Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  Fel’annár nodded slowly. “Why do you think he did it? Why would he forbid two elves to be together? Was it because she was a commoner, or because she was Silvan?”

  Gor’sadén took a deep breath. He had had other plans for the morning, but he should have predicted this questioning. The boy hardly knew the story of his parents, would be hungry for any information that was to be had, he wagered.

  “Or’Talán the warrior would think neither of those things, but Or’Talán the king surely had a different perspective. A king must do what is best for the majority, even if that majority is wrong, even if a minority must suffer for it. It is not a perfect system, but it is the best we have. Or’Talán’s prohibition was surely necessary, for he loved his son dearly, Fel’annár. I know this as surely as I know myself.”

  Fel’annár’s eyes lingered on the commander. The words had registered, and yet his heart shouted at him to ignore the reasoning, to remember the damage that had been done to himself, to his aunt.

  “Or’Talán haunts me,” said Fel’annár softly. “I look like the very elf that forbade my father and mother to bind themselves. I look like the elf that put the wishes of the Alpine purists before the happiness of his own son. Yesterday, you told me he was great, but I cannot see it. I see only the damage that came of it.”

  “Yes, but wisdom is about transcending those barriers, Fel’annár. It is about seeing what is outside yourself, recognizing what is not comfortable. You do not know me, only my deeds, but for whatever that is worth, I tell you your grandfather was an extraordinary warrior and king. Even the Silvans loved him, the very people whose lands he colonized.”

  “When did that change, Gor’sadén? For the Silvan people do not say that any more. They call him traitor, but I never knew why.”

  Gor’sadén’s eyebrow rose, and he turned to look at Fel’annár. “I did not know that. I will certainly ask Prince Handir, or Commander Pan’assár: they will surely know.”

  There was silence for a while except for the rustle of cloth as Fel’annár brought one knee up and hugged it. “Gor’sadén?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you know the king? Of Ea Uaré?”

  “I do. I met him once as a babe and then on several occasions when he visited Tar’eastór as a young prince, not much older than yourself.” More questions would surely follow, but Fel’annár was taking his time.

  At last, the question came. “What was he like?”

  “He was a duteous prince, much like Prince Handir, only more inclined to the martial arts, more commanding, perhaps. He was also loyal to a fault to his father.”

  “He must have been—to forsake the one he loved because his father asked it of him.”

  Gor’sadén didn’t answer the unspoken question, but he did have one of his own. “I know that you have only just been told who your father is, that the story of how this came to be is all but hidden to you. You will have endless questions and no answers; you will be angry and frustrated because you don’t understand. You have two brothers and a sister you knew nothing about, who you believe will reject you.” Gor’sadén shook his head and pursed his lips. “You have been strong, I wager, to defend yourself against the mockery of others, but you are only an elf, child. Such knowledge is hard to accept, hard to adapt to. I will help you gladly, if you will accept it.”

  Fel’annár was staring back at him, and in his eyes was disbelief and confusion. “Do you help me because I look like him? Like Or’Talán?”

  “In part, yes, but I would extend the same help to Prince Handir, had he need of it. But there is much more to it than that. It is also the hope that you are like your grandfather on the inside. It is your heritage, it is you and your circumstances. The world conspires against you—your own land rejects your mixed blood; you were denied the love of a father, and rumour follows your very steps. And then what of your military career—your dream? I, above all other things, am a warrior, Fel’annár. Yes, I help you because you are Or’Talán’s grandchild, but I see in you the makings of a commander. I would explore that possibility, see what you are capable of.”

  By the time the commander had finished, Fel’annár’s eyes were wide and shiny, and he suddenly looked away.

  “Fel’annár,” said Gor’sadén softly, “do not be ashamed of your emotions...”

  Fel’annár turned to meet Gor’sadén’s kind eyes once more and wondered why he felt so compelled to tell him everything, to open his heart in a way that only deep friendship would allow. “I was just thinking,” he began somewhat unsteadily. “I was just wondering if this is what it is like...” He could not continue and his voice broke off—he could not say it.

