by R K Lander
“You! Shut your mouths and get to the main hall—you’re late!”
Red-faced and duly chastised, the three friends marched towards briefing together with the other village boys and the small group of Alpine recruits. Fel’annár was one of only four with blond hair, although none sported the silvery paleness that had always singled him out – even now he stuck out awkwardly, involuntarily drawing attention to himself, attention he always strove to divert.
Elant was their drill instructor. His job was to teach them military protocol; how to salute, when to salute, how to march, present their weapons.
Calenar would be their physical instructor. His was the onus of building their muscles and improving their endurance.
Faunon was the only Silvan on the training team, a scout the recruits looked at in curiosity and respect. This Faunon must be good, they reckoned, to be the only Silvan amongst the Alpine tutors.
There had been no mention of weapons training and one recruit had promptly asked why that was. Calenar explained that they could not yet be trusted to hold a blade in their hands. Alpine warriors were brave, but not that much, he had added with a smirk.
By the end of their first week as recruits, their muscles ached ferociously, and Ramien was provided with a new set of clothing to accommodate his ever-growing bulk, triggering a round of light-hearted mockery which the Wall of Stone took with a rueful smile, earning for himself the respect of his fellow recruits. He was their Silvan giant, quick to rile and smile, always where the laughter was.
Idernon earned his own fame as a bookworm and was sometimes looked upon in puzzlement for it was not at all common for one his age to be so learned. But Idernon had an incisive and ironic sense of humour and for this, he was respected as a scholarly, witty elf and a generous companion.
As for Fel’annár, his corner of the room had turned almost completely green. Light green plants, dark green vines and wild, yellow flowers sprouted here and there, invading his bed, even sticking to the inner walls. An officer had once made to rip it all off but the baleful expression Fel’annár had turned on him had been enough to change his mind. He was a child of nature, they said, a true Silvan despite his looks, and some had even speculated he could speak to the trees, something most had laughed at good-naturedly. He was tough, sometimes quiet, sometimes as boisterous as they came. He was ‘The Silvan,’ they said, because that was what he had chosen, above his Alpine heritage. Fel’annár had accepted his new nick name with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders, but he bristled every time his instructors used the name, for their intentions were not so benevolent; it seemed Fel’annár was not to be forgiven for wishing to be Silvan.
They were always together, as close as brothers and yet so different; Ramien, the smiling giant, Idernon the witty sage, and Fel’annár, The Silvan.
With the third week came twisting cramps, dehydration and general exhaustion, for all except those of The Company, for unlike the others, they had subjected themselves to such physical training since they were children, especially Fel’annár, whose body was a silent witness to his relentless efforts. Idernon had often mused that training was Fel’annár’s way of channelling his frustration over his aunt’s refusal to answer his questions, his anger at his father for abandoning him and at his mother for dying.
***
Fel’annár bent at the waist, his legs descending in a perfect, straight line until his booted feet touched the ground once more; slow and precise. Righting himself, he shook his arms and then rolled his shoulders, waiting for his head to clear for he had been standing upon his arms for long minutes.
Sitting beneath a beach tree he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, left hand drawing lazy circles over the tree roots. He smiled a little and allowed his mind to wander where it would – there was no rush – he was free for the rest of the evening and here, away from the noisy barracks, he could train in his own way, far from prying eyes. The others were writing in their journals, composing letters to their families or playing games and placing bets.
Four of the longest weeks of his life had, paradoxically, flown by and he could not say they had been bad save for his rocky start with the Silvans – and the Alpines, he added pointedly.
He had managed to stay out of trouble for the most part and that was due to his own conscious efforts to blend in with the rest. He trained with the recruits and then carried out his own routine in the evenings when he was left to his own devices – admittedly with the help of Ramien and Idernon. It would not do to be caught performing his own movements, his aerial work – they would not understand.
His own chubby face floated before his mind’s eye – a child with round sparkling eyes – eyes that dreamed of being a captain and here he was, forty years on, his dream still before him, the parchment of his story yet untouched, laid out invitingly before him. All he had to do was write on it – fill the pages and this was where it began.
At first, he had wanted to be a warrior – fight for the people, for his aunt, for Ramien and Idernon but then he had seen himself atop a mighty destrier, armour glinting in the midday sun, under a blood-splattered banner of victory. He remembered shedding a tear - not for the pride and glory that would come of such a heroic feat, but for the forest, for the lady in the tree, the first face he had ever seen. He had cried for the beauty of his woodland home, for the love it inspired in the deepest part of himself.
He had chosen to be Silvan, for half-breeds can surely choose, he had decided. All he needed to do now was overcome his own anger, the anger that led him to rashness. But how to achieve that when provocation was never far away? His new name—The Silvan.
His fellow recruits used it light-heartedly and that was all well and good, but that same name from the lips of his tutors was a veiled insult, as if they threw him bait and waited for him to bite down on it - trip him up purposefully for what fool, they would think, would choose the Silvan side and reject the glory of the Alpine elves?
