#tahvaen

And again she was on her route down the hall, the light of the sun dancing over the golden embroidery laid upon her gown as well as the tight curls of her hair. She was never a woman seen in disrepair when appearing before council, even when all of them were familiar faces. “There is little need for advice insofar as this council goes, and what will be offered I am more than sure that Zanil will happily give. The decision is primarily made. Take Gwyneth and Quin and see to their lesson, Iolas, would you?” Such was when the tanned face fell and his brows tightened above his eyes and he did give a small sigh. Not a drawn out one that he may have made in his youth before the intensive training under the guised god, but it was a sigh nonetheless.

“Your Graceful Majesty--”

“Will you not be advising them one day? Best to spend your time shaping their minds in preparation for their ascent. Please.”

Light were the footfalls of the princess as once again the daughter--Gwyneth--was upon the floor. A hand reached out to seize the advisor’s robes as the two took their departure, allowing Abigail to walk to the council room. Only one guard lingered outside: this would not be a long council, nor a complex one. It would transpire with general ease, as, like she had stated, the decision was all but made. She need only the official recognition of the king for it (which was ridiculous, in her eyes).

Within the council were a small number of folk, all of which knew each other fairly well: Zanil lingered by Mercurius as Brayden and Silvya were seated by one another, their own children in the care of their uncle Brenner and unofficial uncle Tahvaen. They were also the first generation of the family brought up around elves with no distaste or animosity for them, seeing them, even, as family. If nothing else, that signaled quite the change. Additionally within the confines of the room were Drunel and Elfreda, his armor forsaken for casual tunic as he looked up at the statue of Silas.

“I do not feel as though I will ever be comfortable in the shadow of your god, Mercurius,” came the elven knight’s tone, his hand cupping his chin as he blinked up at the intricate carving of the wolf heeled at the feet of the god of war and tactics. “Surely we could have held this in a different room, like those usually used for council.”

“There was no reason to go through the effort of setting it up. After all, everyone in the room is aware of what the outcome will be, unless someone stands to debate.” This was the point at which the Queen did grace them with her presence, moving with ease towards the table. None even bothered to close the door behind her for there was no reason to hide something that would become so obvious in the near future.

“Then if a council is not necessary,” came the queen’s voice as her eyes cast around the room, “then we may as well simply sign the agreement and be done with it. Ah, Elfreda,” as her eyes moved over towards the woman around which this council was centered. She stood there, hip cocked slightly to one side and her mouth a loose smile, “congratulations. I cannot say that I envy your situation, though I am well enough to be in the opposite one quite soon.” There was almost a tinge of sadness to her speech as she looked at Elfreda standing alongside Drunel. “Send His Majesty Iowyr my well wishes, as well. I do hope that we will continue to have conversations in the future and that you will remain in touch with your Baidenese roots. You have done a great service to the country.”

“Is that not what I should say, Abigail?” Zanil had passed the quill and ink to the seated king with the parchment splayed before him, laying his name in his staccato script upon the indicated line. It was an official release of Elfreda from the service of the Baidenese royal family as well as a penned blessing, at the addition of Zanil, for moving forward.

“Assuming you have not made some grandeur change in your plans, this will soon enough all be a weight upon my shoulders. I should begin adjusting to it prior to your departure, King Rosenlied.” There was humor in her voice but for it to be wholly lighthearted and not at all tinged with sadness was in err, truthfully. “You as well will be sorely missed, Mercurius.” That was when her voice dropped slightly and it was Zanil who spoke up in an attempt to keep the mood from growing dark, sad. There was always time for sadness, but joy should be found.

There was another parchment upon the table that the king did move for, penning in a separate way. This one was then passed across to table to where Silvya was seated next to Brayden and her eyes dropped to it. “Thank you—I will do my best for Baiden. It will be nice to be nearer to the people of home, too.”

With Elfreda’s marriage to Iowyr and Drunel approaching come the onset of Midsummer (for it was tradition that when an Elven King wed, it was done at the middle of summer when the days was the longest), it was important that her role as liaison to the Elven empire was filled by someone else. Silvya had been nominated for the role by her very own husband: she was not Baidenese by birth so such discomfort was at least somewhat alleviated of having a Baidenese within their midst and she also harbored a nearness to the people of the North that was difficult to be replicated by one born within the mainland of Liev. Such were but a few of her advantages, but the two that stood out the most in the mind of the people who made the decisions. Iolas had minimal say in the whole fiasco, currently tasked more with rearing and teaching the children than true affairs of state. The concept was that he would need to be gradually released into such affairs—especially those that involved nearness to the Ceredi in the north. Iowyr had trepidations still about the fact that Iolas was to serve as advisor to the next generation, but at the end of the day it was not his call. The advisor, after all, had little to do with the direct communication between the representatives of the Ceredi and Baiden save for the points at which the Ceredi representative traveled with the Baidenese king to council.

Though, from this point forth, it would be the Baidenese Queen. The crown would pass to her before the next council was called.

“Mercurius.”

All who had been called for what was honestly a joke of a council had been dismissed and in the shadow of Silas and his beasts did the woman and her husband linger, knowing there were words yet to be spoken. He moved from his seat to her after securing the door and in his hands he cradled her elbows.

“I wish you did not have to leave.”

“It is not forever, Abigail,” as he placed his lips upon her forehead,

“It feels as though it is. But there is no time, no reason for us to dally like this. You’ve preparations to be made yet, and I am sure Zanil would be more valued as far as your time goes.”

“You speak as though our time together is not valued. Have I done something wrong?”

The man she had initially married would never have asked that. The man that she lay in bed with on the night of their nuptials and spoke to her, of her taking a lover and asking he be Baidenese, would not have said that. Perhaps if this was still that man, she would have had fewer qualms, and her chest would not have ached as it did. While the children seemed to take it surprisingly well, they were also not able to understand that such thing were not normal. Growing up in a vacuum had allotted them that, if nothing else. Families usually stayed together, but it was okay for them to split up and travel. They had been exposed to enough traveling nobles to have that concept, at least. Father wasn’t leaving forever. He would still come back to see them, and to see mother, so things were okay.

The decision had not been made lightly. In the wake of the war, in the wake of reflection upon what he had done, it was his own choice to step down from the crown. To no longer be king. A Rosenlied king must be a fit king, and he was not fit to be a king. No man that spoke so openly of genocide and such extremes had any place near that power. So it had been decided that Abigail would become Queen of Baiden and, as for Mercurius…

“Send King Lander my regards and inform him he is sorely overdue for a visit. His court painter promised to do a painting of myself and the children while they are still young, after all.”

And he smiled slightly, holding her still there in the shadow of Silas as he stepped back, gazing down at her. He would miss her, deeply. But it was not forever, and they both had to remind themselves of that. “I will. Faeron has done quite well for himself, these past few years. Vaira fits him quite well.”

Initially, it had not gone well at the council where it had been announced. The three representatives for Baiden were unprecedented: both the king and the queen, leaving the country in the hands of the advisors for the time being. Naturally, there was nothing that the rulers of the other countries could do but react as it was not their choice, not their true place to consent or not. It was unheard of, while being the culmination of years worth of rumors. At least in that, they could be validated insofar as their correctness was concerned.

The King of Baiden, Mercurius Lafayette Rosenlied, son of Alden and Georgiana Rosenlied, would be abdicating his crown and his position as ruler to his wife, Abigail. She would become ruler and he would step down and serve in the Vairan Military (which was itself a new concept and a new term since the Grand War and the nationwide peace) as Head Knight. It was the Oranian king, Girart Daien, still new on Wymand’s throne, that voiced his support first of all of them. One could almost accuse his happiness of having ulterior meaning, for that meant that an Oranian noblewoman was upon the throne of Baiden, something never before heard of. In fact, all of Baiden being ruled under a Queen was unheard of--Oran had been, for a period, and Meh’rok as well, but Baiden? It was the strength of the men in the Rosenlied bloodline that fortified Baiden--that is not to say that the blood never flowed through a Baidenese princess, but still they kept the Rosenlied name. The strength of the Rosenlied family was what brought Baiden to where it was.

But it was as they had said, adapt or die.

“I hold a great respect for King Rosenlied,” the young King Daien spoke with voice unwavering, “for knowing what is best for his country even at the expense of his pride.

“You are biased,” the king of Meh’rok stated as he leaned forward with a frown on his lips. “The queen is Oranian. Of course you are fine with the arrangement--”

“This is not for discussion,” as Arric stood from where where he was seated at the head of the council table. “The decision is made. It was merely a statement of what should transpire.” Drunel stood, near to not only Abigail but Mercurius. His role in council was primarily silent, and he cast his eyes from Arric to Mercurius and Abigail, and--it was almost to his surprise. This was not happiness.

Removal of the king from the throne was never something done lightly. But this was a willing relinquishment of the title, knowing it was better in Abigail’s hands. Mercurius was wise enough to know when to cease pursuing something and all at the table (save, perhaps, for the stubborn king of Meh’rok) were wise enough to acknowledge that.

“My heart will lie always with Baiden and I expect to keep a strong friendship and alliance. Furthemore, I have no plans to separate from my wife. I will have no standing place in politics save as the Head Knight of Vaira. That is the best route for me.”

This would be his final council as the king of Baiden. The weight of that knowledge was heavy on all involved as they dismissed within the hour--after all, when councils were called during times of peace, there was no reason for them to have an excessive duration. It seemed almost a shame to ride back to Baiden and yet, there were ties yet to be tied. Such as the official announcement of Silvya as the new ambassador to the Ceredi and, after all, the King had promised to attend Elfreda’s wedding. It was after midsummer that he would depart from Baiden after passing the crown to his wife, officially. The wedding would be the first time he had set foot within the territory of the elves since the war and, possibly, the last.

In truth, they could not have asked for better weather for their travel from Baiden to Vaira. More on the side of warm than cool as it was just past the height of Summer and the dissention into Autumn had not yet begun: there were yet a few months of the warm weather to be treasured before the fear of cold and chill would settle in. The party in which they travelled was small and the departure had been heartfelt. Abigail and Mercurius had lingered longer than would have been expected when they had first wed, oh, much had changed since then—but this was also the departure of Brenner, decorated as a hero of war for having lost his eye to the Ceredi in the north. Long was his embrace with his brother and the nephews and nieces (two boys and one girl, to Silvya and Brayden’s contentment) lingered around him. The blond woman spoke the blessings of the north in their ancient language, the well wishes of family as she stepped away from her brother-in-law with a smile.

“Go to your other,” as Brenner swung his weight astride the horse that would carry him to what was to be his home. Brayden would remain under the charge and title of Head Knight of Baiden, serving Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Baiden, taking the badge from the still not widely known Head Knight. One would think he would have played a larger role in negotiations, but by all means he seemed to have bowed gracefully out during or after the war or, according to some stories, even been slain by the Ceredi. The king offered no confirmation one way or the other.

