Olympus RPG Blog

May, 2014

Bits of crumbling stone pattered softly to the ground. Merasiel shook her hand to remove the fine white dust that remained after she had brushed her fingers against the ruined wall. People once lived here, she thought to herself. Many people. And died, apparently. The thoughts brought little emotion, and her attention was easily diverted by a continuous drone of words.

“..appears to be Greek? Or Roman? Or Greco-roman? Looks just like ruins I’ve seen in pictures back on Earth. Did you know….”

Merasiel sighed and tuned Gestlin out again. All of the years she had lived had given her ample opportunity to see places that were once vibrant and alive be pillaged of their souls and left to stand as mere shells and a stark reminder of what was, and could be, lost to time. They ceased to interest her. Sometimes she wondered if she should be counted among those ruins. She brushed her fingertips gently against another section of wall and a faint cloud of powder puffed away into the air. More small bits of stone crumbled to the ground and lie still.

---

April, 2009

The only sounds to be heard in the Great Forest were those of night beasts and their unfortunate prey. Somewhere above, an owl sang from the darkness and Merasiel looked upwards into the canopy. The forest had always had a wild element to it, but this was different. It was too wild. Too untamed. Merasiel’s expression assumed its natural state: a frown. Mendelel and she had completed their service to the humans who had been responsible for breaking the spell that held them locked away inside Mortuturesihad. In gratitude for their freedom, the pair had agreed to forestall their return to Elven lands to aid the humans’ Lord Wallace in his Crusades. Somehow they had defeated the Vasar, driving them from the Huallapan lands. And now, Merasiel and Mendelel were free to resume the lives they had once led. Only, Merasiel had heard nothing of Estrelere during the crusades. The humans who served had never ventured into the Forest and knew nothing of her home. The elves who had joined the armies were all from Sylvilara, and if any of them knew anything, they remained silent. Merasiel’s frown deepened, threatening to become a scowl.

“Don’t look so sour! We’ll be home tomorrow.” Mendelel looked up from the campfire and Merasiel met his gaze. His face glowed red in the firelight and he smiled. “Home,” he repeated, then looked back to the fire he tended.

Merasiel’s frown softened, and then her lips curled upwards in a rare smile. “Yes, home. It will be good to see…everyone again.”

Mendelel stilled and his expression became guarded. “Merasiel, we were asleep for nearly a thousand years.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“No, hear me out. I know you hope he still lives. That he waited. But…” his courage seemed to falter as he looked up from the fire once more. Merasiel’s jaw was clenched and her expression dangerous. Mendelel look a deep breath and pushed on. “He would be well over a thousand years old. Anything could have happened.”

“Stop. I understand.” Merasiel looked as though she wanted to say more, but instead she drew her rough cloth blanket around her shoulders and settled down to sleep, ending the discussion. Sleep wouldn’t come, though, and her mind twisted alternatively with hope that she could resume the life she led before, and fear that she would never be able to do so. Time will have changed him. Time will have changed them all. How many of those I knew will still be there?

---

In the gray light of early dawn, the pair cleared their camp and shouldered their few remaining belongings. No words were spoken; Merasiel had not slept well and was in more of an ill temper than usual. Mendelel had become accustomed to his friend’s dour moods and wisely avoided discussion with her. As the morning drug on, Merasiel’s disquiet grew, and when they stopped for a midday meal, Mendelel appeared just as concerned.

“We should have seen a scout by now,” he said quietly as they packed up their belongings.

“I know.”

“Merasiel, I—“

“Quiet.” She held up a hand and listened. “What do you hear?”

Mendelel’s eyes scanned the tree line around them. “Birdsong. Little else.”

Above them, a raven cawed. “This is wrong.” Merasiel said, then picked up her backpack and took off into the forest at a brisk trot. It took Mendelel a few moments to catch up with her and they glided through the forest, their dread growing with each passing moment.

