#visell

“This is ridiculous!! It never would have happened if we’d just kept our hunters where they belong!”

“Because a policy of isolationism has always served us so well in the past-”

Athim massaged his temples and tried unsuccessfully-if Lycanae’s quick glare his way was any indication-to hide how the council’s quarreling was wearing on him. Mythal’enaste, it was always variations on the same argument. The more the traditionalists hissed and spat, the more those favouring the massive gains of the Taren’Ghilan’s high risk, high reward ventures dug in their heels and languished smugly on the side of the majority. But this Council meeting was no normal gathering and panic leant a kind of desperate, savage earnesty to everyone’s fears. The Adahl’vhenan was filled with a low murmurs of dissent and agreement, Lycanae and Junelen facing off against one another as they debated heatedly. Though, to be fair, it was less of a debate and more of a verbal sparring match that yielded not but raised voices and petty attempts to drive the other into a misphrase that would cause their opponent to ungracefully concede.

“I am the voice of the Sister of the Forge, the scion of this clan-!”

“So you keep telling us, Junelen. Loudly and unnecessarily-”

Worse than his headache, though, was his sense of utter relief. A proud, young huntress of his Clan was dead, relief was the last thing he should be feeling. Yet, watching Lycanae stand there in the sunlight filtering through the bows of the Adahlvhenan, he thanked every Creator there was for her safety. They’d fought over who should go and who should stay, Lycanae insisting that she personally attend the Conclave herself. Her knowledge of human politics would give her an edge and Clan Tanaleth had to know what was going on, how else were clans too far flung to send their own spies to discover what transpired? What if the human Chantry called another Exalted March? She’d been adamant, she’d tried convincing, cajoling...he had no idea how he’d managed to persuade her to send just a small contingent, just two hunters. Two of her best, but only two. Had their conversation gone differently, had he allowed her free rein to do as she pleased-

“Keeper? Keeper.” He glanced up and found the assembled council and it’s petitioners watching him. Athim cleared his throat and made a dismissive gesture.

“A brief recess. I must gather my thoughts before we continue with this. Taren’Ghilan.” Lycanae glanced over and caught his eye, inclining her head in acknowledgement and following him outside. A pair of her hunters shadowed them to a safe distance from the door as another pair exited through similar doors at the sides of the massive burl that made up the meeting chamber. The Eyes in the Trees would discourage and eavesdropping with the absolute discretion Lycanae expected of her people. He held the door hanging aside for her and watching her duck under his arm and slip out into the afternoon sunlight ahead of him.

“Athim, I think we need to-”

Before she could continue, he caught her up in a tight embrace. She stiffened and stayed that way and he could feel the impatience in her as she allowed the contact.

“Athim-”

“Lycanae, please. Just one moment. Just...let me have a moment.” It shouldn’t be so much to ask for one second free of politics. She shifted slightly and pulled back to look at him, her lips a thin line of disapproval.

“Arlaera is dead-”

“I know. I know she’s dead. I know it’s horrible. Mythal’enaste, I feel horrible about it. But please.”

“Cant this wait-”

“It could have been you, Lycanae.” For a moment, she stilled and relaxed in his arms...and then he felt her shoulders shake. A lance of panic went through him and he pulled back from her to search her eyes for tears, for sorrow and fear and the mixture of relief and guilt he felt to show in her face as well. Instead, she was grinning. Barely holding back laughter.

“What, what’s so funny?”

“This whole time, you were worried because you thought that I would have gone to the Conclave?” She looked up at him through her lashes, covering her mouth with a hand to stem her laughter

“Yes! Yes, of course! None of this is funny-” He growled at her indignantly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Athim, I merely needed whoever was listening to us quarrel to think I would have gone to the Conclave! I’d never have left you here to manage everything yourself! I’d never have left the bulk of my hunters like that, to the mercy of a Council lead by Junelen-”

“It was a ruse and you didn’t TELL ME?!” He hated shouting but it seemed to be the only thing that got through to Ly when she was in a mood like this. She raised her eyebrows and quieted and he immediately felt an enormous wave of guilt pass through him. Her body language communicated a world of meaning and most of that meaning was distilled into a ‘Really? You’re shouting at me? Over this?’. Athim sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, pacing away from her across the polished wooden platform. She didn’t follow him but remained silent and still, pretending to survey her nails and the forest around them with perturbed disinterest. 

