for the sketch prompts, maybe Marigold with 19 and 21? :0
19. In cosplay
Chose Sir Aaron from Lucario and the Mystery of Mew. I kinda feel like Marigold would lean towards cosplaying characters with a strong sense of justice.
21. With the best friend.
Book 3 establishes Yrain as Marigold’s best friend after the 20 year time skipe between Books 2 and 3. Yrain acted as a bit of a wing man when Marigold was being a wimp and refusing to tell Rose that he liked her. Yrain also stepped up as an uncle for Marigold’s daughter, River and is shown to worry a lot about both Marigold and River throughout Books 3 and 4.
Thrandir’s hands ran along the steel bars as their forehead soon enough came to rest upon it as well, simultaneous with a world weary sigh that came from those lips. But this was met with a low growl that came from one of the wolves in the cell to the right of them. Thin pressed were the lips as eyebrows arched highly up and eyes darted in the direction that the growl had come from. “Once again? I’m sorry, I can’t quite understand when you growl like that.”
“Stop complaining. You’ve not been in here more than a few days and you feel the need to sigh as though in mourning. You’re wasting your breath,” came the tone of the wolf who had been the first to address some supposedly unspoken animosity that they had formed. But before the one that was a remnant of Lisrael could retort, it was Gideon who interjected himself. Slowly had the power and strength that had drained from him ebbed into him, rest and the meager rations that were given bringing him back. This was the first time Thrandir had seen what was truly a wolfish grin through these reasonably dim lights. And that made their lips pull into something of a grin as those bright eyes did flash visibly.
Then the voice came afterwards. “Don’t waste time growling and barking at each other. Isn’t that what I instruct everyone of at the guild? The same applies even when those from without are involved.”
The joy in her voice was nearly audible as Emirain spoke again for the first time in a while. It was as though she had been awaiting the green light, the confirmation that Gideon was well, that Gideon was able to stand and let his hands dangle lackadaisically out of the bars as he spoke. Such was better than music to her for, though they would growl and bite as any mated wolves would, his wellbeing did bring her happiness. “Yrain would not bring pups here. I am sure all are more than aware of the fact that respect is mandated for all that are involved with us.” Most lingered forward in their cells, but she was seated in the back corner. Gideon’s sleeplessness when chain had reflected in her own, for they were partners. To say that Gideon had not reciprocated would be in err. Even as his own health would wax and wane, he knew that wolf course mourn themselves to death. Werewolves were little different. She could rest, now, and he could feel the relief that such entailed.
“I was not trying to give off the idea that I did not delight in the wonderful company,” came the voice of the one that had played all sides of the field. Oh, perhaps they were only upset given the fact that finally it had come to it that they were no longer placed in a winning position. If anything, capture could spell the beginning of the end. They tried to abate that from their mind, though, recalling their body from where they were lingering by the door of the cell, pacing back. “So I would like to apologize--”
“I hate to interrupt,” as their speech was cut off by the voice of Hagon, the steps not even audible as he had joined them, “but I supposed that it would be best if I spoke of what I had found.”
This drew the attention of Emirain as she walked in a few quick steps towards the front of her cell. She had heard the howls just as Gideon had and within her worry had been roused even if she was not the one who had insisted upon resolution. It was she who made the first inquiry. “And…”
“It is much as we had anticipated.” he began, his eyes cutting down the hall. The mass exodus of the elves to where there was war had made it considerably more accessible insofar as sneaking and exploring and finding the wolves. “They are kept as beasts in cages. They aren’t… they hardly know themselves, now they are what they are. They…”
“I know what you are.” Eyes of the one who was the would-be alpha, the one that was hailed as the up-and-comer by his packmates, were the first to find the eyes of Thrandir who stood on the other side of the cell. There were bars between them and yet the intensity of the glowing eyes caused a step back for a moment.
“Do not think for a moment that I was under the impression that you did not know, Thrandir. You have no scent. You are a strange creature, truthfully something that I can neither recognize nor peg. Nothing from Liev--nothing from the north,” as the words came forth yet the dark face attempted to keep from contorting in response to the statements. “Though I do not know what you are, I know well that you know more than you let on. Call it a hunch.” The silence was then feel with a tension, an awkwardness that almost all could hear. “Your interjection was as usual, unnecessary.”
As Thrandir found himself silenced, so continued the blonde werewolf as he glanced towards Gideon in particular. “They know nothing of their abilities. Of their potential. They had but a singular fate upon being bitten and it was to be locked up like hounds. Like animals that have done wrong. I suppose it could be--worse.” After all, even among those that the Guild set their sights upon, there were some that did not survive the bite, that were unable to regain their sanity. Those were quietly put down and allowed their rest, for their minds could not quite handle what was dictated for. “But what I saw…” and deep was the frown before he continued, “one of the mothers had her child with her. A woman who had been bitten. Her child… her child was innocent of any crime and yet was given to a mother who cannot control her wolf. How many others have died due to this? Children slain at their hands of their parents--” Brows creased over his eyes for a moment as he saw the softness, the concern in the eyes of Gideon. Emirain would put forth a similar expression, but hers was unseen. “You were fight in not flying until we were able to find a way to help them. But until we find that way--”
“I’d a feeling one of you rats was missing. Iowyr didn’t believe me, but he hadn’t seen you.” A hand gripped to the arm of the former Northman and with stunning quickness he found himself within a cell down the way. Any monologue had hopefully been unheard by the elf that held the keys to the cells or else things would be insurmountably more difficult. They were bad enough as it was. “Get in there where you belong, damned beast.”
By and large most of the elves had been more eloquent, as one would expect them to be. But he was sure they had dealt by and large with those in higher rungs of the latter of society; no knight trained in manners could be spared to keep an eye on a bunch of caged beasts and certainly not the king himself. This elf had a more gruff air about him, likely more like the common folk that fought in the battles against humans. Hagon made no protest, but turned his gaze down the way once the guard had dismissed himself. Likely, something more pressing needed to be done. What that was the wolves did not hazard a guess, but when no sense read the presence of the elven one, Hagon spoke again.
“I want to help them. I want to lead them.”
And Gideon’s head leaned back against the wall of his cage, a smile lingering on his lips. “I knew I chose you for a reason.”
Brayden would attend to traveling to the north again. This decision was, of course, already made and committed to before he walked along the hall and glimpsed a familiar blonde with her hair tight braided against her head. This was the longest they had been separated at any point of their marriage and so the mere sight of her did serve to rend his breath from his lungs. Her clothes of simple fabric and furs accented the now visible bump that had developed to show the life within and she wrapped around her the skin of a white bear of the north. She had told him of that tradition when they lay there, once, speaking of children--long before they knew she was with child. He said nothing. Such could not be said of Silvya who, the instant that her eyes were upon him, had bridged the distance between them and landed a firm smack upon the face of the knight who had been away, laboring at war. Wide were his eyes as his fingers came to linger upon his face but just as soon did he feel her embracing him, the familiar warmth as she pressed her face against his shoulder. “You were back?! You were back and didn’ tell me?”
“I was coming to--” but there were lips on his. She clung to him as he held to her to support her and they simply enjoyed their moment in that instance. Even as their lips parted they remained near to one another, close, her standing on tiptoe to let her forehead rest slightly against his. And she could simply not stop smiling. “... Abigail told me you were here, and…”
“I don’t care,” as she pressed her against his once more. Against his neck did she come to rest her face. “Not home to stay--you can’t be. The war, it is not over, or we would all know,” as she did slowly come to part from him, her face lifted up to gaze at him, still holding fast to her husband’s clothes. “When do you leave?”
Not over. In the instances that he was once again with Sivlya, as she was against him, he could at least pretend that he was not going back to battle, back to war. But he was. There was not yet peace to be found amongst them and that was the way of things, so the knight swallowed hard as he gave a shake of his head. “Tomorrow. In the morning. We ride back to the north to seek counsel with the elven king--to hopefully find a resolution. So we can end the war and have peace, and so I can come home…” as his eyes were upon hers, seeing the way her face contorted, watching as her brows knit tight over her eyes. Only one night. All this way he had traveled and held his pregnant wife in his arms, and only for one night. It almost seemed cruel, but he understood the necessity. He understood why. He was a knight and he did have a country to serve.
