and had to choke back his complaints and control his features. He had been expecting the Lord of the Ancient Glade to make good sport, but he had not thought that his own wives would...well, wait, yes, he could actually believe that his wives would find a moment of weakness in which to publicly sandbag him.
It was well done and, as he chewed a delicious slice of roasted beast, he found himself approving of the results of the defeat. Such was why he had agreed to their unorthodox union.
His neighboring Lord and budding friend's status was now beyond reproach. The exhaustion and toll of his exploits were obvious, but none would be so crass as to approach a man still fresh from the battlefield to jockey for position. Bald'rt had also gotten a near guarantee of a granddaughter from the exchange, although his wives had very cunningly crowded him out from the rampant spoiling he had begun planning. A way around that could be found, however, he had a full year and more to plot. The scowling of his first daughter at the young Lord Einar said that he was not the only one plotting.
With a steady hand, Ulric Einar poured the gravy of conquest over a fluffy slice of rye bread. He had come away from his attendance with the Elves having accounted himself handsomely. His wife was mortified. His mothers in law were quite sated, having served just desserts to both a one time thorn in their side daughter and an all of the time thorn in their side husband. After so long, the talents of the Duties of Irielhos in the kitchen were his again to taste and he was taking full advantage. Nothing against the many bush meals crafted by himself and his partner in the wilds, or the culinary traditions of those few inns in which he’d found himself, but the Elves in charge of feeding the fortress were unimpeachable artists of food.
This reprieve from Taipan would not long last, so he was set to enjoy all of it. Never could he have anticipated that the Dragons would have lain in waiting so long to claim their comeuppances, but he’d enjoyed the sight of both father and daughter completely gobsmacked. Clearly, he had a long way to go in the game of placing needles.
Eventually, when none could even pretend that they were not sated, the tables were cleaned, and peoples begun to circulate. Brighteyes rushed from his seat at his father’s table to accost Ulric immediately. The careworn expression he’d held in those brilliant eyes was gone with the crown he’d been forced to briefly wear.
“Ulric, it is good that you are returned. I did not know that you would survive the journey, but the Eternal Gaze rarely moves in vain, so I was confident that you would prevail, or, at the least, survive to fight another day.” The young lad said, beaming.
It was good to see the kid again, and he wished he had that sort of certainty. He’d given himself a coin flip, at best.
“Your estimation is appreciated young Brighteyes! How have you kept, these long seasons since my departure?” Ulric returned, eager to hear of the doings of a boy turned King.
Ears twitching as he recalled the brief duration in which he’d worn his father’s mantle, the youth sat and ensorcelled the Valin man with tales of maneuver of the other great families of the nations of Elves, the desperate defense of the havens, and a campaign to rejuvenate the Aes’r as a power not only over their own lands but those outside.
New trade routes had exploded across the territories of the Orlethrem, with the Highlands Elves most particularly leveraging themselves to open three new caravan passes through the Heaven’s Reach Mountains, an incredible undertaking. The Svartalfin had been conscripted in the projects, with hundreds of years of favors owed called due. The long lived races hoarded debts when it served them, and these, alongside the promise of wealth from trade both diverted from Prespang and to it from the Sea of Storms along Aesvartheim’s eastern coast, motivated the dwarves to commit fully to establishing new courses through the jagged, inhospitable ranges of mountains.
Ulric had already seen the some of the changes along the Zelas, although he had nothing against which to compare, but Brighteyes went on at length about the cleaning of house that had accompanied the new Zellussin Lord’s rise. The seafaring clans, those Ulric had had little contact with so far, were full tilt in dealing with piracy and spreading like the tendrils of a fungus, opening new ports of call and establishing new charts by which sailors could navigate the fearsome seas. The Sea of Storms was not a name given in jest or ironic understatement.
Economic booms aside, Brighteyes spoke promisingly of the dialogue opening between rebelling Barons of Prespang, when word of a sinister legacy of control and dark magics employed pervasively in the empire came to light. Apparently, within the few weeks between this news spreading and Brighteyes returning his father’s throne to him, a great many messenger birds had carried various calls of peace and treaty. Especially since local Barons now had more to worry about tending their own borders, if they happened to sit ajoining the Outer Reaches. Blood spilled and grudges nursed for many years lay between those peoples, even where they held tentative ceasefires. All because Ulric had had a hunch and a skeptical mindset.
That was perhaps the reforged man’s proudest accomplishment. It had always stuck in his craw that the peoples of Prespang, human, beastkin, and whatever else, seemed to be suppressed, seemed to be less than their potential. Ridding them of the shackles of a hateful Lich was a good thing, unambiguously. He almost didn't mind the cost to himself and his partner. Almost, but Ulric was no saint.