When Merasiel stopped suddenly, Mendelel nearly collided with her. He twisted awkwardly and fell to the ground, nearly smashing his head on a stone. Merasiel barely registered this, her attention completely focused on what lay before them.  An uneven, moss-covered stone road cut through the overgrown forest, visible in patches beneath fallen limbs and bushy undergrowth.  What did show of the roadway was even worse:  individual pieces of stone were missing or chipped, and the road had obviously fallen into disrepair many years ago.  Several yards away, only just visible in the thick of trees, stood a partially collapsed ruin that once was an archway marking the entrance into the Elven city of Estrelere.

Merasiel took a hesitant step forward, then another and another before breaking into a full run. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she distantly heard Mendelel shout a warning, but she would not stop. She ran along the broken road, jumping over tree roots that had encroached upon the stone, until her feet carried her into the city proper, or what remained of it. She turned in circles, her eyes shifting from one destroyed structure to another. The forest had long since reclaimed the once vibrant city. Full grown trees twisted around broken, collaped buildings, and thick brown vines twined their way to gaping rooftops and beyond. Where once there were statues, gardens and carvings, only crumbled stone and wild growth remained. Mendelel once again caught up to her as she fell to her knees, overcome by grief. Her face was hidden, masked by her hair and upturned hands, but she shook, and a single sob came from her bowed head. Mendelel sank to his knees next to her and lay a hand on her shoulder. They remained there for a time, the only comfort to be found in each other. The sound of Mendelel’s voice whispered softly from behind her. It shook with a great sadness and she lifted her hand to her shoulder and gripped his tightly.

“A Estrelere, gal-anor.
Gal ithil. Gal-gîl.
Síla-Galad
Mi dol-lui!
Liltha-ind iastil-min.
I gwaith cae-dinen.
Dartha-im.
Iosta ui.
Iosta-si mi-guir. *“

 

 

Mendelel’s voice faded and once more they were consumed by silence. Merasiel released his hand and stood, her expression stony behind the tracks of tears down her cheeks. Somewhere within, sorrow was devoured by rage, and the silence of the ruins was shattered by her inhuman howl of defiance against the fate that had claimed their home.

---

 

*Lament for Estrelere

O Estrelere, light of the sun.
Light of the moon and stars.
How brightly you shone
In a time of darkness!
Dance and song no longer grace your ways.
Your people lie silent.
Only grief remains.
You sleep evermore.
Sleep now in death.

2007, March. Hive Ri’Tal

The winter assault on the second major Hive had been a test of Merasiël’s patience. The colder weather had sent the Vasar into inactivity, so the few skirmishes that had been attempted had been repelled with little effort. Unfortunately, the Crusaders could likewise gain no ground against the massively fortified colony, and instead they settled into a long siege that went on for several months. As winter melted into spring, the crusaders finally gained an advantage in the form of reinforcements and supplies. The Huallapan people who had been freed so far found new hope and bravery in the form of the soldiers from Yrth, and rallied to join the cause to drive the Vasar from their home world. Merasiël was glad of this, but not for any altruistic reason. She grew tired of the wait and wished to complete her service to the humans so she could disappear back to her homeland with Mendelel. The addition of the Huallapan to their army gave Dane the resources he needed to finally wrench the Hive from the control of the Vasar. Instead of a costly full assault, however, they opted for stealth. Three parties were sent, led by Gabriel, Merasiël and Dane to the service and ventilation tunnels beneath the hive in search of the main gate, which remained ever closed to the main army.

Splat.

Merasiël wiped her cheek with the back of her left hand once she had assured herself that the creature she fought was dead. Its eye had popped with an explosion of opaque yellow liquid when met by the point of her well-aimed dagger. She frowned deeply at the wet stains that now decorated her leather glove, but after nearly a year and a half of fighting the accursed Vasar, she no longer was disgusted by the insectoid remains that seemed to coat nearly everything she owned. She idly shook her hand, not really caring whether or not it dislodged the latest bit of scum. These creatures bled, just like orcs. It was good enough.

“What now?” Mendelel’s whisper drifted softly into her ear. She glanced over her shoulder at him and nodded once.