“Tomorrow…” as she reached a hand up to move along beneath his eye. There was liquid along the bottom of it and she brushed it away with a grin. “Do not cry. We have tonight, Brayden. And I missed you. Very much.” And again they kissed there in the light of the sun from the window that looked out over the city.
Abigail had gazed upon this exchange and for a moment, perhaps for the first moment since she had allowed herself to become jaded, to become content with what would be her lot in life, she felt the truthfulness of envy. She had no desire within her heart for Brayden but perhaps she did feel some desire of love, of something. Her arms wrapped around herself in that moment as she felt a cold that resonated from within before she turned and saw to meeting her husband to speak further of the current predicament, though the light within her seemed more dim.
“I intend to ride with you to council,” she informed him as she sat opposite him at the lunch table, reaching for the cup of water placed before her. Already he had begun eating (a step outside of the social mores, but this was hardly the first unspoken rule that Mercurius had been known to violate) and soe he had to lift his head to gaze at her with eyes narrowed. The fork was placed down and he seemed truly wordless, so she continued, “Surely there is a confidant somewhere in the castle that can hold its ground in my stead. Perhaps one of the wolves. Perhaps Silvya, even. I am sure Zanil will not see this counsel go by without his presence…”
“The ride is long,” spoke the voice of the the king as he placed a hand flat-palmed on the table. The way it had motioned for an instance she had nearly predicted he would raise it in a motion to mandate silence of her, but such was not her case. She could have sighed with relief, but kept it within herself. “And you are undoubtedly with child. I cannot, I will not permit it. Arric is riding with me, and so is Zanil. I do not see why you feel it necessary…”
“I was under the impression that a Baidenese queen has as much say in politics as her husband,” as preserved fruit was spread over the bread that she sliced a piece of in a smooth motion, “and such is partly why I agreed with Zanil when he chose me. Is this not politics? Have I not a place here and at counsel?”
He was nearly frustrated that she could so easily remain calm as she spoke, the bread being lifted to her lightly tinted lips. And for a moment he looked upon her and saw the black curls that fell past the collarbone barely exposed by her dress, laying against her skin. He saw the poise in her hand and the grace that she held and had he not been wordless before, he was now. She was right, at least, partly. Traditionally it was the Baidenese queens that had more say in politics than the queens of other countries, other nations. They were more involved. Georgiana had been involved, in her own ways. Abigail clearly desired to be more direct with her hands in the pie of political power. “One of the rules should remain in Baiden. That is simply the way that it should be,” as his eyes were upon hers, “can you not agree with this?”
“And why will you not stay?”
Mercurius had to acquiesce to her that she had a point: there were two rulers and never had he been exactly vehement of the fact that he should play a key role in counsel. It was merely implied. But this was the point at which he staked a metaphoric vocal claim: “I am the king. I should be involved in all counsel that will decide the fate of this country--”
“And by that logic should I not, as queen, have an integral role to play as well?”
“This cannot be.”
“I would go to counsel. Have Zanil remain, then--”
“I will not,” as his hand allowed him to push up, the force upsetting the plates that were upon the table, “permit you to leave. You are pregnant, and the ride is long. It is dangerous for you and should this be a trap, and assault, Baiden will lose not only two but three leaders.” The hand motioned to her and there was no doubt that he was referencing the child she carried. Her hand upon her knife did still as she turned her gaze towards him, fingers paling as she gripped tight to it.
“Permit me?” Her voice was neither low nor raised. It was firmly neutral and her brow was cocked as though she were listening to the words of a petulant child and not a petulant king. “Was it not you that deviated from the cultural norms of a Baidenese wedding of nobility by insisting I not marry to you? Like our patron god, did you not want to see me only on eye level and not look down upon me?” With notable grace did she rise, poised as she came to stand opposite him. There were a few inches of disparity between them, but her chin was upturned to meet him. “I was not asking your permission. I was stating that I had intents to do it whether or not it was something you approved of.”
His nails scraped against the wood of the table and he turned from her, a hand running through his hair. There was a tint of grey to be found in it, now, that perhaps she had not noticed before. The light filtered through: it was not the warm light of summer, but the chilled light of winter that illuminated her king and she looked at him. Through anger, she saw what he had seen when he looked at her. He was wordless, motionless, a statue in response with age beginning to etch upon his face and she slowly let her hand release the knife to allow it to rest on the table. “Am I not permitted to worry for your wellbeing? Were you not pregnant, I would raise no voice. We would find one to keep the country safe in our stead but pregnancy drains so. I worry for you and for... our child.”
The moments in which Mercurius had truly rendered her wordless in a positive way for few. This was not an articulation of a power complex, or of a need to control her. Albeit, it had been approached in possibly the worst way that she could have thought. But as his hand dropped from his face, her expression softened into a smile and even a shake of the head. He hand was soft upon the table and were it not something that would push both of their comfortable spaces beyond the norm, she would have reached across to lay a hand on his. “I cannot argue that,” she spoke, finally, after the silence had threatened to consume them. “I will remain, as will Silvya…”
As his eyes shifted back to her they did blink rapidly, a dark brow arching. The weight of the world was upon his shoulders and she existed to alleviate that burden and to allow the curtains to be drawn back. He looked as thought years had been drawn from his face when he spoke to her again. “I was not aware that Brayden’s wife was here. I am sure that will be a pleasant surprise for him.”
About her ankles did her skirts move in a lazy way as she encircled the table with precise steps, his gaze not moving from her as she did so. “I saw their reunion,” as she came to hold her arms across herself again. “They were quite happy to be in one another’s arms again. It was as though the sun itself shone from their smiles.”
She seemed small. Rare were the moments that she was anything other than radiant and as she stood there, he knew he felt for her as he felt for Arric. It was love. Different kinds of love, but love indeed--yet he could not merit excessive concern of that at the moment. She lingered still a few feet from him and yet he bridged the space between them and placed a hand upon the black ringlet curls that tumbled from her head past her shoulders and placed his lips to her forehead. Her arms were around him and, for the moment, their food was forgotten, and she simply remained there against him in the cold winter light.
“That sneaky little bastard,” came the low growl of Hagon as he found himself within the tight grip of one of the elven guards. His weapon had been stripped of him, taken aside and held in their storage areas, presumably, or worse: melted down. That was strong steel of the north, different from all things within Liev’s shores and it was one of few things he carried with him still from the northlands. To see it pried from him by the hands of elves caused his teeth to nearly snap his own tongue off and his eyes to flash yellow. It was only with Yrain’s careful prompting that he did not lose himself, the insistence that there must have been some sort of plan.
Thrandir had taken from her the heavy coat she was in. He was one of few, after all, that seemed to know much about the lay of the land. But even pondering over what was planned by this enigma of one presumed to be an ally came to take a backseat as they listened to one of the guards that headed the hall lined with strong bars. “Put them with the others.” The others. This implied that it was very likely their assumptions had been correct about Gideon and Emirain, that they were within the elven prisons. Such had been communicated by the howl. What they were not expecting was a third cell occupied by one of Baidenese blood. He slept still for it was night when they arrived among the elven kind, though the other two were awake, if only just. The weight of chains upon Gideon had only served to keep him to that state of near perpetual exhaustion, head resting against his chest and eyes half lidded. It would not kill him. The touch of silver alone could not cost a werewolf their life and yet still there was the exhaustion that near exuded from him. Emirain was alert and lifted her eyes, her eyes that just barely reflected the light from the lanterns upon the wall, towards the familiar scent and sound. It was Hagon. It was Yrain. It was those that they had left in charge of the wolves while they were away and this make her move with quick steps towards the front of the cell. Her teeth grit and she did desire to scold them for a moment before she saw the beads if Issa draped around Hagon’s neck. Many that moved from the north to Liev did convert, but such was not true of Hagon. His religious views had expanded to incorporate Silas as part of his worship being as Silas was an integral part of what it was to be a werewolf and part of the Wolves’ Guild. But for him to wear a trinket of Issa was indeed out of the ordinary. This quieted her for a moment until the guards had placed them in cells across from those preexisting prisoners.
“Hagon--”
“Are they silver?”