“May I?” came Idernon’s soft voice at his side, making Fel’annár jump.
“Your tracking skills are progressing,” he said defensively as he fidgeted and then settled once more.
“I should hope so; Faunon is good,” said Idernon as he lowered himself to the ground beside his friend.
There was silence for a while, until Fel’annár understood his friend would not ask him to speak and yet expected him to all the same—there was no escaping Idernon at times like these and so, with a heavy sigh, he gave voice to his thoughts.
“They think me a fool, for choosing my home, my heritage, for being Silvan and not Alpine – they think I hate them.” If he had expected Idernon to comment though, he was wrong and he chanced a sideways glance at his friend, who was staring blankly back at him. His heart sank to his boots as he began to understand his friends’ silence.
“You agree? You think I hate them – the Alpines?” asked Fel’annár, his anger becoming more apparent as realization sunk in.
“Do you?” asked his friend evenly, his eyes searching, “do you hate them?”
“Of course I don’t. Idernon, I am Silvan and when I tell them that, they laugh and call me Alpine. I am proud of my origins, Idernon—why should I be pleased they call me Alpine?”
“I believe you miss the point,” said Idernon carefully. He had always known this moment would come, the moment in which his friend would need to understand himself, the part Idernon had always seen so clearly.
“And the point is?” asked Fel’annár, his jaw working rhythmically.
“You are not angry because they will not see you as Silvan, Fel’annár. You are angry because they call you Alpine. Because your father, was Alpine . . .”
Fel’annár stared at his friend in disbelief. “I don’t care!” he hissed, eyes suddenly wide and furious as he scrambled to his feet. “Is it too much to ask that I be called what I am and not what I am not?” No sooner had he
said it, than he closed his eyes in defeat.
“And so you see,” said Idernon calmly as he too stood, “What is it that you are not Fel’annár? Are you not half Alpine? Are you not as much a part of that race as you are Silvan? Why should it make you angry, if only because your father was Alpine?”
Fel’annár stared back at his friend in disbelief and betrayal, his head shaking from side to side as if he would deny the words Idernon had just said but he could not, and for some strange reason it made him even more angry. Taking a deep breath, he hesitated for a moment, almost as if he would speak, and then he stalked away towards the training fields, his gait stiff and controlled, anger rolling off him like fog upon the high plains of Prairie.
Idernon knew not to stop him for his friend had an ugly temper when his family was discussed. The unexplained absence of a father and the ensuing years of frustration could not be remedied easily and Idernon damned Fel’annár’s aunt for her silence, a silence neither he nor Ramien had ever understood.
***
Lieutenant Turion sat alone and watched, not for the first time as the lone recruit worked through the basic stances of close combat, unaware that he was being observed.
Fel’annár, that was his name, he recalled. Green Sun—and he could see why, for the boy’s eyes were blazing pools of spring moss, akin to the venerated woodland plant he was named after, a plant that only bloomed once, a flower of such beauty that many gave as tokens of esteem; indeed Turion’s sister had one—she said it brought love and he would always laugh.
Fascinated, the lieutenant watched as one leg slowly slipped back, far behind the other, both arms stretched out in front of him, elbows bent, palms down, the muscles in his chest and arms flexing and cording. He stayed that way for many moments until he pulled back one arm, turning the palm skywards.
There was an intensity about the boy, an eye for perfection – he was intimidating.
He was good—nay he was excellent. But of course, Turion had already known that, not because he had seen this on the training fields, but because he had been here before, in this glade, the recruit’s hidden spot.
He had obviously been training like this for a long while and Turion, experienced immortal warrior that he was, knew the signs of a troubled heart when he saw them. If he compared today with what he had seen on previous days, there was a sharpness to the boy’s movements; slow, simmering anger that was being channelled into his movements. He had seen far too many cases of young warriors who had lost fathers to battle, mothers to the raids of Sand Lords or Deviants—he knew the signs of conflict, could read them on their young, inexperienced faces as easily as he could a child’s bedtime story. Understanding them was part of his job, that and to make them the best candidates for warrior hood as he could. Turion had once turned down the opportunity to become a captain, to enter the venerable Inner Circle of Ea Uaré because had he accepted, it would have taken him away from all this. It was a simple yet rewarding life, one he had craved for after years of fighting in the field. It was a reward, he thought, for all those years of gruelling service in the North.
The recruit changed position, his extended leg slowly returning to its original position, before stepping diagonally, knees bent, arms tracing invisible ribbons in the air. Hypnotic. He was almost dancing, feet placed carefully this way and that, hands reaching forwards, sideways, palms moving up and down – it was a strange technique for it seemed that he would offer something, only to take it back, or perhaps he was inviting the enemy to tackle him, only to ward him off. There was a language behind the moves that Turion could not quite grasp. He wondered if the boy had designed the technique himself for as far as he knew, there were no combat masters in Lan Taria. But perhaps he was mistaken.