No use looking through the soup for hair, though, it was all water under the bridge.
Through it all, Brighteyes lent the exuberance of his years, one greater than Ulric’s own, to the conversation. It was refreshing to let the princeling chatter. And, also, he could have sworn the Elf was slightly taller.
“Did you grow in my absence, Heir Brighteyes?” He accused at last.
The young boy raised himself straight as he could, and declared, “By two buds of a Heartwood. I will reach adulthood rapidly, now that the change has begun. In only another ten years I shall be full grown! I would have you at my investiture, Ulric. You deserve that honor.”
Investiture? The hell had he picked up that word? The boy was only half capable of pidgin when they’d met.
“Damn, you sure picked up human tongue quickly enough. Not bad, little guy!” He complimented the youth.
A milk curdling glance did Brighteyes shoot toward his mother, but only briefly should she catch him shooting her dirty looks.
“Mother insisted that I be given daily lessons, on this and the common Jormun tongues. She foresaw a time when our borders and relations with the Otherkin may be common enough that my courtly duties will require them. She even suggested that one of my year long service indentures may be to a Valin Baron or some such!” He said with clear distaste.
Young nobles of the great houses in Iriel were sent to serve other houses, in order to learn of their neighbors’ cultures and to promote good relations. It built unity when your children had served and grown familiar with the other clans. Orlethrem cultivated amiable relations amongst one another in this way, like roots of trees spreading and forming networks with other trees, to strengthen all.
Ulric smirked at the lad’s obvious disinterest at being sent into human hands for a year. Irksome enough to learn the habits of others of your own kind, let alone a different species.
“Well, now, that’s not so bad, is it? Maybe it’ll end up being my humble lands you get sent to. I could use somebody with a good head on their shoulders to keep my pesky wife out of tro- OOF!”
His joke was cut off with his breath by a daggerlike elbow jabbed into the solar plexus. Unfortunately, he hadn’t remembered to seat himself on the side of his Taipan’s injury.
“That will be enough from you, Ulric Einar! And do not think that my little brother’s company will make me forget the embarrassment of earlier! Now I am very nearly under oaths to produce a child this next season. This is all your fault.” He was informed, although not with the usual malice of an angry serpent.
Music started to play, strange, alien, and harmonic, drawing mortal minds and feet astray.
Then, a shadow flung itself over his heart, and Ulric turned to see the [Lord of the Deep Wood] looming over him. Bald’rt himself, come to cast judgment.
The male twin of his gorgeous daughter had recovered a bit of himself. He had not regained his weight, and the pronounced bones of his cheeks still said that much time yet remained until his convalescence, but he moved with purpose and his eyes held again much of the energy from before his wounding.
“Yes, indeed, Ulric, this is all your fault.” Agreed the deep baritone voice of the Elf King, speaking on many matters adjacent to his daughter’s predicament.
Surrounded by enemies, all he could think to do was bow gracefully from his seat and say “You’re welcome, all of you.”
Taipan rolled her eyes, joined by father and brother. They were familiar with his sarcasm.
“I have for you, something of a gift, Ulric Lord of the Ancient Glade, or a reward. A curse, perhaps, for power comes with the cost of obligation to use it wisely and to be a shelter for those who have none. I note your lingering affliction, the consequence of burning oneself with the Field, of drinking too deeply from the Akashic.” Declared the Elven Lord, and it was all he could do not to groan.
He had an instinct about these fae creatures now, and he could smell a bargain coming. Elves don’t give gifts freely, nor do they forget debts. Taipan pinched him hard on the neck, probably warning him not to make any hasty decisions. Absently waving her off he never took his eyes off of Iriel’s sometimes inscrutable ruler.
“Once upon a time not so long ago, you ventured forth with my daughter to a sacred place, deep inside the fortress of Irielhos, and, there, witnessed a sight none but the Aes’r Iriel’en have seen. In that place, there is little that cannot be healed or mended, should Irielhos itself will it so. Even the Bane struggled to unmake that which it was designed to unmake. Your manaburn may be healed there, as well as my daughter’s deep wounding. I would offer the blessing of great Irielhos, to give you what you gave in destroying a blight on the Aes’r.” Bald’rt said quietly, unheard amongst the growing wash of music and festival.
Mouth agape, he checked his ears. Last he’d heard, even knowing that place existed was Capital crimes. He couldn’t accept this.
“I can’t accept thi-” He said, before the poison in the needle Taipan had jabbed him with crashed down on his mind, sending him to sleep.
