Sellarin Elgaralani Tanaleth, Huntress of the Adahlinan
“We should help those elves, because it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s brave and because it’s just. How can we call ourselves elvhen, say that we keep lost lore if we don’t do anything with it? If we don’t use it to help our people? All of our people. Maybe I don’t want to be the last of the elvhen. Maybe there isn’t any glory in walking some dumb lonely path if we don’t have to. Maybe, just by turning our heads and ignoring it just because it isn’t happening to us, we’re submitting to the shems anyway. Did anyone ever think of that?”
(a gift for @nowerewolves of her lovely daughter Sellarin :3 )
Late night nonsense. Have had this teeny oneshot for a while, Visellani cuteness in Clan Tanaleth. Visell is @fauxfelix ‘s adorable child, thank you for letting me borrow him! :D
Enastelani drew the bowstring, her heart pounding uncomfortably hard in her chest. She took a deep breath and stared at the arrowhead, her nerve almost failing her. You know this isn’t a big deal, this isn’t that bad. He’s not going to judge you if you can’t do this you know that, Ena. Calm down. But her internal monologue didn’t help and she shut her eyes and the arm holding the bowstring taut shook with effort.
“Visell, I don’t think I can do this-” She started to apologise and felt a gentle hand still her elbow and correct the shot ever so slightly.
“You can do this; even if you’re more used to magic. I can help if you want?” His voice was playfully light and his grin quick, not so much soothing as enticing. Conspiratorial. Arlaera was like this once...I wonder if they knew each other...
“Creators, yes.” He beamed at her and then stepped behind her, mirroring her position so closely that she could feel his chest pressed against her back. With his left hand he helped her grip the bow and the other guided her with small adjustments to her stance, keeping up a steady stream of conversation and advice all the while:
“Right so, feet just a shoulder width apart. That’s good! Now, you’re not pulling with your arm so much as you’re pulling with here-” He gently rubbed his chin across her shoulder and part of her neck and she balked.
“I don’t know anything about archery, Visell, but I don’t think I pull with my collarbone like that-”
“Shush. I meant with the muscles on your back, these.” He leaned back to run his hand over her shoulder blades, ending the demonstration with a small kiss to the nape of her neck. The casual touch, the relaxed closeness was comforting and she heaved a deep sigh. “There. Already your shot looks better. Relaxation is a big part of-” The arrow promptly tipped sideways out of it’s notch and only Visell’s quick reflexes stopped it from tumbling out of the flet entirely. “Okay, maybe not that relaxed-”
Enastelani felt her heart start it’s fervent thumping again and grit her teeth a little. She had to come up with some excuse why she couldn’t do this, she had to stave it off. Maybe, she could distract him with something else...but, honestly, it was Visell. They’d kiss for a bit and then he’d insist they could do both: kiss and learn archery. Maybe if I get one good shot in. Just be impressive/passable once, and then he’ll be satisfied.
“You should show me, first. Just demonstrate. That’s how the Keeper usually demonstrates combat drills.” The hopefulness in her voice was genuine and she stepped back a little to look at him, smiling doggedly at his raised eyebrow and dubious expression. He’s not fooled...but I don’t really care. I do want to see him shoot. She pressed the bow and the arrow he’d saved into his hands, leaning forward to kiss him just at the corner of his mouth. The kiss was careful, walking the knife edge between a friendly cheek kiss and something more intimate. When she pulled away to grin at him he looked down at her a little breathlessly.
“Sure. I can do that. But only because you’re cute.” He took the bow and arrow with an easy grace and exaggerated his stance a bit, cheerfully rattling off advice as she stood there, watching him and not hearing a single word of it. Creators, he was good looking. He had a lovely smile, too. A winning smile that seemed mere moments from appearing each time he looked at her or spoke. Sure, sometimes he was smiling because he had no idea what was going on, but honestly that didn’t matter to her in the slightest. Just being graced with that smile was worth all the world. Also, she had to admit, the man had nice arms. Archer’s arms.
“So really, you want to focus on your target-” She mhmed appreciatively in acknowledgement of whatever he was saying, admiring the way the light caught in the dark red of his hair. Nice hair, nice face, nice- “Ahem, Inan’ara, my eyes are up here. Come on, we’re learning! It’s fun!”
“Ugh. I am learning. You already know.”
“You’re only learning if you’re paying attention.”
“Oh, I’m paying attention.” She murmured, walking up to stand on his left side instead.
“Well, take those wandering eyes and fix them on that point over there-” “The gourd?” He nodded, drawing back his arm and pulling the string taut. The arrow did not waver in his sure grip,ears pinned back and eyes focused ahead. Even ready to fire, he looked relaxed; like the gesture was effortless.
“Yes, the target. That’s where you should be looking, not at the arrowhead but at-” With a twang, the arrow flew from the bow and there was a satisfying shunking thunk sound as the it pierced the center of the gourd and sent it spinning wildly on its tether. “-the target.”
Enastelani stared at the perfect shot with a mixture of shock and awe. She’d seen hunters practice before, seen them hunt and a long time ago she’d even seen them fight but she couldn’t remember it being nearly as beautifully artless as this one simple shot. The Taren’Ghilan was that good, but things were usually over so quickly there was never time for admiration. And of the many things Lycanae was, she wasn’t Visell.
