Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Were these the dawns of Valley?

  As the sun continued to break over the lightening firmament, the shadow of a lady stood before him, hardly visible, but in just that moment, under just that light and on just this day, he could almost see her, and even though her face was steeped in shadow, he knew those eyes: they had been the first eyes he had ever seen. He reached out with one hand, fingers tingling in anticipation, for before him was the incomprehensible beauty of life.

  Radiating light replaced the lonely darkness.

  Comforting warmth banished the numbing cold.

  She dissipated, merged with the colours and the sun and the warmth, even though he knew she was still there . . . and always would be.

  Aria.

  His heavy hand dropped to his lap, so tired. He would sleep here, under the protective sky, but there were sounds around him, a dawn chorus of birds, someone shuffling beside him. He was too tired to turn his head and look away from the blossoming sky, but he felt the world around him, beckoning to him from wherever he had lingered.

  He was not dead; this was not Valley. He was alive, and he wondered how many dawns like this he would see. But then what did it matter? He had seen this one, a dawn that would stay with him always.

  Dawn through the eyes of Aria.

  “Fel’annár?” A soft, tentative call.

  He felt the pillows behind his back and the roots beneath his hand, and then there was searing-hot agony in his side, but someone was gasping, someone was crying, someone was stroking his hand, and someone was giving thanks to Aria. He could feel others, too, their souls, their love, even though he hurt, eyes slowly closing to the world after their feast of nature.

  He was alive and he was safe, and he slipped willingly into the healing arms of Aria.

  Gor’sadén stirred, Pan’assár’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He could hear muffled voices, shuffling boots. His eyes opened, and he turned to the door. They were back, Fel’annár just as still as he had been when they had left. But something about their countenance gave him pause, for their eyes were overly bright and puffy, like lost children, he mused.

  Panic surged through his body, but Mestahé broke from the main group and came to stand over Gor’sadén, watery eyes too wide for one that grieved. His tears were not for the fallen but for the returned.

  “I have seen a miracle,” he whispered through his smile. “He has woken.”

  Pan’assár stared dumbly back at the healer while Gor’sadén’s eyes slipped shut in utter relief, and when he opened them once more, his eyes searched and found the confirmation he needed.

  “Thank you, Mestahé,” he whispered.

  The healer smiled, nodded, and then scurried away.

  Later that morning, when Arané had finished tending to Fel’annár, he turned to The Company.

  “Go and get some rest. I don’t want to see you again until after lunch.”

  They complied reluctantly, filing out of the room, but Idernon stopped and turned, eyes latching on to Llyniel, who stood grinding bark. She caught his gaze, cocking her head to one side in curiosity. She watched as he limped towards her, and she placed her bowl on the table beside her.

  “Llyniel. I have not always been civil with you.”

  “You were worried. We all were.”

  “You have my eternal gratitude, Healer, for saving him. You will always have me as a brother, if you so wish.”

  She smiled at the Wise Warrior, but before she could say anything, Idernon had wrapped her in a tight hug. She smiled wider and then patted him on the shoulder. He stepped away from her and walked back to the departing Company. They stared back at her—and as one they nodded slowly and then left the room.

  Arané’s hand was on her shoulder and Mestahé smiled back at her. A sense of achievement such as she had never felt settled upon her. She had saved the elf she loved, with Aria’s help, the elf who might bring change to her forest home, and she had done it with Junár, because she had invested her entire adult life to studying tree barks so that one day, she could make a difference such as this one. And this was her reward. She had found a family in The Company, for they were bound in heart-break and love, in their desire for a better forest for the Silvan people . . . and by their love of Fel’annár.

  She snapped back to the present as Gor’sadén groaned while Pan’assár and Mestahé lifted him from his bed. Arané would not allow him to walk, and so he endured as he was carried to a chair at Fel’annár’s bedside and the healer arranged his damaged leg on a stool. All Gor’sadén wanted was to hear Fel’annár’s voice.