Already was the broad blonde at the front of his current holding cell with his brows tightened over his face. His own blue eyes (a color more common among the elves and those with their blood or those that dwell far further south of Vaira than those who call Baiden home) flicked towards Gideon and then back to Emirain. She would have spoken had he not taken the initiative.
Audible were the chains shifting as he came to lift his head. “Don’t worry over me. I only worry over myself because I would rather not slow you down. I would assume you’ve a plan to share with us…”
The latter part was only scarce above a whisper and so the human in the vicinity craned himself against the wall to hear it. He knew Hagon but only on passing and so at a glance did recognize him and Yrain from the last time the Wolves of Vitnir Hall had found their way to the castle. It had been some years, though. Their faces were familiar but their names were a mystery.
“Not one but two,” responded the younger female as she herself checked to see that the elves had gone. Logic would dictate that indeed they would remain within earshot (which for an elf was quite a broad radius) and yet there seemed to be more going on than there were knights to oversee it. This did work in favor of the captives of baides, thought Emirain felt worry in the back of her mind at the fact a human would hear this plan. Their pups were not unsubtle by any means (and a good six of them were in captivity now, given that a total just under twenty had left from Castle Rosenlied. But their alphas had no way of knowing this). Warning eyes that shined with that reflected light cut again to the side was though to offer additional validation. “One hinges upon an external force whereas the other is merely upon our own luck and observations. We will return home…”
“It is not as easy as simply lifting the keys from a guard anymore,” came the voice of the weary werewolf. “There are others here. I will not leave them. I have already informed Emirain of this; I heard them. There have been sleepless nights where I have heard them. I do not know what they are for or why they are held, but I will not leave them.”
“Gideon,” spoke the voice of Emirain with her brows still knit, “it may indeed be a case of life and death for us and they may well not be at such risk. Would you condemn--”
“I would condemn none. Neither us nor them, Emirain. I cannot tell you of their situation but it does not sound like a happy one, from what I have come to understand.” Which was little. Much as the humans did not understand the sign language of the elves (for their language was mostly based on their sharper sight, as it was greater than their hearing) neither did the howls of the werewolves born to the north and of elven blood fall in directly kind with those of the Wolves of Vitnir Hall. Lycanthrope communication was not necessarily universal but the howls did not seem to be joyous ones. It was not as though they were in any feasible physical pain, but Gideon could not bring himself to grant the leniency that they did much outside of whatever holding cells they were in. He could only imagine that it was a similar layout to their own.
It was then that Brayden spoke: “What are you going on about? You talk about those hounds we hear howling at night are people to you. Like you understand them.”
He knew the stories as well as anyone else who dwelt in Baiden. The tales of wolves, of beasts that lived in the wood that were neither fully man nor fully beast. But to connect the notions was not possible for him, not something that he desired. To believe in werewolves was indeed much like believing in other myths; in dragons, in unicorns, in jackalopes. These were not real things and should not even be entertain as real things. The notion didn’t even cross his mind, despite the evidence laid out before him. He did not deduce that the others were werewolves and, frankly, they were not well to the point to share the information with him. By and large, it was only the nobles of the Rosenlied family that knew the truth and while they knew the close proximity of Brayden to the king, had Mercurius desired they know--likely it was that Mercurius would tell them.
“Quite frankly,” spoke Emirain from beside him, “that would be information that it is in the king’s hands to decide. Just trust that we will deliver you safely back home. You mentioned you had a wife, correct? Expecting children? In Silas’s name I do swear you will return home to her unscathed. That is all you need to know.”
It was cryptic, and he knew it. His brows knit over his eyes and he looked at those wolves that were captive across from him. For some reason, it made the hair on the back of his neck rise as he reached back to grace his fingers over it, as thought to find some sort of manner to calm it. It was ineffective, as was expected, but he muted himself to listen to the conversation. Any implication of nonhumanism was ignored sorely because he lived still within the confines that werewolves were myths--then again, so had Abigail.
“Then what is your primary plan?” inquired wolf as her eyes cut for a moment towards the cell where she knew her mate lay. Until they were able to liberate him from those chains, he would be nigh useless. And even thereafter the lingering exhaustion may prove to continue to harm him and his rather lofty aspirations of aiding whoever it was that did need them. Were it an option to shuck him of the chains and allow a day or two for his strength to regain, maybe. But as he was in all truth incapable of rising up to his potential, escape was best. Emirain may well have to convince him of such things. Yet all that could be handled when they were faced with it. As for the present, priority did fall to making sure they were out of the cells and able to get to freedom before concerning themselves with the freedom of others. This is why her focus was upon the plan to be laid out before them.
In the dim light, their eyes did have only the slightest of glow from time to time, flicking hither and thither as they checked for signs of elves in the vicinity. The way their plan played out would only continue to make them sound as something other than humans, but that was inevitable. After all, they weren’t humans. Not anymore. They were the ones that hung on still to their humanity and held it near indeed to their heart, but they were not truthfully the same as humans.
“Thrandir found us--he came to us in the woods. And he turned us over to the elves,” as Hagon’s hand rose to silence any outburst that would have come from the werewolf leaders. “But he kept Yrain’s coat. He claims he is taking it back to those that are still outside as we left Castle Rosenlied with a total of twenty. Only six were turned over. Fourteen are still without of this… city.”
City. It was a strange notion to call it, for it was all long halls delved within the side of a mountain for therein did they live. The halls were reinforced and beautiful, though most light came from fires there was occasionally a skylight that shone down upon them the moon or the sun, plated with glass that was sometimes colored to cast images upon the ground. This was not elven work, at least, according to legend. This was the world of the defunct dwarves who dwelt now only in legend and in the halls of the gods. Insofar as it could be contrasted to cities occupied by humans and the elves that dwelt south of the mountains, it was a near full reimagining of the concept.
“Thrandir knows the secret entrances and exits of the city. He has taken one of them with Yrain’s coat on to allow her scent to be dragged through. In theory, our units on the outside will be able to follow it back and help us.”
“And your second plan?”
The apprehension in the voice of the woman was audible and validated indeed. Depending upon Thrandir, the one who Zanil had informed her was truthfully not taking sides in any manner, left a sour taste in her mouth. She had no rightful reason to think that this enigma would betray them nor did she have prove that they could be trusted. Besides, it was good for the pups to have to calculate a second plan of action--it was always wise.
“Our second plan does hinge upon luck as well, unfortunately, but not upon another person.” Yrain was the one that spoke, for it was she that had formulated their backup plan. “We need only lose ourselves of these cages and we can follow still the scent of Elfreda. That would lead us all the way to Baiden, if need be. It would not be hard to cause a distraction to lead the guard over here and lift the keys from him… at least, in theory.”
Neither of these were particularly solid plans, but it had been left to them to formulate said plans and so they had to simply take them as they were. It was indeed better than having no plans to go off of. Gideon and Emirain rarely hinged their own ideas outside of anyone under their immediate circle of trust, but this instance was an outlier. After all, war was adept at nothing if not change. “So how long do you believe we should place our trust in Thrandir?” inquired the weakened alpha, his head lifted now. It was as though merely being in the vicinity of the other wolves was enough to regather within him some inkling of heart, something there. He had to be strong not only for himself, now, but for the wolves that were across from him. And for the human in tow. He could not forget that everyone among them did not class themselves as one of his pups.
“I will grant him no more than three days,” spoke Hagon, lifting the equivalent number of fingers in turn. “Then, we will enact our own hand.”
They were a lover’s words, just how Abigail had described him. The seal had been broken presumably by a wife who had all valid reason to read what could have been a political decree. But it was not. It was merely a statement of concern for the king as he dispatched to take part in the war, a plea to come back safely and even a request for news of his safe return. It was not a letter penned by an advisor after revision and thoughtful reflection. It was written by the king himself in a hand different than officially decreed letters that found their way to Baiden. His hands held fast to the parchment as his eyes moved from the presented letter to Abigail.
“I am not concerned that your heart does not lie with me, Mercurius. Love is not the point of a political marriage by any feasible means. Letters like these are my concern. The impact upon politics based on any relationship you may have is a far greater concern than these letters.”
