Visions of a Hidden

by Matthew Wolf

  Elves began to filter from the other circles to watch the battle.

  Aladar’s face was one of strain and concentration.

  “He’s holding Commander Aladar’s parry!” A Terma shouted in disbelief.

  “That’s impossible,” said another.

  Then Aladar bellowed, pushing forward. The parry broke and Hadrian dodged a cut to his head and struck with a slice to Aladar’s torso. Aladar, much faster than expected for his bulk, brought his foot to Hadrian’s chest—sending the young elf sprawling. The fall, however, turned into a graceful tuck and roll, something they’d practiced endlessly, and Hadrian was back on his feet, so fast it was questionable if he’d ever fallen. Another series of rapid strikes were met with easy parries by Aladar, but Rydel saw, despite the Terma’s stoic face, a vein was pulsing at his temple and strain was beginning to show.

  Then Aladar cried out, shoving off Hadrian’s sword from a parry, pulling free a side-sword at his belt. With a swooping circular strike, he parried, then cut. The small sword flashed.

  They pulled away.

  Aladar was breathing a little harder than when they’d started, but not much. Hadrian, on the other hand, was breathing as evenly as if he’d gone for a moonlit stroll. Yet at his waist, his green and gray clothes were cut, and he was bleeding from a hand-length wound on his muscled torso. Hadrian touched it with a finger. His green eyes the only thing visible behind his black mask as he eyed the blood as if surprised. It didn’t seem like Hadrian to miscalculate the distance of his opponent’s blade; yet Aladar’s sword was a hand length longer than even most greatswords—getting inside the reach of that behemoth was a feat in itself. Still, Rydel thought, it wasn’t like Hadrian. He knew his brother was up to something.

  The young commander of the Terma grinned and the other Terma broke into excited whispers. “You are a worthy opponent, young Hidden,” Aladar proclaimed loudly. “In time, we might even be a match.”

  “Ah, yes,” Hadrian replied. “Unfortunately, we are not a match.”

  Rydel knew that smile from his ever-smiling brother. It was wider, cockier. A smile he’d seen brandished against him when Hadrian had the edge; and Rydel saw what the others, aside from Dryan and Master Trinaden, did not. Hadrian wasn’t testing the elf’s prowess. A test was necessary when sizing up an opponent of equal strength. Hadrian wasn’t doing that. He’d sized up the elf the moment he’d seen him from a distance. Instead, he was toying with Aladar.

  Elisaria came to his side, crossing her arms. “It seems your friend has lost.”

  “Perception is a tricky thing,” Rydel answered.

  “He’s cut, is he not? While Aladar remains unharmed. The show is over.”

  Rydel only shrugged. “Perception is a tricky thing,” he repeated, eyeing her sidelong. “Besides, I’ve always preferred the second act.”

  The woman, her stunning, graceful features fixed ahead, only smiled. At his wit? At his bravado? It was just a bare twitch of her perfect pink lips, and he wasn’t sure of the implication, but it made his heart thunder.

  Meanwhile, all those in attendance watched the two big elves, waiting.

  Hadrian raised his blade. “Again?”

  “Are you an idiot?” Cylar asked, gawking, “He won, you lost. Can’t you see that, you silly swaggering bu—”

  The commander of the Terma’s brows furrowed and he raised a hand, stalling his third-in-command. “Cylar’s crude and foolhardy, alas he’s often right. As it stands you are no match for me. I do not wish to harm you anymore. Admit defeat, brother, and we can train together. I’m sure there is much we can learn and teach you.”

  Scratching his chin, Hadrian yawned. “A commendable offer, brother,” Hadrian said, amused. Rydel knew Hadrian only thought himself brothers with two elves, and Aladar wasn’t one of them. “Consider myself duly warned. Again?”

  “So be it.” Aladar charged, moving like a rockslide of muscle and steel. Despite his size, the commander of the Terma crashed from stance to stance, slashing, parrying, riposting, and in-between throwing effortless kicks and elbows. Awe-inspiring advanced moves and stances rolled out of the elf. Breathtaking as it was, Hadrian blocked, dodged, or dipped every strike. If he wasn’t fighting Hadrian, the Terma would have seemed unstoppable. As it was, Rydel saw the end approaching swiftly. Aladar cried out, sweat draining down his face as he delivered a sweeping overhead strike.