“That was amazing! It doesn’t take you any effort at all, does it?” She stepped closer to him, still admiring the shot and at the same time torn between trying to fire again herself and just...changing the subject entirely. Visell grinned and shrugged, pulling at the back of his neck in a half-heartedly nervous gesture.
“What, shooting? I’m not that good, I’m sure ninety percent of Tanaleth’s hunters could outshoot me any day.” No, they could not. Or maybe she was just so hopelessly bad at archery that Visell looked good? Enastelani was fairly certain that wasn’t the case.
“I don’t think so, Visell. I don’t think the Taren’Ghilan would keep you around if you were a bad shot.” She stepped closer and slid her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder and savouring his comforting presence. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smile and felt his hand cover one of hers, giving it a small squeeze.
“Eh, Lycanae likes to flatter me. And so do you, apparently.” He rested the bow on one of the weapons racks and turned to her, smirking a little. “First of the Clan paying me such compliments...she’s got to be careful or I might get the wrong idea.”
“Oh? What kind of idea?” Enastelani could hardly keep the pleased satisfaction from her voice as Visell leaned in and gave her earlobe a playful nip.
“Loads of ideas, A plethora. So many. You’ll have to help me pick the best idea.” Slowly, his touch trailed down her arm and he took her hand, stepping back from her and nodding in the direction of the rope bridge leading back towards the main flets. “First one: your place or mine?”
“Mine. Your roof is full of holes.” She replied immediately, smirking.
“They let light in!” Visell caught sight of her expression and scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And sometimes the rain, I suppose. This is what’s called ‘putting up token resistance’. You have a much nicer bed.”
FFFAAAh okay I finally wrote the sequel to this. More about Clan Tanaleth, Lycanae in this AU and some Athim stuff. Also an introduction for a newish cinnamon roll whose place in the Clan I have retconned for story reasons *mysterious jazz hands*. Alright credits: Mentions a scion title/the concept of scions which is part of the lovely and talented @saarebitch ‘s extended universe canon (everyone go read Birthright! :D) and feature’s @foefelix ‘s Visell.
"The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others merely a green thing that stands in the way."
— William Blake
“This is ridiculous!! It never would have happened if we’d just kept our hunters where they belong!”
“Because a policy of isolationism has always served us so well in the past-”
Athim massaged his temples and tried unsuccessfully-if Lycanae’s quick glare his way was any indication-to hide how the council’s quarreling was wearing on him. Mythal’enaste, it was always variations on the same argument. The more the traditionalists hissed and spat, the more those favouring the massive gains of the Taren’Ghilan’s high risk, high reward ventures dug in their heels and languished smugly on the side of the majority. But this Council meeting was no normal gathering and panic leant a kind of desperate, savage earnesty to everyone’s fears. The Adahl’vhenan was filled with a low murmurs of dissent and agreement, Lycanae and Junelen facing off against one another as they debated heatedly. Though, to be fair, it was less of a debate and more of a verbal sparring match that yielded not but raised voices and petty attempts to drive the other into a misphrase that would cause their opponent to ungracefully concede.
“I am the voice of the Sister of the Forge, the scion of this clan-!”
“So you keep telling us, Junelen. Loudly and unnecessarily-”
Worse than his headache, though, was his sense of utter relief. A proud, young huntress of his Clan was dead, relief was the last thing he should be feeling. Yet, watching Lycanae stand there in the sunlight filtering through the bows of the Adahlvhenan, he thanked every Creator there was for her safety. They’d fought over who should go and who should stay, Lycanae insisting that she personally attend the Conclave herself. Her knowledge of human politics would give her an edge and Clan Tanaleth had to know what was going on, how else were clans too far flung to send their own spies to discover what transpired? What if the human Chantry called another Exalted March? She’d been adamant, she’d tried convincing, cajoling...he had no idea how he’d managed to persuade her to send just a small contingent, just two hunters. Two of her best, but only two. Had their conversation gone differently, had he allowed her free rein to do as she pleased-
“Keeper? Keeper.” He glanced up and found the assembled council and it’s petitioners watching him. Athim cleared his throat and made a dismissive gesture.
“A brief recess. I must gather my thoughts before we continue with this. Taren’Ghilan.” Lycanae glanced over and caught his eye, inclining her head in acknowledgement and following him outside. A pair of her hunters shadowed them to a safe distance from the door as another pair exited through similar doors at the sides of the massive burl that made up the meeting chamber. The Eyes in the Trees would discourage and eavesdropping with the absolute discretion Lycanae expected of her people. He held the door hanging aside for her and watching her duck under his arm and slip out into the afternoon sunlight ahead of him.
“Athim, I think we need to-”
Before she could continue, he caught her up in a tight embrace. She stiffened and stayed that way and he could feel the impatience in her as she allowed the contact.
“Athim-”
“Lycanae, please. Just one moment. Just...let me have a moment.” It shouldn’t be so much to ask for one second free of politics. She shifted slightly and pulled back to look at him, her lips a thin line of disapproval.
“Arlaera is dead-”
“I know. I know she’s dead. I know it’s horrible. Mythal’enaste, I feel horrible about it. But please.”