When his eyes opened next he was in a familiar place, an impromptu set of apartments in which he’d stayed after being burned, where he’d healed in the densest mana field available to the fortress city, the interior of the Arcaneum. He was in a familiar bed, too, likely the same as the one he’d slept in so long ago. None of the usual confusion or fatigue from heavy sedation was in his mind, he felt clear as a mountain spring. Instinctive pulses to his core pushed mana and Ceraun sang its course through him instantly, yin chasing yang in a lightning cycle through him. Absorbed in the surging flow of magic, one he’d more or less accepted being reduced to a trickle, he didn’t notice the stealthy approach until another familiarity of this room announced itself.
“Just on time!” Announced the chief physician of Irielhos, Doctor Yessir’e.
“Had you still been asleep we would have waited, but that proves unnecessary. I confess curiosity, how do you feel, one not of the Aes’r who has been bathed in Irielhos’core?” An almost frenetic tone was in the usual collected voice of the healer.
Ulric looked up to see the good doctor and his companion, the nurse whose outline still struck instinctive fear into him, Nurse Pretty Face, who had debrided the burned tissue from his body while he was under the influence of some pretty amazing narcotics. It took a moment to summon the courage to smile in their general direction before he answered. Those had been Bad Days, overall.
A hand held up in answer had Jacob’s ladders crawling between fingers, the violet arcs dancing and buzzing cheerfully with barely a thought.
“Better than ever!” He said, realizing it was true, even as he uttered the words.
He hadn’t felt so…fresh…since waking up in beneath the boughs of the towering trees of the ancient forest, the day he’d come to life on Varda.
Satisfied nods from the two healers met his words and he let the arcs fall away absent mindedly.
In the heavy air of the interior, Ulric felt comfortable in the dense field of mana. Like a heavy blanket made of invisible fog, the curl and drift of wild magic pressed against his skin, it’s flows mysterious. It reminded him of home. The glade, where he had claimed a small pocket of the world for himself, not the dead world, with the empty life.
“Everything appears to be in working order.” He said to the pair, cognizant that most experienced in this place, at least, mild discomfort.
Lower level warriors and noncombatants would risk mana sickness if long they abided in the dense wash of magic.
Another nod and a clay tablet with a sharp, narrow scribe, appeared in Nurse Pretty Face’s hands. Doc Yessiree gave him a fairly thorough working over and his dutiful nurse annotated. What any of it meant was of little interest to him currently, he was still overjoyed to feel like he hadn’t microwaved himself for a bit too long.
“Very good! Yes, indeed!” the physician said at the conclusion of his check-up.
“It is good to note that a saturation of Sano does not, as some theorized, produce cancers uncontrollable by any means, or core feedback that creates a resonance. No risks of a patient would I take to gain such knowledge, but when the opportunity arises to the benefit of the Healing arts, we must harvest whatever fruits we may from it!” Yessi’r exclaimed to his assistance, a skilled healer herself.
“It may be premature to make certain statements, Doctor. The patient’s clearly unnatural tolerance for mana may represent a different response, compared to less aberrant constitutions.” Nurse Pretty Face said cooly, without so much as a glance in his direction.
Ah! Right! She didn’t like him, for some reason. Well, you can’t be popular with everyone.
Nodding the Healer made a few casual annotations in the margins of the clay tablet, no doubt detailing subsequent lines of inquiry. Ulric had been a scientist long enough to know that, occasionally, you found yourself looking at exceptions to the general rule before the more common cases. It was good to be thorough.
“You may wish to start your examination for trends based on [Scanned] values of soul and vitality. They appear to both relate to an individual’s resilience to strong mana fields. An index of the two separate and together may help correlate data.” Suggested the experienced scientist.
It was where he would start, if he were doing such a study. He received a blank stare while Elven wetware churned over the idea. Then the doctor turned and took back the stylus he’d just handed to his assistant. Another note went onto the tablet, and Doctor Yessir’e bustled his companion out of the room gesticulating and whispering rapidly in flowing Elven.
Well, that was fun, he remarked while watching the pair ascend the stairs leading from the arcaneum’s improvised apartment.
“Do you remember our first love making here Ulric?” A silken voice said at his ear.
Sudden sound and presence from deep within his bubble of personal space made him holler and limbs trying to each take a different action sent him scrambling. Nothing worked and he only managed to become tangled in sheets, spilling himself onto the hardwood floor without grace.
Ulric rose with an accusing finger pointed, its vibration letting the sneaky Elf know he did not enjoy being startled as he demanded a touch breathlessly, “Will you not do that?!” of the Amazon female who had materialized from aether next to him.