  Reaching for a limp hand, the commander called to him.

  “Fel’annár. Fel’annár . . .”

  His name was Fel’annár, Green Sun. He was a brother of The Company . . .

  His eyes opened. He wished he could focus, but that was not meant to be. He could see dark bulks moving around his bed, could hear voices as if he stood in an empty tunnel.

  There had been a battle. They must have won because he was alive, however strange this place was. But where were his brothers? Had they survived? Was Gor’sadén dead?

  His head was pounding, and he grimaced as his leg muscles stiffened painfully. Somebody’s hands were on him, flexing his ankle and pulling on the twinging muscle. He scrunched his eyes closed, felt tears rolling down his temples. A damp cloth wiping over his face.

  “Fel’annár.”

  Someone was peering down at him, and he blinked to clear the haze that would not lift. Grey hair and blue eyes, an acutely arched eyebrow—Sontúr. He wanted to say it, but all that came out was a long “sssss.”

  The face smiled and then was gone, and in its place was another. Auburn hair and honey-coloured eyes.

  “Lly . . .”

  He couldn’t get his body to move, not even his tongue, and his brain was playing games, he knew. Someone was lifting his head and then water trickled into his mouth. He swallowed, and the hand disappeared.

  They were moving him, touching him. He could hear clinking glass and smell burning wood, but a soothing calm descended on him and the pain was receding. His eyelids felt heavy, but he couldn’t sleep, not until he knew the fate of his brothers.

  “Fel’annár?”

  “Gorss. . .?” he whispered.

  “I’m here, sitting beside you.”

  Fel’annár slowly turned his head, feeling the hand that held his, and for a moment he was back on the battlefield, lying hand-in-hand with Gor’sadén. He had thought he was dying, had chosen the commander as his father; he’d said goodbye to him.

  “B—brothers?”

  “They are well. They never left your side.”

  “And Panss?”

  “Is coughing his guts up thanks to that unholy beast he fought. But he will be well.”

  A heavy breath, a slow blink, utter relief washing over Fel’annár.

  “I thought you had died.” Gor’sadén’s voice wavered, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed at how his tongue had taken over his mind and blurted the words.

  “So—did I,” said Fel’annár, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and Gor’sadén laughed. He took a deep breath before speaking again.

  “When they told me you were still alive, I thought it a gift—from Aria herself.”

  Fel’annár didn’t answer, couldn’t, for his throat felt too tight and so he listened.

  “I was so proud of you, standing there with your brothers, giving me the time I needed to prepare my army and march, face the Deviants on the slopes and not on our very doorstep. And then we danced . . . and you saved my life. Teaching you will be an intriguing and exhilarating ride, a duty I am honoured to undertake.” A pang of fear rolled through him, for although it was true, Gor’sadén did not know if he would ever be able to dance the Kal’hamén’Ar again. But it was not the time to disclose that. Only time would tell whether he would make a full recovery.

  A tear slipped from the corner of Fel’annár’s eye. He wanted to lift his hand and swipe it
away, but he couldn’t, and so he lay there, incapable of uttering a single word.

  “Once you—we, are on our feet and strong enough, we will speak publicly of everything that has transpired these last few days. The king wishes to hear it from your lips, and there are questions that must be asked. After that, I don’t think it will be long before Prince Handir calls for your return to the Forest. It has been long since last I travelled those lands.”

  Fel’annár had listened quietly, emotions rolling off him like mist over the highest ridges of the Median Mountains, and his grip on Gor’sadén’s hand tightened, even though it was still weak, as if he were holding on to him from below.

  Gor’sadén felt his own eyes fill, and he squeezed the hand of his son, the one he had thought lost, the one they said Aria had brought back to life through the hands of a Silvan healer, through the loving embrace of a Sentinel.

  Hours later, Llyniel bowed low and whispered in Fel’annár’s ear. “Handir is here to see you.” Practised eyes roved over his face before she turned, nodded at the prince, and then walked back to her mixing table by the fire.