Her eyes did not meet his. Her eyes merely focused upon the way that his thumb left a divot in the parchment as he gripped it tight and in that moment she knew that he understood the weight more than she would have given him credit for. Mercurius was not a boy. He was no child enamored with someone that he could not have. There was within him a seed of some sort undeniable emotion for Arric and for the first moment did she feel sadness. Not jealousy. Not anger. She felt a sadness that their positions in life did make what would transpire between them the concern of the continent at large, all countries. And she felt a sadness that she would never know this love.
“Mercurius--”
“Our current priority is the war,” as he did indeed make quite the show of casting the still opened letter upon a table and moving away from it, a hand carding through his hair. It was as though he had aged years in months, the sprinkling of facial hair upon his cheeks and jaw not doing anything to negate that. “All things must be cast aside that are not pertaining to that. When we are again at peace these things will be dealt with accordingly.”
“Then how would you speak with Arric?”
For a very brief moment had the king seemingly forgotten that the presence of the other king who had penned this letter was within his very halls. His expression did sink visibly at the remembrance for he would have to go before Arric and say these same words. Could he? But he steeled his expression again and placed a bare, flat palm against the letter.
“My first duty as king is to my people. I will not forget that. And as a king himself, Arric will understand.”
“Then how will you explain to him the talk of genocide that his healers have no doubt informed him of? I am reasonably sure that is why he has come here. To hear you validate that. At least, I would hope that King Lander’s motivation was not to speak of your relationship when the tides of war are turned.”
It had been conceited of him to even entertain such thoughts, truthfully. This visit was not about them so much as it was about him. D’vinyari had stood by him at council and heard all the words that had been said and likely relayed that to Arric. The notion could have made another man sick but there was still within Mercurius that his conviction was the best one. To eliminate the problem at the core would prevent the problem from resurfacing. It was extremist logic, but there was indeed logic to be had with it. And he would stand before Arric and speak it just as he had spoken it before Abigail and the elven king. To sway the mind of the king would take more than a few arguments. Truly he was the apex of generations of racism and hatred of the elves boiling to a head over something that, in the scheme of things, could hardly be pinned upon the Ceredi, if it could be pinned on them at all. Their culture had created Iolas, but that was a large part due to their own biases.
In both cases, abhorrence for that which was different had lead to an outspiraling. In all of Liev, the only other elves that reclused in and of themselves as the Ceredi did were those that dwelt in the Black Forest. Most, with prime examples being Thrandir and his people as well as Tahvaen and other half-blooded people, walked among humans with no qualms and their heads still held high.
“And what will you tell him?”
“That my decision still stands. I would have the mountains back under Baidenese control and I would have the elves removed from it.”
“Getting to see you outside of the castle was a bit more of a hassle than I would have liked it to be, Tiadel.”
Zanil did not require sleep. Often did he partake in it given that it helped him better veil whatever secret he did keep but other than that--it was not a necessity, nor a requirement. It was no skin off his nose to keep night watch to allow more of the men that needed sleep to have it. A few, long paces from the camp had he taken if only to find some solace in the singularity of being by himself and not flanked by others. That turned out to not be the case, in truth, for soon enough did he find himself in the company of Thrandir. By definition it was not an inopportune time for there was nothing going on that he would be distracted from, but he had not been expecting the rather sudden appearance of the enigma that had played such a vital role in this war. Yet, none knew what side he was on. None even knew where his allegiances lay. Such operated, of course, under the assumption that Thrandir had alliances of any sort to lay anywhere. He may well have been outside of the realm of alliances--playing his cards on every side so no matter who emerged victorious, he would find himself atop all things.
As much as Zanil wished he could find some irritation in that, it was inevitably a brave way to play. Assuming his house of cards did not collapse in on him.
Though his eyes did not move to his new companion, he knew who it was. He knew the voice, the manner of speaking. He knew the cloak was drawn around short, wavy hair and pointed ears. Thrandir was proud to be what he was for some plains elves when in Baiden did cover their ears to pass with less issue, but never Thrandir. That was simply not the way he operated. And deep down, Zanil had to admit that there was something about that which he envied. His hair was kept long and worn so over his shredded ears, and he even had concocted a very false story to validate the reasoning behind his appearance. It changed every few generations, and he never wrote it down. What he had told to the young Mercurius was that he had once been in a fight with someone to protect one of the Rosenlied princes and that is where his ear had been torn. Children were, luckily, fairly gullible. All things had worked out well enough. As he grew, Mercurius had come to learn simply not to ask. His wife was not so inundated as of yet and so she had gotten a glimpse, and only a glimpse. The truth would either garner her trust to him or destroy it, and the risk was not one he was willing to take. He had been a fool to even make an implication of it.
“What is it you intend to say to me here that you could not have said to me within the confines of Castle Rosenlied, Thrandir?” A light brow was quirked visibly and still he did not face the other male in his vicinity. His gaze was fastly fixed ahead, for he was keeping watch. “The notion there is anything that cannot be said within the castle walls unsettles me greatly.”
“You have all the people in that castle fooled and I would hate to ruin a good thing for you, Zanil.” This finally broke the forward focus and turned his head towards the one that lingered near him and for a moment, his brows knit. When he spoke, it was nothing ill related.
“Surely I have not been so ignorant as to this whole time assume you to be a man.”
“I never deterred the thoughts. People see in me what they want to see, and I take no qualms with that. The assumption of male does make it marginally easier to go about my business with lesser fear of judgement.”
“The business of spying?”
“My business is my business, Tiadel. But I know what you are and I know who you are. I only wish I could direct you to who you sought to make it easier on all of us, but I cannot. After all, you must be looking for her. Albeit you have gotten distracted a number of times along the way, I do not think you have forgotten why you came. Simply taken a bit of a dalliance to enjoy the world, and why wouldn’t you? Even if there is war, there is much more to it all.” The one called Thrandir stood now alongside Zanil and gazed in the same direction that the advisor’s eyes had been turned. “The Rosenlieds, though. I would have thought you would go for a more peaceful people, Tiadel; those under Silas are not exactly known for their level-headedness.”
“Who are you?”
There were no words left to be minced. The advisor’s patience had finally come to run to empty and fully did he face Thrandir who stood there, draped in loose clothes that barely even gave way to the form beneath. It was easy at a glance to assume masculine and yet it did not matter. It was only something that his mind clasped onto in the silence that the moment presented between them before he did speak again.
“I’m Thrandir. Some call me Isadel. Among the Ceredi, I am Elindil. But you know that.” For a frustrating moment the advisor was concerned that this was indeed the end of the conversation. But shortly after, Thrandir continued. “I am not a simple elf. I was a simple elf, and the dancer you saw in Vaira was my sister, Anwyn. And we did live as converts on the plains of Oran and Vaira, mostly. Nomadic.
“In all honestly, there was a child that died at a young age, but was blessed by Lisrael and brought back. No one knew about it but, well, me. The child’s soul was already gone to be with the Gods when the blessing came, however, and so to save the family the pain, Lisrael granted part of herself to the child. That’s where I came in.
“I have my own immortality in that way. I am not bound to the lifespan of a body. There are always children that would have died without me and in a way, I give their families solace. I am no normal elf, Tiadel. That is how I know you. Lisrael loved so much that she placed a part of herself into that child and so it continued to live on.”
“You are… a part of Lisrael?”
The air was cold for a moment, and Zanil’s fingertips even did twitch even if only slightly. Almost had he forgotten the ache within his chest, though to assume that he had forgotten her would be incorrect. He had not, could not even if he desired to, forgotten her and the longing within his chest for her shined through. But still there was a moment when that lead to a realization that it was not just a farce when Thrandir claimed to know precisely what Zanil was. They knew.
“So if you are indeed a part of her…” as the words were lost to the wind for the moment and for the first time he realized the weight of this situation and stood still, “then you do know.”
“From the moment I saw you, Tiadel, in that inn in Vaira’s outskirts, I knew exactly who and what you are. Clearly that is not reciprocated. Perhaps you have been amongst humans so long that your senses may well go dull.” There was a smile on those lips and for a moment the heart of the advisor’s skipped a beat and fluttered like a girl with her first crush. “You may love them so much that you would be them.”
“If I was one of them, she would love me still. She loves all that which she had created and given life to. As for me…”
“You are more a fool than I thought if you think she did not think of you. Whever she is, I am quite sure she continued to think of you. It was the two of you that created balance in all things in this world and simply because she departed from you does not mean she stopped loving you. She does still. In my very own heart, as much as I’ve a heart of my own, I know it.”
