Search Tags (Because I can't update my Masterlist!)
I can no longer update my masterlist- it just won’t do it. It’s still here, but I updated the tags as well for anyone looking for new things! This is close to 100% Blades of Light and Shadow.
#bad choices: bad outcomes if you play as an idiot (aka my beloved, wretched MC Rainer)
#bolas analysis: lore explorations, ‘What if’ moments I would like to propose, character deep dives
#screenshots: collections of screenshots, usually rarer scenes or ones that you can’t get in one playthrough
been playing through the second to last scene with all the characters— ain’t it weird to anyone else that bardric dgaf that his father, who is also fighting alongside the other professors, gets stabbed in the thigh by a shade? like throw a line in or something, ik he’s not his favorite person but damn.
I bet that's part of why we can't stop, pick a different LI, and restart chapters anymore. Though I did largely stop using that feature because it really hurt my enjoyment of the LI interactions.
This entire fan fiction is probably going to be wrong in like a month’s time, but I miss Bardric, and I just wanted to write about him. Oh, and also, I decided to make General Arkland a straight-up villain in this story. So, if you don’t like reading about horrible parenting, please skip this. TW: emotional abuse and obtuse punishments.
Dearest Bardric
Astrea frowned, looking down at the piece of parchment. Her gaze flitted towards the scrap piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
“I can't believe I won't see you for a month.” Astrea sighed, placing her head in the crook of Bardric's neck
“I'll write to you as much as I can,” Bardric said calmly.
Astrea pulled away to look at his face. “Are you sure you'll be alright? After—”
Bardric cut her off with a kiss, “You worry too much, Dreadbane.”
He dug around his pockets and handed her a crumpled piece of paper. “Just in case you need it, here's my address.”
Astrea laughed. “The great Arkland is giving me scraps of paper instead of a neat roll of parchment?”
Bardric rolled his eyes. “I've already packed my bags. This was all I could find.”
Astrea’s hand instinctively clutched around Bardric's. “I'll be waiting for your letter.”
It had been a week since Astrea had returned to Wysteria Manor, and some things had improved. Her room was actually in the main house rather than near the cellar. Windworn had even allowed her to sit in the main dining room during mealtime. However, Windworn herself seemed stressed thanks to her recent… retirement. She paced around the house with seemingly no purpose, and it was clearly making the servants nervous. Astrea herself had tried to spend most of her time in her room or in the library in an attempt to avoid the increasingly ill-tempered Lady of the house.
She had hoped that Bardric's letters would brighten her spirits, but… he simply hadn't written. She didn't want to read too much into it. She knew his father disapproved of their courtship. But she had hoped for at least one letter before his father caught wind of it. She looked down at the two words she had scrawled. She dropped her quill in frustration, crumpled the paper, and threw it across the room.
Suddenly, a knock at her door made Astrea jump off her chair.
“Miss Astrea?” said a voice from the door.
“Yes. I mean, come in.” Astrea stammered. She was still getting used to being a part of the household.
The footman in a blue waistcoat gave her a stiff bow. “Lady Windworn is requesting your presence in her office.”
Astrea nodded. “I'll be there in a minute.”
---------------------
Astrea stared at the ornate oak door she had just knocked on. Hopefully, Windworn hadn't summoned her because she couldn't find anybody to yell at.
“Come in,” said a stern voice.
Astrea slowly walked in “Miss Windworn—”
“I'm no longer your headmistress.” Windworn snapped.
Astrea gulped, “My apologies, Lady Windworn.”
Windworn relaxed slightly. “I was catching up on my correspondence when I found this.” She held up an envelope with a familiar green seal.
Astrea froze. “Is that from General Arkland?”
Windworn nodded. “General Arkland wrote to me. However—” she tipped the envelope to reveal a neatly folded piece of parchment. “— the envelope had a surprise in it.” She held up the note. “It’s addressed to you.”
Astrea's trembling fingers grasped the letter. Windworn gave her a piercing stare. “The handwriting doesn't appear to be Razik's.”
Astrea gawked at Windworn. “Then—”
Windworn sighed, “I suggest you read that in your room. And be careful about who you show it to.”
Astrea nodded, trying to contain her excitement. She gave a quick curtsy to the lady seated in front of her. Then she dashed to her room, struggling not to unfurl the letter along the way.
Astrea quickly slammed her door shut and haphazardly opened the letter to be greeted by a familiar handwriting.
Dreadbane,
I hope Wysteria Manor is treating you well. This week has truly been tiresome. Father has been hosting several parties, no doubt in an attempt to fix the damage Rhiannon's massacre has caused. His paranoia about the resistance has reached new levels, I'm afraid. He has been extremely mindful of the letters going in and out of our home.
While this method of communication isn't ideal, I still wanted to inform you that you have been on my mind constantly.
I don't wish for this to be our final communication this winter. However, given the increased surveillance at my home, I request that you write to Flatcher instead. He will be able to relay your letters to me without my father's knowledge.