  “You slept a long while, Brother,” murmured Handir, standing over Fel’annár.

  Fel’annár was struck silent, not that he was capable of speaking much. His tongue was sluggish, and he wondered if his mind was, too—whether he had misunderstood. But the misty eyes of a royal prince looked down on him with nothing but pride. No judgement, no resentment. No censure. It was Handir who stood over him.

  “Brother,” repeated Fel’annár blearily. His weakened state loosened his tongue.

  Handir smiled down at him and then placed a hand on Fel’annár’s shoulder. It was warm and firm, and Fel’annár’s heart soared in his chest. He had been touched with affection by a brother he never thought to have.

  From afar, Llyniel watched with tears in her eyes, for a bond between brothers had been formed, a bond between an Alpine prince and a Silvan lord. It went against the odds, but the hope of a brighter, more just Forest flared to life in her soul.

  There was only one thing left for Handir to accept.

  She walked to the other side of the bed, watery eyes fixed on her heart brother. And then she smiled, bent, and kissed Fel’annár on the lips. It was chaste and tender, so very eloquent to the eyes of a trained statesman. Cool eyes wrinkled at the corners, and a subtle smile graced his countenance.

  He nodded, and Llyniel understood him perfectly. Turning her eyes back down to Fel’annár, he smiled as she smoothed a hand down his face. “There are things I would say,” she whispered, and Fel’annár’s smile did not wane as he nodded that he understood.

  The door clicked open, and Llyniel and Handir turned. The Company filed in, saluting to Gor’sadén and Pan’assár as they passed and then converging on Fel’annár’s bed. Their clothes were clean, hair shining and freshly-braided, and they smiled as they greeted their brother, careful not to jostle the bed.

  Fel’annár watched them fondly, proudly. They had accepted their own deaths to stay with him, had refused to leave him and save themselves, knowing they could have died, would have, had Gor’sadén not arrived when he had.

  He loved these warriors with all that he was.

  That night, the people of Tar’eastór flooded the streets. The soft singing had gone and in its wake were the beats of drums and clapping elves, hails for their brave dead, chants of victory to the glorious warriors that had beaten back the hordes of terror.

  The Nim’uán had come for their homes and Gor’sadén and Fel’annár had vanquished it. The Gas Lizard had wreaked havoc and had paid the price . . . Pan’assár’s legendary sword through its mouth. They spoke of the Kal’hamén’Ar and of The Company, of how they had stood before the Deviants, offering their young lives so that others would live.

  But most of all they sang of the trees, of their battle, of the Forest Lord who had commanded them and then had been brought back from death itself by the Winter Sentinel.

  The city hummed with excitement, with pride for their people, for their commanders, and their king. It was the beginning of a new era, a second coming of the glory days of the Motherland.

  Days later, Arané informed Fel’annár that he was allowing him to return to his own rooms—under strict instructions not to leave them and, of course, to do as he was damn-well told. It had taken a miracle to bring him back, and the master healer was taking no chances. First, he would eat and then allow Arané to perform his final examination. Then, Arané would explain to Fel’annár how he should use his crutch. Fel’annár had balked at the thought of hobbling around on a stick, but Arané had explained what might happen should he decide not to use it. Fel’annár had promptly agreed that he would.

  Just after the lunch hour, Hobin and Gor’sadén hobbled into the room, Pan’assár hovering around them. Fel’annár comforted himself in the knowledge that they had to use two crutches where he only had to use one. A small mercy, for it was almost painful to watch them. He was relieved when they fell into chairs beside his bed and Pan’assár sat at the end of it.

  “You are finally free,” began Gor’sadén with a smirk that was also a grimace of pain as he settled himself.

  “Almost. I am minutes away, although I fear Arané’s long list of conditions—and that bloody crutch he wants me to use.”