“We still have a gate to see open. We move.”

She lifted her hand and motioned to the remainder of the Elves that followed behind her. The bodies of the Vasar guards that had stumbled upon them were left where they fell, and Merasiël led the way deeper into the dark halls of the Vasar Hive, keeping whatever shadows she could find close at hand. The smooth, waxy walls were confusing to the senses. They all looked exactly the same, and many of them indeed circled back upon one another, leaving the raiders disoriented. It was Mendelel who saved them that day, using his dagger to carve symbols into the walls at each juncture they passed, marking the paths they took. Merasiël realized after the third time they encountered his hastily scribbled arrow, they would have been hopelessly lost inside the winding tunnels otherwise.

A few steps in front of her, Mendelel drew up short and crouched next to a corner. He held up his hand, motioning for silence, and as one, the Elves melted against whatever cover they could find. Merasiël found herself hidden beside him, and her ears soon picked up the noise he had heard, the sound of approaching stealthy footfall. Someone is trying to sneak up on us, she thought. How cute. She drew her dagger, and waited for the shape to draw nearly abreast of her hiding spot before launching herself from the shadows. Her intent was to kill, but she found nothing but steel as the shadowed figure parried her attack. She had only a moment to register this before the dagger was wrenched from her hand in a flourish of white, and the sound of soft laughter met her ears along with the clink of her dagger hitting the floor.

“Storm on the Mountain, my dear.”

Gabriel. Curse that man. Merasiël scowled as she knelt to retrieve her dagger from the ground. “What are you doing here?” she whispered harshly, as Dane and the few others who had made up the second and third parties came into view. “We were supposed to split up to ensure at least one group would make it to the gate!”

Gabriel had the decency to look somewhat chagrined. “These damned confusing halls,” he murmured in a low voice. “We’ve been going around in circles.”

Merasiel sheathed her knife with a snick. “Fool. I could have killed you you know.”

Gabriel gave her a long look. “No. No you couldn’t.”

She glowered at him, then pointed in the direction that he and the others had approached. “Back this way.”

“We just came from there…”

Merasiël stared at him. The scowl lifted slightly as her voice took on a hint of amusement. “You just admitted you were lost. Do you really wish to argue with me about this?”

Gabriel sighed in resignation.

“Exactly. This way.”

Despite their meandering path, they encountered no other guards other than dead ones that Gabriel and Dane’s group had dispatched. They quietly followed the string of Mendelel’s symbols, choosing different paths when the ones they were on circled back around on them, even backtracking a time or two as it became necessary. After an hour of walking, the light changed, growing brighter. Finally, Merasiël thought, We can be done with this place. Her hopes faded into another scowl, however, as they rounded a corner and they discovered not the main entrance to the Hive, but a brightly lit chamber instead. She realized with a start that the light was natural light; sunlight filtered through small, hexagon shaped holes high in the ceiling, leaving a hazy, honeycombed pattern on the floor. As their eyes adjusted from the dimness of the tunnels, they realized they weren’t alone. Dozens of haunted eyes stared back at them, the shafts of light casting an eerie glow over the gaunt faces of Huallapan who had been taken as slaves and put to work deep within the hive.

Great, more mouths to feed, she thought, as Gabriel approached the Halluapan, speaking haltingly in their language. At first, they seemed surprised by his speech, and some of them lifted their arms and extended skeletal fingers towards the warrior. A sharp warning from within the crowd brought them up short, and they all scuttled away to the opposite side of the chamber, whispering among themselves.

“What are they saying?” Mendelel nodded towards the prisoners.

“It’s hard to say; I’m not fluent in the language, but I think they think we are sent by the Vasar to trick them and kill them.” Gabriel once more spoke the Huallapan tongue, his words stumbling out slowly. The dissenting voice from earlier cut him off mid-sentence.

Merasiël scanned the crowd for the source of the voice, but all of the faces looked the same to her, and she eventually dismissed them. She didn’t need to understand the language to know what was being said. “These prisoners will be of no use to us,” she said sharply in Elvish. “We need to keep moving before the Northman decides to test his hammer against the main gate.”

