No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  “You ask me what I want?”

  Nethan gives her a knowing nod.

  Awyn watches as his eyes shine white, and the world around her fades away into what she’s wanted for a long time.

  Peace.

  Finally.

  A bed of green grass. Stars twinkling in the sky. Rain falls gently on her skin. Breathing in, she smells the cold, fresh air, and nestles into the serenity she has not been gifted, but earned.

  She sleeps well.

  Epilogue

  12 Months Later

  Year 1, Fifth Age

  “Cal, you must admit—I’m getting so good at flying,” Alise had bragged, but still searched for his approval and praise.

  Calen had rolled his eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. At least not for free. She could work for it.

  A strand of her golden hair curled around her fist, and she intently stared at him as he read A Story of Dreams. It was an interesting read. Fictional and dramatic, it had been adapted into a play for the stage. Reading was something he liked to do.

  This book in particular. He had read it five times front to back, needing to devour every bit of it so he could get something new from it with every scan of his eyes. The plot is fairly simple. A girl is thrust into a war she has no place in, and a boy she meets is either her savior or her doom. Simple. But the author creates it into something a lot more.

  Something dark. Meaningful.

  “Cal?”

  He had looked up at Alise, whose eyes were now expecting. Sighing, he had put the book down and gripped her cheeks. “You. Are. Amazing.” He kissed her forehead, and even when he stood, he saw her wipe his extra-sloppy kiss from her face.

  But what he liked most about the book was the fact that the hero died at the end. And the villain lived with his guilt.

  Funny how fiction mirrors real life.

  Now, on the plains of Mera, he looks out on the Lake of Kings. A place he didn’t think he’d ever see again. Never seeing any of the world again, trapped in Marduth for eternity. But life had other plans.

  Life’s cruel. It wants nothing but to twist you up until you wish for death. It happened to Awyn. It happened to Revera. Maybe even Kepp. Never him, though. He isn’t sure why. He’s selfish, sure, but in the naïve way. He’s very aware that he deserves to die. That he should die. And yet he’s still alive.

  For the past twelve months he’s been doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, if hiding counts as nothing. He’s done plenty of that. Hiding from Aradon, from the elves, Merans. Everyone.

  He’s tired of it, though. Really tired.

  He was young when he joined Crozacar. Barely knew who he was. And he never got to learn, either. He was thrust into darkness and pretty soon, Karak was the only part of himself he had understood. Now that he’s going to be alive forever, no matter the weapon, nor the age…it seems time to stop hiding and work out who the heck he is.

  Karak. Calen. It’s been a constant war for the past four ages. And now that the Fifth has arrived…he doesn’t want to keep wondering who’s in control. He needs to live, to experience something other than violence and death. Or darkness. Spirits, he’s had enough of that in his life.

  Too much.

  He hasn’t heard Crozacar’s voice in twelve months.

  That’s something.

  And what’s more…he knows what he’s going to do next. Like a sudden downpour, the clarity hits him, clear as glass.

  He needs to go home. To Altare. Or whatever land it is now. If it isn’t habitable, then he’d have wasted no time. Time is irrelevant. No. He has no excuses anymore.

  He’s going home.

  Rain falls. Calen smiles, remembering that Awyn liked the rain. How could someone he knew so little about mean so much to him? She was everything, right when he needed it. And he was everything for her when she needed it too.

  Love is something he has plenty of time to figure out now.

  Awyn…you would have loved this. His lips curl in a smirk. Don’t ask me how I know, you won’t like my methods, but…happy birthday.

  She never liked his methods.

  Maybe he should take that to heart?

  He has one, after all.

  Lauden is warm today, the sun high in the sky, yellow beams of light glowing upon the grass of the Eronian territory. Lauden has always been a mystery, the grass not only red or only green, but a blend of scarlet and emerald, while some seas remain a single color. But he loves the contrast. The mystery. He loves his home.

  Hagard returned to Ailand after the war for a short time, but he left again to help build the democracy in Mera. Apparently, they think highly of him there, as part of the now-dead Resistance. It’s a part of his life he will never forget, and he’s pleased to help the Meran people build their nation into something great.