  Pan’assár snorted in a most undignified manner while Hobin raised his dark brows. “It could have been worse,” he said, and Fel’annár nodded thoughtfully.

  “How was the strategy meeting?” asked Fel’annár, watching his mentor closely.

  “It went well,” began Gor’sadén carefully. “All cautionary measures have been approved, the city’s defences reinforced. We have patrols scheduled to explore and exterminate and, of course, to map those tunnels. Once we have a clear picture of them and have gleaned as much information as we can, they will be destroyed.”

  “The captains had questions, I assume,” asked Fel’annár with a lingering gaze.

  “Oh, they had questions,” said Pan’assár somewhat hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “But they must wait for another day. When you are better able to deal with those questions, we will hold a hearing at the Inner Circle. For now, you must regain your strength. I wager Prince Handir will soon be calling for your return—for our return.”

  “It’s safe then, for you to leave the city’s defences in Captain Comon’s hands?” Fel’annár asked, turning back to Gor’sadén.

  “As safe as it can be, Fel’annár,” said Gor’sadén. “Comon has been fully informed of everything. Commander Hobin will return to Araria in a few weeks, after the hearing and as soon as he is able to ride,” he added, turning to the Ari leader, who spoke next.

  “We need to understand how an Elven Deviant came into being—where he came from. I suspect he was not fully Elven, perhaps with a human mother or father. I will search our records for any cases of half-elven children passing the Last Markers. I will send missives to Tar’eastór and to Northern Ea Uaré with anything we can uncover. We have close ties with the village of Abiren’á. It is a common route for messengers from Araria on their way to King Thargodén. Commander Gor’sadén will be close enough to respond should there be an emergency.”

  Fel’annár nodded again, but their stares lingered, and he knew they had their own questions. Gor’sadén had been careful not to overtax him until now, and Fel’annár was grateful for that.

  “You have questions,” he began.

  “We do,” confirmed Gor’sadén. “About the Nim’uán, about the trees and—about what happened at the Sentinel.”

  Fel’annár stared back at Gor’sadén, and then his eyes slipped to Hobin, who was staring back at him unwaveringly. Fel’annár nodded that he understood, but before he could even try to get his mind around where to begin, Pan’assár was speaking.

  “It can wait, Fel’annár. We didn’t come here to interrogate you but to accompany you away from this infirmary, from where we did not think you would ever lea
ve, at least not on your own two feet. And . . . we also came to commend you.”

  Fel’annár had not expected that, and he frowned, but again, Pan’assár was speaking.

  “This has been in my mind for some time, but today, as we spoke of the battle during the strategy council, it seemed so utterly out of place, for every time I referred to you, I said Warrior Fel’annár. I found myself explaining that this warrior had stood beside a lone tree, had conjured some power, stood in the company of only five other warriors and watched an army of thousands swarm the land. I told them that I knew you expected to die and that you accepted that, because you are a warrior. It sounded wrong.”

  Fel’annár’s frown deepened, but his eyes were riveted on Pan’assár.

  “Silor never deserved it, but you . . .” He reached into his tunic pocket, then pulled his hand out and held it before Fel’annár. He looked down, to the outstretched palm, and upon it, a simple line of silver—to be pinned onto the collar of his uniform.

  Fel’annár’s eyes stared at the object he had seen before, eyes burning and heart hammering. And then he tore his gaze from it and looked at Pan’assár. A smile slowly blossomed on the commander’s face, one Fel’annár had never seen, and it moved him.

  “Trainee lieutenant?”

  Pan’assár nodded. “I have commissioned your pauldon. The next time you don your uniform, be it Alpine or Silvan, you will do so as a trainee lieutenant. I have already spoken to Galadan. He will teach you all he can. In one year, you and I will speak again.”

  Fel’annár breathed deeply, closed his eyes and turned his head downwards, and the three commanders watched him fondly. When Fel’annár opened them once more they were bright and intense, full of wonder and pride. They drifted to Gor’sadén, in search of complicity. The commander nodded.