“Cant this wait-”
“It could have been you, Lycanae.” For a moment, she stilled and relaxed in his arms...and then he felt her shoulders shake. A lance of panic went through him and he pulled back from her to search her eyes for tears, for sorrow and fear and the mixture of relief and guilt he felt to show in her face as well. Instead, she was grinning. Barely holding back laughter.
“What, what’s so funny?”
“This whole time, you were worried because you thought that I would have gone to the Conclave?” She looked up at him through her lashes, covering her mouth with a hand to stem her laughter
“Yes! Yes, of course! None of this is funny-” He growled at her indignantly, folding his arms over his chest.
“Athim, I merely needed whoever was listening to us quarrel to think I would have gone to the Conclave! I’d never have left you here to manage everything yourself! I’d never have left the bulk of my hunters like that, to the mercy of a Council lead by Junelen-”
“It was a ruse and you didn’t TELL ME?!” He hated shouting but it seemed to be the only thing that got through to Ly when she was in a mood like this. She raised her eyebrows and quieted and he immediately felt an enormous wave of guilt pass through him. Her body language communicated a world of meaning and most of that meaning was distilled into a ‘Really? You’re shouting at me? Over this?’. Athim sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, pacing away from her across the polished wooden platform. She didn’t follow him but remained silent and still, pretending to survey her nails and the forest around them with perturbed disinterest.
“You didn’t tell me.” This was true, she hadn’t told him and it was unforgivable. He’d fretted over nothing when he should have been more focused on what was going on around him. Mythal forbid he worry over her though, oh no, she couldn’t have that. Agh, Creators.
“I did not.” Lycanae had a way of carrying herself when she was irritated that could make you feel like a caterpillar under the gaze of a hawk. Or maybe it was simply his own frustrated guilt and confusion that made him feel that way. But her distant expression and cold tone of voice did little to disabuse him of the feeling of insignificance.
“You didn’t think I could have kept it a secret?” Lycanae scoffed and rolled her eyes and he advanced, raising his voice slightly. “You don’t think I could have appeared convincingly upset for months, Lycanae. Months, I worried that you might change your mind-”
“You are my Keeper, Athim. I could hardly have gone against your direct orders.” The effervescent politeness in her candid tone might as well have been her own form of shouting. A fight. Mythal give me strength, why does this keep happening?
“Don’t do this.” He pleaded, his shoulders sagging as he conceded defeat. The only way to win with her like this was to show throat and he’d long ago made peace with the fact he simply could not withstand her implacable standoffs.
“Do what? You are the one who worried for nothing-”
“You could have told me there was no reason to worry! Arlaera dead and all I’ve been able to do all morning is think if it had been you instead-” She stepped up to him and reached out to gently cup his face in her hands, turning his head so that she forced him to meet her eyes.
There was a softness there that soothed all the nervous tension that had been building in him and he gently gripped her slender wrists and breathed a deep sigh. She raised herself up on her toes to capture his mouth with her’s, the press of her kisses soft and grounding as he returned them in kind. She drew away after a moment, her lips still close enough to his that she seemed to breathe the words into him as much as speak them.
“Athim, ma nehn, please. I am here with you, I am alive. You worry for nothing.” He bent his head and pressed his forehead to hers, wrapping his arms around her like she was made of glass.
“Ir abelas, ma sa lath.” He whispered huskily, relief washing over him. How could she do this to him, put him through this much in the space of a few clipped words and misunderstandings?
“Banal abelas, ma lath.” Ma lath..but never ma sa lath. And you know why. Athim crushed the mutinous thought and shook his head to clear it, smiling at her as she looked up at him with concern on her lovely features. “Athim?
“We should get back before they send someone looking for us.” He brought his hand to her chin, brushing a thumb over her lips. She caught his wrist and kissed it sweetly, her grey green gaze as beguiling as it had been when she first fixed him with it years ago. It was impossible for him to deny her anything she desired, impossible even for him to stay mad with her.
“Can you focus enough to duel with Junelen right now?” And back to the politics without a spare breath in between.
“Let’s just get back to it, Lycanae.” He grumbled, sweeping aside the cloth door for her once more and making a tired gesture.
Enastelani twitched slightly on the hard wooden bench and tried to pay attention to what was going on in the meeting. If you’d just done well in your trial and become First instead of letting Andareth have it, you could be sitting in the comfy bench. Andareth was lounging in his seat by the Keeper, the nest like throne of interwoven branches looked positively lavish compared to her uncomfortable perch. He glanced up and caught her eye, shooting her a winning smile that made her flush and look away. He’s been so smug since his trial. I let you win! You’re not even half the mage I am! She wanted to yell at him, wipe the smirk off his face. He’d been nicer before becoming First...he’d been kind. He was still kind, she supposed. Just not as sincere.
The debate had raged on into the evening and everyone present had decided to forgo dinner and sort out the issue before retiring for the night. Or well...mostly sort out the issue. At this rate it felt like nothing would get solved. Her father and the Taren’Ghilan were the worst of it. She sat among the last holdouts, the council members whose presence was either required or whom the decisions being made affected. A few were just clan members hoping to get a vote in, or ones who had been promised concessions for throwing their judicial weight behind one option or another. The old Lorekeeper, Laslan had mostly fallen asleep and Tanlen had long ago begged off insisting that his patient needed him. Poor Rasnan, Enastelani thought, poor me.