  And maybe it’s this reason, or the memory of Alfie, or just the memory of war, but he hasn’t had a drop of liquor since the battle’s end. Sometimes he has nightmares. And dreams. He remembers the blood. But also the friendships he made. Perhaps they weren’t forever. They were separated in ways that can’t be put back together again. But Hagard’s okay with that, because he’ll always have the memories. He doesn’t want to forget. Nor erase his past. Not like his father did. Barnel had a dream, and he made sure no one found out when it failed. Hagard won’t do the same. Even if his dreams leak into nightmares, he will never forget.

  Smelling the scent of blackberry pie, he’s instantly brought back to his childhood, when he and his brothers played in the streams. He and Nalden would get kicked into next week by Mrs. Huck when they would trample her flowers, running from the herd of boys they had stolen lunch from. But his papa always swatted their rumps for that one. Hagard remembers smelling the same pie on the windowsill of the Amberhill home, climbing onto the sill, only to stop short when he was caught by the green eyes that always took his breath away.

  And there’s no difference when he sees Ava put the pie on the same windowsill. Smirking, Hagard shrinks close to the ground as he sneaks up to the window. Above him, Ava gently hums, never quite in tune, but she’s never cared.

  When he springs up, she gasps, and the cloth in her hand goes flying. Ava looks at him with wide, stunned eyes, jaw slack, and he can’t help chuckling.

  “Sorry. It smelled good.” The same thing he said all those years ago.

  She doesn’t say anything. The only other time he’s seen her speechless is when his papa died.

  Doubt creeps into his mind and he wonders if she’s angry. “Ava, I’m sorry for leaving, but I needed to—”

  She nearly jumps out of the window as she reaches and wraps her arms around his neck, lips on his. This isn’t the first time she’s kissed him. She’s kissed his cheek, his hand when they were in a school play. Even his forehead once, when she was taller than him until he grew. He always imagined when they kissed that fireworks would explode in the sky, raining colors as their hearts would beat as one. But just as his reunion with his brothers, this is simple. And simple is so much better.

  When she pulls away, they eye the crushed pie, and it only takes them a second before they start laughing. He loves her laugh and feels himself swoon all over again. Ava squeezes his hand before digging into her kitchen drawer. Hagard smiles when she hands him a spoon. They clink them together—raising a cheer to nothing and everything—and dig in.

  Some loves die. Sefa, Saine. Some disappear. Ethiah, Sauriel. And some were twisted into meaning something. Raea and Daron. Awyn and the First Lieutenant. When he had heard of their romance from Aradon, he hadn’t been surprised. He’s probably lost the ability to be surprised. But when he looks into Ava’s eyes, he knows that there’s still some things he has yet to find, and he can’t wait to discover them.

  “Sorry I left.” Hagard takes a bite. “Mera needed me, still needs me.”

  Ava smiles softly, understandingly. “You don’t leave wit’out reason, Hagard. Dat is someting I respect about you.” She averts her gaze,
absentmindedly picking at the pie. “But I was hoping to kiss you sooner.”

  Hagard tilts his head. “How much sooner?”

  Ava looks at him, green eyes glowing in the sunlight. “How old are you?”

  Hagard grins.

  Radian and Asgoreth will be ruled by the elven monarchy as a joint nation. There are few Asgorethian people left, no more king, so Eldowyn is the one who is leading. Asgoreth is still haunted by Revera, but grass grows in the once barren desert.

  Eldowyn looks out onto the country, Radian behind him, only divided by a river. Wind sweeps his hair and ruffles his breezy tunic. He remembers when he was a prince, living in the palace in Drestia. He wore beautiful silks and linens. But now…he can’t bring himself to. It reminds him too much of who he used to be, and who he was when…

  When he was alive.

  Eldowyn was a lot of things when he was alive. He was snobby. Pompous. Rude and arrogant. Then he changed. Sauriel’s death in the Third Age changed him. His ego deflated, his condescending nature lessened. He was becoming what could be considered a good man. An elf worthy of the throne, Sauriel, and his brother.