  Gor’sadén smiled softly, thinking that perhaps he understood.

  Fel’annár smiled ruefully. “I am a fool; I hardly know you, Gor’sadén. Am I so desperate to fill that gap in my life?” He chuckled and then sobered as his own embarrassment blew over. “I am grateful for your help, Gor’sadén. I do not fully understand why you offer it, and I do not understand myself for trusting you the way I do. I have nothing to offer in return save my friendship.”

  Gor’sadén allowed a slow smile to spread on his face. “And I would have it.” He felt the boy’s presence slip comfortably into place in his mind, as if he belonged there, and the sometimes-strange workings of his mind conjured Or’Talán’s smiling face. He did not tell the boy of the growing feeling that something was changing, with the world and with himself. He did not speak of his growing sense of purpose, of the cycle that was concluding, bending full-circle.

  King Vorn’asté was late for the meeting he and his son had arranged with Gor’sadén in his private gardens, so late that Fel’annár had dozed off against the trunk of a tree, and Gor’sadén had whiled away the time with his own thoughts. Smiling down at the boy, he crouched before him and placed one finger under Fel’annár’s chin, closing his slack mouth. It was enough to wake him, and his eyes opened and then focussed. They were so close that Gor’sadén could see minute flecks of blue and purple swirling amidst a sea of shocking green. He startled, pulling back and then scowling. “Your eyes are alive, Fel’annár—you should do something about that.” He gestured to his own eyes, tucking away his puzzlement, at least for the moment, camouflaging it with humour he did not feel.

  “What do you mean?” asked Fel’annár with a smile and a scowl. “Of course they are alive,” he snorted.

  “There is blue and purple in them—have you not noticed?”

  The scowl deepened, and Gor’sadén thought he saw a hint of fear. No, he obviously had not noticed, and he resolved to tell Vorn’asté of it. He himself had never seen the likes, and he wondered if it was related to the subject that had brought them here in the first place, albeit Fel’annár did not know that.

  “Come,” said the commander, offering his hand. “You have a king to meet.”

  “What?”

  “King Vorn’asté is learned in history and lore. He has taken a keen interest in this ability you have to Listen to the trees. He would help you.”

  “But I don’t know him, I...”

  “My king,” called Gor’sadén, trying to hide his smirk at the boy’s sudden panic.

  In the distance, a king and prince walked towards them, and Fel’annár’s hand smoothed over his tussled locks, but his eyes were fixed on the grey-haired king and at his side, an elf he vaguely remembered. From where, he could not say.

  “Fel’annár.” Sontúr smiled. “You look much better than the last time I saw you,” he said with a cock of his brow.

  There was a sarcastic streak in this prince, thought Fel’annár, but it was not unkind. He realised then that he had seen the elf in the Healing Hall but had not realised he was a prince.

  “Thank you, my lord.” He bowed somewhat awkwardly. He felt out of place, and yet Gor’sadén’s presence beside him gave him courage. He had told Fel’annár he would help him, and he rather thought he was going to need it.

  “You were no
t exaggerating, Gor’sadén. Truly the only difference is the colour of his eyes,” said the king as he peered at him through narrowed eyes. Visibly collecting himself, he gestured to the path ahead. “Now, join us, child. I have heard reports that you are what the Silvans call a ‘Listener.’”

  Falling into step with the king and prince, Gor’sadén and Fel’annár strolled along the paths of the winter garden. “I have been called that, though I have yet to read anything on the matter. I do not rightly know if my—ability—is that of a ‘Listener’ or something else.”

  “I have made some preliminary investigations into the matter. It seems a ‘Listener’ is one who perceives emotion through the energy of the trees,” said the king, his eyes momentarily moving to Fel’annár beside him.

  “Emotions,” repeated Fel’annár. “I do feel their moods, but I also hear their words, my lord.”

  “Words? How complex are these—interactions?”

  “It is as if I speak with myself.”

  “How do you know you are not?”