She felt tears prick her eyes again and sniffed quietly. Arlaera. Beautiful, young, vivacious Arlaera. She wondered if her friend had told Rasnan she loved him before she died, she wondered if Arlaera had given her chosen mate the promise ring she’d made for him. It had been so sudden, both of them being sent off by the Taren’Ghilan to the Conclave. And it had seemed the perfect time for Enastelani to tell Arlaera how much she loved her. But then, Arlaera had confessed her plans to propose to Rasnan and Enastelani had forced down the hurt so she could be happy for her friend. Just friends...friends who sometimes said ‘I love you’. Friends who slept together and kissed and shared everything with each other...Enastelani took a deep breath and wicked away the tears that ran down her cheeks. Doesn’t matter now, she’s dead. Stop whimpering and move on with your life. Beside her, Herdsmistress Irassali shot her a sympathetic but desperate look. Irassali had an attitude to mirror her halla and she loathed being called up to the Adahl’vhenan for these things. She’d much rather be with her beasts than spending hours listening to circular arguments...she meant well but as good as she was with halla, she was terrible with people.
“Please don’t cry, da’len. If you start, I’ll start.”
“If I thought it would end this stupid meeting, I’d cry rivers.” Sathel muttered under his breath, chipping at the block of wood he held in his hands and glowering at it. A small pile of shavings had begun to collect at his feet, curls of new wood stark against the old golden grain of the floor.
“Sathel-” Irassali chided him, “This is the fate of the Clan-”
“So? ‘Fate of the Clan’, don’t be silly. It’s about trade. It’s always about trade and about information and about us shoving our thumbs so far up the other clan’s asses we can tickle their sinuses-” Enastelani winced at the craftman’s colourful metaphor and shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable and simultaneously wishing that Sathel would keep his voice down just a little. “No one can get a word in edgewise with those two snap snarling at each other like a pair of gurguts with water sickness.”
He gestured with his carving knife to where Junelen and Lycanae were still debating hotly back and forth. Enastelani sighed deeply as her papae argued pointlessly on. He was getting angry and the Taren’Ghilan was as patient as a spider waiting in a web: Once Junelen got angry, he’d get sloppy. His logic would fail him. It happened nearly every time. Anger twisted Enastelani’s gut, it wasn’t her father’s fault. He just wanted what was best for the clan and Lycanae always made him look like a fool.
“Gurguts cant get water sickness.” The herdsmistress muttered testily, her lips thinning to a tight line.
“I dont give a flaming halla shit about gurguts. I just want the Guiding Mind to stop playing with her food so we can all move on with our lives.” Sathel grunted, conceding her point and continuing to chip at the block of wood in his hands.
“We have to pull the tradesmen back it’s far too dangerous-”
“We’ve been over this, Junelen. My hunters are capable of handling the threat and the roads-”
“Do not interrupt me, Flat Ear.” There was a collective intake of breath and a few of the hunters stationed around the Adahl’vhenan tensed. Papae, why are you doing this? Lycanae, for her part, seemed amused. Andareth was the one who spoke, perking up slightly in his place beside Athim. His voice was oddly mellifluous and self assured, eyes the blue green of submerged ice flows gleaming copper in the half light. Being First looks well on him, Enastelani thought with a small amount of bitterness.
“Junelen, perhaps the long hours are taking their toll on you.” The kind words were heavy with insult, dripping and saccharin like poison off an arrowhead aimed to kill. Junelen’s lip curled into a cornered animal’s snarl as he glowered at Adareth’s benign expression. “Openly insulting the Taren’Ghilan is hardly going to solve anything-”
“No? What about the fact that she and, I suspect, the Keeper have known of these so called rifts for a week at least?”
Enastelani looked to Athim who was doing the best impression of startled concern she’d seen from him yet. Andareth was a mirroring it in such a way that Enastelani almost believed it sincere. Lycanae looked believably stricken, ears pinned down, guilt plainly written on her face. Ah, a ploy. Here, her father had thought himself so clever. At least the inevitable loss of ground not yet gained was now complete. Maybe they could finally have dinner. Laslan stirred from his nap at the sudden silence, issuing a ruffling snorting snore reminiscent of the noise a congested bogfisher might make. Enastelani bit back a sudden hysterical giggle, helped along by Irassali stomping quickly on her foot.
“Junelen, you were not made aware of the Rifts?” Athim’s voice was gentle with sincere concern. Wait, that’s not right. Lycanae didn’t look stricken at all now so much as she looked smug, capable. Vicious. Oh no. “Taren’Ghilan-”
“Of course not. I went straight to the source and informed Sis myself. She was very grateful and confessed that her nephew has been greatly missed at her forge. It is difficult to be the voice of a Scion when you do not readily communicate, is it not?” The silence in the Adahlvhenan was suffocating in it’s totality.