“You didn’t tell me.” This was true, she hadn’t told him and it was unforgivable. He’d fretted over nothing when he should have been more focused on what was going on around him. Mythal forbid he worry over her though, oh no, she couldn’t have that. Agh, Creators.

“I did not.” Lycanae had a way of carrying herself when she was irritated that could make you feel like a caterpillar under the gaze of a hawk. Or maybe it was simply his own frustrated guilt and confusion that made him feel that way. But her distant expression and cold tone of voice did little to disabuse him of the feeling of insignificance.

“You didn’t think I could have kept it a secret?” Lycanae scoffed and rolled her eyes and he advanced, raising his voice slightly. “You don’t think I could have appeared convincingly upset for months, Lycanae. Months, I worried that you might change your mind-”

“You are my Keeper, Athim. I could hardly have gone against your direct orders.” The effervescent politeness in her candid tone might as well have been her own form of shouting. A fight. Mythal give me strength, why does this keep happening?

“Don’t do this.” He pleaded, his shoulders sagging as he conceded defeat. The only way to win with her like this was to show throat and he’d long ago made peace with the fact he simply could not withstand her implacable standoffs.

“Do what? You are the one who worried for nothing-”

“You could have told me there was no reason to worry! Arlaera dead and all I’ve been able to do all morning is think if it had been you instead-” She stepped up to him and reached out to gently cup his face in her hands, turning his head so that she forced him to meet her eyes. 

There was a softness there that soothed all the nervous tension that had been building in him and he gently gripped her slender wrists and breathed a deep sigh. She raised herself up on her toes to capture his mouth with her’s, the press of her kisses soft and grounding as he returned them in kind. She drew away after a moment, her lips still close enough to his that she seemed to breathe the words into him as much as speak them.

“Athim, ma nehn, please. I am here with you, I am alive. You worry for nothing.” He bent his head and pressed his forehead to hers, wrapping his arms around her like she was made of glass.

“Ir abelas, ma sa lath.” He whispered huskily, relief washing over him. How could she do this to him, put him through this much in the space of a few clipped words and misunderstandings?

“Banal abelas, ma lath.” Ma lath..but never ma sa lath. And you know why. Athim crushed the mutinous thought and shook his head to clear it, smiling at her as she looked up at him with concern on her lovely features. “Athim?

“We should get back before they send someone looking for us.” He brought his hand to her chin, brushing a thumb over her lips. She caught his wrist and kissed it sweetly, her grey green gaze as beguiling as it had been when she first fixed him with it years ago. It was impossible for him to deny her anything she desired, impossible even for him to stay mad with her.

“Can you focus enough to duel with Junelen right now?” And back to the politics without a spare breath in between.

“Let’s just get back to it, Lycanae.” He grumbled, sweeping aside the cloth door for her once more and making a tired gesture.

Enastelani twitched slightly on the hard wooden bench and tried to pay attention to what was going on in the meeting. If you’d just done well in your trial and become First instead of letting Andareth have it, you could be sitting in the comfy bench. Andareth was lounging in his seat by the Keeper, the nest like throne of interwoven branches looked positively lavish compared to her uncomfortable perch. He glanced up and caught her eye, shooting her a winning smile that made her flush and look away. He’s been so smug since his trial. I let you win! You’re not even half the mage I am! She wanted to yell at him, wipe the smirk off his face. He’d been nicer before becoming First...he’d been kind. He was still kind, she supposed. Just not as sincere.