As she turned to hunt for another tunnel out of the chamber, a wet thud and a sigh echoed from the tunnel they had come. One of the Elves that had remained there to keep watch was dangling from a Vasar spear that protruded from his chest, his already dead eyes staring at her in accusation. A crowd of Vasar guards emerged from the service tunnels behind the Vasar that had killed her kinsman.

“We are discovered! To arms!”

—~~—

Merasiël’s dagger flashed in the beams of light as one of the Vasar charged towards her. It was too late for stealth; she would have to depend on her speed and cunning to survive this. She was dimly aware of the twang of bowstrings as arrows were loosed nearby. Mendelel and Dane, perhaps others were busy peppering the twisting black mass of insects with well-aimed arrows. And still the bugs continued to flow from the tunnel.

A deep breath. Wait for it….Now.

The Vasar’s strike was more swift than she expected. She sidestepped, but the blade caught the edge of her leather sleeve, and a red haze of pain crossed her vision. She shook it off and used her foe’s over-reach against it, burying her dagger to the hilt in an area of soft flesh on its torso. She felt the flow of bloody fluid around her fingers, and the insect toppled over. She was lucky this time, but how her arm burned.

Another guard closed in, and she backpedaled away from its fury, desperately dodging several wild swings. Within a few steps she caught a glimpse of white just over her shoulder and she found herself back-to-back with Gabriel. His voice carried to her ears from beyond the ringing of swords and cries of the wounded. “When I tell you, drop!”

A pause.

“NOW!”

Merasiël fell to the ground as a sickening crunch sounded out above her. She glanced up to see that Gabriel’s foe had been wielding a rather nasty spear which was now impaled on the Vasar she had been fighting. Merasiël flipped herself around into a kneeling position and once again, buried her dagger in a chink between the chitin plates of the remaining guard. A long cut let loose a flow of ichor, and both foes lay on the ground.

Across the room, Mendelel called for help. He had been cornered by a pair of Vasar and was hard pressed to avoid their attacks. Merasiël sprinted across the room towards him, but never reached his side. A black shape reared up beside her and took a swipe at her leg, opening up her armor and a fresh haze of red overcame her vision. She fell to the ground, and her dagger flew from her grasp, skittering across the floor and out of sight.  She rolled over on her back, her head beginning to throb. A large insect loomed over her, its spear raised to impale her to the floor. Surprisingly, the creature never attacked. It merely shuddered once, and then fell over to the ground. Merasiël stared in bemusement as a much smaller figure came into focus.

Huallapan. He stood there, unarmored, barely clothed and certainly weak from malnourishment and extended captivity. But somewhere he had found the courage and strength to take one of the weapons of a fallen Vasar and fight. He offered a hand to pull her to her feet.

—~~—

A few minutes later, Merasiël looked over the last Vasar corpse. It had been battered beyond recognition, and seemed to be most decidedly dead. Still…she stabbed the creature between the eyes, just to be sure. It didn’t even twitch. As she unbent her knees and stood to her full height, she took a moment to gather her wits. The fight had been particularly rough on them. Merasiël nursed a deep cut on her arm and leg where her foes had managed to pierce through her armor, and more than one of her kin lay gravely injured on the floor. Brother Mendel will be busy this night. She assisted where she could, but she did not linger over anyone longer than necessary. Nearby, Dane checked on his injured men, readying the ones that could move or be moved while the healers that had been brought tended to those who couldn’t.