Fel’annár, what is your secret, child? he asked himself, his head cocking slightly to one side as he watched the entrancing moves of a fifty-one year old elf that was too young to have been taught such things.
Lieutenant Lainon popped into his mind’s eye then and Turion smirked. They had served together in the North many centuries ago and then had both taken a step back from active duty. Turion had come to these barracks, still far enough away from the city, while Lainon had moved closer, a mere day’s ride away from Thargoden’s court.
He still remembered his friend’s find many years ago, an astonishing young warrior who was now serving in the North. Lainon had boasted for months and Turion had endured it good-naturedly. ‘Well, my friend. Perhaps it will be me to brag about my own find,’ he smiled to himself. He would wait a little longer, wait for one more sign lest he make a fool of himself. Yet time was a luxury he did not have. Just this morning, Turion had received orders from the city. News from the northern fronts was dire and novices were desperately needed. He was therefore required to send along his more advanced candidates to the next step of their training, to earlier promotion and the front lines. It was a sad fact of life in Ea Uaré, one that was all too easily forgotten in these, apparently peaceful parts of the forest. But one only had to look a little further away and towards the main path into the city to see the comings and goings of warriors, supplies, and the arrival of Silvan refugees. It had been bad even back when he was serving there, but now they were being forced to send novices to the conflicted areas. He closed his eyes in a rare show of emotion and then opened them once more, focusing on Fel’annár as he glided over the ground.
He would speak to the boy, he decided, help him if he could, and then he would send him away—to war.
Chapter Three
A Song on the Air
“There are three races of immortals. The Silvans of the great forests, the Alpines of the mountains and the Pelagians of the sea. And then there are Ari’atór – Spirit Warriors. They may be born of wood, stone or water but always with one purpose; theirs is the noble onus of protecting Valley, assuring the safe-passage of the elves that seek the sacred light of the Source – pass through it to the other side and bliss. Some take to arms and travel to the Median Mountains, to fight humans that seek the light and are turned to evil but others take to the souls of the Silvan people, for their connection with Aria’s creation equips them with a wisdom that guides the spirit on the path of happiness. They are the Spirit Herders, revered and feared as much as their brothers in arms.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book I - Annex II: On the nature of the Ari’atór. Marhené
***
“Come.”
“You wanted to see me, Sir,” asked Fel’annár, standing rigid before his commanding officer. He was nervous, thought Turion, concerned perhaps that he had done something wrong.
“Stand at ease, novice,” he said as he approached the boy from his spot before the window. “Fel’annár of Lan Taria, yes?” he asked.
“Correct, Sir.”
“You are young for a recruit,” he said almost conversationally, waiting for the boy to answer him.
“Yes, Sir,” he said simply.
“Your tutors speak highly of you. You are disciplined, quick to learn and respectful to your superiors.” He paused here, his eyes inviting Fel’annár to speak yet again.
“Thank you, Sir.”
It was not enough. The boy was not forthcoming at all and so Turion took a more direct approach.
“Why do you hide what you know?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he moved closer to the recruit, watching as his face dropped and then paled visibly—the question now was, would he lie and deny what Turion knew was the truth? It was a pivotal moment.
“I—I mean no disrespect, Sir,” he said a little too fast; he was defending himself, realized Turion.
“I asked why you do it, Fel’annár. Why not allow others to see how good you are in combat? Surely you wish to do well, impress your tutors?”
“I do, Sir—but, but that would mean . . .”
“Drawing attention to yourself,” murmured Turion, answering his own questi
on even as he spoke and his eyes strayed over the boy’s extraordinary hair. Fel’annár’s eyes were wide, like a child caught stealing hot buns and Turion took pity on him.
“You are not in trouble, Fel’annár. I wish only to understand you. As your commanding officer, it is my place to ensure the best recruits become available for combat training, to protect our forest, and to do that I must first understand them, help them become the best warriors they can be. Do you understand?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Then tell me. Why do you not wish to draw attention to yourself? You are popular with the other Silvan lads—I have seen little antagonism save with a few of the Alpine novices,” said Turion. “Why do you stand in the shadows?”
Fel’annár dropped his gaze to the floor. He was uncomfortable and Turion’s suspicions were confirmed. This boy was conflicted, for some reason he needed to understand, wanted to understand, and a thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Is someone bothering you?” he asked, watching closely for the reaction his words might provoke. “If they are, you seem more than capable of defending yourself—why would you hide yourself away for that reason?”
“I have no problems with my colleagues, Sir, for the most part. I am simply uncomfortable with attention.”
“Most people crave it,” commented Turion. “Or is it that you have had too much, of the negative kind?” he tried. His efforts were rewarded, for there was no mistaking the expression on Fel’annár’s face.