#dirth

Meryasek had never been forced to do anything in his life. Well, except for a few things, maybe. Like become a Senator, before he embraced that and did what he could. Or when he was given a Warder, whom he fell in love with and lost in the span of a mere century. But running? That was not who he was. Royal blood or not, Mery had left behind the childish undertones of his days before the Senate, of his time trying to figure out what to do with his spare time. Recognizing that Farenduil didn’t want the role he was given, to stop forcing it upon the brother who didn’t wish to hold the burden, and to let those he loved the most go. His mother, Dirthara-Ma, all who had left him in some way, though never by choice.

It’s why now, as he felt the two drow closing in, Meryasek wondered if Titania would feel his death. If he could save her from grieving him, he would – but the youngest son was perhaps always meant to meet a fate like this. He’d be reborn as a drow, a weak one at that, most likely if he took Dirthara’s original words to heart. That realm would break him, another of Ayi’ig’s worthless sons. The obsidian bow stayed in his hand, and he lifted it as he turned to face the two drow that had finally caught up to him. While Meryasek’s magic was powerful, Aegnor and Dirthara had been practicing their own for centuries longer. His brother had lived two significant lifetimes, one locked away from him, but his former warder held both within his memories.

The Otherworld was in disarray. The drow were pouring forth, the eldritch changelings cutting down the ones that served them, or just absorbing them completely. Meryasek had spirited away his cat-sith, into the forest in the mortal realm, out of fear that something would happen to it. The fey that he came across were sent away as well, and that was the only thing on his mind as he ran towards the frey. But he hadn’t expected Dirthara – he hadn’t expected Aegnor, the one person who made him feel hatred and fear at the same time. He couldn’t blame the drow prince, but he was trying his best to do so anyway. His former warder resented him, he could feel it, and he felt entirely alone. The prince knew he could call for aid, but they would never reach him in time. Zahyra, with his boundless loyalty, or even Robin, with her young spirit, they’d all be too late. They’d have to see him again, with eyes black as night, and a dark purpose. The bow was trained on Aegnor’s chest, daring the drow to take a step closer, “Should I consider myself honored that Ayi’ig sent two of you to do a single job?” 

Ayi’ig had set her sights upon the Otherworld, and the knowledge of that had rippled through the Eladrin, demanding that action be taken immediately. Which is precisely where Dirthara-Ma and Aegnor stepped in, to cull out the weak as they scurried for their homes and their courts. Yet their own sights were not singularly set upon what happened to cross their paths, and rather, on one particular Eladrin: the prince of Titania herself.

Shadow blade in hand, it was easy enough to follow the prince, easier still to catch up to him. They had been instructed to capture Meryasek, though Aegnor would ensure that it did not go down without a few bumps and bruises. He needed to remind the little whelp that his life was not safe simply because of his royal blood, simply because he may be important to what was yet to come. And oh, there was plenty yet to come, as the presence of Ayi’ig seemed to fill every corner, every inch of the Otherworld. Not a single Eladrin was safe, and once Meryasek had been secured, Aegnor would enjoy cutting down those that still remained. A treat to himself, really.

As the prince came to a halt, as he took it upon himself to finally stop pathetically running, Aegnor slowed his own movements, sword held at his side. He did not fear Meryasek, nor the power that the young prince may have learned to wield. For Aegnor had spent much longer in the Underdark, had honed every bit of his magic, had practiced day and night with a weapon until he was considered the best that Ayi’ig had to lead her armies. “You should feel spared, prince. If he were not here, you would already be dead,” perhaps he had given away too much, or perhaps Aegnor wanted to watch as Meryasek tried to decipher what those words meant for him. Until then, he would see just what the other was capable of, as his gaze focused upon the bow, upon the arrow aimed straight for his chest. Meryasek had gotten away before, but Aegnor was not going to let that happen again. And so he advanced, with fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, a dangerous smirk curved upon his lips.

A necromantic pact kept the drow from harming the men that had summoned him, at least, it prevented him from killing them. That said nothing for the beats of shadow that Dirthara had mastered to summon forth, eldritch terrors that crawled on spindled arms with hulking movements, devouring that which they came across their paths. The fey that remained in the Faerie Court after the wards came down were weakling, middling, some of noble blood with their warders proved a meager challenge but as Ayi’ig’s power devoured the realm those that lingered were eaten with it. Dragged into the shadows by the beasts at his disposal, Dirthara clenched his swords in either palm, full regalia of shadowed armor that befitted a general and priest of Lloth. 