“You are not supposed to speak to-! There are traditional observances-”
“Your title is perfunctory and exclusive to this Clan. It is not a longstanding tradition and it has little utility when you insist on abusing it.” Enastelani wanted to sink deeper into her bench, through the floor, out of Thedas entirely. Her father’s face was stricken as the Taren Ghilan tore him apart with his own failures, merciless as the wrath of Elgar’nan. “You owe this council your sincerest apologies for a dereliction of duty-”
The other members of the council were turning their glares on Junelen like a pack of starving wolves scenting blood. Enastelani breathed a heavy sigh and tried to block all of it out. This was terrible, watching her Papae be publicly humiliated. Please, let this stop. The back and forth was usually more interesting than this, more a swift exchange of blows, wit against wit. It was usually entertaining for her, the hours she spent in the Adahlvhenan a time to wonder at it’s beauty and the strength and ingenuity of her clever clan. It wasn’t a time where she was forced to watch her father fall, fail with no possible recourse. All of this felt vicious and stagnant, the anxiety churning through everyone’s minds making the decisions slow, the plots and cantrips painful rather than delightful.
“Taren Ghilan, you have made your point-” The Keeper trying to defuse the situation, trying to quiet the mutinous whispers humming her ears like angry wasps. Think of something nice, calm down. It’s alright, it will be alright. She clenched her shaking fists and sought to quench her mana before any stray sparks of magic could manifest themselves in her distress.
“I do not think she has. Perhaps we should strip Junelen of his rank-” Sathel now, his tone heated. Enastelani bit her lip until she could taste the copper of her own blood.
“This is a diplomatic clan, Keeper. Should we not put the matter to a vote-”
“This was not the point of this council to bring Junelen’s title into question-” Athim again, trying to call everyone to order. Was Andareth grinning? Lycanae had said nothing since her brutalization of Junelen’s confidence and competency. She didn’t need to say anything, she had incited a riot, given everyone someone to blame for the meeting taking too long.
Think, what did you love about the old council meetings? Think! The company was better. Rasnan on one side of her, Arlaera on the other...Arla’s nimble fingers dancing down her spine or braiding her hair, her soft lips pressed against the shell of Enastelani’s ear as she pointed out all the infighting and bickering and made it all seem funny. She took the bite from the politics and made light, remarked on all the better things they could be doing with a hand squeezing Enastelani’s hip. She’ll never do that again...she’ll never laugh with me, never kiss me, never sit here bored to tears again...Enastelani had believed things had hit their all time low when Arlaera had confessed her love and intentions for Rasnan. She believed the huge swell of sadness in her breast as her fists clenched so hard over the promise rings she’d crafted for them was the worst emotional pain she’d ever felt. It had been, up until this. The grief was fresh and it made everything else stale by comparison, the only thing that still burned vividly was the overwhelming pang of loss.
“ENOUGH!! DIRTH HAMIN! All of you! We are not putting anything to a vote! I will have respectful, sensible and honest discourse in this council or by the Creators I’ll-!” But Athim trailed off, seeming too furious to finish. Everyone in the adahlvhenan had the deceny to look ashamed and her Papae-poor papae- was quivering like a field mouse trapped between the paws of a fox.
The sob when it came was louder than she’d intended and it interrupted whatever silly song and dance was going on. There were two, so loud and jagged that they sounded like coughs. Her throat ached as she glanced up, meeting the thirty or so concerned faces. She nearly flinched when she saw her father’s fierce glare, another small sob issuing from her lips before she could stop it. She tried to turn it into a throat clearing instead and was only marginally successful.
“Can I...Ir abelas, I am…” Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Every fiber of her being simply wanted to wail her sorrow at the sky. She wanted to scream and she simultaneously wanted to be still and quiescent and not let anyone see her pain. It felt like being caught in a net, wrapped up tight where every attempt to free herself would just bind her tighter until all she could do was choke.
“Are you well?” Syla’s strident, nasal voice scraped at her ears like a knife. No, of course not. Of course I’m not ‘well’. Enastelani clenched her teeth together and glared at the floor, her vision blurring with tears. Beside her, Irassali and Sathel had made every effort to distance themselves or appear uninterested. Ira was patting her knee like she was a frightened halla fawn and Sathel...well she couldn’t see him, but ‘glaring at everyone with a vengeance’ was likely.
“Lethallin,” Keeper Athim’s voice rang out wearily into the awkward silence, addressing one of the hunter’s. Enastelani glanced up, biting her lip so hard she could taste blood. The hunter in question stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the meeting chamber. “Could you please escort the Second back to her flet to rest? It’s been a long day for everyone, but none more so than she. I fear that in our bickering, we have forgotten to honour the huntress who we lost today, brave young Arlaera, so dear to all our hearts.”
June’enaste. Finally someone is acknowledging it. It hurt her pride that she needed the Keeper to speak for her, but it was better than bursting into real tears in front of everyone present. She stood up and edged her way around Irassali, meeting the Keeper’s kind eyes briefly and bowing her head. Her quiet ‘Ma serannas’ was muttered at the floor. Enastelani fled the audience chamber without a backwards glance, sensing more than seeing the hunter who fell in step a few respectful paces behind her.
She breezed past the hunters guarding the entrance, sucking in a desperate lungful of cold clear night air and wrapping her arms around her middle as she set out across the winding walkway. It was actually a temperate evening but after the confines of the Adahlvhenan, the air had her shivering. She looked out over the canopy, the carefully tended torches that lit the way through the various walkways and bridges between the trees gleaming brightly in the blue evening gloom.