Yours Truly,
Bardric Arkland
The small smile that had crept onto Astrea's lips when she started reading the letter had widened into a grin. Her eyes fell on the crumpled letter lying in the corner of her room. She hastily smoothed out the parchment and started writing.
---------------------
A sharp knock rang out against the dark ebony door of Bardric's room. He blearily looked up from his desk with an open book about the Old Kings.
“Yes?” He asked.
The door opened silently as a pair of spotless black shoes appeared on the green carpet.
“Mr. Flatcher is here to see you. Shall I tell him you are… unable to accept visitors at this time?”
Bardric's heart rate spiked, but his face remained the perfect picture of calm. “No. Please send him up to my room.”
Had the butler been from a lower-ranking family, he might have raised an eyebrow. However, the Arklands only hired the best. So their butler merely bowed and replied, “Very well.”
A few moments later, Flatcher burst into the room and slammed the door shut.
“Will you keep it down?” Bardric snapped. “Just because my father isn't home doesn't mean no one is.”
“Sorry.” Blushed Flatcher.
Flatcher paused for a second. Then he said, “Are you doing alright?”
Bardric clenched his jaw and looked at the floor. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?”
Flatcher sank into the settee by Bardric's desk. “Well, your dad had you suspended from the Griffin Riding Club and banned you from attending any parties this winter. I really only see you during the morning training. Otherwise, you're holed up in your room.”
Flatcher paused. When Bardric gave no response, he sighed, “Is this because of what happened at Dawnslight?”
Bardric exhaled, finally lifting his gaze from the floor. “Father thinks I should stop speaking with her. And with Kennard leading Elderwood…”
“You think he'll rusticate her?”
Bardric shook his head. “She saved my father’s life. I don't think they'll make her leave, but I fear Kennard might try to stop us from talking to each other.”
“Speaking of talking to her,” Flatcher fished an envelope out of his vest. “Imagine my surprise when I got a letter from Wysteria Manor today. Mother thought I failed the Finals.”
Bardric laughed. It had been a while since he had. “Sorry, Flatch. I'll be sure to keep you in the loop next time.”
Flatcher handed Bardric the slightly folded envelope. Bardric looked down at the handwriting and smiled. How could a week and a half feel so long?
Flatcher wrung his hands nervously. “Do you er… want me to leave?”
Bardric shook his head. “You're my alibi. But… I think I'll read this by my bed.”
Fletcher nodded as Bardric crossed the room and sat on the luxurious green-gold linen quilt. He opened the envelope to find the now extremely crumpled letter from Astrea.
Dearest Bardric
I cannot express my elation at hearing from you. I'm sorry your father is forcing you to attend diplomatic dinners. I know you would much rather be studying or practicing your spells. On the bright side, I'm sure Steelbeak is happy to have his riding partner back.
Wysteria Manor is much homier than I imagined. All it took was taking down a Flamekeeper for Windworn to appreciate my worth, I suppose. I've been spending my time reading. Windworn’s collection is truly astounding. I have finished five books already.
Still, I find my mind often wandering to thoughts about you. Despite everything that happened after, dancing with you at the Dawnslight Gala was truly one of the happiest memories of my life. Erolis spells have become so much easier thanks to you.
I sent this letter to Flatcher as you suggested. I hope he doesn't attract your father's ire as a result of this. Write back when you can.
Astrea
Bardric had just finished reading the letter when a sharp knock came from his door. Bardric quickly stuffed the letter into his pillowcase. The young Arkland didn't even have the chance to respond to the knock when a rather unwelcome face stepped into the room. Flatcher jumped up from the settee.
“General Arkland,” he gasped, “We were just—”
“I understand that you miss your friend Flatcher, but I should like to speak with my son alone.”
Flatcher nodded, then gave Razik a quick bow before scurrying out of the room. As he left, he glanced back at Bardric’s room to see a defiant gaze settle on the snow-haired boy’s features as his father’s face began to turn an ominous red.
---------------------
Astrea looked out onto the perfectly cobbled street by her room. Windworn had come to Guildtower for some official work and had decided to bring Astrea along. While she was certainly grateful that she wasn't cooped up in the Manor anymore, it hadn't really curbed her anxiety.
Astrea shook herself. “I need to get out of my head.”
She headed to the drawing room of Windworn's townhome and called for a horse.
“Where are the nearest riding grounds?” She asked the servant.
After quickly noting the instructions, she headed to the stables to collect her horse and then to the gardens to ride. Astrea numbly looked at the vendors out and around the town square. She wasn't really paying attention to them. Her mind was still elsewhere. For about a week, her correspondence with the youngest Arkland had actually gone rather smoothly. They had talked almost every day. But now it had been five days since they had talked. Astrea had been away from home for two of them, but she feared the worst.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a beautiful green garden, in perfect contrast to the city's increasingly cold air. The garden was perfectly manicured. With each bush seemingly planted with very precise intent. Although it was almost winter, the gardens were still blooming. Astrea led her horse towards one of the bushes in an attempt to distract herself from her misgivings.