She gradually became aware of Huallapan speech from across the room, and as she sought the source she noted that one by one, everyone else turned to observe. Gabriel stood a mere foot away from the prisoner who had taken up arms and slain one of the Vasar. The prisoner still held the blackened, barbed blade in his shaking hand as he stared downward at the blood of his enemy that pooled on the floor. Gabriel spoke quietly to him, and the man tore his eyes away from the pool of blood to meet Gabriel’s intent stare. What he saw there steeled something within, and the Huallapan nodded once, his knuckles turning white as he grippped the blade more tightly. He then slowly turned towards his fellow prisoners, lifted the bloody blade and he began to speak. The words came difficult at first, raw emotion robbing his voice of power. “Huallapan. Sung….Sungunaka. Sungunaka*!” As the words flowed from his tongue over and over, they gradually gained strength and others detached from the shadows, their voices joining him in his cry. Soon all of them were there, clamoring in unison. Gabriel grinned as he looked over his shoulder at Merasiël and Dane.

“Gather the wounded, and arm as many of the Halluapan as you can from the fallen. They will lead us to the gate.”

---

 

*Sungunaka – A twist on the Shona word “Sungunuka” – it can be translated as “The prisoner has been set free”

Wallace, Anno Domini MMVI 

There was the thump of a dropped sack and a groan as a soldier took a seat on the rock.  “Good morrow, fool.  How do ye?”

Still crouched, Magnifico raised his head.  “Good morrow, Corporal.  You come to Wallace on an auspicious day.  Smoky and bloody, with a chance of screams tapering off until dawn, followed by a week of storms and ending in an eerie silence.”

No chuckle was forthcoming from the corporal, who merely nodded in acknowledgment of the grim jest.  “Not so bad, this fight.  They ran.  Not us.”

“And you look remarkably well for a man who has looked the Devil in the face, and all the fiends of Hell.  I will rest a while yet, and reflect once more on the wisdom of walking a battlefield.”

“Lord help us when a fool talks of wisdom,” said the man, not unkindly.  “You find any, share it with our commanders.  Maybe they use some on the bugs.”

“I’ll venture into the lords’ tents tonight as I did the night before: after they have numbered the dead, despaired, shouted their recriminations, pretended to forget these, sworn lifelong brotherhood again, then persuaded themselves anew that victory shall surely come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.  Aye.”  A sigh like a dying breath.  “The Hammer saw you dance on the wall today, and he laughed.  You had the town-folk singing, even as they died.  He wished me to find you and ensure you lived, or if you were among the dead, he’d light you a pyre.  Said I would know for certain if your lips still moved.  He calls for you to come and drink his mead.”

Magnifico smiled.  “An honor.  It seems that I did not disgrace myself this day in disgracing myself.  But the Northmen make mead from honey, and to acquire honey means wrestling the bear.  A hero’s drink!  Victory in every gulp!  No, wine will suit me well enough, for which I’ll stalk, kill and skin the fiercest grape, laughing the while like the Hammer.  Yet I’ll come, to sing and to paint the day’s deeds larger than perhaps is merited by strict accounting, and to pretend that tomorrow will never arrive.”

“The Hammer did good service.  He didn’t kill more’n you can count, maybe, but far more’n he can.”

With a cackle, Magnifico said, “The finer reckoning!  You wrong him, Corporal, and his enumeration of the dead.  Master Rainald knows well enough that in this war, one is always followed by another one.  Counting beyond two is for generals and widows.”

“Afore you try to talk sense to them generals, lift a mug of it at our fire, fool.”  The corporal rose, and stretched.

“Go before me.  I and my breast must debate a while.”  The thought came unbidden: but Doctor, I am Paglicacci.

The corporal shrugged, shouldered his burden and trudged up the hill to rejoin the men from the north.

Wallace, Anno Domini MMVI 

Two teamsters, bloodied and covered in soot from the bombards, carried the limp body of the jester into the tent.  “We got ‘im, Brother.  He was askin’ fer you, ‘n’ babblin’ some, but ‘e’s gone quiet.”

“Bless you for your efforts,” murmured Mendel, squinting in the lamplight to make out the nature of the fool’s injuries.  The child in the other bed moaned and tried once more to turn over.

“Poor li’l guy got broke up somethin’ bad…but guess he kinda started out that way,” added the other, shouldering Magnifico’s full weight to lay him gently on the cot.  “Take good care o’ him, Brother.  ‘E’s got balls, fer sure, beggin’ yer pardon, Brother.”