Meryasek, naturally, had been foolish enough to enter the realm. To storm his home alongside other fey in his court to try and stop the tide that had already washed upon their shores. There would be no stopping them, not when the eladrin were spread so thin. Some here, some there. The bulk of their power was in the mortal realm when Ayi’ig was called and there it remained as they contended with the chaos that had descended upon Rome. Dirthara fought by Aegnor’s side, as always, as he had done from this lifetime through till the last. It made him nostalgic to see the silver haired man entrenched in shadow, and yet, mournful to watch the once Summer-Prince terrorize the streets that they once played in. 

At last, the Spring Eladrin ceased to run as the eldritch terrors got ahead of him and cut off the path of escape. Dirthara knew then that this would be Meryasek's undoing. Ayi’ig detested waste, she subjugated and dominated, that was her will: but she made an exception for Titania’s children, the Queen’s order was absolute, she only wanted them dead. Twin blades stood ready in his hands, deflecting the first of the arrows to fly as Aegnor and he descended upon the young prince all at once, in a tandem flurry of blades and shadow. 

Dirthara couldn’t kill him, but that simply left the opening for Aegnor. Meryasek could only try and survive, hoping that his efforts to at least save those that he’d come across would be worth it in the end. He’d ordered the few nobles and warders out, an army had no chance against Ayi’ig, against the shadows that now permeated their realm. The sky was no longer beautiful, shadows and black clouds getting rid of all the light that had once made the faerie court home. Spring came forward as Meryasek used it to his advantage, the realm that he was familiar with. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that his partner for over a century knew how he fought, how he’d turn it into a dance instead of a show of force. 

But despite his hatred, his grief, he had a stubborn will to live. How much loss would be too much? Dirthara was who Mery turned his focus to first, his hand coming out as a tree attempted to grow around the warder, holding him in place as Mery fought far too many battles at once. His bow acted as a shield, meeting Aegnor’s blade to his right, vines meeting Dirthara to the left. He knew the former warder’s shadows would melt away anything thrown his way, but Meryasek had a lot of hatred for his dead brother, seeing in his yellow gaze his own future. If he died, he’d be Ayi’ig’s – stuck and another shadow of the man in front of him as Meryasek advanced on Aegnor. “I will not be you,” he channeled his hatred, his innate desire to rid himself of Aegnor once and for all. He would not be born again as this drow’s sibling again. It’d taken him too long to crawl from a murky purpose, and now he slammed his blade down again and again on the drow in front of him. His seasonal magic was stretched thin at this point, all of his energy spent on spiriting away the fey that had managed to avoid the hell that had begun to swallow their realm. He was covered in blood still, turning to fire another shot at Dirthara before he tried not to give in to the onslaught.

Darkened armor fitted the drow like a second skin, covering every inch of his dense form, ensuring that every part of him was as menacing as it should be. It was necessary, but it was not needed, for Aegnor had known long ago what he was capable of, and taking down the measly little prince before him was going to require no harsh labor from him. But it had been some time since he had seen real battle, since he’d truly fought alongside Dirthara and so his movements were slowed down, meant to prolong instead of seek a quick end to this game of theirs.

The first of the arrows were unleashed, and the cruel smile did not leave his features as the drow beside him made quick work of them, before he advanced upon Meryasek. Shadows fell in around them, eldritch terrors circling in closer and closer, as blades struck against blades. The sound of battle, the scent of blood, and the memory of Eladrin screams fueled the drow as he struck, again and again against the crowned prince. Aegnor could see the hate in Meryasek’s gaze, saw the want to end this battle with the drow’s blood on his sword. But it would not be so easy for the Eladrin, no matter how desperately he wished for it. And as the words fell between them, as the venom seeped into his voice, Aegnor knew that he had kept this game going for far too long.

Blood seeped from cuts, covered the armor that clung to him, but it was not enough to slow his movements, to force any sort of retreat for the drow. And as Meryasek made his move towards Dirthara, Aegnor made his own. Despite his size, he moved with ease against the prince, striking him first in the face with the hand that still held firm to the shadow blade. “You are nothing compared to me,'' venomous words were seethed as he advanced further, blade striking against Meryasek’s harshly, with every bit of force that the drow could muster. And when the prince stumbled, Aegnor was there to meet him. His free hand reached out, securing a hold on the other as his knee was brought to his stomach ( not the baby! ). Oh, but Aegnor was not finished, not until he saw every bit of hope fade out of the prince’s eyes. And so, with Meryasek doubled over, he brought the hilt of his sword down directly into his back.