She tried to connect with the magic protecting the grounds from the cold, but her mind wandered back to a certain frost-haired boy. She knew that he was probably busy with his obligations. Perhaps he was catching up with his Guildtower friends and hadn't found the time to write to her. She knew that there was mostly a mundane reason for his break. However, she still felt a knot in her stomach. What if General Arkland had found out about their communications?
Astrea hadn't even realized that her horse had wandered aimlessly with her on its back when a very familiar figure came into view. And as that happened, both riders quickly halted their horses.
“D-dreadbane?” gasped the other rider. His blue eyes widened at the sight of the girl in front of him.
“Bardric! I didn't—” Astrea started, but Bardric cut her off.
“We're not safe here. My entourage might find us at any moment. Follow me.”
---------------------
The dark, empty cave stood in stark contrast to the bright, sunny gardens that surrounded it. Bardric led his horse down the winding cavern until the entrance was no longer visible. Finally, he stopped, and so did Astrea. Astrea quickly hopped off her horse, but Bardric seemingly remained frozen on his saddle.
“What's wrong?” asked Astrea.
“Forgive me.” Bardric gave her a strained smile. “I haven't ridden this far in a while.”
Astrea frowned as she looked at Bardric, stiffly dropping the reins of his horse. The frown only deepened when she saw him clumsily dismount the horse, almost losing his balance as he landed on his feet. He quietly cursed and stood up straight. But something about his posture was off.
“Bardric,” Astrea said, walking towards him with quick strides, “tell me what's wrong.”
“Nothing. I think I simply trained too hard this morning.”
Astrea grabbed his hands and found they were shaking, seemingly locked in a stiff curve. He tried to pry them away to put them back in his pockets, only for his knees to buckle under his own weight. Astrea quickly grabbed him and stood him upright, but he cursed again, rocking his feet in his boots in an attempt to keep the front of his feet off the floor.
“Bardric, what in the six hells happened?”
Astrea gently leaned Bardric against the cave's uneven walls. He exhaled slowly, “It wasn't the brightest idea I've had. Hiding your letters in my pillow case.”
Astrea gulped. The pit in her stomach felt heavier than it had ever felt before. Her left hand snaked its way up to his face, which felt clammy and feverish. She gently coaxed him to look at her with his blue eyes. You could almost see the dark fogs of Timoros swirling around his irises.
“Father wasn't happy when he found them. He… thought I needed to understand the consequences of ‘consorting with a Dreadbane’ as he put it.”
Bardric sighed, jerkily shaking his head.
“It was the usual. Stand against the wall on my toes, holding the Arkland baton. He just… made me do it longer than usual.”
“How long?” Astrea murmured.
“From six in the morning to noon.”
Astrea formed her right hand into a fist. “Bardric, then why are you out here riding… wait, where's your griffin?”
Bardric whispered, “He took away my riding privileges.”
“This is all my fault.”
Bardric placed a shaky hand on Astrea's shoulder. “It's not your fault my father's an asshole.”
“Yes, it is. If I had never written back—”
“Then I would have been lonelier than before.”
Astrea looked at him curiously. “I thought you were attending balls every day.”
Bardric finally broke eye contact with the girl in front of him. “I said my father was hosting them. He usually had me… remain upstairs in my room.”
Astrea finally began to extract herself from her partner. Bardric looked at her quizzically.
“I should go. If your father catches wind of this, he'll…” Astrea trailed off, dreading what new punishment General Arkland would find.
Bardric pulled her back in. “He can't be any more furious than he already is.”
“Arkland…”
Bardric placed his paler-than-normal forehead against Astrea's. “Stay with me.”
“It's a pity we can't live here.” Astrea gestured around the cave, “Away from your father.”
Bardric gave her a weak smile. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
Astrea laughed, putting an arm around him gently. “Just think. It'll be our little escape. We could just put the living room here.” She marked out a square in the air. “And of course we'd have a makeshift kitchen. I'll probably have to man that operation.” She smiled, pointing to another corner.
Bardric raised an eyebrow. “You remember that I was raised by an army man?”
Astrea stared smugly at him. “How do you use a kettle?”
“... Fair enough.”
“Then of course we need a dining room.” Astrea smiled, drawing another imaginary square near the kitchen
Bardric's hands hovered over her waist. “And what of … the bedroom?”
Astrea swatted him away playfully. “You scamp! Is that all you think about?”
Bardric laughed gently, tracing circles across her back. Astrea leaned in, enjoying the attention. They stood there for a while. Neither was willing to say anything to ruin the moment. Finally, Bardric pulled away with a sigh.
“I think the soldiers might send out a search party if I don't turn up soon.”
Astrea shook her head solemnly. “I don't want to send you back there.”
“You don't think I can handle myself?”
She gently massaged his sallow hands. “Are we talking about the guy I beat at strip poker after learning the rules just ten minutes before the match?”
“You didn't beat me!”
“You were one move away from being in your underwear.” Astrea rolled her eyes.