Heavy was the sigh that came from the lips of the advisor for a moment, his eyes cutting away again. How had he not known was the inquiry that cycled now around his mind. What had blocked him? It may well have been her. She may have been the one to keep him from finding the truth of Thrandir and the very notion ached him. All this time so near to a part of her and yet she would not reveal herself. But was Thrandir truthfully her? The notion made his mind take pause. This was the nearest to a true child that Lisrael would ever have, and could he blame her from protecting it from him, and all he was? All that he brought?
“Tiados. You’ve been away too long.”
Down his back did the chill run at hearing that name directed towards him. Lisrael and Tiados were the lost gods, having disappeared from the pantheon after having quarreled over Life and Death itself. An so here he stood with the mantle off for the moment, revealed for what he was. It ached even for him to be revealed in and of himself to what he was and the notion he would have told Abigail… it was impossible. The name felt strange, dislocated, distant even from him--though it was his own. He had told the stories of Lisrael and Tiados with the same distance that one told any tale of religion and so had found himself no longer a part of the reality that was him.
Zanil was this character he had crafted, perfected over the years. The millenia. It was a role he slid into and to be shucked of it and left bare for what he had come to pretend he was not left him uncomfortable. But beneath the guise of Zanil still lingered Tiados and it was to Tiados he always knew he would return. This was why Zanil did not fight and why he abhorred war, for he knew all things Lisrael crafted with her loving hands and took great care of only to one day know it would be gifted to him. But he would rather those creations be permitted to enjoy themselves, be allowed to live before succumbing to death. To him.
“I do not want to return yet, Thrandir.”
“I haven’t the right to tell you whether or not you should. After all, I am only a fraction of a god. You, the one who crafted Death and the End itself. I simply came to hope you would not bring it down so soon.”
“That is not what I am doing,” came the voice near raised to an exclamation though through clenched teeth. “It is not now the time. This is nothing to do with the End. Still yourself from even thinking it.”
“I should go now,” spoke the darker haired of the two as they moved away from lingering in the presence of the revealed god. “I am needed in the mountains.”
“For what purpose?”
“What fun would it be if I told you? You may know who and what I am now, Tiados. But what I do is still purely my own.”
The unique scent attached to the captain had very nearly led them astray, as the stronger ones were indeed that lead eastward, where she and Brayden had been dispatched. But soon enough they were trading it northwards, ducking beneath trees and branches to hide themselves at every opportunity. It was far preferable to getting caught. By either side. Most of those that served in the Baidenese army would not recognize those of the Wolves’ Guild and attempting to explain they, too, worked for Baiden could have less than ideal results. It was only on the distance that they glimpsed a camp of their countrymen and left it well enough alone.
Snow fell for the first time of the season to the north. That was generally how it transpired: it would begin in the north and ride southward winds until about the middle point of Liev. Oran and Baiden were often the only countries to experience the frigid winters for the rest of the continent was warm enough that snow came to them on occasion, and many cities were situated on or near regions considered coastal. Said regions hardly has much change of seasons. But the mountains to the north? They were blanketed with snow and so was the land at their foothills. It was in this first snow that the wolves grew concerned that they would lose the knight’s scent and so pressed on as accumulation began to pile to their ankles.
“It would be best to make a camp,” Hagon had offered but Yrain would not hear of it; her feet carried her forward still with determination in her eyes. Nearer around her did she draw the heavy wool coat that she was now thankful to have seized as they left. The fact that the knights would be out here still in this freezing cold and likely did not have with them anything warm enough to protect them made her grit her teeth, but there was little she could do. After all, they were all people of Baiden. What reason would she have to not be concerned?
“I suggest we travel at least deeper into the woods,” she spoke back to Hagon and to the other wolves that lingered around her still, as it had not merely been the two that had left. Half the forces of the Wolves’ Guild that were still in the castle had come forth to travel with her, knowing that it was now time to retrieve their alphas and that it was their duty to rise to the occasion. “That will offer more cover from the snow--more of a chance at warmth. We may be nearer to beast than most men, but we cannot be frivolous with this. We can die of cold as readily as any of the knights.”
“And such would truly be a shame! Why, then you’d be pupsicles. … I am quite sorry, you’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to make that joke towards you. Probably about since the snow began to fall. It’s out of my system now.”
Hagon was the one who first drew a blade, for few others bothered to carry any longer than a few inches. Many had been fighters before, some even having been knights that had gone ‘missing’ after disappearances in the woods. But Hagon had come from the north and the long bladed sword served nearly more as a relic than a defense mechanism, since he had been bitten. But Yrain’s hand extended forth to urge him to still his blade, her eyes narrowed slightly. Deep did she breathe of the air before her eyes cut to the other wolves around her.
“He has no scent.”
In all their time, the wolves had stumbled across only two that had no scent. These two were Zanil and the stranger hailed as Thrandir. Zanil seemed to exist within his own plane wherein questioning was abhorrent and simply not something that did transpire and yet they knew him at least in passing. This was Thrandir.
“I would like to think I keep myself clean enough that I don’t go about stinking a place up. But it is news to me that werewolves cannot smell me and thank you for that. I will keep it in mind moving forward.” Their slender hands reached up to draw from about their face the hood and eyes darted among them, a motion of fingers denoting that the wolves were being tallied, one by one. “I haven’t seen one of your kind in the flesh in some time. This is quite exciting. And too see part of a pack.
“Am I correct in assuming you were seeking me out? To know my name.”
“How does he know--”
“Egil,” spoke Yrain as her cutting eyes turned back over her shoulder to look at the other lycanthrope and urge him to silence. “He knows far more than we would assume. That is clear from what he has done.”
A smirk was on those lips, skin a shade darker than those of Baiden, fingers tapping against their lower lip in an idle and yet thoughtful manner. “So you have at least heard of me. Forgive me if I have met you in passing for I do meet many people. You know at least one of my name but allow me--in these parts, I am known as Elindil. It just so happens that I am acquainted with His Graceful Majesty King Iowyr, though I knew him when he was still a prince. Tragedy, really, that his father died. I wasn’t at the funeral though I heard it was a grand one.”
“We don’t care much for the elven king or his funeral or anything like that,” spoke Hagon with his hand still holding the blade, though it had lowered slightly. “We know you are able to get us into the elven prisons, and we have due cause to believe our leaders are there. You have been nothing if not helpful to the Baidenese people insofar and we must ask your help again. You must get us into the elven prison--at least, some of us.”
Those lips cracked into a smile for a moment, a knowing nod being given henceforth. “Absolutely. You two are to follow me,” as fingers split and gestured forth at Yrain and Hagon. “The rest of you, find a place to camp. I will find you later.”
“He doesn’t have a scent.” It was a blunt statement from the interim alpha as he placed aside the bit of fabric that had presumably been held by Thrandir at some point during the time that he was in the area. It smelled of many things. It smelled of the dirt that it had seen when used as a cleaning cloth and of the hand of the maid that used it some time ago. But these were all scents that he was reasonably able to trace and validate. What he sought was strange scents.
The process had been the same when he was near the glass from which Thrandir had drank when he supped, as was custom, with those that had asked him here. He could smell the wine. He could not smell the scent of any living being and such things were not simply washed away. The fact that he did not smell Zanil either was glossed over for the moment as he turned his attention to Yraine. Low were his blonde brows knit over his eyes as it was with frustration that he threw the cloth upon the table before him. The notion that perhaps they could trace his location by scent seemed to fall through but there was light in the eyes of the female wolf as she lifted her head to look across at him.
Forward did she pace a few steps as she lifted the cloth for herself. He was right, really. There was no scent upon it that was not one of the maids or the dirt it was more commonly used to clean. Her own lips were in a frown but her idea was proposed to get around this. “The scent may well be cold,” as she shifted her weight slightly from one foot ot the other, “but we could try to follow Elfreda’s to where they escaped. Surely she has left something behind. If we can catch her scent…”
“At this point, we grasp at straws, Yraine.” But what point was there in claiming there was nothing that could be done? That all was lost? There was naught to be gained from pessimism. “Elfreda is a captain. Perhaps something of hers does indeed remain.”