The cool night air was perfumed with the smell of arbor blessing and the occasional pungent note of ghoul’s beard, both herbs cultivated for their medicinal properties and their use as a giant spider repellent. She tried to take comfort in this, the familiar things she could still see and smell and touch. Arlaera is gone but you are not, the dead cannot return no matter how many tears you shed. She slowed her pace marginally, repeating the thought again and again to try and soothe herself. She paused by a curtains of arbor blessing and stood for a moment, breathing in it’s comforting scent and trying to catch her breath and recover her composure.
The soft footfalls of the hunter padded up beside her and he stood, watching the sky in companionable silence. She’d seen him before, but only rarely. Tanaleth’s Eyes in the Trees were divided into several different tiers, some more specialised than others. Most of the more skilled hunters were nearly continuously out in the field, trading in every few weeks. Torchlight gleamed off the dark red of his hair, pulled into a ponytail high on his head, the sides and back of his skull shaved in the traditional hunters style. The vallaslin of Falon’Din graced his high cheekbones and framed large, pensive eyes. Enastelani sniffed and wiped hastily at the tears flowing freely down her cheeks
“Here.” She looked at him and saw he was holding a handkerchief out to her...or rather, the closest thing to it. It was a dusty red colour, embroidered with a fine pattern of stylised autumn leaves at it’s edges. She squinted at them curiously...were they leaves? Or maybe- “they’re supposed to be feathers. I, uh, I’m sorry if it smells like hide glue. I use it to touch up the fletching work sometimes.”
“I...thank you.” She murmured, her voice breaking slightly as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her face with it. “Did you-I mean, I shouldn’t bother you about...I just.”
“If you need to talk about what happened, I’m willing to listen. Athim is better for this kind of thing, when he’s not falling asleep during council meetings.” The frankness of the hunters tone startled a choked, hiccuping laugh from her throat.
“Was he...was he really asleep at one point?” They set out again, continuing down the various bridge and platforms that wound through and between the trunks towards her personal yurt.
“He was starting to nod off a bit, yeah. Don’t tell anyone, though. Very serious, all that grandstanding.” The hunter rolled his eyes, a wry smile curving the corners of his lips. “You know him, though, doesn’t usually yell. Must be Ly giving him the run around.”
Enastelani winced. She’d rather not think of that yet.
“I know the meetings are important but I just…”
“Wasn’t expecting it to take the whole day? You and me both. I can’t decide what was more scintillating: Irassali’s halla update, Sathel swearing not once but three times in the course of reading off the inventory ledger-” He’s trying to distract me...and he’s doing a good job. She sniffed and smiled a little at the thought of Sathel saying the words ‘too much blighted elfroot’.
“He’s upset about our stores being low-” She defended him, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice and failing.
“ ‘Low’ other clans worry about low with food. Tanaleth is one of the only one that worries we haven’t got enough materials. And our dear Taren’Ghilan wants us to keep our artisans traveling even in the tumult. Best case: they check in on the other clans, solve our materials shortage. It’s a risk, but they’re all very capable. All the things she wants are very positive. But she also knows if we pull everyone back, all the shem will see is ‘elves suspiciously flee scene of crime’ and city elves will die. They’ll be blamed for the sky getting torn up and the humans will tear them up in turn. That’s why the council cant make any decisions.” The man was so practical and earnest after the painful and winding debates of the Adahlvhenan it was a breath of fresh air. “Ah, this is you, right?”
“I...yes, this is me.” The yurt was new and magnificently crafted, the circular, surrounding flet wrapping around the trunk of a large tree. It’s embroidery and stitchwork had been crafted by some of the finest weavers and seamstresses Tanaleth possessed, elegant and graceful lines that mimicked the veins in a leaf adorning the sturdy material in dyed spider silk. She’d designed it and helped build and put together nearly every component she could. The materials to make it had been an early present to her from Junelen, a congratulations on her upcoming appointment as First. And then it hadn’t happened and Junelen had been so disappointed with her when Andareth became first instead he’d barely spoken five words to her since. She was just glad to have her own space, away from her mother and father’s shared flet. It’ll be a good place to curl up and cry for a bit...then prepare for Arlaera’s Vigil...
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Second.”
“Ah! I mean, wait! What’s your name?” The hunter smiled at her and inclined his head slightly.
“I’m Visell.” She returned his smile weakly, holding the handkerchief out to him. He shook his head and waved it away. “Nah, you keep that. I mean, unless it really does smell like hide glue and then I can take it off your hands but ah, you need it more than me.”
“Thank you, Visell. You can call me Enastelani...it’s a little less formal than Second.” She laughed a little to hide her fumbling and ignore the overwhelming feeling of guilt about being the clan’s ‘spare’ mage. Visell made a quick, theatrical bow and then righted himself.
“Ma nuvenin, Enastelani. Try and get some sleep, yeah? You can tuck my favour under your pillow.” She watched him stride back in the direction of the Adahlvhenan, leaving her standing at the walkway before her yurt with her eyes dry and a small, sad smile on her lips.
BLARCH. Okay, finally. SOMETHING. Have some ‘I just got rid of a shade of writer’s block/I hate my writing right now’ ficlet. Lycanae/Athim. Tanaleth canon. Huge thanks go to saarebitch for helping me come up with Clan Tanaleth and for allowing them to occupy an honoured spot in her extended universe canon. Everybody go read Birthright !! Team tree elf and moderately happy AU.
Thanks to Faux for edits :D !