“I had a strategy!”
“Yes, a losing one.”
Bardric gently brushed his lips against hers. “We're a week away from returning to Elderwood. We'll see who ends up in their underwear.”
“It'll be you.” Astrea grinned.
For a moment, everything seemed fine. But soon her misgivings flared in the back of her head.
“I wish I could take you away right now,” she sighed, staring deep into the ocean blue eyes in front of her.
“As do I.”
They once again found themselves gazing into each other’s eyes in a trance, only to be interrupted when Bardric’s horse let out a loud whinny.
“I really must be going.” Bardric winced apologetically.
Astrea nodded sadly. She helped the boy onto his horse carefully. Finally, she opened her mouth once more, but quickly shut it again when the words simply wouldn’t come out.
Bardric grimly took the reins. “I'll head out first. Wait 10 minutes and then head out. I'll make sure I lead any of my men away from this area.”
He paused, looking at the somber expression on Astrea's face.
“One week,” he whispered reassuringly.
“Just… be safe,” Astrea croaked out, finally finding her voice again.
She watched as the lanky boy, clothed in the emerald green jacket, trotted away from her. She wanted to call him back. To ask him to come with her instead.
But she couldn't. Even after the young Arkland had disappeared, she stood still. Staring at her hands. Wishing she hadn't let him go.
I'm very into this vision! We love a strongly discouraged romance and efforts to get around parents. These two feel so sweet, both worried about the other one (regardless of how much they're willing to admit it).
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Aerin Valleros/ Valax
Characters: Valax, Aerin Valleros
Additional Tags: shadestalker, monster killing equals falling in love if you do it right, they’re not really enemies to lovers, but they’re not friends either when Aerin flees his hateful daddy to be at her side, so make of that what you will, when he has no where else to go…
Series: Part 4 of Blades of Light and Shadow
Summary:
He reached out, taking her hand in both of his. She tensed, then stilled. “I’m staying,” he said, and when her eyes flicked up, startled, he repeated it, “I’m staying. Whatever you are, whatever hunts you, I’m not letting you face it alone.”
She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decode some private cypher in his face.
“Why?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He gave the only answer that mattered. “Because I chose to.”
She let out a long, shaky breath, a smile breaking through the mask of fatigue and fear. “That’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you?”
Aerin grinned, bloodied and exhausted. “If I wanted safety, I wouldn’t have left Morella’s dungeons.”
The Shadestalker!!! I love that you jumped in to give it some narrative meaning. And made it a great excuse for bonding.
I know I'm a huge sucker for Valleros family dysfunction, but I really like the way you characterized King Arlan. Or at least what Aerin saw of him. He's such a good character to have as an observer, noticing everything but maybe not in an objective way.
My favorite line (so evocative!): "The mention of Baldur struck like a blow to the jaw, sharp, numbing, yet oddly clarifying."
Luckily for you, I have a soft spot for desperate dumbasses who ally themselves with dark forces beyond their control.
Also I'm not opposed to taking down the Order. Kind of fond of it, in fact. But I am against killing all our classmates, some of whom were forced to attend on the threat of death. Some of whom are from the wealthiest, most prominent families in the country and are now ride or die with a Dreadbane.
Am I going to regret this? Probably not. Is Yvain going to regret living? I suspect he is.
Let's do some math. Our class started at 273. We lost 42 at the Midterm (15%). We don't know how many from each class died during the Final. But if it's about 50% First Years, like during the Midterm, that means we lost another 49 (21% of those left, 18% of the original group).
That leaves us with approximately a 67% survival rate for year one.
It sounds like this is a particularly lethal year, thanks to the Flamekeeper and Rhiannon pushing for an especially dangerous Final.
But still. The survival rate is only going down from here.
(Also all the LIs surviving is feeling more and more like plot armor, but I get that they can't get rid of them. I'd like at least a character we vaguely know and like to leave on a mission and not come back.)
It's wild how much time I've spent thinking about your tag since reading it. Are they both literate? What does that imply?
Kade wrote a book, so we know he's literate. Mal reads the book of smut in Undermount, so he can read too. And you're right, that's so weird.
First things first, printed material must be pretty accessible. The printing press was invented in the 1440s, so I'll accept that they have them in Morella. It gives Europe 1400s/1500s vibes.
But, based on some quick research, the literacy rate was still very low (like <15%) in 1500 Europe.
Everyone being able to read in Morella would imply to me they have mandatory education. Which, judging by how proud Mal is of having people come teach at the orphanage 'like a real school,' is not the case. The Temple of Light doesn't seem focused on literacy and I can't imagine them teaching kids to read. Plus, they have barely any influence outside of Whitetower.
I'm going to believe in my heart that most people can't read. I don't feel like I can make that make sense.
So how do I make it make sense that Kade, MC, and Mal can read?
Kade was a sickly kid with a lot of time on his hands. He also seems pretty bright. I would believe that once he got his hands on one book and one sympathetic, literate adult, he figured it out from there. I can also believe he would teach MC.