There was a spattering of knights that also attended their once-king to Vaira with no intention to return. At most it was a traveling party of ten people more equipped for swiftness than battle. The world was blessed by peace and they would react accordingly. They carried no flag, no raiment, no symbol of diplomacy for they were no longer diplomats as much as they were immigrants, departing from the lands of their birth to dwell until their death at another country nearer to the sea. There was anxiety and a nervous buzz about them.

Furthermore, there was knowledge that this would be the first time that Mercurius likely arrived without delay to Vaira in the duration of his life. He was more than prone to allowing tardiness to become his modus operandi as far as these situations did transpire. But not this time.

It was mid-afternoon some days after their initial departure when they arrived in the shadow of the castle that held Arric and his council, the white marble and rounded architecture far different than the grey stone and rigidity for which the military country was known. He had planned to watch from a high stair, to peer from the window and yet as scouts upon battlements shouted of the approach of a party of ten with a man clad in black armor at their head, he could not.

So Mercurius drew to him the king of Vaira within a moment of dismounting as Arandel lingered a few strides away, a slight distance and he gave neither approval nor disapproval. The decision was made whether he liked it or not and so he had not bothered to voice his protest. (Though, honestly, it would likely be approval or even consent for when talk of genocide had begun Arandel desired the king be removed from Baiden as it was.)

Yet it was not only Arric and Mercurius who embraced and shared a kiss. Tahvaen had been near the fair king, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he scanned the faces of the women and men upon Baidenese warhorses. When a saddle groaned and Brenner stepped forth those bright eyes of green lit up and, if Arric had ran to an embrace, Tahvaen leapt to it, the shock sending the one-eyed night sprawling backwards upon the ground with a thud as the half-elf buried his face against the crook of his neck.

“Tahvaen—are—are you crying?”

“Am not. Do not. Shut up.”

The hands of the Vairan king and his new head knight lingered against one another as they stepped back from the embrace, a smile on their lips as the roguish half-elf seemed unwilling to relinquish his grip upon Brenner come hell or high water, the other knights in the company along with the two men of noble blood smiling.

“I love you,” spoke the Vairan king, softly, the din of men and women dismounting (and Brenner finally rolling back to his feet once the grip of the half-elf was released) almost drowning it out. It was the grip of Mercurius’s hand to his that assured him that it had been heard, and the same three words whispered back in kind.

“All is as it should be,” exhaled the former king as he walked alongside his newfound liege into the castle he had scarce see more of than the guest wing and council room. Home, now. Home.

and they lived happily ever after.

“That’s a bullseye, isn’t it?” came the inquiry of the half-elf as he pushed up from his seat upon the fallen tree and the bit of a smile was seen upon the face of Brenner. So little had he smiled since the eye was lost, it was a relief.

“Your eyesight was good enough to see the speck in my eye but it is not good enough to decipher that my aim was still just slightly to one side? I am doing much better though. I was within an inch.”

“Within an inch is good. Within an inch will probably still kill someone on the battlefield, you know,” elaborated the rogue as he crossed over and went so far as to extract the arrow from where it was held in the hand of the captain, taking a few strides away while still holding it. “Besides, look! This arrow’s shaft is slightly crooked. That’s probably why you missed…”

Over his shoulder did he see the hand reach to seize the aforementioned shaft and liberate it from his own hands, drawing it back as though to examine it himself. “Tahvaen. You needn’t try to make me feel better. At least I am hitting the target. That is a drastic improvement from the point when I was quite genuinely considering returning back to the castle because I was useless…”

“I told ya. I wouldn’t’ve let you if you wanted to.” How, exactly, the rogue had intended to accomplish that was anyone’s guess. But he strode a few steps away and glanced across the camp. “Regardless. One of the men from Barksdale downed a number of deer and some rabbits and is making a fine stew. I wanted to make sure you knew about it because he insisted captains eat first, and if you let the food get cold…” mused the male for a moment before he was soon after aware of the fact that he heard the arrow’s head hit the bottom of the quiver as the captain approached. “Well, there might be mutiny in the camp, is all I’m sayin’.”

This was the nearest to merriment that Brenner had seen in all the camp. He could not imagine such an environment existed in the camps that were peopled solely by knights for the key element of what made his camp so unique was the fact that not all of his people were indeed trained warriors. They had weavers, leatherworkers. One lady had been but a tavern minstrel but her father had trained her well in the art of archery. She had downed a good number in the ambush, by Brenner’s own recollection, but now she sat among the men and sang songs of fairy folk that once lived in the Black Forest, before the elves took it from them. Stories. Legends. There was about as much truth to these tales as to the tales of dwarves teaching the men of Baiden the forge all those years ago, but people rather liked stories, especially in trying times. Battles between a fairy king with eyes of green, so said the song, and the magical fancy it brought forth could distract them from the fact there was death around them. That there were battled to be won.

“There he is!” came the cry from one of the men sitting around the fire over which the pot was suspended, Maurice lingering nearby as though he were some scorned child. “That’s our Good Captain! Now we can rightly enjoy what Eldon has cooked up.”

It was nearly impossible to know the names and faces of every man that he was surrounded with. But they all knew him and (as could be deduced by the sour face upon the other captain) seemed to favor him well among certain others in the camp. The stew of deer and rabbit meat among some foraged wild vegetable was ladled into a bowl and handed over the flame first to himself and then to Tahvaen, this likely being the heartiest meal they had come across in a while. A motion to an open seat in the circle. The men wanted their captain to be a part of everything.

And in this moment he recalled why he had in fact agreed to stay.

“You look a might bit more intimidatin’ with that eye patch, if I do say so, Captain,” he heard one of his knights say, seated there near the minstrel who continued strumming the mandolin she’d brought with her. Of all things--but it seemed to be useful. It brought peace and smiles. There was something about the music that was indeed cathartic to all the people therein. There was food to be had for many folk that wanted it while others rest nearby. Such was the alternation of sleep and waking. Were it not in the late afternoon, the captain himself would slumber still.

“Seems to me the only thing missin’ is a strong drink,” added in Tahvaen as he began to spoon the stew into his mouth in that lazy way, leaning his weight against Brenner as he ate.

“There’ll be songs written about you,” continued the knight that had spoken of the eyepatch initially. “Valiantly losing your eye protectin’ your own men. Who doesn’t like to hear about heroism like that, huh? I certainly do. It’s why minstrels like Meryl over there sing so often of old heroes, of true heroes instead of fairy tales.”

“Are you criticizin’ my song choice? Cause seems you’re the only one in that boat, you dolt,” as he leaned to the side to avoid a rock that was playfully thrown in his direction. He leaned to the side to dodge it and offered her a grin.

There was an illusion of peace. Certainly they were all well aware of the fact that they were at war--it was inevitable. One could not look around without seeing the banners and the weapons that indicated that they were ready for attack at any given moment. But right now? It seemed as though war were thousands of miles away, that they sat within a lively tavern with song and talk and good food and camaraderie. With the exceptions of those who wanted naught to do with those things, that was. Maurice was one of them, sullen presumably at not being the favored captain.

“Maurice?”

It was Brenner who stood from where he was, grabbing a second bowl and offering it to the other captain as he took a seat beside him, momentarily forsaking his place next to Tahvaen. There were narrowed eyes at him as the bowl was taken and Brenner seated himself next to Maurice. For a moment, there was silence other than the sound that came from the camp. But Brenner spoke again to the other captain. “You resent me.” It was a solid statement. Not an accusation.

“We disagree on many things,” spoke the other captain with a cadence that neared monotone, “but we have to fight together. I do not so much resent you as I disagree with you. And naturally they favor you--it is less my resentment of you, rightly, and their resentment of me. I serve little purpose in this camp but an antagonist, though my ideals are more in line with our king’s.”

“You make grand claims about our king, Maurice. I cannot think that the method he would take with the elves is total destruction. Not in all rightness.”

“How well do you know our king, then, Brenner? He wants peace. The best way to secure peace is to eliminate the threats to it. Don’t you agree?”

The bowl was lifted to allow the remainder of the broth to be drunk in lieu of spooned into his mouth as the captain set aside his own bowl. There was a frown deep on his visage. “I cannot think that my king would feel that way. That is certainly one way to peace. But is a peace written in blood truly a peace?”

“This is a case of the ends offering justification of the means, Brenner. But these are not our decisions to make in the long run. I ask you only understand that when we are under attack, I have no desire to spare the lives of those that would not spare mine.” Only a few bites had been taken of the stew before Maurice saw fit to rise and dismiss himself from the conversation, moving away from the merriment that was surrounding them. It was as though he intentionally sequestered himself from them and it made the man frown visibly and even give forth a sigh. But he was not left alone, as soon enough he felt Tahvaen seize his arm to draw him back towards the fire.

“This isn’t a good time to go about sulking, Brenner. Celebrate while we can. We can be grim when we’re in battle, but for now? Enjoy it. I think Meryl is working on a song for you--” as he gestured towards where the woman seemed to be leaning back and scribbling in a piece of paper. And this brought a smile to his face.

“I can only find so much joy when Maurice talks of genocide, Tahvaen,” he managed as he returned to his seat across from the flame. The woman’s fingers fell across the tight-strung strings of the mandolin as though to find whatever it was she sought within it. “And he has the audacity to think our king would back him up on such thoughts.”

A shake of the head, a hand against his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Deal with it tomorrow. Give us our moment of peace, would you?”

“Sir Brenner of Baiden, a knight above all, in battle did fight with no fear of his fall, he was good, kind, and righteous; he was strong, brave, and true; he fought brave among us, and treasured each too--”

“I do fear that I might develop and ego if this keeps up,” the captain stated as the smile lingered on his lips and he found to his hand passed a small flask. His brows furrowed as Tahvaen offered him a wink in that playful way of his.

“I brought it from Vaira. I figured I might need it at some point. It’s not Baidenese liqour by any stretch of the imaginations, but it can take the edge off, for sure.”

By comparison to the dark beers most commonly drank in the halls of the Baidenese castles, the liquor of Vaira was far sweeter. One could nearly forget it was alcoholic and he suppose that therein did lie it’s charm. It was hard to imagine the festivals to the three goddesses with all their flora and fauna, with the elegant decorations all over the cities, being treated with whiskey and beer. Lighter tastes did suit it far better as he passed the flask back after a few nips of it, knowing that it was far better for him to be prepared in case of emergency. Getting drunk was not an option, nor did he think he could off the small amount that was in the container. But they could revel as much as they could for a single night. After all, they were the camp that seemed to be suffering the least current losses--not that they were aware of it.