Battle was familiar, easy. Fighting Meryasek was no different. Dirthara had fought at the eladrin’s side for decades, had been there every time the senator had wished to show off what else he’d learned, or what else he could do. The magic of the royal bloodline was formidable, a tree sprouted from little more than a note carried along the will of Mery’s tongue, but dark tendrils of shadow sprouted from Dirthara’s feet, wove through the places where the prince’s magic creaked, and shattered the tree in a flourish of splinters. The drow advanced alongside Aegnor, severing the vines that Meryasek sent his way before sending his own, a delicate dance of battle and bloodshed that Dirthara excelled in. They wound at the prince’s feet as Aegnor kept the man’s body preoccupied, then in a singular moment Meryasek was restrained, taking the brunt of Aegnor’s attack as he struck the place where Dirthara’s seed had taken root. The drow felt it too, wincing as if the bond between warder and wardee were still intact, at some point Dirthara had been tethered to both of them - body and soul. His heart pulled between two duties. 

There was no decision or choice in the matter, Dirthara wouldn’t choose to listen to his head or his heart, his body moved without thinking. Aegnor’s blade came down towards Meryasek’s back, intent on finishing this game and all at once the drow met it with his own, falling to his knee as he braced the brunt of the attack, his swords crossed to intercept the other. He hadn’t intended to make a choice, Dirthara was a loyalist: to Ayi’ig, to the Underdark, but he missed the seasons and how they turned, loved the manner in which the flowers bloomed at the first sign of Spring - peeking out through the snow. 

“That’s enough.” Dirthara said, parrying the attack before hoisting Meryasek to his feet. Defiance laced his tongue but with it came a quiet to the unrest that he’d been wrestling with for months, since the plague of memories and quiet affection he’d grown for this realm. Ayi’ig would not take the prince from him, she would not spoil the world that bloomed with so many things she loved: he wouldn’t allow it. “I won’t let you.” A traitor, it seemed. That wasn’t something the drow would have considered for himself but his feet were planted, he could not kill Meryasek, but the same would not be said for Aegnor. The creatures at their back roared and lunged forward, leaping over Meryasek and Dirthara and opening their path to escape as they descended upon Aegnor. 

White armor mixed with the greens of spring, of flowers, of the stars – it was darkened and bloody beneath the two drow and their shadows. Mery was bleeding, tired and wounded from spending so much energy in the mortal realm. Perhaps some would say he was stupid for returning, but leaving fey to die while he hid out in the forest? It wasn’t like him. He’d left them in the capable hands of the other fey, his hopes and dreams for the faerie court shattering to pieces in front of him. This fight was always going to be his loss, but he’d tried. He’d tried to get home, to his friends, to his brother – until this was where he inevitably was meant to be. The hilt struck his face, then another blow to his stomach, until he was on the ground, heaving for air. His sides hurt, blood spilled from his mouth now as he tried to get up. For a moment, there was silence, like the calm before the storm. It reminded him of the silence he’d felt when he’d held Dirthara in his arms, feeling the pain and fear of his warder, of the love of his life, as he bled into the grass. 

The final strike never came, the singing of blades making him drag his gaze up to see Dirthara. Perhaps he would’ve just crumpled into the ground at the sight, but a strong arm was pulling him up. His hand came to rest over his abdomen, that wheezing came from him, but there was defiance in his blue gaze. Dirthara’s voice rang out between the three of them, Meryasek looking at the drow once more. There would be time for words later, perhaps, but he couldn’t do anything to help. His gaze rested once more on Aegnor; on his brother’s stoic features filled with a darkness and hatred that Meryasek was sure had been reflected in his own gaze. How different he tried to be, yet how similar they remained. This wouldn’t be the last time he saw Aegnor, no, but things were forever changed between them once more. Farenduil would always be stuck in the middle, a brother he buried and a brother who remained, as Dirthara had before. Leaning into the arms of the drow, the last thing Meryasek saw was Aegnor’s hate.

The thrill of the fight was upon him, pushing and propelling him forward, Aegnor with every intention of making sure that the prince felt the ruination of the Otherworld. Of the hope that he still clung to that he had any chance of getting away and back to the courts. That is, that had been his intention, before sword and arm were halted by the crossed blades of Dirthara. Eyes flared with a newfound sense of hatred, narrowing once more as he focused on the drow that had stood by his side for years. Traitor, the word screamed into his mind, and a want blossomed in his chest. To strike them both down, to force Dirthara to watch, once and for all, as Meryasek was stricken from this realm, and forced into the Underdark.