But Mal... is trickier. Orphaned child basically raised but the Thieves' Guild is not someone I would assume had a book- focused education. All I can think of is that once he was identified as a rising star, the Guild decided he would be more valuable is he could read.
I'm making a Shakespeare's Code called shot based on pretty much just hair color:
Ralph is Queen Elizabeth's secret son
The Tudor red hair gene was strong
If they're being literal (who knows at this point), the person in question has to be someone we see a lot
Getting your secret child to commit to the church would be a pretty good way to make sure they didn't have children (better than anything else, anyway)
Bonds of Sea and Fire - Part 5 (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Book: Blades of Light and Shadow
Pairing: Tyril Starfury x Arwen (F!Elf!MC)
Characters: Arwen of Riverbend (MC); Imtura Tal Kaelen; Mal Volari; Nia Ellarious; Threep Pompedorfin; Tyril Starfury.
Summary: The path to Undermount is arduous, and the exhausted party does its best to rest during a cold night. Tyril is ready to fulfill his promise when Arwen faces another nightmare.
Word count: ~3,680
Rating: Teen & Up
Notes:
English is not my native language;
Characters belong to PixelBerry;
This fic takes place between chapters 6 and 7 from Blades of Light and Shadow - Book 1;
This is my submission to May Monthly Challenge - prompt: 9. rain (Thanks for hosting it @choicescommunityevents)
On the sky, clouds hovered above the woods as dark as a horde of crows.
On the ground, dark mud sloshed with every exhausted step.
The rain had stopped, but cold seeped through their clothes.
To avoid dank terrain and its risky wildlife, they took a detour but the road from Tyril’s map was nowhere to be found. As hours passed, murmuring replaced the lively conversation from previous days.
“Are we there yet?” Mal grumbles the question; it isn’t the first time.
“No,” Tyril and Imtura snap.
After the elves left to Undermount, nature reclaimed what once belonged to their civilization. Lush green plants blanketed everything left behind. The road was probably lost underneath the overgrown plants.
When they reached dry land, they set camp and laid their cloaks and coats to dry over a large bolder. By then, the setting horizon had turned almost purple.
The light of day vanished, and the sky grew darker and darker. No moon nor stars above. A bad omen, one might say. Not Arwen, though. Nature be like that sometimes. Be patient; this too shall pass.
“I’ll get logs for the fire,” Arwen offers. It’s an opportunity to collect herbs. Her companions’ feet might be as sore and bruised as hers. Her satchel is light and almost empty of herbs; she ran out of salve when tending to the injury on her shoulder. Like Tyril said, it’s completely healed.
“I’m coming with you,” the familiar masculine voice resounded, “if you don’t mind.”
When Arwen turns around, Tyril is trailing behind her with determined steps. An offer she wouldn’t refuse when he’s so keen on keeping his promise.
“I don’t mind at all,” she says with joy and a radiant smile. Few things could please her more than the elf warming up to her.
With no moon in the sky, following a path into the woods without tripping on roots turns into an almost impossible task, even for the elves and their keen senses.
“Stay close,” Tyril says in a stern tone.
Ignoring if his concern emerged solely from the difficulties in navigating the path or some unknown danger, she does exactly that, following the melodic tinkling of his armour in their silent walk.
When they reach a path around a steep slope with sharp rocks, Tyril offers a helping hand that Arwen readily takes. It’s a kind gesture, but she’s delighted by the feel of his long on her skin, nonetheless. Their feet reach steadier path, however his hand remains linked to hers. Arwen smiles and keeps this knowledge to herself, afraid any harsh gesture could scare him away like a flock of birds.
Only when they stumble upon an interesting specimen of edible mushrooms, she reluctantly lets go of his hand.
“These are perfect to roast,” she explains despite the lack of question from his part.
She kneels to collect the cluster and Tyril marks another tree with a small blade, carving a distinctive sign, to help them find their way back to camping. He does it whenever she stops to collect logs or check for a specific herb or flower.
Even in this area, it’s hard to find dry logs. It takes longer to start a fire tonight. The woods crackle producing more smoke than heat. When he believes nobody’s paying attention, Tyril pours Light magic to not let the fire die and it glows brighter. Arwen and Nia share a knowing look and smile affectionately. He cares, even if he won’t admit it.
Sharing pieces of the roasted game meat, the party huddled round the fire to share stories and blankets. This might be Arwen’s favourite part of the journey; it’s when she misses Kade the most too. Her brother would love to hear Imtura and Mal.
Tonight, Mal’s story about one particular eventful heist is punctuated by the cries of nocturnal creatures. Every time one screeches, Threep’s ears dart up and he raises his head. The fear of becoming prey is evident.
Whatever these creatures are, they don’t come near the campfire. Fortunately. Exhaustion claims their bodies, and it would be a shame to have to use the last of their energy to fend off an attack instead of enjoying these quiet moments and rest by the fire.