  “I didn’t, for a while at least.” He could have said more, but he just was not comfortable. Gor’sadén had known about this obviously planned meeting and Fel’annár wondered why he had not warned him. There had been plenty of time to do so.

  “Are there any other manifestations?”

  Fel’annár blanched. He didn’t want to talk about it, not here amongst strangers, royal ones at that. Had it been just Gor’sadén, he would not have been so concerned.

  “Your testimony is safe with us, child,” coaxed the king.

  It was going to sound lame, however he tried to explain it, but a sudden waft of the scent of sweet-smelling flowers distracted him, and he allowed his eyes to drift to the side of the path. These gardens were strange, indeed, for although they were beautiful, there was something just beyond his conscious mind, something that came from his left. Trying not to lose focus, he turned back to the king, momentarily at a loss. “I am sorry, my lord, what was the question?”

  “I asked if there are any physical manifestations, any—feelings or emotions that may warn you of the onset of it.”

  There, that was better, thought Fel’annár. He would not lie to the king, but he would avoid answering the first part of his question. “Sounds, sometimes distant and other times nigh on deafening. There is a...” He gestured to the back of his neck. “A strange feeling at the base of my skull.”

  Vorn’asté was intrigued, Gor’sadén could see it on his face, and as the king continued to ask his questions, they walked ever closer to the area the gardeners had been complaining about for months now. It was the king’s plan to walk through that part of the gardens and see if Fel’annár could shed some light on the origin of the rot that was plaguing the vegetation.

  “You see, some lore masters propose that the Listener primarily feels the trees, although your case seems to be somewhat different in that you actually hear them. What emotions can you discern, Fel’annár?”

  There was no answer, and all three lords turned to a once more distracted Fel’annár.

  He had slowed his pace, and his eyes were now fixed on a small gate, beyond which a dull, grey garden lay. Fel’annár was frowning, King Vorn’asté’s question completely forgotten, for there was a strangeness in the air, a deep whisper of something long gone, an echo of grief and an unlikely scent of spring blooms. He turned, then took a step towards the tiny gate and away from the main path. If the others spoke, he did not hear them.

  His feet slowly took him to the gate. He could see the trees better now, wilting and spindly as they reached for the cold sun.

  It was a cry for help.

  A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and Fel’annár swivelled on his heels, eyes wide, heart hammering. “Damn it, Sontúr.”

  One dark eyebrow rose imperiously, and Fel’annár opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, and Sontúr smirked.

  “Forgive me, my lord. That was inexcusable.”

  Fel’annár dragged his hand down his face, and Sontúr frowned at the slight tremor. “What is it? You look rattled.”

  “It’s nothing,” he murmured, but Sontúr’s strong hand was on his forearm. He had not been believed, indeed the king and commander stood quietly, watching.

  “I was just wondering—why those gardens there have been abandoned.” His tone had been light and apparently unconcerned, but Vorn’asté, for one, was not fooled at all.

  “Why do you ask that?” asked the king carefully, a gleam in his eye, gaze momentarily turning to his son.

  Fel’annár’s scalp tingled, and a niggling pressure was building in his ears. He recognised the symptoms, and the familiar pang of anxiety squeezed his gut. His eyes stubbornly refused to leave the small wrought iron gate and the strange trees beyond. He tried to resist, because he was in the company of kings and princes, of Gor’sadén. It could not happen to him here, without Lainon, without The Company.

  “Fel’annár?” called Sontúr once more.

  It was cold, but the sun shone brightly upon the path. The air was laden with the smell of wet soil, and the chatter of robins and wrens flittered here and there; everything was as it should be—but it was not, not for Fel’annár. It was an illusion, as if nature had colluded to hide a secret—the secret that lay in the barren gardens. How could it be spring in mid-winter?

  “Fel’annár,” came a soft voice, but there was an echo, as if he had fallen into an empty well. He ignored it and started slowly towards the gate, ignoring the voices behind him.

  He reached out, pushed it open, and walked through. Trees towered over him, asleep, and yet not so. The sounds and scents of spring did not fit with what his eyes saw.