The debate had raged on into the evening and everyone present had decided to forgo dinner and sort out the issue before retiring for the night. Or well...mostly sort out the issue. At this rate it felt like nothing would get solved. Her father and the Taren’Ghilan were the worst of it. She sat among the last holdouts, the council members whose presence was either required or whom the decisions being made affected. A few were just clan members hoping to get a vote in, or ones who had been promised concessions for throwing their judicial weight behind one option or another. The old Lorekeeper, Laslan had mostly fallen asleep and Tanlen had long ago begged off insisting that his patient needed him. Poor Rasnan, Enastelani thought, poor me.

She felt tears prick her eyes again and sniffed quietly. Arlaera. Beautiful, young, vivacious Arlaera. She wondered if her friend had told Rasnan she loved him before she died, she wondered if Arlaera had given her chosen mate the promise ring she’d made for him. It had been so sudden, both of them being sent off by the Taren’Ghilan to the Conclave. And it had seemed the perfect time for Enastelani to tell Arlaera how much she loved her. But then, Arlaera had confessed her plans to propose to Rasnan and Enastelani had forced down the hurt so she could be happy for her friend. Just friends...friends who sometimes said ‘I love you’. Friends who slept together and kissed and shared everything with each other...Enastelani took a deep breath and wicked away the tears that ran down her cheeks. Doesn’t matter now, she’s dead. Stop whimpering and move on with your life. Beside her, Herdsmistress Irassali shot her a sympathetic but desperate look. Irassali had an attitude to mirror her halla and she loathed being called up to the Adahl’vhenan for these things. She’d much rather be with her beasts than spending hours listening to circular arguments...she meant well but as good as she was with halla, she was terrible with people.

“Please don’t cry, da’len. If you start, I’ll start.” 

“If I thought it would end this stupid meeting, I’d cry rivers.” Sathel muttered under his breath, chipping at the block of wood he held in his hands and glowering at it. A small pile of shavings had begun to collect at his feet, curls of new wood stark against the old golden grain of the floor.

“Sathel-” Irassali chided him, “This is the fate of the Clan-”

“So? ‘Fate of the Clan’, don’t be silly. It’s about trade. It’s always about trade and about information and about us shoving our thumbs so far up the other clan’s asses we can tickle their sinuses-” Enastelani winced at the craftman’s colourful metaphor and shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable and simultaneously wishing that Sathel would keep his voice down just a little. “No one can get a word in edgewise with those two snap snarling at each other like a pair of gurguts with water sickness.”

He gestured with his carving knife to where Junelen and Lycanae were still debating hotly back and forth. Enastelani sighed deeply as her papae argued pointlessly on. He was getting angry and the Taren’Ghilan was as patient as a spider waiting in a web: Once Junelen got angry, he’d get sloppy. His logic would fail him. It happened nearly every time. Anger twisted Enastelani’s gut, it wasn’t her father’s fault. He just wanted what was best for the clan and Lycanae always made him look like a fool.

“Gurguts cant get water sickness.” The herdsmistress muttered testily, her lips thinning to a tight line.

“I dont give a flaming halla shit about gurguts. I just want the Guiding Mind to stop playing with her food so we can all move on with our lives.” Sathel grunted, conceding her point and continuing to chip at the block of wood in his hands.

“We have to pull the tradesmen back it’s far too dangerous-”

“We’ve been over this, Junelen. My hunters are capable of handling the threat and the roads-”

“Do not interrupt me, Flat Ear.” There was a collective intake of breath and a few of the hunters stationed around the Adahl’vhenan tensed. Papae, why are you doing this? Lycanae, for her part, seemed amused. Andareth was the one who spoke, perking up slightly in his place beside Athim. His voice was oddly mellifluous and self assured, eyes the blue green of submerged ice flows gleaming copper in the half light. Being First looks well on him, Enastelani thought with a small amount of bitterness.