“Tell me of what your king plans for this war, Captain Brayden,” spoke the cold voice of the king from his throne. Drunel stood still to the right of the captain of men though there were two armed soldiers positioned in the room--one at the door, and one at the throne. Clearly they could spare enough men to see to it that someone was in the throne room at all times, but they could not double their patrol of potentially dangerous prisoners? (Those were a guard’s words, not Brayden’s own. None of the three of them were armed, quite obviously, and the physically strongest of the trio seemed ill, from what the captain could decipher.) It seemed a little useless to simply have them lingering about--especially given the fact that not only was he unarmed, but also flanked by the captain of the elven units. Surely he could take care of any problem, should it arise. “I would like to know what it is that he is telling his units in comparison to what he said to me.”

There was a deep frown on his face when he heard those words. “So you have spoken with His Majesty King Rosenlied, then?”

“Quite recently. I am afraid what he spoke to me may not match what he said to you, but I would hear it anyway. Please, continue.” The gesture was a languid, flowing one with his hand cupped, then the wrist rolled at the end. It seemed many gestures that went alongside words put forth by the elves did have their own specificity

This could very well be a barb. He was in fact aware that some nobles would intentionally go out of their way to annoy those with whom they spoke and while part of Brayden would ideally like to think the elven king better than this, there was no knowing. Besides, this man had not long been king, according to what Emirain and Gideon had briefed him on and what he had overheard. Sudden and tragic had been the death of the prior king, rendering his son to be the ruler now in the midst of war. So he steeled himself and spoke: “It was the attack upon King Arric Lander of our allied country of Vaira that lead to the declaration of war upon the Silatin Mountain Elves in the north. This order was delivered to their king by courier though no formal response was received, there have been many a clash upon the battlefield… as well as an attempt to keep our courier and his entourage captive. They were liberated and returned to Baiden shortly before our forces marched to keep our borders defended.”

“And to what end is this war, Brayden?”

This was a questions that he confessed he had not been prepared for. But without hesitation did he speak with all the pride he could muster. “The end goal of any war is peace. And a true peace. You are aware, your majesty--”

“Your Graceful Majesty. He is to be addressed by the full title as it is divine in nature.” Drunel was quick to shoot down anything that may have come off as disrespectful to his new king, and Brayden hardly missed a beat.

“Your graceful majesty, if such is how you would wish to be called, that the peace between the Silatin Mountain Elves--”

“We are the Ceredi. That is your name for us and we are not required to acknowledge it.”

Irritation was visible upon his face as he was well aware that this certainly seemed to be a push to get him to speak in err, to overstep his boundaries in one way or another. He was aware that now his focus had to shift to being calm and keeping his visage rather stern. His lips were pressed together in a rather narrow line as he gave a nod. “... that the peace between the Ceredi of the northern mountains,” as he knew any reference to Silas may introduce the opportunity for another interruption, “and the humans of Baiden has been a rocky one. The Ceredi violated the communication part of the treaty upon making the decision not to report your population numbers to us, as was decided upon at the council. Furthermore, the attack upon King Arric Lander that prompted the war was a flagrant violation of the nonaggression clause, and…”

“You are so sure of what you speak. That it was indeed the Ceredi that attacked the king of Vaira.”

This was the first moment he faltered. “But--” came from his lips before he was able to gather his thoughts. “They were elves of the north. The assumption came naturally.

“Those were not elves of the Ceredi ilk. They had defected. The ones you had quarrel with were led by the bastard Iolas, son of my mother, and the half-brother of your very own king, Brayden. This war was declared against the wrong people.”

Visible was the strength with which Brayden swallowed and for a moment he found himself speechless. This had been brought up before, true, but never presented with such finality. The mistake had been on the field of Baiden.

“You still failed to report as the treaty did outline,” stated the knight as he clenched his jaws visibly, “and were in violation of it.”

“My father’s failure to report our numbers should not lead to war. The fact my bastard half-brother attacked a visiting noble is what lead to this war and you yourself just cited it. And now you king calls for genocide. What do you have to say to this?”

And finally they reached their goal: the knight was absolutely speechless.

part 15.

“I should return to Rosenlied Castle and keep myself there. I will only be cumbersome when battle transpires again.”

Forward did the half-elf stride as he seized the tunic that was donned by the captain. After all, there was no need for him to be constantly in armor. It grew tiring, and it grew heavy, and none truthfully enjoyed having to deal with it. Much of their training was done in armor in preparation for the truth of the fact that is how he would fight, but tonight was seemingly more laid back. At least, until Brenner had spoken as he did. It was the black fabric upon his shoulder that Tahvaen had grabbed and into the remaining eye of brown had eyes of green come to peer. “I have heard nothin’ about how loyal and devout Baiden knights are. From you, from your queen, hell, even outta my king’s mouth! But here I am, standin’ before a damned brave captain who’s talking like he’s gonna pack up and leave cause he feels useless.

“Eye or not, Brenner, you’re a damn good fighter… n’ leaving Maurice out here to be captain? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Man’s thirsty for elf blood.” They all knew it. All those in the camp knew that Maurice was in the encampment that they should simply be here to slaughter the elves. There could be no opposition if there was no enemy, or so had gone the last discussion with him. This caused Brenner to frown as he cast his eyes away, turning himself into a slight profile that awarded the elf only a visage of scars and eyepatch. “Don’t you go runnin’ off when we need you.”

“I am cumbersome--”

“Even with only one eye you’re twice the fighter some’a these men are. Stop playin’ yourself short. You’re a little off balance, yeah, but shit, you just lost half the world. S’why we’re training, right? To get you righted back on your feet. You might not be able to shoot a bulleye from seventy yard or whatever you’re thinkin’ you should be able to do, but you can fight, damnit, and isn’t that the whole point of this war? To be out fightin’? So if you think I’m gonna let you tuck tail and scamper back to Rosenlied Castle then you’re a damned fool. These’re your men and they need you more than they need some elf-hater like Maurice.”

Deep was the breath of the taller male as he reached to remove the grip that held fast to the garb of his clothing. For a moment did he allow their fingers to linger before he gave a visible shake of his head and looked with that single eye back to Tahvaen. “I am only worried that without the use of both eyes, without being able to function as I expect myself to function, I will let my men down.”

“So you’re sayin’ that it’s better for ya to run off back to the castle than it is for ya to stay here and risk your skin with your men? Doesn’t sound very knightly to me, but I mostly know ‘bout knights what knights have told me. Y’know. Knights. Like you.”

It was quite pointed that the half-elf was seeing to it that things Brenner himself had mentioned during their conversations were highlighted. This merited the brown eye to flick back and forth from one emerald to the other as he looked down at Tahvaen. He suppose that was a habit he would have to work on assuaging, cutting his remaining eye from one eye to the other of his speaking partner’s. If nothing else, it gave him a headache. So he managed to focus his one eye forward and upon the one that gazed up at him, given their height disparity.

“So I guess if it’s really knightly to tuck tail a run, who’m I to stop you?”

It was after he strode a pace or two away, after he raised a hand to push through the hair worn short upon his head before he did look back at the elf. World weary was his expression, and there was exhaustion upon him for the first time that did serve to give Tahvaen pause as he looked at him. But at the same time, there was a bitter realism in him that did serve to highlight the fact that this was a war. People would be injured. Far more than eyes would be lost. And perhaps he was the Vairan that would come back most changed from it; himself, Davin, or Shedal. Upon them was the truth of the weight of death. Upon him was merely the truth of the single Baidenese person he gave a damn about beyond the point of acknowledging they were people.

“Tahvaen--”

“This’s war, Brenner!” The comment came with an aggressive wave of his hand as his brows creased quite firmly. “This is war. Be glad ya only lost an eye! Cause I am!”

This was the moment that it seemed that the truth of all things did lay upon his shoulders. This was the moment that Brenner realized that the weight of his lost eye was not only upon him but upon those that cared for him. Upon his men, and upon Tahvaen who, if their conversations were to be believed, had initially had no intention of riding to the front lines. It was only upon the realization that there was even so much as a potential that Brenner and his unit had been dispatched wholly that he had opted instead of remaining in the castle to ride out with the healers. There had been relief in his eyes when they did happen to look upon Brenner and there had they embraced.

“Coulda lost a hell of a lot more than your eye…”

And that was when Tahvaen realized he was crying. It as only by feeling one of the tears drop down onto his chest exposed by the unlaced shirt he wore that he knew it, and he knew not if they were tears of sadness or frustration at Brenner. His brows were low and fast knit to show irritation but there was a gleam in his eyes of inexplicable sadness.

Brenner was the one who approached this time to place his hands on the shoulders of the half elf. Soon enough was the more willowy form drawn against the broad one in an embrace as they stood there and hesitant were the hands that came to reciprocate. Against his chest did he feel that head come to lull and he realized that the damaged done to him did serve as shrapnel launched outwards to damage others in ways deeper than just the physical, in ways deeper than just the fact he could no longer fight for them as he had in the past.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tahvaen.”

And against his chest he heard the grumble: “Wouldn’t’ve let ya if you wanted to.”

Davin stood a few paces away from the camp with a hand holding idly to a halberd. He had taken it upon himself to learn it so as to keep himself a bit more useful insofar as battle was concerned, and so did he spend many a day and night practicing of his own volition. Sometimes he did see fit to recruit the knights and others he merely made do on his own. But tonight the one that came to him was Mercurius, and he did offer a slight smile. Their conversations had come and gone--for had it now lapsed, what, a month on the battlefield?--and they spoke of one another in a friendly manner now. So when the king approached sword drawn, he stilled the halberd for a moment as he leveled his gaze. The two were, after all, akin in height.

“I do not think I am prepared to face the military king of all Liev, Mercurius, in all fairness.”

But the lips of the man opposite him came to form a smile as the blade was idly spun in one hand. “If you do not challenge superior foes, then how will you come to improve your own skill? That is one of the primary factors of growth, wouldn’t you agree?”

With that prompting did the butt of the halberd drag against the earth at his feet. This point was valid and soon was he in a stance, a light one--one different than the grounded bodies of the Baidenese warriors. So was a nod shared between them before Mercurius was the first to make an advancement, the blade of his sword dragging along the shaft of the halberd as he came to Davin’s right, scraping along the wood. But such was easily deferred as deft hands released the weapon if only for a moment to seize on the opposite side of the blade and with surprising force tilt upward to knock the offending metal away. To his left did he spin with the deftness of a dancer, the movements fluid that showed well the practice of his own bodily control over the years. Then it was that the blade of the halberd did come towards the armored visage of the king only to be met with the flat of a sword’s blade and a ring that likely woke some that slumbered back at camp.

“We’ll wake the whole of our people at this rate,” came that punctuated tone but no sooner had the words been spoken than he bent his body just so to avoid the blade that had come at him. Clearly, their impromptu training session was by no means over at the current point. So again did he spin as both hands held to the shaft of the halberd and for the first time his feet--notably clad only in fabric wrappings--were planted firm upon the earth. And both men did smile in that moment.