With a practiced eye, Mendel inspected and began to clean the gaping wound where the Vasar spear had penetrated his friend’s side.  “Who would have guessed that the Bugs could sail a ship?  That was clever of them, but Sir Dane tells me you pushed them right into the river.”

“Aye, that we did,” said the taller of the two, grinning.  “Master Clown here gave us the ol’ one-two, heave-ho, singin’ while they chopped at ‘im, ‘n’ into the drink they went!  You shoulda seen it.”

“I’ll have to be content with cleaning up after it,” said the monk absently.  “The spear came out cleanly, praise be.  Leave us.”  Folding his hands, he began to pray after the Gospel:

“Alioquin propter opera ipsa credite amen amen dico vobis qui credit in me opera quae ego facio et ipse faciet et maiora horum faciet quia ego ad Patrem vado, et quodcumque petieritis in nomine meo hoc faciam ut glorificetur Pater in Filio.”

The fool’s eyes snapped open, and his lips formed the Savior’s name.

“What in Our Lord’s descent into Hell were you doing out there, my son?” said Mendel, pushing at the entrance wound now, willing the flesh to knit.

“I believe, Brother, that it is called the Hambone.  A syncopated–oof!–five-accented rhythm in a 4/4 signature, accompanied by the judicious shaking of what the less reputable of poets might call my moneymaker.”

“Don’t make me administer Extreme Unction on your skull, Magnifico!  I mean, what did you hope to accomplish with such a stunt?”  Mendel kept talking to distract his patient while the aqua vitae went into the wound.

“Not fade away, Brother,” said Magnifico through clenched teeth.

“Well, your tradesfolk saved the district from being overrun.  You were ventilated for your trouble,” the monk said crossly as he dabbed away the wasted liquor.  “Do not pass out yet.”

“Rudie can’t…fail,” gasped the clown cryptically, tuning paler even than his smeared greasepaint.  “Let no one say that I failed to accomplish diddley.  Brother!” he exclaimed, grasping for Mendel’s shoulder.  “I…I want.”  His eyelids fluttered.

“What?  Let the spell work.  What is it you want?”

“Candy,” came the clown’s reply as his eyes closed and his breathing became regular.

Brother Mendel rolled his eyes, crossed himself, and laid a hand on the forehead of his sleeping friend.  “Benedicamus Domino.”

The enraged sea buffeted the Gleaming Endeavor as the storm surged on overhead.  Merasiël wrapped her legs around the cracking mast, blinking away the rain as Angrist cut through the jammed ropes holding the sails in place.  Somewhere below, Gabriel floundered in the sea after being thrown overboard.  She could only trust that Rainald would pull the swordsman back to safety.  Triumph turned to fear as the newly freed sails fell towards one of the stouthearted seamen that served aboard the vessel.  The sails caught Tully square in the chest before severing the seamen’s safety line.  A large spray of water blew over the side of the ship where he had fallen and then he was gone.

Merasiël barely registered that her own safety line had been compromised, and dove for Tully’s rapidly disappearing line.

---

Merasiël dove for the shadows behind one of the plush chairs near the window. As light from the hallway filled the room, she shrank further away from it, forcing herself into stillness. The door closed, and the bright light from the sconces in the hall was replaced by the dim flicker of candlelight.

“My Lord Tereus, we will find her.” Edward? She thought. “But my father threatened her yesterday. She has likely fled.”

“For both our sakes, I hope you do find her. She is the only loose end that remains to be tied. What were you thinking, goading your father like that? Announcing your intentions to marry that elf.”

A pause. “I don’t particularly care for the tone you are using, Tereus.”

“Are you having second thoughts, then? Perhaps you should have entertained those before your father’s untimely demise.”

What is going on here?  His father is dead?  The floorboards just on the other side of Merasiël’s hiding place creaked and she held her breath. The cushioned fabric beside her head hissed gently as someone slumped down in the chair. When Edward broke the long silence, his voice was close to her ear. “No. No second thoughts, Tereus. My father deserved his fate. I will find the Lady Misthal and see that she remains…silent.”