A thoughtful finger tapped against full lips, faded silver of scars recently received in battle spiderwebbed across her form, their snaking ribbons standing out on cinnamon skin, her pose one contemplating a life’s work. A soft shake of black silken hair, blue hightlights in the warm witch light of magical lamps shimmered, and she said with certainty, “No, I think I cannot agree to that, husband.”
“Just as you cannot help the worms in your brain, I cannot be other than a stalker of prey. Sometimes, you are that prey. Sometimes I enjoy allowing you to do the stalking, but it cannot always be so. Do you recall? We were both enjoying the bliss state of that potent cultivar of your glade. My entire body rang with the feel of your hands across it. I would not mind if we, on occasion, indulged again in that experience.” She said without a hint of humor.
The cool of the air in the chamber she did not acknowledge, nor did she evidence any inclination to remedy her nudity. He was naked as well, he realized, and the pleasant chill on his bare skin, coupled with the magic in the air put him in mind of his waking on the forest floor of the [Plateau of Ancients].
A snort and a chuckle at her reply was his summary of her position. Taipans would be Taipans.
Ulric sat back down on the bed and ran a hand over the beard that was thickening over his jaw. It had grown significantly since darkness had taken him, meaning that he had been unconscious for some time, something close to a week, if he was any judge.
“You poisoned me.” He stated, not expecting any answer to the accusation.
“Something you’ve been working on for a great while, I imagine. What did you find to act so rapidly and completely against my resistance to toxins?” Ulric asked, curious.
One of the aspects of his reforged body, crafted by the Watcher of Varda, was a robust tolerance to being poisoned. Not immunity, by any stretch of the imagination, but dosages had to be quite a bit higher than his mass and species would suggest. He was akin to a honey badger, and it took some doing to put him down so quickly as Taipan’s little concoction had. That meant that she’d made it just for him.
She smiled his praise of her skill as a poisoner, preening just a bit in the soft glow of the lamps.
“It was a challenge, Ulric, do not doubt.” Delicate fingers raised as she counted off the components of the blend, “Too much of the Dusk Scorpion and your heart and lungs would be paralyzed, rather than your limbs, not enough Oblivion Orchid and you would not lose consciousness, adrenaline helps combat two of the sleeping agents, especially Dream Fern Root. They needed steeping together for two entire nights and I was worried you might wake in the night and accidentally drink the mix thinking it a tea. Fortunately, you do not wake when I sex you well enough. It was worth the effort. Both the poison and the mating.”
He frowned slightly. She had gone shopping for alchemicals in Kistalfer and he hadn’t thought anything of it. Nor had he been opposed to the particularly exuberant bonking those nights or the odd smelling herbal “tea”. The vixen.
“And how did you know that you had found the appropriate ratios without killing me or giving away the game?” He asked, not really wanting to know, but morbidly curious.
Now she grinned without guile and he knew he didn’t wish to receive an answer.
“I erred on the side of killing you and, using hand signals while your head was turned, had Healer Yessir’e on standby with anti-venoms in case the dosing proved too aggressive.” She declared proudly.
A grunt was all he managed and Ulric took a few moments to consider what his future held in store, married to this wonderful and terrible creature. The difference between an anesthesiologist and an incredibly proficient poisoner was basically dosage.
Resignation heavy in his tone, Ulric Einar asked the obligatory follow up question, “And you got any more of that stuff.”
A pleased nod confirmed that of course she did.
“Fantastic. Can’t have me getting too uppity.” Ulric said, sarcasm dripping.
He sighed and decided this conversation was just going to make him more unhappy the longer it went on and changed the subject.
“So why did you decide to poison me again? I was objecting to owing your clan a debt that was literally unpayable.” He said, not pleased at her having gone around him, even for his own good.
“A Shadow’s duty is to the good of their Honor, to do what is needed to advance the interests of their House. A Wife’s duty is to keep her husband and to guide him in the best for himself and for their future together. Both of these required that your odd moments of obstinate pride not be allowed to prevent your being healed.” Taipan said without so much as a hint of regret.
Before he could say that was not her decision to make, he stopped and thought it out. Of course it was her decision to make, she was his mate for life. She had decided that, rather than ask permission, she would…not ask for forgiveness either, never mind, that didn’t work here.
Graceful steps took her to his bedside and she hugged him to her stomach fingers running through his hair. Ulric let her petting mollify him somewhat. The steady hum of Ceraun in his mana channels helped as well.
Softly rocking, his partner spoke softly, “You owe my Father and Iriel nothing, Ulric Glade Chief. It is the other way around. Iriel, all of Orlethrem, owed you a debt beyond repayment. Owed it a thousand times over. None expected that you would actually succeed in your task, myself included.”
That surprised him somewhat. If she hadn’t thought that they would succeed why go? And why not mention this earlier?