That did come to be the case: like most knights, Elfreda had her own separate home and through asking the wolves were able to find it. Einar, Egil, Hagon, and Yraine all mobilized to her home to catch strong enough scents before once again heading northward. But they did not travel alone. Still there were some that remained within the castle, for there had been no point that they were dispatched permanently--Gideon had indeed spoken of it, but it had not transpired. Hagon’s attention had not been on diplomacy with the queen as much as it was making sure his own leader was alive and well. Both of these were presumed to be true but he desired confirmation. Their unit was not small. The scouting unit had been small. This was not a mission to scout as much as it was a mission to find Gideon and Emirain and any others that may have found themselves captured and in the hands of the Ceredi. Some forces remained behind, yes. But the majority were mobilized northward.
Queen Abigail only found out when one of the remaining wolves (what had once been a section busting with their life was now considerably more quiet than it had been before, she noticed, and so she inquired of one of them. There had been no intent to tell her) did inform her that Hagon had departed northward to speak with Gideon and Emirain--for those that need not know, did not know that the alpha and his mate were indeed missing and not merely still dispatched. Her frown was as deep as her irritation at the fact this had all transpired under her nose.
Mercurius was gone. Gideon was gone. Zanil was gone. The weight of all things were now upon her shoulders, but she had to stand strong so they would not sag. She carried the weight of more life than these men could imagine and yet found little solace in it. But Zanil had the forethought to prepare for such things, though his preparation had lacked in her own upkeep.
“Your majesty,” had spoken a servant to her, rather shyly rapping upon her closed door. Only in a loose chemise was she draped for the moment, having just attended to bathing as the brushed her long, ebony hair. “The wife of Captain Brayden is here to see you…”
“Silvya. Silvya, my name is Silvya. I am more than just a captain’s wife.” She was further along in her pregnancy than Abigail herself was. The girth of her stomach was visible now and as was tradition among Northmen, the clothes she wore often accentuated it and placed it on display. A belt was around beneath her bust and one across her hips, allowing the growing life within to be on display. It was simply the way of the northerners, to be proud of the life they carried. It was still too early for one to see the pregnancy of the queen but the Baidenese women seemed to favor the loose clothing that would hide such things. Perhaps for comfort. Pregnancy could be very different for various women. “Go on, now. I would talk to the Queen.”
The interactions between the northern woman and the queen of Baiden had indeed been few, but the presence was welcome. It was different. Those blue eyes beneath the long blonde hair that was drawn back in a number of braids and then let loose down one side and her back. And she did indeed seem to glow. She was fair and yet bright--and the queen wondered if all northfolk were so. She had encountered none in her time in Oran nor in Meh’rok and she was quite sure they never even bothered to traverse to the latter.
And there was a fire to Silvya that would help keep the queen’s own from burning out.
They were soon enough alone and the queen was cognizant of what a disparity there was between the two of them. It was clear that the woman before her had been a warrior of a wholly different type--while the queen was versed and trained in the art of swordplay, for the northern woman it had not been an art. It had been an act of survival. From what little was known of the north, they were all hunters. That didn’t make logical sense, but it made for a good story. And Silvya had indeed been a hunter, from the few conversations she had had with Brayden. The captain did love her so and often spoke of her and, for a moment, she wondered if Mercurius even spared a thought for her. But as soon as the voice of the northern woman met her ears, she found that leaving her.
“Didn’t get much information out of Zanil before he left,” and from her bag she drew out a number of furs. They were of no Baidenese beasts, for by and large the fur was white. “But I do know you’re with child. My people sleep under the skin of a bear during pregnancy, for a mother bear is fierce and protects her young. She will protect yours too.”
The queen crossed from where she rest to lift the extended fur. It still had the visage of the bear’s face upon it, much like the furs that bedecked some rooms in Castle Rosenlied. Not the on she shared with her husband, particularly. But some of the guest rooms. Her thumbs traced along the outline of the beast’s eyes, for she had never before seen a white bear. All things in the north were white and fair, a contract to Baiden. Even the people, as she looked across at Silvya, were fair. For a moment she seemed to forget to thank the woman before she spoke. “I thank you,” as her thumb traced over the taxidermied teeth, kept in place. Most blankets that were slumbered over were without such things in Liev, but she supposed it made sense for the beast to have its head about it when tasked with protecting the young of a pregnant mother.
It was nonsense, of course. Ghost stories and nonsense and old wive’s tales. But had she not also thought that werewolves were nonsense until quite recently? That notion made her draw the blanket nearer to her and give a small sigh.
“They will be back. They are too pigheaded to die. He proposed to me three, three times,” as the hand bedecked in a single, simple ring was raised with the three middlemost fingers extended upward, “he asked me to marry him before I gave up and said yes. If not, I would have married Riulf. But this is not about the men. It is about us now.
“In the north,” continued the blonde as she placed the bag that had contained the fur from where it had sat upon her lap, “there is not so much different between the man and the woman. The woman carries the child, yes. But the woman also fights, and often the man stays home with the child while the woman goes to hunt. I was a hunter. When I came to Baiden, I was still a hunter. Now I am busy with child, but I would be a hunter again when they are old enough to hunt with me. We do not have knights because we do not have enemies in our lands. Between us and those that would fight us was a wall built by nature itself. So we do not have knights. Here, the best thing you can be is a knight. Back home, the best thing you can be is a hunter. Or a maker. Because we need hunters and makers more than we need knights and warriors.
“Of course, we need mothers, too.”
This brought a smile to the face of the fair queen for a moment and even a bit of a laugh. “I do not feel much like a mother yet, save for the sickness that takes me in the morning and the moods that take me through my day. I had seen many a woman with child at court and know well that is how they act…” Around her slender shoulders did she draw the fur for a moment as though its embrace offered her some form of relief.
A shake of the head from the huntress as she pushed up. “You are a mother when there is a life inside you. That is what my people think. You glow with that life and you are a mother now and will be for the rest of your life, hoping that the worst does not happen.” But there was no time to linger upon the potential sadness of the loss of a child as Silvya came to stand beside Abigail. “Zanil did not want you to be alone during these time. I will not keep a secret. He asked me to stay with you and so I am here.” Her eyes cut up, given there was a slight height disparity between the woman and the queen. “And I am happy to be here with you, Abigail.”
They had scarce interacted and already the name given to her was Abigail, not ‘your highness,’ ‘your majesty,’ ‘your grace,’ or such terms. And for a moment she felt very human, and in that humanity she felt quite scared. But Silvya stood by her even as there was an armored man that entered the room. He was a more glorified servant than he was a knight, in truth, one bared with running about in armor and delivering messages. This was precisely what he did as he stood before the two women after having rapped his hand upon the doorframe. It was open, after all. Across at them did he gaze as the queen draped in the bear fur did turn to him.
“And what is it?”
Loud was the sound that came from him as he cleared his throat and looked across at them for a moment. “Your highness,” and he cut his eyes to Silvya, knowing neither her title nor face. “Maurice has returned from the battlefield. And he has returned with--prisoners of war. Elves. I counted six of them.”
She found herself lamenting the notion that she ever had possessed something regarding stability in that instance for soon enough she was flattened again. Elves. There were elves within Baiden and she was less surprised at the notion of prisoners of war than she was the knowledge that elves were within the castle ground and had not been slaughtered by the archers. All she could assume was that they were known to be prisoners, encircled by men that wore the Baidenese color, and the Baidenese armor. They were still jeered at, she was sure. There was a deep running hatred of the elves through most Baidenese, and the people nearest the capital were often the most notorious for such behaviors.
“Have Zanil--” But there was no Zanil. Truthfully, there was indeed only her. Silvya was no diplomat and had no reason to speak to them on her behalf and suddenly, once again, she was reminded that she was alone and that she was indeed but a single person. “I will speak with Maurice. Inform him that I intend to meet with him shortly and take him to the throne room. As for the… prisoners, take them to the Gray Wing.” Though she knew little of Baidenese history but what she was told, so it was that she even was aware of that. The original reason that the Gray Wing was used for was prisoners indeed, though many jumped from the windows and ramparts there to their own death. Death was better than the dishonor that came with being a prisoner, for some people. Likely still for the Baidenese knights that were to the north, and the notion made her heart clench. The idea of her people killing themselves to avoid being prisoners--
Of course, she had no way of knowing that Brayden was one of them. The husband of the woman that stood next to her was indeed one of those prisoners and thankfully that was not the case. But she had no way of knowing.