  Hadrian side-stepped it by a hair, as if watching it in slow-motion, planted his foot onto the sword—making it dip and stick into the hard-packed earth. Aladar pulled on the blade, but to no avail, as if it was embedded in stone. Hadrian took the moment to smack Aladar’s hands with the flatter edge of his blade in a smooth motion, then circled his body and elbowed Aladar in the gut. Aladar gusted air from his lungs, releasing his grip and stumbling back from the strike. Circling with the strike—a strike without power or hurt, only intended to create space—Hadrian kicked the fallen blade up to his other hand, catching the twirling steel in midair, twirled, and leveled both to the commander of the Terma.

  Aladar didn’t have a cut or scrape on him. He looked dazed at the sudden turn of events. Nevertheless, it was over—the skill of Hadrian so swiftly and aptly shown that a hushed silence settled over all in attendance.

  Save for Elisaria, who clapped slowly at Rydel’s side. The rest of the elves remained stunned.

  Aladar slowly shook himself, rubbing his smarting hands. Hadrian flipped one of the blades around smoothly and handed it back to Aladar. The commander stared at it, took it, then grinned wildly and clasped Hadrian warmly. “Well done, brother. Welcome to Terma’s training grounds. You are free to train with whomever you wish.” He barked a few orders and Terma surged forth, eager to take part and learn from the three hidden-in-training.

  Cylar cursed, spitting on the ground and slinking back into the crowds. Elisaria watched through the throng. Rydel made his way to her. She bowed her head in greeting. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he answered, then looked to where Cylar had left. Rydel nodded in that direction. “What’s with your friend? What’d we do to him?”

  “Don’t mind Cylar. He just… doesn’t like newcomers.”

  Rydel grunted. “Who put the nettle in his shirt? You’d think I kicked his hound with the way he looks at us.” Even now, as the elves milled, he caught a glimpse of the white-haired elf who shot him a final glare before turning to train with another Terma.

  “Cylar’s a kicked hound himself,” she said slowly, a sympathetic strain in her eyes. “He… was once Commander. Yet when one of the sentries on his watch wandered too close to Drymaus Forest, the young sentry was killed by a drekkar. It wasn’t his fault. The sentry was young, new, but Cylar still blamed himself. It doesn’t help that the High Commander is his father as well. Treats him more harshly than anyone else. I wouldn’t worry about him.” Rydel nodded, looking back over the camp. Elves were beginning to break up—Terma asking to spar Dryan and Hadrian. The towering trees watched over him, and a wind of change stirred inside Rydel. Dozens of elves watched him from a distance and his exchange with their second-in-command. They seemed hesitant to approach, though he wasn’t sure why. “So,” Elisaria said, with a sly grin, “I have to ask. Are you as fast as your big friend?”

  “Faster,” Rydel admitted.

  “You’re their leader then?”

  “We are brothers, equals.”

  “Modesty suits you,” she said. “The others, not so much.”

  “We have our different strengths. My brothers make up where I fall short, and I… well, I’d like to think I do the same for them.”

  “Then I’d like to see your strengths,” Elisaria replied with a flirtatious twist to her lips. “And your weaknesses,” she said boldly. “Will you spar with me?”

  Rydel grinned. “It would be my honor.”

  A ring was made, and their duel
commenced. Hefting the blade in his hand, he realized it was the same weight as the wooden training swords they’d been using. Heavy dense heartwood—which transitioned to his new metal weapon feel almost seamless. Still, he slowly built up speed.

  Rydel discovered that Elisaria was fast, faster than any elf he’d seen before, aside from his brothers and Master Trinaden, and where she wasn’t as strong as Aladar, or as nimble as he’d seen Cylar move, she was their strengths combined. In a way, she reminded Rydel of himself. Parrying a blow that was meant for his right arm, he flicked her sword back with more strength than before and her eyes tightened. Then he gave another strike—this time, twisting his hands inward to increase and breathing out in a sharp burst to increase his power. Elisaria raised her blade, planting her feet. The power, however, was more than she anticipated. He watched as she absorbed the blow with clenched teeth, barely able to redirect the strike and hold her blade.