He voiced this inquiry into the firm softness of her belly, enjoying greatly her smell while he did.
“Young Hunters often do such things, chasing Dragons. To test oneself against a foe greater than what we believe we are capable is how the merely competent become great. If they live. I was under the assumption that we would find our enemy, draw them out, perhaps sting them and slay their minions, and then withdraw. Around every bend of the road though, you kept forging ahead, you continued to grow, and, when the moment came, you shed your limits to strike down a thing that you should not have been able to, to protect the ones who needed you and to avenge the Aes’r. How could my Father not honor such a choice? Bald’rt Iriel would not be known as one who was compassionless toward an Elf friend, toward a hero.”
Hero?
Ulric looked up at his wife and saw the pride on her face. He shook his head against that. There was nothing proud about what he’d done to people in his walk across Varda’s surface.
“I am no hero, Taipan. I killed men. Destroyed them. People who had no chance to fight back against me, people who didn’t know any better, some who could not hope to swim to land when I sank their ships on the sea, who lay in their blankets, thinking themselves safe in the night. And I hated them the entire time I did it, I took pleasure in their slaughter. That is not a hero, Taipan, that is monstrous.” Ulric spoke his shame aloud.
Strong hands returned his face to her stomach and Taipan spoke the wisdom of the Deep Woods Elves to her young husband, a man who had been born in a world she did not understand, who had never taken a life until forced by the hardness of Varda to survive.
“Heros without the stain of blood on their hands are cowards who let another wet their knife in their stead. That is not the way of the Iriel’en, we who live to guard the Aes’r from all threats within and without Orlethrem. There is a thing my Father said to me once, not long after he had razed Prosper. ‘Taipan, if it be that you come to hate conflict with your enemy, then make yourself so terrible that your enemies will not stand against you, and only then do you know peace from it’.”
He wouldn’t have called her Taipan, of course, she had worn the name Geyrt in those days. That was a name she no longer bore, not even by the reckoning of the Akashic. He was surprised, though perhaps he shouldn’t have been, that such a…human thought would have come from the lips of Bald’rt. Not just a human thought, but the way of thinking of his old world. How many lives had been spared because none would risk again open war knowing Bald’rt Iriel sat in his throne ready to answer? It wasn’t necessarily the answer he wanted, but it was one he could live with.
Ulric wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was better than the chosen Crown of the Orlethrem.
“Okay, but I still don’t think heroes are forced to give their wives massages because they track mud into the tent.” He said lamely.
A ruffling of his hair was joined by the observation, “If they wish to live to be old heroes they’d better.”
A lilting voice spoke a word of power and the lamps dimmed, leaving them in darkness. Taipan of the Glade joined her husband in their bed and showed him that she had also been healed of her injuries, the blessings of Irielhos offered to two who had bled for its charges.
Ulric lay awake after, idly toying with a lock of silken hair from his partner who slept soundly. Soft snores she would deny viciously occasionally broke the silence of the great chamber, which seemed to project sound into the seats surrounding the three pavilions at its heart.
Ceraun danced between his fingers, the elemental mana derived from some kind of god creature, a primevil force that manifested an alien sentience on this strange world. What would his colleagues have thought of the Prime Elemental? The electromagnetic force given a name and that had thoughts of binding universes together. He was glad to have it back, this power. There were things that he could do with it, people who needed it to be safe, who needed him to stand in front of them against the ones who might try to bring them harm.
How odd.
Soon he would return to the Ancient Glade, to his home. He would bring those who followed him, and he would turn his home into theirs. There were so many tasks ahead. Cataloguing and learning how to manage the resources of the rare mana enriched flora and fauna of the ancient grove of the Ancients on their high plateau. Establishing a plethora of trade contacts and shipments. Founding a nation. Starting a family. For an engineer tired of life on a dead world, tired of people, and tired of himself, he’d found himself with rather more happiness about having all these problems than regret. In fact, no, he couldn’t find regret anywhere in the picture.
Eyes closed, Ulric let himself relax with a silent thanks to the Watcher for this life, all its challenge to come, and a destiny he had only begun to forge. A, strong, lithe, arm wrapped around him, and he was clutched to the soft heat of the Aes’r form next to him, forced into an embrace he knew would last until dawn. He smiled at the “entrapment” and let the coils of a Taipan most vicious lull him to sleep within the flesh of a tree that was also a demigod.
Beyond the banks of the river Time, an impossible being watched all the world and permutations of the futures distant shifted toward the paths that birthed more joy. The Watcher smiled, seeing the broken instrument reforged by its craft and put to worthy purpose.
Such was life upon Varda.