“Good. You have been given the gift of your father’s wealth and power, young Edward, and are the last that holds the Bonet name. It would be a shame if your family’s line were to be cut prematurely.”

The conversation ended with the sound of footfall followed by the door slamming closed. Merasiël waited still, her breath caught in her throat. The fabric beside her head whispered softly once more as Edward rose and walked to the window. Merasiël then had her first clear view of him, and she believed that if someone were to look like hell, as the humans were want to say, then Edward would fit that description. His normally clean and pressed clothing was stained in several places. His collar was undone and the hairs on the top of his head were sticking out at an odd angle. He gazed out the front window for a long while, scowling downward towards the front drive, until the unmistakable sound of a litter leaving drifted up to the window. “Ah, what a bloody mess,” he grumbled, and then turned away from the window. His eyes met Merasiël’s and both of them froze.

It was Edward who broke the silence. “I should have expected you’d find your way here.”

Merasiël rose from her hiding place behind the chair, one hand resting on the hilt of her dagger and the other resting on the back of the chair beside her. “Your father is dead.”

Edward sat on the edge of the desk and ran both of his hands over his face. His voice dripped with exhaustion. “Yes. Not by my own hand, of course, but I was there.” He glanced over one shoulder, eyes scanning the disturbed pages on the desk. “I see you have been busy. You will know by now what my father was involved in.”

“Slave trade.”

“Yes, a disgusting business, and one I wished my family out of. But it goes further than that.” He looked up at her, and he tilted his head, his expression becoming one of genuine confusion. “Are those my trousers you are wearing?”

Merasiël ignored him. “Your father’s business?” she prompted.

“Children as slaves. Noble born, peasantry, it didn’t matter. The younger the better, sold to the highest bidder by a rival’s family or simply taken from the streets and never heard from again. Those few who discovered were silenced before they could bring it to the notice of the church. I had to stop it.”

“Tereus was working with you.” Edward’s simply nodded, and Merasiël continued to press him, “Tereus hired me to steal your father’s secrets. All the while he had your ear? Why?”

Edward folded his hands together and rested his chin on his knuckles and his shoulders slumped forward. “I am sorry, my lady, I truly am. You know that Elves aren’t very welcome here. You were here to be a convenient scapegoat. Now that my father is dead, you will be accused for his murder.”

Merasiël took a step towards the window, and Edward rose hurriedly.

“Wait. Please. Lord Tereus arranged all of this. He would ensure my father’s downfall, and I would ensure your permanent silence. But I find..I cannot. I will not.”

Merasiël’s knuckles were white from gripping the handle of her dagger, and slowly began to draw the weapon. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Oh? And why not?”

“Because I have fallen in love with you.” When Merasiël’s only response was to stare at him, he continued, his voice bordering on desperation, “Please. Tell me truthfully. Was none of this real? All of this time we have been together? Was every moment false?”

Merasiël snapped her dagger back into its sheath, a small smirk finally playing its way across her lips. “What do you think?”

Edward studied her expression, looking for some sort of hope, but he apparently found none and he took a steadying breath. “I see. Then the Lady Misthal is dead. Or perhaps never existed.” He leaned forward against the desk, resting his knuckles on the wooden surface. “I’m afraid you will not be able to stay in Hyrnan. I will instruct the guards that you are to not be hindered and you may leave the grounds with all you came with. But,” he added, ”I ask of you a boon.”

Merasiël rested a hand on one of the windowpanes. “And what is that?”

“I give you your life and freedom in opposition to Tereus’ demands. As you heard before, he is not above ending my family’s line if he doesn’t get what he wants, and I have a distinct interest in staying alive. In exchange for allowing you to live, you will ensure that the Bonet line is not threatened by him further. Agreed?”

Merasiël nodded. “This will conclude our business, then.” She then turned back towards the window.

“And for God’s sake, don’t climb out the window. Use the door?”