  Upon a branch sat a wren, its beady black eyes resting on Fel’annár coolly. Fel’annár smiled at it before continuing his cautious trek. Movement at the base of another tree caught his eye—a field mouse sat upon its hind legs, eyes watching Fel’annár as he passed by. He smiled again, his anxiety ebbing for a moment. It was soon back, for these were the signs of spring, and yet they walked in the height of winter. It was an illusion, he repeated to himself—‘not real; I am being lured.’

  But he couldn’t stop. There was something that called to him. He could no longer sense the presence of the lords behind him, albeit he knew they must be there. It wasn’t important, though. They felt far, far away.

  The wren flew past him then, and Fel’annár stopped in his tracks to watch its merry dance, scowling as his mind asked him how he knew—that it was the same wren he had seen perched upon a branch sometime before. Yet the question did not fully register, and Fel’annár continued to walk, his feet carrying him forward of their own accord.

  A finch, a thrush, a mole, and a squirrel, even a butterfly flitted close to his face, and again, his rational mind surfaced for a brief moment. ‘It is winter.’

  He chuckled like a young child in the midst of a flower-laden spring field, opening his arms and turning on his heel, his long hair fanning around him as he tilted his head to the sun and closed his eyes in a rare moment of unadulterated bliss.

  On he walked, passing a wooden fence that was only half open. Entering this more secluded area, Fel’annár slowed his pace to study his new surroundings. It was darker here, a darkness that was not attributable to the shadows cast by the trees—it was a different kind of shadow that lived here.

  His smile slipped, and he closed his eyes. A feeling of dread was slowly settling back in his gut, a sadness seeping through his skin and brushing upon his soul. His eyes registered the overgrown gardens, the shrivelled bushes and the leaf fall that had not been cleared. No one came here anymore.

  Something happened here…

  The tingling was back, only stronger this time, and the pressure switched from his ears to the base of his skull.

  Fel’annár turned, his mind sparking with a nascent sense of strangeness.

  Go slowly to the tree...

  He frowned, and his stomach pinched in anguish. H
is breathing accelerated, but still he resumed his slow, hesitant step. His head turned to the side as a strange noise came to his ears. Distant at first, it sounded discordant, like a tin whistle poorly played. Shaking his head, his eyes darted around him until they landed once more upon the wren, perched upon the gnarled branch of a sickly oak, its gaze unwavering.

  A dying tree.

  Blood rushed in his ears, and he wondered if the sea sounded like that. His eyes latched onto the tiny bird, and the sound that before had seemed to him like ill-played music turned to metal upon metal, louder and louder, and Fel’annár resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands.

  Turning here and then there, he no longer knew where to fix his gaze, and the sounds of someone calling his name were in the distance, far, far away.

  The gnarled oak, the shrivelled lilac bushes, the leaf-strewn paths.

  The dark shadows, the sickly tree, the penetrating stare of a wren.

  He gasped and finally succumbed to his own discomfort, covering his ears in a futile attempt to block out the grating, scraping sound that ripped through his senses, and then his eyes bulged in fear as he felt the back of his neck pop, and he froze where he stood, the cacophony suddenly disappearing, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow.

  Too light, he was floating under water, hair reaching for the surface.

  I was once joyous…

  Fel’annár’s wide, shaking eyes slipped to the side as he listened.

  I once felt the bliss of life…

  A twitch of dark brows.

  And then light was tainted by the shadow of wanton terror...

  Fel’annár’s eyes filled with tears as he Listened, terrified now of what would happen next. His chest felt so heavy, as if a Mountain Hound sat upon him.

  I cannot waken, cannot forget the pain of her loss, cannot forget the tragedy of unconditional love, her sacrifice.

  Fel’annár gasped and then staggered to his knees, his hands now upon the ground, bracing his body.

  “Who are you?” called Fel’annár feebly, tears now falling from his eyes, and as he turned his head, he briefly registered a lock of his own silvery blond hair that snaked around him.