“You are very light on your feet, Davin,” spoke the king as slowly he shifted from a battle stance. What the healer had said was indeed true: they would wake the whole camp if it so happened that they kept this up. The metal-on-metal would likely prompt the idea that there was a battle going on somewhere, and that was a panic none felt like dealing with. As soon as they had begun this match it had ended, but still did the king remain to speak. “Is this typical of Ludanese fighters?”

“I could not say. Though I was involved in court, I had very little to do with any of the Ludanese warriors. They are few enough as it is, mostly trained in secret sects in lieu of having some grandeur official military… like Baiden.” Flat-palmed was the hand that motioned towards camp that lay nearby. “After all, do not the Lievan treaties state that Baiden will aid those that are attacked? With such thoughts in mind it is so that we hardly need to keep fighters in our midst. Healers, however, are more essential. Not in all cases, mind you. Merely in the case of Ludan.” Once again the butt of the halberd came to idly rest against the earth. “My mentor did teach me that knights are best used in a time of death, but healers are best used in a time of life. The two coincide as do the moon and son, or so came the teaching to me.”

For a moment did the king idly listen, hands folded upon the hilt of his blade in a means that was merely idle, peaceful. His mother had been Ludanese and in a way he saw her when he gazed upon Davin. She had been fairer always than his father and her hair had been black as any Baidenese noblewoman’s. She could pass have having been born of Baiden but was proud of her desert blood--what few memories that did linger in his mind of Georgiana (who, now he thought of it, did not have a very Ludanese name upon his recollection), though, lacked the pronounced staccato of Davin’s own spoken word, but he supposed such would vary from person to person, region to region in and of the country itself. One could hardly assume that all Baidenese folk spoke with the same voice, after all.

“My mother was of Ludan, though I knew her very little. She died early on in my childhood…” but as his voice trailed off, he heard that of the Ludanese healer speak up.

“Oh, I am aware of the Lady Ghazala Saab. She took a more palatable name upon wedding His Majesty King Alden Rosenlied, if my memory serves me correctly. She was buried as the late Queen Georgiana Rosenlied… what was it? Some twenty years or so ago now? Court opinions upon her were mixed on the rare occasions she was mentioned. Once one marries out of the royal court of Ludan and sees to being royalty elsewhere, well, that is essentially the end of them in Ludanese court. They’re practically dead with the exception of passive references. Such had happened to the Lady Ghazala as she became Queen Georgiana.”

A frown was on the king’s face as he heard of that--many courts were at least cordial with one another, as intermarriage was common. He himself had wed an Oranian woman, after all, and he could scarce think that in the Oranian court she would be seen nearly as an exile. But he was sure that Georgiana (or, as it were, Ghazala, though he could scarce think of her by that name) had made the decision that was best for her. He could not recall her as anything but happy, and Zanil had never bothered to tell him otherwise.

“But from what I could tell, she was well favored in her court until her marriage and well favored in Baiden until her untimely death. May she rest forever in the light of Rzael.”

“Do they speak favorably of you in court, I wonder?”

There was a momentary pause as perhaps Mercurius did not think of the weight of his question for a moment. His own lips pursed as he watched those below the thick mustache come to roll slightly and a shake of his head be given. Up did a hand reach to push black hair away from where it fell to the side and adjust it straight back. The sides of his head were shaved quite short, common in Ludan given the heat, and into them were designs carefully shaved flat again the head, though they had begun to grow out from the neat state they were in the first time he saw the healer. Maybe he would have asked what they meant had not he heard that voice again come to speak to him.

“I did not depart to become part of a different nobility. I merely departed at the request to serve as a high placed healer. And… it is easier for men to keep their status when absent than it is for women, I will be blunt with you. I have not married into another family, and so I am still a Najirrid, the first Najirrid to be had in high society insofar as anyone can think to follow the line back. By and large the Najirrids have become farmers, tradesmen, monks. Weavers. Once I had a great aunt who was a court-singer because of the grandeur beauty of her voice, but that was the nearest we came to court. As I am the one who earned myself a title, it is easier for me to keep it.” But people did upon occasion speak unfavorably of him. But quite frankly, having been a new introduction to court, he had learned that what other people said of him was truly none of his business. “Most of my time as of late, however, is spent in Vaira. The court talk of folk that may or may not speak favorably of me is my last concern. Given that we are at war, after all.”

“Court hierarchy is scarce something to concern oneself over.”

And those pursed lips did pull into a look that was truly amused. “That is spoken as one who exist at the apex of court hierarchy, your majesty, and so you have the option not to concern yourself over it. Those that are lower have no such luxury.”

Little time was given to the king to ruminate over such a statement, however, as soon one of the younger knights tasked with guard duty had come sprinting up to him nigh breathless. Before Mercurius could even make an inquiry as to what the hurry was for, the panting you managed to wheeze out: “A messenger is here to speak with you, immediately. He carries a message from the Elven King Iomyr.”

For a moment did the king move away from Davin before he felt the healer’s hand upon his shoulder. “Your highness, if I may,” and a glance was cast to the messenger, “was the king’s name not Ionwhyn?”

part 3.

There was general revelry. For amongst the healers in their Vairan garb, she had come to noticed strangers that did not even seem traditionally Baidenese. Their clothes seemed to be from all over Liev and there was a particular bias towards leathers and furs and woven cloth. They almost looked like the northern folk--but again, this had little to do with her. All she had heard these strangers referred to as were those of Vitnir Hall, the Wolve’s Guild.

“Seems they’ve got quite the number of guests in Castle Rosenlied, huh?” It was clear her attempts at conversation were wont to fall flat, but that did not stop her. It seemed the redhead’s mood had been completely soured by the news on the western front and, in the long run, who could rightly blame him? Though likely it was that mostly they were strangers to him, he had known Brenner. To have one you are familiar with die in war does bring forth an idea of the reality of it, the truth and tangibility of that which is war, and which is loss. Attempt to cheer Tahvaen from his sour state would likely be in vain and yet it was simply Shedal’s manner of personality to try. Soon enough it was realized, though, that he seemed too adrift to partake in revelry and so she moved away.

Tight did the Vairan grip to the wine glass before he drank deeply from it. It was well aged and tasted more bitter than sweet but in a way, he supposed that fit what he wanted more. He could not think that this would be any easier with Arric here and yet he found himself missing his friend. Diplomatics were not in the blood of the half-elf who had grown up on the street and so all these things were excessively difficult for him. But dealing with such news upon his arrival? He would drink himself to a fitful sleep this evening. That, he could promise.

“Tahvaen.”

While Shedal’s speech had fallen upon deaf ears, it was the tone of Zanil that caused him to snap from his forward fixated gaze. Nothing in particular did he look at, honestly, and that was quite fine by him. His head did lift to look at Zanil who did not bother to sit beside him. It only gave the half-elf the sense that this was going to be a fleeting conversation which was probably far easier for him, given his state. It was--a numbness. There was a strange sensation of detachment from his mind and body but something about the advisor's voice did serve to ground him once more.

“They are not all dead. I will not believe it; I do not feel it in my bones. There may yet be survivors.”

“N’ why would I care what your bones have to say? Hell, you were th’ one that told me about all this, anyway…” came that voice, grumbled, low beneath his breath as his gaze was down on the table again. Upon the wood grain. Anywhere but the eyes of anyone in the room as though he had a secret to conceal from them all. “They’re dead. Big deal, people dyin’ in war isn’t a new thing…” But there was a certain weight in his voice. Something in it clearly communicated that this most certainly was a big deal, and that was the way that it was. The conversation was not long for this world, but it seemed that Zanil did have at least something to say as he leaned against the chair.

“If all of Baiden can trust me, I do not see why you cannot. Do make sure to eat. Elves can survive on less than humans, rightfully, but they cannot survive on air and wine alone.”

It seemed that served to dismiss the conversation as from his periphery he did see the advisor step away to speak with Shedal regarding something likely of more importance than the fact Tahvaen was skulking about in response to lives lost. Soon enough, the glass was drained but it was not immediately refilled. Bowed was his head for a moment as a prayer was extended upward towards the sister goddesses that he pledged his loyalty to:

Please let the old codger’s bones be right about this.

If Brayden’s spirits were not already suffering given the fact that there was little that could be done insofar as communicating known locations of scouts, then the rain certainly was not providing any influx of joy. Errol had taken to his tent for the time being and urged Brayden to do the same, but the majority of the forces were seated in the rain with their armor removed in attempts to keep it from getting too wet and risking rust or rot or any other unappealing state of being. So it was among them that he sat in the mud.

The mud to the east was of a different consistency than the mud in the middle and in the west of the land. While their mud tended to be hard and thick, almost clay-like, as they neared Ludan mud tended to be more grainy. It was likely given that if they kept riding east they would indeed find what was beneath their feet to be sand and not stone or dirt, something completely different than what they or their horses were used to. By and large until the dirt turned to mud it was hard to delineate the difference, but as the mud squelched over the hooves of their horses and their own feet, the variation was indeed quite obvious.

“I feel like I’m gonna get stuck,” he heard one of the knight grumble as he pulled his feet from a particularly sticky patch of mud. The area where the horses stood was mostly people by rocks and stones which, while they would have to be dug out from the hooves of the animals later, did help prevent their own fright. Let them focus on how the lightning did make them feel fear. Let their feet be steady upon the ground--as steady as they could be.

It was among his men that he insisted on lingering, wanting little to do with isolating himself away. If Errol chose to be one of those commanders that held himself above his men, who was Brayden to tell him not to? It was truthfully no business of his. His people did seem to respect him regardless and so it was an issue that the captain felt no need to press.

“Shouldn’t you be in the captain’s tent, Brayden?”

Soft was the voice that he heard from the one who sat on the boulder beside him. His own lips were upturned just slightly as though he was amused by the statement or the moment. “Errol is quite fine in the captain’s tent for now. I will remain with you.”

Brayden was officially within the realm of his thirties. As for the knight that spoke with him, well, it was clear if by the voice alone he was scarce into manhood. He swore for a moment he tasted guilt on his tongue at the fact this was a child. He was a boy. At that age, he and Brenner were still training for position as knights, though it was known well that due to their father’s status they would well enough be accepted in. Clarent was quite proud of his boys and always would be given that they had grown up almost exactly how he wanted them to.

What of this boy? What of the one that spoke to him of the captain’s tent? Had his father been a knight--was his father still a knight? It was not out of the realm of possibility by any means. Many remained as knights until their sixties and the boy could be no more than twenty. Or maybe his father had tried to talk him out of it, telling him that even though Liev has known peace for many years, there are dangers of knighthood. What if his mother had been the knight? There were endless versions of the story that Brayden could think of in his mind, and even then it was possible that none of them would come to be the unique truth that was all this boy’s.

Would his son one day be in this position, too?