The only exception seems to be Tyril, whose face shows no sign of fatigue. The elf found a quiet spot away from the group, but close enough to be bathed by the warmth of the dancing flames. He’ll be on first watch and diligently cleans the blade of his sword to pass time.
Taking a piece of bread from the satchel, Arwen joins him.
“Here,” she offers him half of the bread, and his bright blue eyes raised to meet hers. “You barely ate…”
“You should save your ration,” he replies, putting the sword away.
“I’m used to share. Besides, with humidity this bread won’t last much longer.” She smiles holding it in front of him, but he remains still. “Unless the elves from Undermount fancy bread covered in mould...”
Fighting a scowl, his lips twist and at last he takes the piece of bread from her hand. He murmurs a thank you, then parts the bread in smaller pieces.
Face glowing with a triumphant smile, Arwen takes a bite at the bread. As her teeth sunk, the bread had a crunch to the crust that brought precious memories. She hears Kade’s voice and tastes the hearty stew they used to dip it into. She closes her eyes to keep the memory just a moment longer.
Another screech calls her back to the present.
Tyril pays no mind to the source of the sound, rather he’s taking something from his bag. His hands deftly work, unwrapping a pale piece of cheese. He cuts a piece with a knife and offers it to her. It’s not like the soft creamy cheeses she’s used to; this one is hard, grainy and salty. It tastes good, though, and expensive; she tells him that and he chuckles, a rare treat.
An amused tight lip smile softens the elf serious façade, and his mouth retains that curl when he offers her a second piece.
Once they finish eating, Tyril looks over. The others huddled in a mess of blankets and limbs to keep the heat. The warmth of the fire is not so intense where the two are sitting, and Arwen shivers.
“You won’t feel this cold if you join them.”
“I’m not tired yet.”
Tyril is kind enough to ignore the blatant lie or perhaps too tired to go over that same conversation with her.
“You should save your strength for tomorrow. We have a long journey ahead.”
“I’d rather keep you company for now.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Tilting his head to the side, his eyes meet hers and his expression mixes wonder and disbelief, as if he’s still debating if someone like her should be pleased to do so. Arwen refrains from commenting on what she sees and goes on before he decides on anything to say.
“Besides, now you cannot escape my questions!”
“Do you still have questions?” His voice raised with surprise. Head tilted to the side, examining her face, perhaps searching any sign of sarcasm but finding only genuine joy. It’s a fair question, Arwen realizes. In other occasions, he’s answered many questions about magic, life at Undermount and the elven delicacies Threep keeps blabbering about… but her curiosity is far from being sated. Every piece of information that contradicts what she was taught is like a new door opening before her eyes that will lead to wonder and new questions – more and more of them related to Tyril, she realizes, even though learning about healing magic or any other skill who can help her rescue Kade is the main focus…
While adjusting the blanket draped around her shoulders, she confides, “Growing up, I never met elves. All my knowledge comes from tales people shared at the tavern.” Fidgeting with the hem of the blanket, she gazes at him, remembering the tales of legendary heroism of elves who sacrificed their lives to keep the Shadows away, but she recalls the superstitious people who live at Riverbed. Some of the villagers believed the Light had smiled upon the village and offerings of fresh fruits to the elf child would bring abundant crops; many were indifferent to the orphan, like they were to many others in their community. But there were a few who mistrusted and feared her just because of who she was, saying elves could wither fields with a mere flick of their hands... not that anybody had ever met any elf other than Arwen face to face... The best part is that most of those were too afraid to cross her.
“Many of those stories seem far from the truth now that I met you.”
Just barely audible over the crackling of the fire, Tyril’s voice sounds uncharacteristically tentative when she speaks, “Is it a good thing?”
“Still undecided...” she teases and a slow smile spreads her lips. “Isn’t that the answer you’re hoping for?”
Tyril’s cheeks blush, turning into a lavender hue, and he clears his throat before moving on with the conversation.
“Spotting elves outside of Undermount is a rare occurrence.”
“Then we’re quite the sight you and I, two elves traveling around Morella...”
“I suppose.”
“Have you seen others?”
Tyril’s lips press into a thin line when his answers come as a slight shake of his head. Arwen pulls her knees closer to her chest and rests her face on the crook of one arm and studying his melancholic expression. Lonely is the fate of elves outside Undermount.
“There are tales about elves who have chosen exile over submitting to the Houses,” he comments, “but it’s unlike they would live anywhere close to humans…”
She thinks about the family she never met, and the elf from her dreams with lavender eyes like hers. Could she be alive somewhere?
“One afternoon Kade and I were playing at the fields outside the village, and we saw three elves on horseback. It was so long ago… but I remember them as if it was yesterday. The shiny armours. The braided long hairs. The pointy ears just like mine.” She lightly touches the tip of one ear, a wistful smile and Tyril’s focus entirely on her. “I thought they were coming for me, but they followed the main road into the forest. I ran after them, but child’s legs are no match to horses... silly child...”