  But he still managed to let his twin down.

  Every day, he regrets living in the sun while his brother lived in the shadows. In his shadow. Daily, he wishes his father hadn’t chosen him to live, but had chosen death. Maybe he doesn’t deserve death. Eldowyn didn’t do anything wrong, he knows this. But the guilt hasn’t gone away, since his brother tried to kill him in the Kawa. Since then, guilt. Regret. Frustration. So much anger, so much hatred. His brother was consumed by it. And then there was Eldowyn. Living through war, and the agony of life after his twin’s death.

  He lives. His brother is dead.

  How is that fair?

  Eldowyn doesn’t cry. He’s cried enough for a mortal lifetime.

  It’s been a year since the war ended. Twelve months since everything ended. Aradon has his crown, Nomarah is being put back together again. Mera too. And Eldowyn is glad, he is…but he wishes he could be put back together again too.

  “Pitying yourself?”

  That voice. That beautiful voice that he can’t get rid of no matter what he does. There was a time when he would have given anything to hear it. But now…

  “What part of ‘then leave’ don’t you understand?”

  Sauriel walks up beside him. “Ouch. A year and you’re once again as condescending as—”

  “Why are you here, Sauriel?” Eldowyn looks at her, not caring what she has to say. What could she say? What even is there to say?

  Nothing.

  She gazes at him with defeat. “I tried, all right? I tried to stay away. I traveled the western lands, but I found nothing I wanted.”

  There’s that word again. Nothing. His life is just one big void.

  Sauriel sighs. “But I couldn’t do it. I defy by my very nature. And that includes you.” She shrugs, looking at the horizon. “So I came back. I checked up on things. Mera’s doing well. Nomarah is sewing itself together. Rohidia is…getting there.” Her eyes land on his. “Drestia isn’t my home. You are.”

  “I can’t be.” He turns away from her, not wanting to look her in the eye. “I don’t want to be.”

  “Which is it, Eldowyn? Can’t? Or don’t?”

  He thinks about that. Can’t. He can’t because just the thought of touching another being or someone touching him makes him want to die like his brother did all those months ago. With even the softest touch, he feels his twin’s blood soak his clothes. He can’t because every time he looks into her eyes, he sees what his focus was for six months, the focus that drew his attention away from what really mattered. It’s her fault.

  Don’t. He doesn’t want to be her home because…

  It’s her fault.

  Although it’s not.

  But he’s not ready to accept that it isn’t, yet.

  Sauriel puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him to face her but he recoils sharply, biting his tongue not to yell at her. He wants to rage at her. Hit her, then kill her. But he can’t.

  Another can’t.

  His brother, his father, his mother. Adriel. Her twin children. Sauriel. They’re all the weavings of his home. They’re all the parts of a whole that shelter him from storms. But they are also where the most raging ones are born. And they’ve broken his shelter too many times to count. Does he risk another break? He’s found the splintered wood. But he hasn’t rebuilt yet. He doesn’t know if he can. His family’s broken. His shelter is gone.

  Can he pick the pieces up by himself?

  “You can.” Sauriel’s head tilts. “But you don’t have to. I don’t have to be anything more than comfort. I can be a voice. I can be a laugh. Eldowyn, if you need, I will be a shadow that follows you. I will be the sun, the moon. I will shine brighter than the stars or I will snuff out my spark. Because I love you. And if I love you, that means no matter how much I want to run, I will never move my feet. If my brain tells me to defy, then my heart will help me be steady. I will pick up every single piece of you and rebuild you a thousand times.” She shakes her head. “You are not alone if you let yourself be loved. I’ve realized that. In all my years of defiance, I have felt so alone. So I’m going to give myself a chance to be loved. I hope you do too.”

  Eldowyn looks at her. He’s always loved her hair, her eyes. Hearing her voice, as much as he hated it. So quick, silver-tongued, and bitey that she could draw blood. But also gentle in the most needful moments.

  Sauriel.

  Maybe she can be a new home?