“Junelen, perhaps the long hours are taking their toll on you.” The kind words were heavy with insult, dripping and saccharin like poison off an arrowhead aimed to kill. Junelen’s lip curled into a cornered animal’s snarl as he glowered at Adareth’s benign expression. “Openly insulting the Taren’Ghilan is hardly going to solve anything-”

“No? What about the fact that she and, I suspect, the Keeper have known of these so called rifts for a week at least?”

Enastelani looked to Athim who was doing the best impression of startled concern she’d seen from him yet. Andareth was a mirroring it in such a way that Enastelani almost believed it sincere. Lycanae looked believably stricken, ears pinned down, guilt plainly written on her face. Ah, a ploy. Here, her father had thought himself so clever. At least the inevitable loss of ground not yet gained was now complete. Maybe they could finally have dinner. Laslan stirred from his nap at the sudden silence, issuing a ruffling snorting snore reminiscent of the noise a congested bogfisher might make. Enastelani bit back a sudden hysterical giggle, helped along by Irassali stomping quickly on her foot.

“Junelen, you were not made aware of the Rifts?” Athim’s voice was gentle with sincere concern. Wait, that’s not right. Lycanae didn’t look stricken at all now so much as she looked smug, capable. Vicious. Oh no. “Taren’Ghilan-”

“Of course not. I went straight to the source and informed Sis myself. She was very grateful and confessed that her nephew has been greatly missed at her forge. It is difficult to be the voice of a Scion when you do not readily communicate, is it not?” The silence in the Adahlvhenan was suffocating in it’s totality. 

“You are not supposed to speak to-! There are traditional observances-”

“Your title is perfunctory and exclusive to this Clan. It is not a longstanding tradition and it has little utility when you insist on abusing it.” Enastelani wanted to sink deeper into her bench, through the floor, out of Thedas entirely. Her father’s face was stricken as the Taren Ghilan tore him apart with his own failures, merciless as the wrath of Elgar’nan. “You owe this council your sincerest apologies for a dereliction of duty-”

 The other members of the council were turning their glares on Junelen like a pack of starving wolves scenting blood. Enastelani breathed a heavy sigh and tried to block all of it out. This was terrible, watching her Papae be publicly humiliated. Please, let this stop. The back and forth was usually more interesting than this, more a swift exchange of blows, wit against wit. It was usually entertaining for her, the hours she spent in the Adahlvhenan a time to wonder at it’s beauty and the strength and ingenuity of her clever clan. It wasn’t a time where she was forced to watch her father fall, fail with no possible recourse. All of this felt vicious and stagnant, the anxiety churning through everyone’s minds making the decisions slow, the plots and cantrips painful rather than delightful.

“Taren Ghilan, you have made your point-” The Keeper trying to defuse the situation, trying to quiet the mutinous whispers humming her ears like angry wasps. Think of something nice, calm down. It’s alright, it will be alright. She clenched her shaking fists and sought to quench her mana before any stray sparks of magic could manifest themselves in her distress.

“I do not think she has. Perhaps we should strip Junelen of his rank-” Sathel now, his tone heated. Enastelani bit her lip until she could taste the copper of her own blood.

“This is a diplomatic clan, Keeper. Should we not put the matter to a vote-” 

“This was not the point of this council to bring Junelen’s title into question-” Athim again, trying to call everyone to order. Was Andareth grinning? Lycanae had said nothing since her brutalization of Junelen’s confidence and competency. She didn’t need to say anything, she had incited a riot, given everyone someone to blame for the meeting taking too long.

Think, what did you love about the old council meetings? Think! The company was better. Rasnan on one side of her, Arlaera on the other...Arla’s nimble fingers dancing down her spine or braiding her hair, her soft lips pressed against the shell of Enastelani’s ear as she pointed out all the infighting and bickering and made it all seem funny. She took the bite from the politics and made light, remarked on all the better things they could be doing with a hand squeezing Enastelani’s hip. She’ll never do that again...she’ll never laugh with me, never kiss me, never sit here bored to tears again...Enastelani had believed things had hit their all time low when Arlaera had confessed her love and intentions for Rasnan. She believed the huge swell of sadness in her breast as her fists clenched so hard over the promise rings she’d crafted for them was the worst emotional pain she’d ever felt. It had been, up until this. The grief was fresh and it made everything else stale by comparison, the only thing that still burned vividly was the overwhelming pang of loss.