Before her in the throne room had the needed parties come to gather and still around her was the white fur of the bear. There was no seat for a guest and so she did stand with Silvya a pace behind her beneath the statue of Silas that loomed proud. “See to it that the prisoners are given decent lodging, and food, and water. Place palace guards to see to their captivity. Captain Maurice, you and your men are to be treated as guests during your stay here. I am sure after war, you need it.”
Pride was in the eyes of the captain as he stood tall with his gaze utterly unwavering. “I will rest only for a day with my men, your highness, and then I will return to where I am needed--and I am needed on the battlefield, not here. I will not be treated as some war hero when the war continues to wage on.”
That had not been her intent. Her own eyes leveled with the warrior’s as her lips remained unmoved in any sort of expression. The most minute shift in her expression seemed to be the only inclination that she was not pleased with the actions of the captain before her. While by no means was she under the assumption this was a humility meant to downplay her kindness, he had clearly misinterpreted her own words. “I did not intend for you to be treated as a hero. Merely as a soldier in need of rest. Guest quarters will be prepared for you and your men and you will rest as long as you see fit--it is that simple. Alert my men of your departure before you go and ask of the servants anything you may need. I have other duties to attend to.”
Dismissed. There was irritation within the movements of Maurice as one brow did notably twitch, but duty called: he lifted his hand to hold it beneath his left collarbone in the Baidenese salute. Even when he felt he had been slighted and wronged, even when he felt this was in err, he was still obligated to see to it that his people were honored. That his queen was honored as she should be. So after his salute was acknowledged by her nod, he turned with pointed effort upon his heel and saw to walking towards the servants that waited nearby.
Silvya had lingered about her, if only to offer the support of not standing alone. While she had no political power to speak of, there was a strength in having someone at your back. Formerly, that came from Gideon or Zanil. Now it was the position held by the northwoman. Towards her did the queen come to turn her attention and her expression visibly softened once Maurice and his men were removed from the throne room. The door behind them was closed by two of her guards that did often flank those doors when they were in use and so they were granted privacy. Typically, such was done to allow persons in a position of power time for reflection. Abigail had taken to using the time to let out the breath she held. Never consciously, but held nonetheless.
“You will have a strong child, if you raise like that.” And this caused the queen’s expression to soften even further. Praise was few and far between. Initially, Zanil had spoken to her of how well she carried herself and yet there was something that seemed robotic about it, as though it were a scripted action. He was tasked with praising her to keep her on task. But this was not so much praise of what she did as what she could do. What she was capable of as a person. Not what she was capable of as queen. “I believe you will be a good mother, Abigail.”
Towards the heavy doors did the queen pass, the blonde by her side. Not behind her nor in front of her, but beside her. Only Zanil seemed to walk in such a way. Gideon, with those dark eyes with the obedience of the hounds of Baiden, was but a step behind her at all times--but a step was enough. There was disparity. Between her and Silvya, there was nothing. “I know little of the folk of the north, Silvya,” as the two came to exit the doors. “I will call the servants to prepare a lunch and we can speak more. It will be nice to speak of something other than the war going on outside the walls.”
Gideon called them ‘pups.’ In all technicality, both Yraine and the brothers were completely grown adults and not the traditional definition of a pup by any means, but with the exception of Emirain it seemed that the the head of Vitnir Hall saw to call most people pups. The first time he had seen Mercurius he had called the man pup and was assumed to continue doing so when they were not standing before others. When he had to hail the king as a king he did, but outside of that? He still remembered when Mercurius was just a baby. Strange to think that so small a thing had grown to rule the all of the country.
Yrain, Egil, and Einar had not met the king, personally. They dwelt within his halls, sure, and gazed upon the tapestries and paintings but knew none were of him. By and large the Baidenese kings sat almost exclusively for portraits with their wives after marriage and so it was that there had been no time between the marriage and the point at which Mercurius had been dispatched for war for such a thing to be commissioned. So the triad had not laid eyes upon their own king. It was not unheard of for there were in fact many instances of the people of Baiden never knowing what their king looked like, beyond descriptions and stories put forth for them.
They saw the castle walls, perhaps even the knights. But they did not see the king himself and so the concepts became synonymous. When one thought of the Rosenlied family, they saw Castle Rosenlied, they saw the knights, the banners, the regalia. Most in Baiden didn’t bother to really put a face to the Rosenlied family. It merely was what it was. An amorphous concept that was as much a part of what Baiden was as the mountains, the mines, and the very earth below their feet. The Rosenlieds didn’t need a face.
“I hear he’s as tall as Gideon,” Egil spoke as they sat around the low-burning fire. They were cautious enough to keep the flames down at least to a point that they were more difficult to spot, thought not impossible. The night before it had been raining, a proper storm; today, it had been hard to gather enough kindling to start a fire. “With short, dark hair. That he can turn a room to ice when he walks into it… metaphorically, of course.”
A roll of green eyes came from Einar as he threw another bit of rabbit meat into the pan that was over the small flame. Their bodies were more fortuitous than an average human body, indeed, but they could have their preferences--and their preferences still leaned towards cooked meat over raw. Not that Egil had not occasionally been seen tearing into a rabbit when the beast inside did ebb towards the front. By and large, all of Gideon’s pups were able to control it with ease. “He’s just a man, not some sort of God. Though I’m sure he’s seen to fabricating some of the stories to have them paint him as such. Royals, nobility… who’s got time? I’m almost shocked he’s out fighting with the grit and the grime associated with it.”
“Baidenese kings always fight.” The tone was a near growl as the blue-eyed brother sat forth from where he had prior lay idly. They were wolves. Activity in the evening was preferable, though the human instincts still within them urged them to be primarily diurnal. It was a clash that meant evenings were preferable for any activities… though, frankly, as of late activity had been minimal. Days had passed since Gideon and Emirain had seen to delivering an imaginary message to the nobility of the elves and nothing had come from them. The ‘pups’ could really only guess what had transpired and hope it was better, not worse.
Yrain had listened to the two in silence for a moment before her voice did speak up, lifting her head from the deer she had been in the midst of skinning. They could not survive merely on coneys and she grew weary of the taste as well. The buck had been easily enough felled for Yrain never would slay a doe in case it had a child still. That had been imparted upon her by Emirain, who often served as her mentor. Since the day she had arrived she had been near and dear to Emirain and so taken on the role as her protege. There were often sarcastic comments that maybe she would be the one to become alpha, given her near proximity to Gideon by association. But there had yet to be a female alpha and Hagon himself would cause enough of a shockwave through the hall should a non-Baidenese wolf be named as the alpha. No one genuinely predicted that. It was brought up in a near mocking situation. When the female wolf did speak, however, there was a resolution as she gazed towards the mountains in the distance. They were a few hours’ walk from where they knew the main hall to be, should something transpire. “They said they will signal us within a week should the plan change in any way.” Her tone was calm and sagely though she had also taken irritation with Einar’s particular way of speaking of the king. They were a part of Vitnir Hall, true, but Vitnir Hall was still under the blanket that was Baiden. Respect was owed where it was due, and for a king that rode to battle, there was respect there merited. “Do not forget that they said if we heard nothing from them for a week, we are to return to the castle and reconvene and… operate with them as loss.”
‘Hagon will be the standing alpha,’ had been Gideon’s solemn speech to them as he prepared to depart alongside Emirain, ‘And you will stand beside him. We do not expect you to act as ruling mates. I would have the Hall decide who their alpha should be among them, as it was done the first time. Yrain, it may be up to you to enforce that.’
But there was a sound that drew her from her recollections. A sound that caused all three heads to rise as though attached to an invisible string, and Egil’s lips split into a grin. Instantly there was sand thrown upon the first to douse it and minimize the smoke let off by the death of the small flame. His eyes moved to Einar and then to Yrain as he popped his neck to the side. His hands rose slowly to cup around his mouth but it seemed she had beat him too it: in return to the howl that tore through the night sky, Yrain raised the sound in return. Soon enough was it that the brothers had mimicked her before slowly the audible noise died down and they looked among them.