“All the men speak fondly of you,” he heard the voice again, as though timid, trying to speak to him. In these times, even the simplest spoken word could offer some sort of validation. Who was he to deny it to this boy who likely needed it most? Very real was the idea of dying in war. At least he had known more of life than this young man. “They say you are a good captain, and that you care for your men. I should not be surprised that you are here with us and not in the tent.”

“Do not mistake this and assume Errol cares not for his men,” he said, turning slightly on the stone. The name of the boy did not come to him for there were a number that he had ridden with. Whereas his brother’s unit was perhaps a half-dozen men strong, his was at least triple that. Names came and went as, frankly, Brayden was not particularly good with them in the first place. “He cares deeply for all his brothers and sisters that fight for Baiden. We are all family, in the end, whether captain or squire.”

This boy was thereafter lead into silence, though whether it was by the crack of lightning in the distance or the words that had been said by the captain was difficult to tell. Towards the captain’s tent did the eyes of the brunette knight remained focus, though he said nothing. Internally he disapproves of the dichotomy that Errol presented between himself and the men--Mercurius had ridden out with his own intents of not placing himself above the men, but that did not seem to apply to captains. He was ranked above Errol but had no intent of pulling rank upon an old friend unless it was completely necessary for the situation.

“You’ll catch your death out here.” It was not the boy’s voice again, and thankfully so. This was a voice that had to it greater command and power, and he knew the voice well. Elfreda had come to stand alongside him, her arms folded over her chest as she nodded her head towards the captain’s tent. “He has the driest spot in the camp, though I’m not sure that is saying much. This muck will ruin our boots if it does not stop raining eventually.

“Are we simply to linger about and wait to catch our death of illness, Brayden?”

Marching into the mountains was suicide. But how long could supplies and good humor last? Longer could elves last without food or water; more adept were they at surviving in the mountains, as well. But the waiting game could cost men due to illness, due to storms, due to the Gods may only know what. So his response to her was merely silence.

“Would it not be best to wait in towns and cities? There, at least, there are resources. There are beds, and water, and food. What point is there to simply protecting empty land?”

“By protecting this ‘empty land,’ Elfreda, we are keeping innocent lives from being lost.” To that, the woman had nothing to say; she was mute as she gazed still forth at the tent though she said nothing. “If we did set up in towns and cities, then they would be attacked. Lives of innocents would be lost. I think it is quite clear that is the last thing we would desire. Mercurius is a good king; he is a man that has pledged all to protect his people. All of his people. And while on the front we may lose two men, had they attacked a city it would be exponentially worse.”

And so she was silent, for she knew he was right.

“The men of Barksdale fare well!”

Though it was not enough to replace the men that found their grave at the site of the attack, Barksdale had sent forth at least twenty able bodied men. About half of them were knights themselves, positioned there, though their armor did not shine like Brenner’s and their weapons were not as sharp as Culver’s, but knights of Baiden they were none the less. The others were workers. Hunters. A smith knew well how to use a blade for he must know how to craft them. Upon horses did they ride, for the nearness to Oran meant that they were quite readily accessible. And nearly did the captain weep when they appeared before his eyes, proud Men and Women of Baiden in their cobbled armor. They would not let their knights stand alone, even if they knew they had little chance.

He could have wept, but he did not.

“May Silas bless each one of you.”

In addition to the men had come horses; horses for those that had escaped from the captivity of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Dawn (though they knew it not by name) who had lost theirs. Oranian mounts were not bread with the same fortitude as Baidenese warhorses but still they were strong beneath a rider and trustworthy above all else. Down did swing one man who was likely the horsekeeper as he stepped forth with reins in hand. Fine was the horse he offered to Brenner but his hand was held up as though to decline, with a shake of his head.

“This horse is best begotten to you. I need no more than I ask for. I need only the simplest of horses that will carry me to and fro, nothing so finely bred. He is yours. Ride him with pride, my friend.”

Supplies, too, were brought out upon horseback. They had carried with them little and what little they had had been lost or tasked to Culver and Orson upon their departure to ride to Barksdale. But one of the stout beasts was packed with rations--with food, with bandages, with what they pled their need. It was no surprise that the people of Baiden refused to turn them away. It could even be said they had given far more than the people would need, but with the addition of the twenty men they would likely be glad for the increase in supplies.

“Brother and sisters, Baidenese all, I cannot express my gratitude for your willingness to answer our call to arms. Surely some of your kin lay dead on the field to the north and for that I cannot express great enough sorry. I could weep with joy at your arrival and yet with sadness upon what brings you here.”

Brenner was known as a meek man, but eloquent could he be. All attention was on him and a hush came to fall about the people who were gathered around him, those that stood and those that were on horseback, even those who had set about unloading supplies. In the pit of his stomach was a certain nervousness but he shouldered the weight of a captain and spoke to them once more.

“Those brave ones that stood on the eastern border are with Silas himself now, and so will wait to see us after our own departure. Dwelling on them will offer us no respite. We must band together and know well that our unity is all that can protect our people.

“Their numbers are small, but they are vicious,” as his gaze fleeted about the faces that look at him. Women with hair pulled back and men with beards flaked in silver and those which could be no older than the advent of adulthood. “They take no quarter. They slew our brothers and sisters like animals and gave no attempt at a proper burial. They are not kind to us. They will not spare us. But we cannot fear them.

“You have pledged your life to Baiden, but should any of you desire to return to your homes, I would not blame you. We need only the most loyal of men and women at our sides. Please only stay knowing that your life is that of Baiden’s now; please know you may never be remembered as a hero but in Silas’s hall you will be revered as a true warrior. Return home if you see so fit.”

But it was one of the men who stepped forth, a man in mismatched armor that could not hold a coin to the regality that Brenner carried. His blade was likely more used to hanging above a fireplace than being in a man’s hand, but with honor did he step forth. “I speak for us all, or at least I would hope, when I say this is our home. Barksdale is only part of somethin’ bigger, and something worth fighting to protect. No real Baidenese man would turn tail and run now, Captain.”

So did the visage of Brenner spread into a smile as applause surrounded them, both from the units that had traveled with him from the castle and those who had just joined their numbers. Truly their unity was astounding and he was proud to be a captain of Baiden.

part 28.

Even though Mercurius had waited until he presumed the woman was out of earshot, that was clearly seen not to be the case. And, besides, she and Tahvaen convened frequently enough that he would have felt quite despicable had he not had it within him to tell her of what had been said when her back was turned. Of course she knew. Shedal had a way of knowing what was going on in the castle almost as well as Arric himself--and sometimes, even better.

“He may be hotter than the sun but that does not make up for it.”

“I think you’re giving him way too much credit, there,” stated the redhead as he stepped down from the shop they had been in. A few minor things--dried fruit and jerky along with addition skeins for water--were tucked in his bag as they moved towards the inn. They were in no really hurry and Arric had made sure to emphasize that, so of course his friend translated that as take your time getting to Baiden. It was not as though they were the ones who had declared war, after all. They had not even sent a messenger to inform anyone of their intent for aid. Possible it was, though unlikely, that they would be turned away when they arrived offering aid if only because supporting the healers would put a drain upon Baiden’s resources. But the grand military country was hardly known for being in a time of recession, lest they would not have pursued war. At least, that was how he thought about it. “He’s alright.”

“You seemed far for interested in his knights and serving maids than His Majesty, Tahvaen,” the woman teased as she readjusted the cowl she wore. Bright was the sun that burned overhead and tradition did mandate that healers garbed themselves in hoods and light colors. The light colors were useful when the traveling heat did beat down upon them and the hood served well to shade the sun from the eyes. But right now? The hood was down and the weight of the cowl felt cumbersome. “I thought as we rode north it was supposed to get colder.”

“Oran is always a little warmer than Vaira.” Down the cobblestone road did they walk, surrounded on both sides by architecture that boasted breezeways and open areas allowing the wind to dance through it as though Ossa herself would be there. “That is why they call upon Ossa. Her wind is the only that that keeps the place liveable sometimes.”

Her arms were across her chest as she gave a look at the structures that were around them. Slight was the grin on her face. “I know I’m Ludanese, but out there, it is a dry heat. Not so much here. I see now why all the windows and arches are open.” Through an aforementioned arch did she follow Tahvaen into the tavern. Insofar as those were concerned, their building was slightly more traditional--if only because it served to appease the mandate of privacy that an inn had to beget. But the main areas still boasted tall archways and glassless windows. For a moment did the head healer muse that it was likely very impractical when rain came through. “You’ve never been to Ludan, have you?”

Quiet was everything on the front of the inn and behind the bar did a girl likely younger than Shedal (though, half-elves were notorious for not looking their age) set about the task of cleaning glasses. Her eyes raised and she seemed almost surprised when two people entered as it was the middle of the day. Generally, all things were quiet into the evening.

“Ah, didn’ expect to see travelers so early on. How can I help ya?”

Not very deep into Oran were they, and those that lived on the periphery of Ossa’s land did tend to have a slight drawl to their words. Though, personally, Tahvaen had little room to speak on drawls and accents. To her did he give a bit of a nod as he walked forward, leaning on the counter in that idle way of his. His history with aristocracy was a bizarre one. Prior to Arric deciding that it was best for him not to live on the streets, that last thing the half-elf had ever entertained was the idea that he would be working as a delegate on official business, merrily upon his way to Baiden to dispatch healers. Arric would ride out later and they would reconvene there, but as it was it was best he remain within Vaira for at least a little bit longer. They were in the process of training a few additional castle guards as knights to supplement that standing military that the king had opted to desire, if only because complete interdependence upon Baiden did not sit well upon him.

Tahvaen was an orphan. When asked about it, he shrugged it off. Tahvaen was Arric’s best friend and a confidant that gave a different view into what it was that they saw on a daily basis. It was known that courts were populated by courtly people that had grown up in courts all their life and so a vagabond like him did stick out like a sore thumb. But Arric would think that the input from one that had lived at the very bottom of society was useful.

“Listen n’ be honest with me,” as his own accent showed in reflection. Never had he managed to completely work it out of the way he spoke, but at the encouragement of Arandel moreso than the king did he learn to speak in a manner slightly more acceptable in courtly settings, “cause we’ve a lot of folk that’re in need of lodgin’ for the night. What can you do for us?”

Down was placed the glass and it was immediately evident that in her eyes was the knowledge of the money that could pass hands. It was no small sum, that was for sure. Hands that showed evidence of likely having worked at running a tavern since she was small (though, likely, it was her mother’s tavern; women tended to run such an industry even across Liev) were placed upon the wood counter as she looked directly at the elf.

“How many are you talkin’ of, traveler? I can’t give you a number til I got a number in hand. Seems fair enough?”

And then to her he did nod. “We’ve twenty Vairan men and women needing lodgings and probably a good, hearty meal. Not quite talkin’ a grand high feast, here, but they aren’t folk adapted to traveling and relying on bread and cheese and jerky.”