“ENOUGH!! DIRTH HAMIN! All of you! We are not putting anything to a vote! I will have respectful, sensible and honest discourse in this council or by the Creators I’ll-!” But Athim trailed off, seeming too furious to finish. Everyone in the adahlvhenan had the deceny to look ashamed and her Papae-poor papae- was quivering like a field mouse trapped between the paws of a fox.

The sob when it came was louder than she’d intended and it interrupted whatever silly song and dance was going on. There were two, so loud and jagged that they sounded like coughs. Her throat ached as she glanced up, meeting the thirty or so concerned faces. She nearly flinched when she saw her father’s fierce glare, another small sob issuing from her lips before she could stop it. She tried to turn it into a throat clearing instead and was only marginally successful.

“Can I...Ir abelas, I am…” Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Every fiber of her being simply wanted to wail her sorrow at the sky. She wanted to scream and she simultaneously wanted to be still and quiescent and not let anyone see her pain. It felt like being caught in a net, wrapped up tight where every attempt to free herself would just bind her tighter until all she could do was choke.

“Are you well?” Syla’s strident, nasal voice scraped at her ears like a knife. No, of course not. Of course I’m not ‘well’. Enastelani clenched her teeth together and glared at the floor, her vision blurring with tears. Beside her, Irassali and Sathel had made every effort to distance themselves or appear uninterested. Ira was patting her knee like she was a frightened halla fawn and Sathel...well she couldn’t see him, but ‘glaring at everyone with a vengeance’ was likely.

“Lethallin,” Keeper Athim’s voice rang out wearily into the awkward silence, addressing one of the hunter’s. Enastelani glanced up, biting her lip so hard she could taste blood. The hunter in question stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the meeting chamber. “Could you please escort the Second back to her flet to rest? It’s been a long day for everyone, but none more so than she. I fear that in our bickering, we have forgotten to honour the huntress who we lost today, brave young Arlaera, so dear to all our hearts.”

June’enaste. Finally someone is acknowledging it. It hurt her pride that she needed the Keeper to speak for her, but it was better than bursting into real tears in front of everyone present. She stood up and edged her way around Irassali, meeting the Keeper’s kind eyes briefly   and bowing her head. Her quiet ‘Ma serannas’ was muttered at the floor. Enastelani fled the audience chamber without a backwards glance, sensing more than seeing the hunter who fell in step a few respectful paces behind her.

She breezed past the hunters guarding the entrance, sucking in a desperate lungful of cold clear night air and wrapping her arms around her middle as she set out across the winding walkway. It was actually a temperate evening but after the confines of the Adahlvhenan, the air had her shivering. She looked out over the canopy, the carefully tended torches that lit the way through the various walkways and bridges between the trees gleaming brightly in the blue evening gloom. 

The cool night air was perfumed with the smell of arbor blessing and the occasional pungent note of ghoul’s beard, both herbs cultivated for their medicinal properties and their use as a giant spider repellent. She tried to take comfort in this, the familiar things she could still see and smell and touch. Arlaera is gone but you are not, the dead cannot return no matter how many tears you shed. She slowed her pace marginally, repeating the thought again and again to try and soothe herself. She paused by a curtains of arbor blessing and stood for a moment, breathing in it’s comforting scent and trying to catch her breath and recover her composure.