  Or, more importantly…

  A new family.

  The house stands alone on the hill. Trees surrounding it, the stables are still there, run-down and old but a gray horse still hangs its head over the stall door. Walking over to him, he turns from the lonely house and reaches out to a horse he’s known since he was a youth. The horse lifts his head as Aradon gently holds out his hand, recognizing him. He nibbles Aradon’s sleeve, snorting, his muzzle rubbing against his arm.

  Aradon smiles. “It’s good to see you, Thunder. How’s my father? You making sure he’s eating his vegetables?” He scratches Thunder’s forehead as he licks his hand, the softness of his muzzle taking him back to when he still lived here. When he still… Well, he was a lot of things back then. An innocent. An heir. A Besged.

  Now he’s a king.

  Ascending the hill, he gathers his strength, tries to put aside his nerves and doubts as he approaches his childhood home. This is where he was born. Grew up, got his dog. It’s where his mother died, and where he abandoned his father for a dream it took him years to reach.

  Standing at the threshold, no light shines inside. Worry rises. It’s the daytime. Why would he have the fireplace going? Maybe he’s not here? Or dead? Aradon shakes his head. That escalated quickly. He lifts his fist to knock, but he freezes. What is he doing? He can’t do this. His father probably hates him. He doesn’t deserve to see him again, to be happy. His father is better off without him.

  Aradon runs a hand through his lengthened hair. Not much has happened in the past year. Mortal is still healing. He’s still healing. But he’s also growing, and he’s stronger for it. The war has caused him pain he’ll probably never shake, pain that makes him yell in the night. Even through the pain, though, he can see himself becoming more than a hero. He’s becoming a good man. His darkness may never completely leave, but he’s trying.

  Turning away, his heart stops beating when the door creaks open.

  His father’s breath is slow. “Aradon?”

  Like an apologetic child, he turns to his father, tears in his eyes. His father’s hair is gray, his faced wrinkled with age, eyes duller than last he looked in them.

  His tears fall. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve regretted leaving you. I’m so, so sorry. I should have come back earlier, I just didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t strong enough,” he rambles, the words spilling from his lips.

  “I know you
don’t want to see me, but here…” He pulls his crown from his satchel, extending it to his father. “This is yours.”

  He hates that he’s crying. It’s weak. But he doesn’t care. When his father doesn’t move, he feels his heart shatter. “Please, father.” He swallows, a painful lump in his throat. “Please, just take it.” His hands shake, his nerves drowning whatever dignity he once had in a waterfall of pleading. “I don’t deserve it, I don’t—”

  He breaks down, sobbing, and when his father wraps his arms around him, he drops the crown and returns his embrace, letting himself become a child again and just stand there in his father’s arms, feeling the comfort and safety of them. In his arms, he has no need to gain control of his nerves. Or maintain his dignity. Because his father doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the darkness, the pain. The warm embrace assures Aradon the demons that haunt him in the night can be beaten. His darkness and pain can be defeated.

  Aradon buries his face in his father’s shoulder, remembering every moment of his childhood. His mother, then the loss of her. But mostly he just remembers her smile. Being home, he feels the clarity cleanse his doubts away. The guilt will never leave him, but he’s finally found it.

  He’s found his redemption.

  Softness. Her hand grasps softness. Grass. Eyes fluttering open, tall grass surrounds her, she’s lying in it. How long she was asleep, she doesn’t know. She dreamed. What they were, she doesn’t know. But she knows they were good dreams. Breathing in the fresh scent of spring air, she sits up and sees a familiar, yet new sight.

  The Dark Woods. But without darkness. The trees are a rich brown, the leaves bright green. Grass no longer gray or bloodied, her gaze casts to the White Bridge, the river flowing under it. Getting up, she stands there in the quiet.

  Softly, her feet pad against the ground, the grass tickling her legs as she approaches the bridge, the smooth stone under her feet and hands—memories of good times and bad. But the bad have no weight, no more meaning. They are memories, nothing more. She feels no sadness, looking back on them. Nor pain or suffering.