"Spider venom comes in many forms. It can often take a long while to discover the full effects of the bite. Naturalists have pondered this for years: there are spiders whose bite can cause the place bitten to rot and to die, sometimes more than a year after it was bitten. As to why spiders do this, the answer is simple. It's because spiders think this is funny, and they don't want you ever to forget them."
— Neil Gaiman (Anansi Boys (American Gods, #2))
The giant, snow white spider moved with delicate grace up the trunk of the tree a bowshot away. Eight silver eyes glittered in its head, gleaming in the diffuse light that slanted through the thick canopy. Bands of grey striped its slender legs, its unnatural colouring distinguishing it from all the other spiders that plagued the treetops. The tip of Lycanae’s arrow followed it in its soundless ascent, her breaths steady and even as her fingers burned from the stress of her half drawn bowstring. This specific spider had taken to stalking her hunters, venturing too close to the flets where the Clan lived. It was too soon to move camps and one spider-albeit a very clever and elusive one-was not going to chase her or her people out of their homes.
“Garas din’an…” She breathed, drawing back her arrow with one smooth motion and- The spider froze, sensing some minute vibration and then scuttling quickly to the left. Someone was coming. She tried to correct her shot and loose the arrow at the same time, the shot flying wide and bouncing off the harder part of the spider’s carapace. The creature hissed and skittered back down the tree faster than she could blink, a few more failed shots following it in her frustration.
“Andruil enaste! Fenhedis!” She swore and slammed a fingerless glove clad fist against the thick branch beside her.
“Taren’Ghilan! I have news!” Lycanae lowered her bow and stood up gracefully from her crouch, quickstepping back along the network of branches to the flet. Her hunter skidded to a stop, pulling down the cloth covering his mouth and nose and inclining his head briefly in deference. He was out of breath, disheveled and with an unmistakable look of panic.
“What is it, Ghilenadas?”
“Rasnan has returned from the shemlen Conclave. He’s with the healers and the Keeper it...the news is not good, lethallan.” Lycanae felt her blood run cold and replaced her arrow in her quiver and secured her bow over her shoulder, already walking with swift steps towards the healer’s flets. The news is not good...that could mean anything.
“Could you not have heard his news and then brought it directly to me?” Generally, her hunter’s were not so scattered as to run willy nilly across the treetops without knowing what was going on. Ghilenadas hurried to keep up with her, his brow knit and a frown on his face.
“I...The Keeper wanted you present. He does not want Rasnan to have to repeat information. And Rasnan was insisting you be the first to know. The Council isn’t pleased…” The Council was never particularly pleased, they prided themselves on that.
“Rasnan knows when to keep his mouth shut..where is Arlaera?” Ghilenadas’ face paled and his step beside her faltered. Rather than acknowledge the hesitation she moved with more purpose. “I want you to keep this as quiet as you can I don’t want everyone-”
She rounded the corner to a crowd of elves just outside the healer’s yurt.
“-Panicking.”
Ghilenadas shot her a look that was at once alarmed and guilty only relaxing when she made a vague waving gesture and sighed. News traveled fast, even in the trees.
“All of you, go back to your homes-”
“Taren’Ghilan! What has happened?”
“Taren’Ghilan! Lycanae!” She slipped through the throng, Ghilenadas helping her elbow her way past the crowd.
“Ghilenadas, disperse them and do what you can to allay the panic. This many on a flet is dangerous, I don’t care how many times the artisans tell us there’s no occupancy limit. I want everyone pulled back as well, except for the outermost scouts, have them on alert. I want everyone as quick and as quiet as possible. Hunter’s in, but friendly faces. Soothe our people and whatever you do, prove Junelen and his idiots wrong. I want competence and swift responses-” A woman pushed to the front of the crowd and seized Lycanae’s arm. It was all she could do not to react with visceral instinct and punch the woman in the face as she ripped free of the determined grip.
“I need to know what happened to my daughter,” The woman hissed, her eyes alight with ferocity in a lined face traced with June’s marks. Arlaera...Lycanae made a smooth gesture and Ghielnadas stepped between them, doing his best to appear like he meant business.
“You have to go-”
“Fen’Harel take you and that-! I need to ask-”
Lycanae slipped past the last of the crowd to the two hunter’s nervously guarding the entrance to the yurt. They dipped their heads in apologetic fashions and stepped aside to let her pass. The interior was dim but her eyes immediately readjusted, taking in the grim sight before her. The Council stood around one of the makeshift cots at the far corner of the room, healer Tanlen bent over the crumpled form on the bed. The Clan’s First, Enastelani, stood with her lips trembling in the corner, tears in her blue eyes. Lycanae had worked hard to befriend the girl, the daughter of the clan’s scion. Arlaera and Rasnan were the girl’s closest friends and her distress was palpable. Dread sank deeper in the pit of Lycanae’s belly like a sickness and she moved swiftly across the flet, her heart slamming against her ribcage.
“Taren’Ghilan, so nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.” Hearthmistress Syla shot her a bitter look that she met with a graceful smile. She was about to reply with something equally as cutting and short when Athim stepped forward, drawing her quickly and suddenly against him and placing a quick kiss on her brow. He held her fiercely for a moment and she could feel his heart pounding even through the fabric of his Keeper’s robes.