———————

Three days later, the sun dawned bright with the promise of a warm, late summer day. The manor bustled with preparations for the late Lord Bonet’s funeral. The transition to the new master of the house was going well, however this morning, the new Lord Bonet was notably absent, remaining locked in his study.

“M’lord Edward?” The voice of Bruce, his father’s Steward, called from the other side of the locked door. Gentle raps became more insistent, and then turned into a cacophony of fists hammering against the wooden surface.

Edward snored from where he had fallen asleep in his desk chair the night before. Eventually the noise woke him, and he lifted his head. He blinked in the dim light that filtered from behind the partially closed drapes, then flew out of the chair, sending several pieces of paper flying in the air. Edward looked out the window, noting with some chagrin the position of the sun and then ran for the door. When he opened it, Bruce stood there, fist raised to continue pounding against the door.

Edward straightened his jacket and stood a bit straighter, fully aware of how distressed he must look. “Bruce? What is it, man?”

“Beg pardon, Lord Edward, but it’s half past ten and there’s a bit of news from town.”

“News? What sort of news?”

Bruce stepped off to the side, allowing one of the servants to pass through with a tray of food. Edward’s stomach rumbled, and he followed breakfast to the desk, motioning for the other man to enter. Once Edward had seated himself and begun to eat, the old Steward cleared his throat and continued. “Seems there was an accident over at M’lord Tereus’ manor during the night, sir. A fire, sir.”

Edward froze, fork lifted halfway from the plate to his mouth. “A fire, you say?”

“Yes M’lord! Terrible one. Sad to say that Lord Tereus was caught sleepin’ in it and has passed on, God rest his soul.”

Edward lowered the fork, his appetite suddenly gone. It’s done then. Am I so different from my father now? Lives can continue or come to an abrupt end at my word.  And yet, the end result is worth it, is it not?

“Something wrong with the eggs, sir? Cook’ll be fit to be tied if the girls brought ‘em to you cold.”

“Eggs? What? Oh, no no. They’re delicious. I’m just…at a loss for words over the news.” Edward forced himself to pick the fork up and eat.

“Quite right, sir.”

Edward paused again, and looked at Bruce. “He had a daughter, correct?”

“Oh yes sir, lovely young lady she is. Lady Katherine. About fifteen as I recall. Oddly enough, she must have been stricken by a fit of sleepwalking for they found her outside the house wrapped in a blanket and lying in a pile of hay. She claims someone carried her out in the night, but the guards believe she’s just upset because of her father. Shook her up quite good, but if you ask me…” he continued to prattle, but Edward’s thoughts turned elsewhere.

Oh, my Lady of the Great Forest, you do have a heart buried in there. Thank you.

“…oor thing has no family here and she’s not betroth—”

Edward interrupted the continued drone of the steward’s voice. “Bruce.”

“Ah…yes, M’lord?”

“Please see to it that proper condolences are sent to the Lady Katherine.”

“Of course, M’lord.”

“No family and no betrothed you say? Well then, I suppose the Church will see that she’s taken care of. But…we could offer her a place here, in the meantime of course. We have plenty of room. See that it’s done.”

“Very good, M’lord.”

—————

Merasiël glanced upwards as the popping and crackling of her campfire echoed loud in her ears. It had been more than a week since the downfall of Lord Tereus, and no pursuit had come from Hyrnan. Still, she glanced around, wary of trouble. When none came, she looked back down at the paper she had secreted away.

Lord Tirius Evern

She did not know where they all were, but she would find them, one way or the other.

Lord Marcus and his Lady Kiriste

Each name’s accusation, branded on paper, involved in slave trade. She had seen enough damning evidence. She proclaimed them guilty.

Lord Malus Drogan, Lord and Lady Fenwick

Some were involved more than others, but in this, Merasiël could not be choosy. They would all eventually fall, just as Lord Claudius Bonet had. Merasiël committed each name to memory, then tossed the paper in the fire and watched the last turn to ash.

Lord Proximo.

Fin.