“There’s our sign.”
It was a bit redundant by that point, but Egil spoke it such as they gathered what few belongings they had spread around the fire.
“How clever,” as Brayden’s hands came to remove form where they had prior covered his ears. He had not heard a werewolf’s howl, and frankly he was not aware that he had just heard one and was content enough to think it was just an imitation. The past few days had been ruinous enough as it was and so herein finding out the stories of the wolves of Baiden had truth behind them? He was in absolutely no mood for more news to be put upon his head and they seemed aware of that--neither was willing to say that was indeed the howl of the wolves of Baiden. He need not know. “A howl. I suppose you will blame it upon the elves’ hounds which we have neither seen nor heard, when you are questioned.”
Slight was the shifting from Emirain in the cell next to him, readjusting a bit in the pile of hay that they were given. For all the grandeur of the cells, blankets and cots seemed to be asking just a bit too much. But sleeping on hay was better than sleeping on the stone floors, and so had she been dozing. That was, until the howl awakened her from a reasonably peaceful sleep. It was likely the best that she’d had in awhile, given their current location.
“Do you truly think they’ve the manpower to question us? Did you not look around the grand halls? They are scant. This is the very image of a country slowly dying from a small population. They don’t have the men to spare to redouble the guards, despite what they might say,” as she lifted her head, peering through the bars. It was likely that the guards heard her conjecture but it was just as likely that she did not care. “They don’t have the men to spare by any means to question us. Besides, howls ride on the winds, and a duck call would not have had the same dynamic effect, don’t you think?”
From the cell down did come a chuckle, the weary sound of Gideon. It was as though much of the force he had within him had gone to that howl and now he felt all the more tired. “Duck calls? I like that. Maybe we should give those a try next time, Emirain.”
Upon her face she managed a small smile as she lifted her head to lean it against the wall that connected her and Gideon’s cell. He sounded more tired, more weak than she had ever heard him before and it made her frown, deeply. The silver imbued chains… did they know? Was it possible the elves had an idea of what he was and so had bound him that way purposefully? She supposed that by all means it was not impossible that there were lycanthropes in the mountains. Elven werewolves may well exist. But then again, so may dwarves, somewhere in this wide world; those stout creatures that supposedly tilled the mountains themselves. They were dismissed as legend by most, these days… but so were the werewolves. It would not be beyond the realm of possibility. At this point, Emirain tended to keep her mind open. But the notion of elven werewolves…
“Who was the howl signaling? What is the next move?”
She could not quite discern if there was a genuine curiosity and concern coming from Brayden or if he simply spoke to fill the space, but she was for a moment thankful for the diversion from her own wandering thoughts. Silver on the outside of the skin alone can do nothing to kill a werewolf, and even silver blade wounds heal over time. But Gideon sounded so weak, so tired. All she desired to do was press her body against his and offer physical support was best she could. After, of course, finding a way to shuck those chains from him. That was not her Gideon. Her Gideon was not so, weak. The words almost feld like slander to place together in the same sentence without a negation betwixt the two. But she remained there, not moving as she answered the question: “We were dispatched from the castle to attempt and gain entail on the political straits in the north. I can say we got very useful information, but a howl can only communicate so much. The howl only let those on the outside know we have been captured and that is the delay in our return. Then again, walking straight into the hallowed halls of the elves likely did little to keep us from being prisoners.
“The intel we have is useful. The fact their numbers are this low… the victory is all but confirmed for Baiden and it does not feel overly audacious to say so,” as her hands reached forward to push her from her horizontal position upon the hay she slept in, “given the scarcity of people. I am sure most of their fighters are dispatched already.
“Their king is not on friendly terms with the idea of peace, as far as I can tell. He is more like his father than he may well admit--”
“It is your king whos is at odds with peace, woman.” None had heard the approach of the elf captain which was, quite frankly, off putting. She could understand neither Brayden nor Gideon being aware of it, however, the fact that she was deaf to it as well made her frown. Elves were famously lightfooted, but to be so silent even the wolves did not hear them? Maybe it was a good thing for the humans that more oft than not did the elves travel on horseback or they would be all too easily snuck up on.
Or maybe she was so lost in her own monologue that she had completely missed the sounds. Either came as a potential option. For the sake of those on the side of Baiden she tended to hope it was the latter.
“Not ours.”
“It is as though you have spoken to King Rosenlied yourself--”
“And so I have,” as the man approached with those similarly graceful movements. Out of armor was he seen for the first time and notably (or maybe only notably to the sharp eyed werewolf, for she was sure Brayden neither noticed nore cared) the elf walked around barefoot. Had they all done that, within these mountain halls? She hadn’t even bothered to look down. “When Iowyr was crowned, we called your King Rosenlied to speak to our king. And he did. He made grandeur threats and promises of genocide to our people, even in spite of protest of those on his own side. Your king has decided that the only peace that will come to this land is when his terms are met. He will neither see reason nor negotiate with us.”
“Genocide?” It was the knight captain of the human armies who spoke in response before Emirain or Gideon could interpose their comments. “You lie.”
“It is no secret that the people of Baiden hate the Ceredi. All of us born in these mountains know that nearly from the day of birth, and so in these mountains we do stay. We hide. His Graceful Majesty King Iowyr spoke only of peace, even in his youth. Of course, I opposed him. His father opposed humans and by that nature, Baiden. But there was nothing we could do. You are astute enough to realize our numbers are not as strong as Baiden.
“My people, our people, the people of my king and I, did not lay any attack upon your dignitaries as they traveled. Those were the actions of those working under the banner of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Dawn.”
“Brotherhood of the Crimson Dawn? Someone has been reading too many terrible novels from Chea…”
It was in spite of himself that Drunel gave a snort of amusement, raising one hand to cover his mouth as he did so. The name was a bit.. grandeur. But he could only assume that the notion was that the name would look good in history books and that he had to grant: it sounded ludicrous now. But perhaps when this war was but a memory in the mind of the next few generations of elves, there would be more validity to what was an outlandish title. Or they could more likely be painted as villains with a name like that. There was a sinister nature to it, he supposed.
“They are not our allies. I would not by mandate refer to them as our enemies, but they caused this war. This firmly makes them our enemies. Your king, your Rosenlied has opted to combine all elves regardless of our political dissonance among each other. He would have us all dead, or he would have us return to the north. Where the generation before us departed due to political dissonance becoming dangerous.”
Now did the human captain come to lean against the door of his cell as he peered through the bars at the elf. Lithe and fairer of skin han he was, but he assumed the color on his flesh was still at least marginally darker than the royals. Long was the hair of brown that tumbled over his shoulders and down his back. It was hard to think that this person was a captain of the knights when he merely looked upon him in fine, tight-woven fabrics. In contrast, there was Brayden. He’d been stripped of the mail shirt he had thrown over his normal clothes of inexpensive cloth. They were torn, muddied. The bottom of the pants in particular. His face was smeared with blood and dirt. They’d given him no offer, no reprieve to even was himself. Frankly, it seemed like unnecessarily cruel treatment, but he was a prisoner of war.
The elves were grand. For a moment, he felt he paled in comparison. He was only human, after all; the regality that was gotten to the elves by breeding alone was absent to him… even if within him there were trace amounts of elven blood. But that was a well-kept secret between himself and his family. Clarent had even warned them never to mention it. His mother did not look as though she had elf blood within her and it was an easily enough kept secret. But it was still one best kept, best forgotten. That was what he and Brenner had quarreled over.
‘You can’t tell the king or his son, boys,’ he would always remember Clarent’s voice ringing loud and clear, ‘Trust me. I want what’s best for you both.’
‘Then you should have thought of then before you married a quarter-elf woman, dad! How could you? The elves are…’
‘I won’t have you disrespecting me or your mother, Brayden.’
That had been the end of that. It was rarely spoken of again, and neither of the twins came to resent their mother for her nature. Besides--the elven blood in them would have next to no outstanding effects, diluted as it was.
“I won’t believe it until I hear it from my king himself. I’m sure you understand. You levy harsh accusations.
“Accusations or not,” spoke the elven captain, “I am not here for idle banter. Iowyr has called for you in the throne room to speak with you, but you shan’t go before my king unkept. Come with me. We’ll clean you up.”