She suddenly stops and tilts her face upwards. Nobody else needs to know about the futile attempt to call their attention nor the many days sitting at the fields contemplating the horizon while trying to replicate the braids on her hair nor how she prayed to the Great Beetle and every deity for them to come back. But they never did.
“But now I found you…”
“I will answer your questions,” he says firmly without meeting her eyes, “if you promise to rest.”
Heart pounding faster, she nods. How very long she waited for answers!
“I promise,” she says excitedly, a grin parting her lips. “Is it true elves reached immortality at Undermount and that’s why they never leave?”
“No, it’s not,” he says emotionless, “Everything that breaths shall return to the Light. Elves may live much longer lives than a human does, but we’re not immune to time…”
“How much longer?”
“A couple of centuries.”
“Wow! That’s a lot…” She pauses, considering what that means to her, and looks at the elf. “How old are you, Tyril?”
Tyril doesn’t answer right away. With a thoughtful look, he considers it, and Arwen finds it amusing. Failing to cover a laugh with a hand, she draws his attention back to her.
“Lord Tyril, are you so very old you lost count?”
Taken aback, he huffs a laugh. “I’m certainly not!”
He’s looking at the sky. The clouds have dispersed enough that a small patch of starry sky is visible above the woods.
“Elves perceive time differently. We don’t keep track of age or celebrate birthdays as humans do. We have rites of passage. Suffice to say I’m what humans would call an adult. And have been one for quite some time now…”
“What about me?” She looks at him expectantly, but he frowns, his face twisted with confusion.
“You don’t know how old you are?”
“Nobody does actually. I was probably the first elf to ever step a foot at Riverbend…”
Looking at him, she can’t tell what he’s thinking, only recognizing the seriousness of his inspection. Brows furrowed, he looks at her closely; his gaze moving, searching, analysing, taking her in. In her imagination, when he looked at her so intently, he didn’t frown like that…
Suddenly, he averts his gaze, lowering it to his wringing hands.
“You still look young. Too young.”
Arwen frowned, is he teasing her. Tyril is not one to joke, but the way he said doesn’t sit well. Too young. An unknown feeling twists her insides.
“In human years I’m at least three and twenty years... I’m older than Kade!”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” his voice barely above a whisper.
They fell silent, and Arwen doesn’t look back at Tyril. The wind that dissipates the clouds is cold and Tyril rubs his hands, trying to warm them.
“You’re cold. Here.” Arwen moves closer and Tyril flinches when she drapes the blanket over his shoulders too. He leans until their shoulders touch. In reality, the cold metal of his shoulder plate touches her shoulder, and she draws back a little. Tyril notices her reaction and mutters an unnecessary apology, but deftly detaches and removes both shoulder plates, placing them on his lap, to her amazement.
“You didn’t have to,” she mumbles.
“I want to,” his voice carries a kind of confidence that contrasts with the coyness of the eyes that keep staring at his wringing hands. Arwen adjusts the blanket around them, scoots closer and mimics his motion, rubbing her hands together to warm them.
They remain silent for a few moments, until Tyril raises one palm and stares at the fire that snaps and cracks. The flames seem to shine brighter and curl like dancing. Then a ball of fire the size of an apple floats towards Tyril till it hovers over his palm.
Arwen covers her enthusiasm with a hand, trapping an excited squeal.
After explaining the Light and the costs of magic, she’d expect him to only use it for the greatest purposes.
“I have so many questions now!” she murmurs.
“Ask away,” his voice is peppered by mirth, certainly amused by the reaction his demonstration of magic stirred on her.
“How did you do it?”
“I summoned the fire. It’s easier and takes less magic than creating it.”
“With what you said about the greatest purpose of Light, I expected you not to trade life force like this...”
“In Undermount, elves have many uses for magic. Including keeping us comfortable when we’re cold.”
His palm settles between them; Arwen raises her hands letting the flame chase the cold away. Her face is glowing, and Tyril smiles in a way she hasn’t seen.
“Try,” he suggests.
“I don’t know how.”
“You focus on the fire. Only the fire. Call it to you.”
“What if I screw up and set you on fire?”
“You won’t hurt me.”
He’s so confident, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and looks at the fire burning between them. She extends a palm and places in front of his, but nothing happens. She tries a second time. Then a third time. She exhales, shakes her hands, releasing her frustration and tries again. Then the ball of fire moves from his hand to float above her palm. She slowly moves her hand, and the blazing fire trails behind it creating geometrical shapes in the air. She laughs and, amidst the excitement, the fire hisses and dies.
“I did it,” she squeals and throws her arms around his neck, and her fingers brush the soft black strands of his hair, “I did it!”
Tyril freezes in place not even breathing; she immediately draws back.
“I’m so very sorry, Tyril,” she apologises to his shocked face.
“I –” he coughs in his hand, and his eyes are still opened very wide.
“This will never happen again.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Excuse me?”
“I-I don’t mind you... hugging me,” he stuttered, “In case you need it.”
“Were you not uncomfortable?”
“Merely surprised,” he pauses and looks at her, his eyes have softened and cheeks darkened further, turning a lovely purplish hue, “It was... not… terrible.”