  Elisaria recovered, shaking her hand as if she’d slammed her blade into rigid steel. He knew the feeling having suffered the same strike from Master Trinaden when he’d first been taught. Her hands would likely feel numb and tingly for a day. “What was that?” She asked in an accusing tone, sheathing her blade.

  Rydel feigned ignorance. “What was what?”

  “That move… Don’t play dumb.” Even as she said it, though she still sounded annoyed, there was a sly smile on her pink lips and a light in her eyes. As if she was excited.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he lied.

  Elisaria sniffed and turned, leaving.

  As she did, his heart fell—and then she turned and glanced back over her shoulder, and he saw a quirk to her lips. Rydel’s heart floated in his chest. That night, after they had returned to Trinaden’s little cottage on the border of Eldas, all Rydel could think about was Elisaria. She consumed his mind. That smile she’d flashed him as she’d been leaving lingered in his dreams. That she’d known he’d been hiding something made him excited. Somehow, he knew she wasn’t done with him either. The next day, after defeating a dozen Terma, Elisara found him again. “He’s mine,” she declared, and the others made a ring about them.

  They clashed once more, swords and bodies dancing in a beautiful rhythm in which Rydel lost himself to when—

  “Don’t toy with me,” Elisaria said as she dove back from a strike. “I know you’re slowing your strikes intentionally.”

  “You wish me to go full out?” Rydel asked.

  “I wish to see what you’re capable of—this isn’t it.”

  A second later, Rydel crossed the distance. Elisaria’s eyes flashed wide, barely registering his speed gained from countless hours of sprints with hundreds of pounds of rocks on his back. Agile as ever, she raised her sword in the nick of time. Instead, Rydel swiped her feet from beneath her. She fell. Before she landed on her back, Rydel slammed his sword into the ground and caught her lightly.

  She stared up at him, searching his eyes for a long moment, still panting. Rydel’s breathing was even, but as she stared into his eyes, his arm cradling her body which felt light, and warm, he felt his own breathing quicken. “What are you?” Elisaria asked.

  The way she said it made him wince as if struck.

  “I didn’t…” she began.

  A sudden urge filled him looking into her eyes. Her breaths came quicker, chest rising and falling. She was so warm in his hands but—

  Then he remembered.

  They had an audience. Dozens of Terma watched them, judging. From them, he sensed their varying emotions as he held their second-in-command. In that moment, he felt different and realized though they’d been welcomed, Rydel wasn’t truly one of them. When they moved about the training grounds, whispers always followed, or the deferential looks from Aladar, or the hateful glares from Cylar. He was different. They were different. Master was right. He was caught up in these thoughts, lost when—

  Elisaria kicked his feet out from under him and he collapsed like a felled oak. She rolled to her feet and grabbed his blade that had been sticking from the ground, and aimed it at his throat. Rydel still shaken by his thoughts, looked up at her in a daze. Scarlet hair tumbled down to her shoulders, highlighting her beautiful face. Her sky-blue eyes looked at him with brimming mirth. “You’ve finally lost. I was beginning to think you weren’t mortal or an elf. How does it feel to be beaten?”

  Rydel’s managed a laugh. “By you? Practically an honor.” Then thought, I would gladly lose a hundred times just to be so near.

  She rolled her eyes. “Come now. You already lost, you don’t need to ply me with sweet words. I won’t run you through, I promise.” They continued, sparing deep into the night until his brothers pulled him away and he left with a smile on his lips and thoughts of her on his mind.

  Weeks went by like this, training with Elisaria with every free moment he or she had. If he didn’t search her out, she would find him. Words weren’t necessary, yet over time he wanted to ask her things. A desire to know her, to ask her questions about her life burgeoned inside him. Always as they would pause he would feel the sensation growing… but then he would remember his Master’s words. Don’t get too close. Instead, they’d finish, tired and slicked with sweat—going until Trinaden or his brothers practically pulled him away. Each time, however, he’d wait for that moment when she’d look back and flash him that same smile of hers—a smile that felt just his.

  None of his brother’s teasing could take that smile from him.