“Aren’t a single room in this in spoken for tonight, but the buildin’s a small one. We got only twelve rooms up for rent as it is. But if your folk don’t mind sharin’, then they’re all yours. Providing, of course, that you’ve the coin.”

Forward over the counter did he lean, eyes cutting as though he were planning to confirm there were none in earshot. “We travel on official business of diplomacy of Vaira. The coin can be good if you can promise this will be kept secret.” Still had the elven advisor pushed that an open expression of support for Baiden may be in errance. This was protested by both Tahvaen and Arric until finally they were both quieted and agreed that the healers would move in relative secrecy from Vaira to Baiden. A nod was given and from his hip was unknotted a pouch that contained a copious amount of gold coin. Judging from the look upon the woman’s face, it was more than enough to see that they were cared for. So readily did he move away with a passive wave of his hand towards where Shedal still stood, hands poised upon the  curve of her hips draped in the fabric of her white tunic. A smile was shot to the barkeep as the woman hurriedly tucked away the coins where they would be out of sight and out of mind--at least, that was the hope.

“Send ya folk in whenever they get weak and tired of the city. I am afraid there’s not much t’ go about keeping ‘em entertained in these parts, but they’ll have a full belly and a nice meal whenever they come calling for it.”

Down the street were they before the two turned to look at each other and Shedal’s brows raised up significantly. “From someone standing off to the side, that looked like a shady deal. Just, y’know, in case you were wondering.” And from the male half-elf did a snort of laughter come, his hands resting in his pocket. The traveling cloak was offcast and tucked into the bags still affixed to the horses that had been stabled nearby. A good big of coin had gone there, honestly, but most inns in this town seemed to not have associated stables and the horses need to be put away before the men could be.

“Come off it,” he stated with a grin cast in her direction. “I have seen and been in a number of shady deals and that woulda been the fastest and easiest shady deal in the history of ‘em, if we’re thinkin’ it’s that shady at all. No one even pointed a dagger at no one! I think you’ve been in the palace too long, Shedal.”

“Unlike someone, I didn’t grow up on the streets. To someone that grew up outside of squalor, well, it looked awful suspicious.”

Were Tahvaen likely anyone other than himself, a deep offense likely would have been taken at the notion he had grown up in squalor. But it was not wrong. Never had he really known his parents and never had he really been in a position that it mattered to him. Growing up on the streets was really a fact of life for him and he did not gaze upon it with resentment. But that was certainly not the current case.

“You got a point. But to someone that knows shady deals, ‘cause it matters most to people that know shady deals, that wasn’t shady. Not at all.”

“Have I done what is best?”

Rare was it that Zanil had moments to himself, and rare still that he felt the need to ruminate about them and muse before a statue of Silas. Alone was he in the throne room for Abigail attended to a lunch on her own. Already had her appetite begun to increase and still she had made no mention of the coming of her courses, so the assumption was quite solidified within her advisor’s mind that she was indeed with child.

Here he sat, dwarfed beneath the statue of stone that sat in the back of the throne room. Usually at least one other was in attendance with him when he was here, but today it was merely his thoughts and the statue of Silas and the beasts that did surround him. The wolf itself was well over the height of the advisor that stood before it and his own height was quite impressive. Perhaps if he stood and lifted his arm he could place it upon the stone beast’s head. But right now, he hadn’t the desire to bother. The floor suited him quite well and he was content to stay there for a moment.

Back did he lean with his palms flat on the floor and up did he look at the strong jawline of the statue. Alway he pictured with near Baidenese attributes, but it made sense--humans did tend to project upon what they worshiped their own attributes. It made them feel nearer to them. A smile lingered on his face at the thought before again he sat forward and into his cupped hands did drop his chin.

In his thoughtful reflection he had mused over a number of things, but the keynote of which was that he had acted with neither consent nor blessing of the king or queen and opted to bring a well trusted unit into guard the castle. For long had those that dwelt within Vitnir Hall, a massive building located a half-day’s ride from the  castle itself, pledged their loyalty to Baiden and its king. Perhaps the loyalty of those within the hall was the only thing that had been promised to the king of Baiden longer than the loyalty of Zanil.

Vitnir Hall was occupied by many of the greatest fighters in the nation that did not enlist within the knighthood. In contrast to the relative stoic order of the knights, the fighters of the hall were known for being raucous and rowdy, far more like the humans that dwelt on the northern continent in lieu of those that lived within the expanse of Liev. But they were strong men and women that pledged loyalty to country and crown with a ferocity that earned them the nickname of the Wolves’ Guild. While by and large they kept to themselves and were something of a mystery, their loyalty and friendship was known well to Zanil. Many of their leaders as well had been known to him over the ages and with any luck many yet would be. Their current leader was beginning to show age both in the short trimmed beard that he wore and the brown hair atop his head. And only on the top. The sides were shaved and often the greying (though thick) locks were pushed back away from his face. But even though his body was wearing with age, his eyes were as bright as Zanil had ever seen them.

It seemed the guild head was summoned by Zanil’s thoughts of him. Soon enough there was upon the door a knock before it was opened with a lack of ceremony. The servant tried to mutter something but was silence and waved off by the broad frame that came to fill the door. And as Zanil rose to face him, his own smile blossomed night from ear to ear. Just inside the doorframe were no fewer than five figures, though only two did he know of by name.

“Gideon Whitemane and Emirain of Vitnir Hall,” as he crossed the floor to descend the two stairs and reside upon the same level as those that had likely ridden out this very morning. There was no way the courier had reached them before such a time--and said courier had yet to return. It was not that Zanil by necessity had doubts that he would, he was merely amused at the fact that the hall’s head had likely traveled out with a fury nearly unknown. “I don’t quite think Whitemane suits you, Gideon. Not yet.”

Broad and scarred was the hand that lifted as his footfalls were near audible through the hall. While he was not so tall as Zanil, what was lacking in height was made up for in muscle. Loose was the tunic that draped from the broad physical frame as he returned the smile of the advisor in kind. Even so did those arms equally as scarred as those hands extend to motion the advisor in for a hug. Only then did brows of silver knit as the advisor spoke once more.

“Augh, no. I’m afraid my back isn’t in need of popping, Gideon, so if you would--” but he was within the embrace of the hall’s head as soon as his feet met the floor. Few dared be so brash with him and even fewer would have lifted him up as though he weighed as little as a child. But in that instance of weightlessness did his dark eyes widened and he heard the howl of laughter from Gideon’s guildmates that were still around him.

A moment was taken to readjust his garb when boot-clad feet came again to rest safely upon the floor. Askew was the belt and fabric but he heard the man opposite him speak as he waited for the advisor to get resituated.

“You don’t way a bit more than the first time I picked you up. Never seen someone keep such a flatline of weight, honestly.”

“If anything, I’ve lost weight. I’m wearing heavier boots this time.” Forward did one leg extend as he pointed down at the tight tied laces of his boots and he gave a playful grin before his feet were again planted. Audible was the snort that came from the woman that he had to peek around Gideon to see properly. Younger was she than Gideon, or perhaps he just showed the weather upon his face more than she. “But Whitemane. Really? Greymane at best, Gideon, but mostly still Brownmane.”

“I took the name from the man who came before me and so will the man who follows me take it. Just because his hair was a little whiter than mine, you cannot fault me. Now...” as he stepped back a bit, rejoining the band who looked almost out of place within castle halls. Not necessarily unwashed but visibly showing the grit and grime of travel, with thick hair back in small braids or with woven bits of wire. “Where is our Queen? We’ve yet to meet her.”

part 24.

But naturally, the half-elf was biased. He was sure some of the weight of what had transpired could fall upon Arric and yet… temporarily chose to ignore that fact as he gathered what the king had brought with them. After all, they had been prepared for at least a few weeks stay in the country, not a few days. Travelling bags had been near packed full. And soon enough they would be packed full and thrown upon the Vairan horses again as the men made their way back to their home country which had a far more temperate climate and far less risk of aggression due to racism or angry mountain elves, so as far as Tahvaen was concern it was an all around benefit.

That was when the door opened and the half-elf was quite prepared to wheel about and tell the king where he could so kindly go but he was met with a different Baidenese man. A Baidenese man with a fleck in his left eye and who for the first time appeared before him not garbed in armor but instead in simple woven fabrics. So red brows knit over blue eyes as he stilled his assistance in putting hig king’s belongings away. It was either foresight or sheer dumb luck, but Tahvaen himself hadn’t bothered to bring much of anything with him. More likely it was sheer dumb luck.

“Brenner?” It was the king’s voice that broke the impromptu shared vow of silence. Until then Tahvaen had merely been staring awkwardly in the direction of the taller knight before his brows knit and he went back to attending to his own things. “Is everything okay?”

“I would say I wanted to apologize for Mercurius, but I don’t want Tahvaen to punch me,” as he glanced at the half elf with a lingering smile on his face. His booted foot nudged the door closed and he walked in, beginning to assist with removing things from where the king had placed them in the wardrobe. “There’s no apologizing for him, but I would like to help--”

It was the hands of the confidant that reached over to pull the garments from the hands of the knight who held them that interrupted him, “We don’t need your help. Y’know, just keep that in mind next time you need ours.”

“Tahvaen!” scolded the ruler who had stopped his packing entirely for the time being, shaking his head and moving forward. With gentle hands he took away the fabric that was currently being victim to some tug-of-war between the two men and placed the draped fabric within the traveling bag that he was currently filling. “Please. None of this is Brenner’s fault, so don’t be so aggressive towards him. Thank you,” as a smile that could only be described as bitter and sad but a wholehearted attempt, “for your help. You can reach the things that the aides help me put away that Tahvaen and I are too short to get.” And though the laugh was somewhat forced, he managed it. And though there was some sadness in his eyes, he still managed it. Brenner knew well by now, after serving for so long so very near to a king of his own country, that a major part of being a ruler was managing it.

“My mother,” as he moved across to the wardrobe upon which a few things had been placed by servants within the castle and likely not touched since without the aid of clammoring into a chair, “was… like you, Arric.”

Round eyes of blue blinked for a moment as the king tried to make some sort of sense out of the statement. Was their mother Vairan? And yet it seemed as he glimpsed the slight sadness in those brown eyes that it was something deeper, something that sent a minor expression of shock across the fair face as he looked at Brenner. He hardly looked it. The man was Baidenese to the very core, with dark brown hair worn short and the dark skin--but he supposed that many of the convert elves who lived on the plains between Oran and Baiden had similar traits to the Baidenese due to the climate. Dark hair, skin, and eyes were hardly uncommon among their people.