“Then I might hug you again... Some other time.”
He summons the fire again. Arwen watches the flames dancing in Tyril’s hand and relaxes, her shoulders lower and her head feels heavy with sleep.
“Rest your head here,” he offers his shoulder and she obliges. So close, the woody scent Tyril exudes is strong but also fresh; there’s something else beyond the smoke that clings to their clothes, hair and skin, like the characteristic aroma of pine trees and juniper berries coming from his soft hair. She’s still trying to commit it to memory when she succumbs to sleep.
***
Arwen is running.
It’s the familiar dirt road at the edge of the forest back at Riverbend.
The soles of her bare feet hurt from the sharp edges of rocks. Outstretched roots try to trip her, but she nimbly avoids them.
Kade is calling her name, but she cannot find him.
The trees are higher somehow, trunks outstretched towards the sky.
The fire crackles around her but she cannot see the flames. The noise gets louder. Unknown footsteps. Unknown cries.
Thick smoke swallows everything, and she can’t breathe.
She coughs Kade’s name. There’s no reply. There’s no one around. There’s no more path. There’s no air to breath.
The smoke turns purple and swirls with crackling energy. Eyes glow in the dark and Kade is screaming again.
“Arwen,” a voice calls softly. In response, her body bolts with fear, ready to resume running, but unable to move. She stirs, but steady hands hold her in place. The voice speaks again, more firmly this time, but still reassuring, “You are safe.”
Tyril’s face hovers over hers, it’s his voice speaking to her, but everything is hazy and her lungs are drowning.
“Breath,” he commands, and her brain tries to remember how it’s done. Her hands seize his arms, nails digging on the skin. It takes several tries until her breathing evens again.
When her body relaxes, his grip eases and Tyril sits back down. His eyes are narrowed with worry.
Arwen apologizes. She doesn’t know why she’s apologizing for: if it’s for distressing his sleep, causing him worry or the weakness she can’t control; yet she does apologize.
Tyril waves off her apologies; but it’s not out of impatience. With another wave, he signals something to Imtura, who’s currently on watch and the only other member of the party awaken. He mouths ‘another nightmare’ and Imtura visibly relaxes. Her nightmares no longer a secret then.
“Water must do you good.”
He retrieves her canteen, and she takes a large gulp, only then realizing how parched her throat is.
She lies back down, staring at the sky; it takes a few more moments for her heart to go back to a normal rhythm. Tyril had also lied down, replacing the blankets over both, but this time his back was not turned to her. Putting her hand under her head, she mirrors his pose to face him.
“Are you feeling any better now?” he asks softly, and she nods.
“Thank you, Tyril. For everything.”
“What may I do to help you sleep?”
Her heart swells with gratitude at the promise kept, and she reaches out, accepting what’s been offered.
“Tell me a story, please,” she whispers, “Or anything, really… your voice is soothing.”
He decides on an uncontroversial topic: his childhood. However, since her eyes fluttered close as soon as her started speaking, he assumes she might’ve fallen asleep and it matters very little what he says in the softest tone he’s able to speak.
Locks the colour of the fields of wheat cover most of her face and in quiet astonishment Tyril watches his hand hovers close and considers tucking some locks behind her ear but decides not to.
“In between classes, I used to read plenty of poetry,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’d spent every afternoon at the library surrounded by books and knew by heart sonnets and could recite entire passages of the epic about Mother of Grey.”
“I knew you loved poetry…” Her eyes flutter open, meeting his surprised stare. “Will you now tell me the truth?”
“I’m not a poet, Arwen,” he starts barely above a whisper, despite the closeness, he doesn’t look at her, lowering his gaze as if ashamed and she doesn’t like where this is going. “I wrote poems once… but according to my tutor my writing was uninspired and lacked originality and I should use my time accordingly to improve my knowledge on relevant subjects.”
“What a complete jerk!”
“He was. But he wasn’t wrong though.”
“Did you enjoy writing poetry?”
“I did, but –”
She cuts him off before he makes any excuses for that behaviour, “Then he was a jerk for making you quit.”
In astonishment, his breath catches in his throat when her fingers gently tuck a few strands of his long hair behind one ear. He can’t hide from her attentive gaze.
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes,” he replies. “But I wouldn’t even know how to even begin with…”
“Perhaps you’re lacking a muse to inspire you…”
“Perhaps…”
“Someday, you might even write about these adventures. And children will read about our party.”
“I wonder what I have done to earn such faith,” he mutters.
“It’s not undeserved,” she whispers, “Maybe one day you’ll see what I see…”
Aerin would be so flattered by that comparison! Tai is absolutely kicking ass shadow running the palace. I would be more convinced by Aerin's ability to control people if anyone in the palace liked him. Not even like, a spy network of servants? Slacking!
That said, I'm a huge defender of both (for different reasons) and I don't know if that's a problem.
Curious to see how much of 'Tai' is really Tai, you know? If this has been going on since he was a kid...