  One day, a month into their training, Rydel sat under a tree, sweat straining from his face after sparring an endless stream of willing combatants. No matter how many he seemed to lay down, a dozen more took their place, and he admired them for it. Elisaria found him, an apple in hand, and plopped down at his side wordlessly. She offered him the red fruit, and he stared at it uncertainly. “It won’t bite,” she said, confused.

  He took it slowly, then lifted his mask slowly.

  “Why the mask?” She asked, interrupting him.

  Rydel froze, apple halfway to his mouth. Master’s words came back to him, unbidden and he echoed them, “‘To be a Hidden means to be a knife in the dark, nameless and quiet, nothing more, nothing less.’”

  She looked at him with an arched brow. “That… doesn’t answer my question.”

  Rydel held her gaze then they laughed together, and he conceded with a nod. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. It was Master’s idea. He says Hidden have many enemies, or we will. My mask keeps my identity secret, so anyone I care about will be kept safe from those who would wish to do me harm and discover more about me or my whereabouts.”

  Slowly she nodded. “That makes more sense.” He still held the apple. “Eat,” she said, gesturing.

  The mask covered from the bridge of his nose down, a hanging cloth tied in the back. Lifting the mask just enough to expose his mouth, he took a bite and an explosion of flavor made his eyes nearly water.

  “So you do eat,” Elisaria remarked. “Surprises never end around you.”

  Rydel continued to chew, savoring the crunch and tart flesh of the apple. The texture was so unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The gruel was pasty and bland. This was pure bliss. He never thought the texture of something alone could be so delightful. “This… this is remarkable. This is what an apple tastes like, all this time?”

  “Are you saying… You’ve never… eaten an apple?”

  Judging by her baffled expression and tone, you would think Rydel had just announced that he enjoyed eating dung, or that he was the Ronin of wind himself. “Never,” he replied with a shrug. “You wouldn’t like what I normally eat. This…” His mouth still tingled from the sensation. “This is magic, surely. Farhaven be blessed,” he uttered in prayer.

  She laughed thinking he was joking. “You’re a funny thing,” Elisaria said, shaking her head in amusement. “Why have you never tasted an apple bef
ore?”

  Master Trinaden was in his usual place, leaning against the trunk of a tree as Dryan and Hadrian spared with a dozen Terma at the same time. Trinaden watched impassively. “Master says we must harden ourselves to all things, to all temptations.”

  “All… temptations?” Elisaria asked, lifting a brow.

  Heat suffused Rydel’s cheeks and he breathed a slow, even breath as he’d been taught. It was a trick to release the emotions building in him, though now it did little good. Wisely, he opted for silence, watching Dryan nimbly roll between a Terma’s legs, then run up the blade of another, kneeing the elf in the face. Hadrian threw two more elves against a tree-trunk.

  “You’re not like your brothers,” she remarked. “You aren’t truly brothers, are you?”

  Rydel felt a spike of resentment at this. “We are brothers, more than blood—bound by a fate you could never understand.”

  Elisaria looked taken aback by his harsh words and tone, if only for a moment. “I meant no offense, truly. I’m sorry if I struck a nerve. I meant only that… Well, you’re different. Not size of course. You’re big though your one brother is practically a draft horse. He can nearly look our big oaf Aladar eye to eye. And the little one, while handsome, looks part dark-elf, if those still existed. His hair and frozen eyes would make you distant cousins at best.”

  “Blood means nothing,” Rydel said softly, taking another bite of apple.

  “It means something.”

  “Does it?” He asked, looking to her, handing the apple back. “A child can’t choose their parents or their siblings. We are different. Our brotherhood is a choice. Bound by hardship, by sacrifice. What we are is thicker than any bond borne out of happenstance.”

  Elisaria seemed to ponder this a moment, tapping her pink lips in thought, then offered, “True, though that doesn’t explain the bond between a father and his daughter, or a mother and her son…” Staring ahead, he felt her gaze on him, searching him, testing him. Somehow this conversation felt more akin to a sparring match, and he had a sinking feeling he was losing. Still, he guarded his expression when she mentioned the bond of a mother and son, while his insides churned with unrest. “I’ve seen a mother willing to sacrifice herself for her son at the drop of a hat. Surely you can’t call that bond circumstantial and trite.”