“You have elf blood?” the blonde inquired quietly with his brows knit over his blue eyes. The hardened features looked to him to be fully human but again, he supposed that was an oversimplification of the attributes of hybrids. “Does Mercurius--”

“My father never even told Alden that his bride had elf blood, and as soon as he felt we were old enough to know, he did the same. Her life was only short because she grieved herself to her own grave after my father died, else she would likely still be alive… and probably raising suspicions because she never did age as harshly as humans.” All of this was spoken as he was busying himself with moving things from the wardrobe to where they were more accessible, but he was stopped by a hand seizing his tunic. It was Tahvaen’s, and he turned brown eyes to meet the prying blue ones.

“So let me get this straight,” as lips drew into a straight line and the red-haired head shook. “Your king would care if you had, what, and eighth of elf blood in you even those you are the most loyal knights he has? Is that what you’re telling me?”

It was almost nervousness as he ran his fingers over the Vairan cloth. It was woven significantly softer than the more common fabric in Baiden and there was some comfort in holding it before he placed it among the pile before him on the bed with a shake of his head. “Alden would very much have cared if my father wed a woman with elf blood. How it was a bad example to set for those in the service of the Rosenlied family. How this castle and all those who live on its lands should be free of elf blood. As for Mercurius, I cannot quite say. But it is safer if this is kept a secret.”

Fair fingers ran through red hair and the half-elf could not help but laugh and shake his head. By and large the continent of Liev had moved on beyond the staunch racism and hatred of elves and yet it seemed old grudges never did quite die in this country. Even an eighth of elf blood was enough to incur some sort of discriminatory response, even when someone had proven themselves time and time again in battle.

All he could do was laugh.

“This country is ridiculous,” as his head shook from side to side and he turned his back to the knight. For a moment the king moved towards him but stilled in his tracks opting to let whatever this was pass for the moment. “Honestly. I get it! The elves in the mountains are assholes. Elves did some terrible shit in the past to Baiden. But this is like me holding a grudge against somethin’ someone did to my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather that I haven’t even met. I mean--sure. The elves are not exactly bein’ the best neighbors right now but this is ridiculous.”

“Keep your voice down,” cautioned Brenner as he moved forward the grip the green fabric that the half-elf was clad in, the hand on his shoulder a strong and firm one. The man’s grip certainly echoed of the fact he had nearly been born with a blade in his hand. “Please.” Such a statement was less forthright than any prior comment he had made--there was something of a plea to this one, as he really did request only that the other male keep his voice down for his sake. Tahvaen had little to nothing to lose should Mercurius find out the family secret of the knights, as it were. But the confidant of the Vairan king did fall to silence for a moment even as his head shook from side to side. Then finally the man raised his voice to respond.

“I won’t tell anyone your big secret, Brenner. But you really need to think about why it’s a secret. C’mon, really? Why does it matter that one of your maternal grandparent’s parents had sex with an elf? Seriously? You and your brother both are amazing knights and fiercely loyal to someone I probably would have hauled off and punched in the face. Makes me glad Arric is so mild mannered.” His eyes moved over for a moment to look at the king who had returned to tucking his things away in his travelling bags. “This is ridiculous.”

Slowly moved the hand that had rest upon the shoulder of the half-elf as it returned to his side. Brows knit just slightly and the brown eyes cast down as he removed another article from within the wardrobe. His assistance was hardly genuinely necessary, but he found some comfort in the fact that he was doing at least something. ‘Tahvaen, we know. Those of us that have the bad luck of being Baidenese by birth and still having elf blood in our veins are all too familiar with how ridiculous it is. But to hear the people talk… they think much along the lines of Mercurius,” as a folded garment was placed upon the bed and he heard Arric thank him quietly. “That elves are some amalgamous, faceless enemy. In battle, that is what they teach you…”

“Not to think of your enemies as people?” inquired the king as he righted himself from having been leaning over his packing. Both sets of eyes turned to him and red brows arched. “Mercurius told me about it. How he is quite adept at not thinking of the enemies as people… and that is how they train the military and that is how they do not feel the anguish of war as harshly.”

“I… yes. Even my father told me that when I was a child. It was decided almost from the moment they learned my mother was with child that I would follow in my father’s footsteps into the knighthood.”

“So it’s basically taught into you from the time you can think, huh?” Which was by all means not a falsehood. Since he could think, he was thinking of elves as lesser or as different and it was just easier to do that. Mostly the different part. They were painted to be nothing but faceless enemies and given that their fighters often hid their faces, it was easier. “So it doesn’t bother you when you go out to war and kill people because you don’t think of them like that. Right?”

“Tahvaen.” Quickly that low tone silenced him and his gaze dropped. He was not silent as he gave a slight grumble to emphasize his discontent but the words were inaudible. “I understand why you do it. That does not mandate that I agree with it, but I understand the logic behind it…”

Brenner was not sure what to say, or if he should say anything. His brows furrowed over his eyes as he thought it over, merely standing mute for a moment.

“It does not mean you are bad people, Brenner. I am not saying that--don’t take it the wrong way, please. Vaira is a nation of peace…”

“And Baiden has not had that luxury.” The reply of the knight bordered upon frigid and it was quite clear that there was some animosity, even in the naturally calm voice of the knight. It was Brayden who shouted above the din of training, not Brenner. The two were twins and yet seemed almost as opposite as night and day in some aspects, that being one of them. But the bite of the wolf was truly evident in the words that he spoke. “Vaira is a younger country, and so you have seen less war. With all due respect, King Lander, you should know better than to simply brush off Baiden as a nation of warmongers and animosity towards elves.” His voice was not loud, but there was a subtle power in it as he moved away. His assistance, after all, was no longer needed. He was not a man to overstay his welcome and he felt that it was drawing to a close. “It may not be the most forward means of thinking, but there is a reason we are the oldest nation of Liev, Arric. Please respect that.”

Walking and talking had resulted in him finding himself by the door which he slowly opened with his hands, gripping firmly upon the steel handle. Baiden was a country that was truly forged of steel whether or not other countries cared for the way they did things. When the door was opened, though, it was Tahvaen that spoke to the retreating knight.

“Just because something is old does not necessarily mean that it is right, Brenner.” But the knight did not wait or pose any response, for he was down the hall and offered not even a glance over his shoulder. In response, the half-elf rolled his eyes and pulled the door closed. “What manners. Leaving the door open when it was closed before.” Nitpicking for sure--but he moved back over to Arric, who sat on the bed. And the brows above his blue eyes knit in concern as he lowered himself down next to the king, garbed in the loose fitting clothes of Vaira. “Arric?”

The slight frame of the foreign king was seated upon one of the bear fur blankets that was thrown over the foot of the bed. He had not used it during the entire time here, but now his fingers came to idly toy with the fur upon it as his face was fixed into a frown. “We really do judge Baiden very harshly, but Brenner had a good point.”

Groaning was audible as the confidant came to rest his face in his hands. “Just because something is old and works well enough doesn’t mean it isn’t in need of fixing, you know,” though the voice was muffled as he spoke to the heel of his palms as opposed to lifting his head to speak properly. “If a wagon had an old wheel that creaked and turned and had a bunch of nicks in it, but it still worked, wouldn’t you replace it?”

“But if an old, nicked tire still ran perfectly well and the cart was stronger for it, would you not leave it alone? You have to think further into your analogies than that, you know.” Weight on the bed shifted as the young king stood from where he had been seated. With the three of them working, the majority of what Arric had bothered to unpack had found its way back into one of the two bags that were waiting upon the bed now. Only something to wear in the morning remained out, hanging in the closet. To quick was this departure, in his opinion… but what could he really do about it?

Languidly red eyes lifted up and his chin was placed in his hands, “I would probably replace it. Because if it’s that nicked and flawed, it probably won’t be working well for much longer.”

Then a soft sigh was audible, accompanied by a shaking head. “This is why comparisons don’t always work. Baiden is a very strong nation. I would say it isn’t exactly a nicked wheel, perhaps one just shaped a little differently than Vaira. But it is a harder wheel that has been on the cart far longer. It is stronger for that and can likely overstand more rocks than Vaira ever could…”

In this a note of self consciousness rang. While it was certainly in no way the fault of the young king that Vaira was a considerably newer continent upon the face of Liev and Baiden had been in place practically since the land was settled, that would always be the way it was. Arric would forever be the ruler of a country that would not quite catch up in age to the mountain country. “If they have existed longer than us, who is to say we are not wrong? Their population is safe and happy… in this way, the countries are less like wheels and more like animals. You cannot feed a canary meat and expect it to proper. Likewise, you cannot present a hound with seed and expect it to grow.”

“No amount of obtuse ways of saying it will make it any better, y’know, Arric,” as the half elf soon enough mimicked the man’s motions by standing, his arms crossed over his narrow chest. “Baiden is inevitably wrong in the way they treat elves. They’re inevitably wrong about a lot of shit, but I’m sure Vaira probably is too. But the ways in which Vaira are wrong aren’t causing war.”

“Tahvaen, please. What’s causing war here? The elves--”

“The racism? Like, maybe this whole thing would have been less crazy if the taboo of elves was not such a big deal. Especially being as the high king before Mercurius slept with one. Are we forgetting that? The bigot king slept with the most hated--”

“Tahvaen!”

As the half-elf had spoken, his passion was evident as his volume rose. It was partly out of sheer politeness and partly out of the desire to keep what he knew was to remain a secret just that. It wasn’t like the Baidenese people would look upon Iolas, if all went well. None of them would see the Baidenese blood mixing with elf blood. At least, that was the plan.

“Prepare your things. We leave in the morning. You have just been helping me pack all night.”

“... Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”

part 31.

   It had been Brayden to make the casual observation, seated along a wooden fence that was notably sagging in numerous places. It was not necessary unappealing to the eye but instead merely showed some structural weakness, something that would not past the inspection on Baiden’s training fields. But he did not seat himself on a sagging paddock slat and chose one that was far more suitable to hold his weight. Meanwhile, within the paddock was the other knight that had attended the king during his travels, Brenner. The horse beneath him was a sable coated mare who had made the trek from the far-off country with them, for the man would scarce ride any horse that was not bred of the stock from his home. These horses were used to being ridden in times of battle and war and so it was pointless to train on any mount that was not equipped for it.

   “It’s because they don’t use them,” elaborated the identical voice from the mounted male as the horse made a sharp turn around a pole that contained a target dangling from it. The clang was audible as the tip of the lance held by mounted twin collided with the rusted metal, the leather strap it hung from bouncing and nearly threatening to rebound and strike the helmed figure. That was why he was cautious to wear it. There was the pounding of shoed hooves as the large beast stilled itself and even the more demure of the two knights had to speak out. “...And I can see why.” Someone less skilled could get severely hurt by the equipment, if they weren’t extremely careful. The male sat upright in the saddle and looked towards his twin sibling sitting on the fence, feeling the mare adjusting her weight beneath him. “They’re almost as dangerous as sparring. At that point, why not just spar?”

   “‘Cause we don’t bother to train a standing military, that’s why.”