“Ma sa lath, you’re here. Your second was adamant that you be present for this.” You’re here was spoken with such breathy and open relief she felt another shard of anxiety slink into her heart. Athim did not panic. She returned Athim’s embrace with a quick squeeze before they released one another and she turned her attention to where Tanlen had just moved away from the bed to prepare a poultice, his patient propped up on his elbows and trying to struggle to his feet. She stepped forward and went to her knees, reaching out one hand to steady her hunter.
“Rasnan, atisha ma falon. Peace, you must rest.” She tried to soothe him, but there was still a hunted mania in his dark green gaze and he clutched at her arm with bloodied hands.
“Lethallan. I am...Ir abelas.” Hair damp with sweat clung to the vallas’lin of Falon’din that traced his forehead, tears running tracks through the grime on his face. Lycanae glanced at the healer and spoke:
“A cloth, please.” Tanlen pressed a cool damp, cloth into her hands and she swept it across Rasnan’s forehead and smoothed it over his wrists. He seemed to recover somewhat and swallowed hard, meeting her gaze and that of the council that surrounded them.
“Atisha, lethallin. Tell me what happened? Where is Arlaera? What have the shemlen done?” She wanted him calm, there had been too much uncertainty as of late. The...rips in the sky she’d been seeing, the existence of which she shared with no one save a few trusted hunters and Athim...she had optimistically hoped they were an isolated incident.
“The shemlen...I do not know if it was the shemlen. I do not know who it was. But I...ir abelas, I have failed you. I have failed the clan. I failed her…” Rasnan’s head whipped sideways from the force of the blow as she struck him. He stared at her, suddenly breathless and shocked. She felt for his pain, she truly did. But she could not have her second showing this level of weakness in front of the Council. She saw Athim’s lips thin to a tight line of disapproval but ignored it, standing back and at attention.
“Report.”
“I...ir abelas, Taren’Ghilan. I…” Her hunter gave the report with admirably little weeping this time, his voice stumbling when he recounted Arlaera’s fate. His hunting partner- and more than that if rumour’s were true- crushed beneath debris. His hands were bruised and bloody as he lifted them to press the heels of his palms against his temples, fingernails ripped and torn from trying to dig his mate free. Behind her, Enastelani let out a choked sobbing sound. Lycanae kept her expression neutral, even though she felt for her hunters. The loss of Arlaera...Lycanae had sent them both to this...and all that lived behind Rasnan’s eyes was a bleak, desperate despair where once there had been such calm self assurance.
He told of an explosion that had destroyed the shemlen’s temple, ripped a hole in the very fabric of the sky that had spit demons and Creator’s knew what else. The council kept their mouth’s shut throughout the telling, a rare and solemn occurrence. Fear had quieted them and cast a pall over the hastily assembled gathering. Athim’s hand fell on her shoulder and gave it a tiny squeeze, his presence soft and solid and reassuring behind her. For Lycanae, the knowing was better than the uncertainty. Plans and plots and contingencies wove an intricate web through her mind as Rasnan spun his tale with a shaking, broken voice.
“There was...someone who survived the blast.” The silence that had been thick with horror twisted and became something else. Incredulity and distrust, the mishmash of frantic emotion warping. Syla let out a scoffing noise and Enastelani a breathless sound. The aging hearthmistress was the first to voice her displeasure, her voice shrill.
“That’s impossible-”
“Almost as impossible as your hearth tenders successfully lighting a Gathering fire without setting the canopy aflame. Be silent and allow my hunter to speak, Syla, or I will have you escorted from this flet.” Lycanae stood and rounded on the woman, her fists clenched. Council meetings were full of enough dissent without the squabblings that arose from needless chatter. Syla bristled and she puffed up like an enraged porcupine, opening her mouth to spit vitriol-
“Atishan, both of you. Who survived, lethallin?” Athim addressed Rasnan, his aura of calm so strong it had an immediate effect on the fractious tempers in the room. Lycanae shook her head against the artificial tranquility, struggling to shake it’s influence. It might calm anger, but it dulled rational thought as well. Besides, it was cheating.
“An elf. One of the People. A Lavellan.” Lavellan. Lycanae glanced back at Athim and saw his ears twitch flat against his head in alarm. His mother’s clan and Lycanae’s former adoptive one. “The shemlen took them...I don’t...I don’t know what happened after that. They say that...that the human’s god sent them back from death but I don’t...”
Rasnan trembled violently and Lycanae caught his shoulder before he could slump back onto the bed. She glanced at Tanlen and the healer shrugged helplessly. Whatever was affecting her hunter now was likely a result of physical and emotional stress than a serious ailment. Athim touched her shoulder and she rose to stand beside him.
“We will continue this when Rasnan has recovered. Until then, let us leave him in peace.”
“Keeper, I-” Enastelani’s breath caught and she glanced at Athim uncertainly, swallowing hard. “May I stay?”
“Of course. I expect you to come catch up with the council in due time.” Lycanae watched relief show itself on the young First’s face, felt Athim’s hand on the small of her back. Tanlen nodded to everyone, ushering them out of the healing pavilion as quickly as was polite to do so.
Lycanae’s last glimpse of her hunter showed her Rasnan collapsing into Eastelani’s arms and the low sound of his sobs were cut off as the healer shut the door behind them.