The soft footfalls of the hunter padded up beside her and he stood, watching the sky in companionable silence. She’d seen him before, but only rarely. Tanaleth’s Eyes in the Trees were divided into several different tiers, some more specialised than others. Most of the more skilled hunters were nearly continuously out in the field, trading in every few weeks. Torchlight gleamed off the dark red of his hair, pulled into a ponytail high on his head, the sides and back of his skull shaved in the traditional hunters style. The vallaslin of Falon’Din graced his high cheekbones and framed large, pensive eyes. Enastelani sniffed and wiped hastily at the tears flowing freely down her cheeks

“Here.” She looked at him and saw he was holding a handkerchief out to her...or rather, the closest thing to it. It was a dusty red colour, embroidered with a fine pattern of stylised autumn leaves at it’s edges. She squinted at them curiously...were they leaves? Or maybe- “they’re supposed to be feathers. I, uh, I’m sorry if it smells like hide glue. I use it to touch up the fletching work sometimes.”

“I...thank you.” She murmured, her voice breaking slightly as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her face with it. “Did you-I mean, I shouldn’t bother you about...I just.”

“If you need to talk about what happened, I’m willing to listen. Athim is better for this kind of thing, when he’s not falling asleep during council meetings.” The frankness of the hunters tone startled a choked, hiccuping laugh from her throat.

“Was he...was he really asleep at one point?” They set out again, continuing down the various bridge and platforms that wound through and between the trunks towards her personal yurt.

“He was starting to nod off a bit, yeah. Don’t tell anyone, though. Very serious, all that grandstanding.” The hunter rolled his eyes, a wry smile curving the corners of his lips. “You know him, though, doesn’t usually yell. Must be Ly giving him the run around.”

Enastelani winced. She’d rather not think of that yet.

“I know the meetings are important but I just…”

“Wasn’t expecting it to take the whole day? You and me both. I can’t decide what was more scintillating: Irassali’s halla update, Sathel swearing not once but three times in the course of reading off the inventory ledger-” He’s trying to distract me...and he’s doing a good job. She sniffed and smiled a little at the thought of Sathel saying the words ‘too much blighted elfroot’.

“He’s upset about our stores being low-” She defended him, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice and failing.

“ ‘Low’ other clans worry about low with food. Tanaleth is one of the only one that worries we haven’t got enough materials. And our dear Taren’Ghilan wants us to keep our artisans traveling even in the tumult. Best case: they check in on the other clans, solve our materials shortage. It’s a risk, but they’re all very capable. All the things she wants are very positive. But she also knows if we pull everyone back, all the shem will see is ‘elves suspiciously flee scene of crime’ and city elves will die. They’ll be blamed for the sky getting torn up and the humans will tear them up in turn. That’s why the council cant make any decisions.” The man was so practical and earnest after the painful and winding debates of the Adahlvhenan it was a breath of fresh air. “Ah, this is you, right?”

“I...yes, this is me.” The yurt was new and magnificently crafted, the circular, surrounding flet wrapping around the trunk of a large tree. It’s embroidery and stitchwork had been crafted by some of the finest weavers and seamstresses Tanaleth possessed, elegant and graceful lines that mimicked the veins in a leaf adorning the sturdy material in dyed spider silk. She’d designed it and helped build and put together nearly every component she could. The materials to make it had been an early present to her from Junelen, a congratulations on her upcoming appointment as First. And then it hadn’t happened and Junelen had been so disappointed with her when Andareth became first instead he’d barely spoken five words to her since. She was just glad to have her own space, away from her mother and father’s shared flet. It’ll be a good place to curl up and cry for a bit...then prepare for Arlaera’s Vigil...

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Second.”

“Ah! I mean, wait! What’s your name?” The hunter smiled at her and inclined his head slightly.

“I’m Visell.” She returned his smile weakly, holding the handkerchief out to him. He shook his head and waved it away. “Nah, you keep that. I mean, unless it really does smell like hide glue and then I can take it off your hands but ah, you need it more than me.”

“Thank you, Visell. You can call me Enastelani...it’s a little less formal than Second.” She laughed a little to hide her fumbling and ignore the overwhelming feeling of guilt about being the clan’s ‘spare’ mage. Visell made a quick, theatrical bow and then righted himself.