   Both heads turned to the imposition upon their conversation, the lance gripped tight out of reflexive nature. “You’re stupidly jumpy. Are all Baidenese knights willing to stab a squirrel if it gets to close?”

   There was an audible thud as the seated male slid from his position on the fence. Armor clinked lightly as he moved towards the gate of the paddock, where the stranger leaned. No--as Brayden glared at him over the fence, he realized this man was no stranger but one of the two that had attended to the king of Vaira in the earlier council meeting. “You speak as though we are not aware of the politics of other countries. Do you all truly assume that Baiden is that isolationist?”

   “Sheesh! Do you all really talk like that all the time? I thought at least knights would be a little less, y’know, pompous.”

   Brows creased over the eyes of the man who served as assistant head knight though his brother made no outward protest, gauntleted hand pulling the reins of the horse slightly to cause it to turn. If nothing else, he seemed interested enough to observe this interaction. Maybe he just wanted to hear what Brayden would come up with in reply to this roguish fellow who seemed rather focused on being impudent towards them. It was quite known that men of Baiden, especially those who served under the King himself in the long-standing military, did not exactly take kindly to being insulted for any reason. What this interloper referred to as ‘pompous’ behavior and speech was really simply their way of communicating their pride in and of themselves--speaking like ruffians did not exactly convey the image of a knight, after all.

   “I apologize if our manner of speech is unpleasant to you ear but in the vein of unpleasantries I would like to remind you that encroaching upon two men’s conversation is considered abhorrently rude. Especially without bothering to introduce yourself.”

   Thud came the sound of the lance brushing against a mannequin setup in the paddock training field. Brayden saw those blue eyes cut towards the thundering hooves of the charging mare before feeling them drift back to him. And it was a languid, drifting motion instead of a direct turn of the head and for some reason that served to irk the knight and nearly push him to move his hand towards his blade. He refrained, however, if only to prove the point that knights did not by default reach for their blade. At least not trained Baidenese knights.

   “I mean, if you really think about it, who’s the real person encroaching here, huh? The only reason some members of council… y’know, including you two… opted to remained another day is to reconvene tomorrow to finish up business, ‘cause someone had to go and get into an argument with another king.”

   “You were there as well as we were,” spoke the mounted knight as the horse turned at the far end of the paddock. This was likely the loudest that he had raised his voice during the duration of their time in Vaira, lifting his helmet for the moment to rest it beneath the crook of his arm as the reins dropped on the still horse. “Yet you speak as though His Majesty Rosenlied instigated anything.”

   “Hold on, wait.” From Brenner to Brayden bounced those eyes before a hand raised to point at the two of them. “Twins? Seriously?” causing the expression of the knight who stood on the ground to visibly sour. Already he was not exactly fond of this insertive redhead and now the man could not even deem it fit to stay on track with the conversation as it went currently.

   “And just what the hell does us being twins have to do with anything?”

   “I mean, how do they tell you apart? You guys in armor are hard enough to tell apart without being twins underneath it all. Seriously. Your voices even sound alike… minus him being a lot more soft spoken than you. Did you beat him up for talking when you were kids or something?”

   “How dare--”

   “Ignore him,” as the helmet was placed back upon the head of the mounted knight, his own brown eyes flicking towards the male from beneath the helmet. Reins were lifted again, as was the lance that he opted for over the sword. “He is a friend and confidant of His Majesty King Lander and it would be best not to create animosity between us.”

   It was not as though anyone could simply walk in and observe council, after all. One had to be a close personal ally chosen by a King to even enter the room. That, or one of the top ranking guards tasked with manning the doors in case of… any number of things. This fiery redhead of a man was clearly no knight and thus must have served as some sort of council to the king of this country or else he would not have even set foot in the room. That alone merited at least some respect for him--respect that Brenner willingly showed before urging the mare into a gallop.

   “See, he’s got the right idea,” spoke the Vairan king’s confidant as he leaned his weight forward on the gate again. “I should be respected.”

   “You should be careful because that gate is open.”

   As the man shifted his weight forward on the paddock gate, the fact the deadbolt had not been fastened became obvious. Luck was on the side of the man in that he did not find himself tumbling face-first into the fecal matter of a horse but merely into the sand that served as the grounding for the arena. Brayden mutely mused to himself that it would have been infinitely more amusing had it been the former option and yet he would take his sense of cosmic justice where it lay, and if it so happened to lay face-first in the sand by the creaking paddock gate, he would take it. He hadn’t been the one that was kind enough to warn him; it had been his twin’s brother that had sounded the caution of the unlocked fence. Yet, marginally too late, as though the creaking of the hinges had been the reminder that the gate had been left open when the man and horse had entered.

   While Brenner’s smile of amusement was concealed by the armor upon his head, not so for the laughter that peeled from his sibling who had relocated himself to the solidarity of the fence once more. “Respect is to be earned by those outside of the Baidenese we serve and the kings themselves, I’m afraid,” as he placed his booted foot against the lower tier of the fence, “and you have done little to merit anything resembling respect from us. Bad manners… and a blatant unawareness of your current situation. That would get you killed if you were a knight.”

   And the blue eyes snapped up and narrowed, clearly not too pleased to have dealt with what was blatant mockery, “Then it’s a damn good thing I am not a knight, especially if they’re all concieted like you.”

   But there was another sound. The sound of Brenner’s weight upon the ground as he dismounted and crossed over to the fallen hand, the weathered leather on the bottom of armored gauntlets extending to him to help him up. Brows were furrowed in the look his brother gave him, but the lance wielding sibling had always been the more gentle of the two. Assisting someone who had, honestly, shown a flagrant disrespect to him was not something too far out of the ordinary. The slight height difference resulted in the shorter knight having to lower his head as the male stood to obtain eye contact through the holes for sight in the helmet.

   “You should be more aware of your surroundings.” It was not mocking or belittling, just a statement. “For your own sake.” And he had turned his back slightly towards the other man, turning to approach the horse and remount to continue training. That was, until an exclamation of ‘wait’ came from behind him, and he stilled his movements with his brows arching beneath the helmet.

   “You aren’t completely identical, are you?”

   The two knights cast a look towards one another before Brenner curiously turned back around. “What do you mean?” Now--they boys were aware of a minor physical characteristic that differentiated the two of them. The only one who had been aware of it was Mercurius Rosenlied himself, for they had grown up with at least passing familiarity and children are more prone to pick up on minor details. (After all, it had been the child prince that had noticed the fact this future advisor’s eyes were nonreflective.) But since then? It seemed none cared to examine the two of them to a point that they would notice a detail that was so very small. For it to be pointed out upon a first meeting was positively flooring… so the two chose to believe the man was bluffing until he stated it. “We’re completely ident--” but the protest of the seated knight was silenced when the redhead began to speak again.

   “You,” as he pointed towards Brayden without even bothering to turn and look at him, “are more of an asshole, but I mean there’s something physical too.” And he was looking directly at Brenner, who had moved a few paces away. “You have a tiiiiny little brown speck right there. In your left eye.”

   And a gauntleted hand raised to hover over the prior mentioned eye, turning his hand away. A discomfort settled into him for a moment, for it was rare--in fact, it never really happened that someone looked so intimately at him to notice these small things. Other minor differences were there, such as freckles from the son where one did not have them, yet so minor were they that they were easily looked over. But the differentiation between their eyes was the primary one that could be fallen upon to tell the two knights of Baiden apart. These movements were, to Brayden, a clear implication of his sibling’s discomfort and so he rose from his seat and placed himself between the two.

   “With all due respect,” spoke the voice of the knight that now faced the male, “that’s really no business of yours.”

   “So what’re your names?” Ah, to speak as one commanding at least some inkling of respect, he seemed unwilling to give it to those that would technically outrank him as high knights. “Or am I just going to have to call you Speck and Asshole?”

   “Brayden,” came a firm correction as the explicative was so casually hurled. Dealing with knights meant he was not unfamiliar to swearing and foul language and all sorts of instances of uncouth behaviors, but to present it while quoting and holding oneself as a representative of a country? It did not sit well with the rigidity that Brayden was accustomed to, though he was initially hesitant to make any threat of report. It could be that the sheepish king of Vaira allowed this behavior in his court, though he had to reason that such would reflect as a whole badly. Or maybe this man merely did not care. That was the more infuriating options. “And his name is Brenner. And with that being the information you are seeking, I ask you leave--”

   “No,” came the voice of the quieter brother, the reins of the horse around one gloved hand as he approached the paddock that was opened. “I believe, Brayden, that it is best if we leave. The training grounds are not particularly useful and I do not want to risk running my horse more ragged than she needs to be. We have a long journey home starting tomorrow evening.”

   While it was presented as a suggestion, there was really no suggestion to it. Already he was out of the gate by the time he stopped speaking, the sandy hued horse’s tail flipping as he walked her towards the stable nearest the paddocks. None of the stable hands were even allowed to touch her, for Brenner was very specific with how she was cared for.

   The remaining men only looked after him for a moment before--as though in some sort of comedic synchronization--they directed their gaze again at one another. Brayden’s features were more hard than the ones of the rogue that showed amusement in them, his arms folded across his chest. Though he had to look up at the knight, he still had a smug sense of superiority in the entire situation.

   “Well, given you were the one raisin’ hell, I guess it’s only fair to give you my name before the two of you go off to do… whatever knights do for fun that isn’t training, I guess.” Arms uncross and came to hang next to his body as he tilted his head. “Tahvaen.”

   Were it any name that was more benign in nature, likely the knight would have merely dismissed himself to pursue his sibling. However, the cadence and the sound of it caused his mien to harden as he stood there, feeling a moment of constriction to his very veins. While many of the countries had relationships with the elves that could be deemed as almost wholly peaceful, the one between Baiden and the elves in the Silatin Mountain Range were harsh. Baidenese men were not the biggest supporters of the elvish culture, so he stilled his feet in his very tracks.

   “Stay away from Brenner,” he said, not even looking over his shoulder as his gait again began as he moved forward. “We are leaving directly after council tomorrow, so it should be easy enough to avoid him between now and then.”

   “C’mon, are you your brother’s keeper? Can a big, strong knight of Baiden really not stand up for himself?”

   “I said, leave him be.” And with that, the knight disappeared into the stables where his brother had departed to, leaving the man with the elvish name to stand, alone, in the ill-kept paddock with, really, nothing but his own thoughts and the creaking of some of the older equipment in the win. But Tahvaen was not the type that would keep his opinions to himself. Though the door of the stable building was firmly closed, he still felt the need to speak up.

   “You know, they say tellin’ someone not to do something is the most surefire way to get them to do it. Or do they not teach you that when you’re brought up to be a knight?”

   But he left it at that, sliding his hands into the pockets of his breeches and making a leisurely stroll back towards the castle. Arric should have wrapped up his meeting with Mercurius by now, he figured. He’d just been killing time because that was one ‘council’ he had been denied entrance to.

part 6.