A Promise of Fire
Chapter 2
At the western edge of Lionbrand’s market district stood the command hall for the Lionbrand Mercenary Troupe. Over two stories tall, its entrance was adorned with a great arch and flanked by a pair of stone lion statues. Carved into the arch above the front entrance was the old Galdic expression: Karem de Tolin, Rath de Krun; Weather the Storm, Chase the Battle. The hall’s once vibrant red and gold paint had begun to chip away, but even after four-hundred years since its founding, it stood proud.
Compared to the rest of the bustling city, the front steps were quiet. While thousands of folks walked past the troupe hall every day, very few–if any–loitered around outside like they would with other establishments, and even fewer ever walked in. Often there would be small children playing on the lion statues, and running up and down its steps, but they’d frequently be scared off by adults before they could get into any trouble.
In years past, the mercenary guilds of Singard were expansive and strong, used almost exclusively as soldiers of fortune and hired guns the Singardian military could shill out to allied powers, but in the modern era, the title of mercenary had lost some of its bite. Mercenaries were commonly used as bounty hunters and extra hands for their local city-watch, or as hired muscle for merchants carrying goods from one city to another.
As boys, Rukifelth and Emecar always thought that the title of mercenary was more akin to that of an adventurer or explorer; one who went out into the world, not one who just waited around for their captain to tell them what to do. While jobs could often have them traveling for days at a time, it was never as exciting as the stories made it seem. Not only could it be dreadfully boring, but they both felt there was far too much paperwork.
Rukifelth and Emecar made their way up the steps, and the children loitering about quickly ran as they saw the two men armed with sabres and muskets making their way inside. Despite the grandeur of the building’s exterior, its interior was far less lavish: decrepit carpets stained with booze and blood, a constant stench of mold permeated the air, and disheveled walls covered in chipped red paint.
At the far end of the foyer, tucked away near the back corners, were a few tables and benches where the various mercenaries could sit, drink, and chat with one another. It was a good place to network, gossip about local rumors, and occasionally get punched in the face. While all troupe mercenaries were expected to cooperate, that didn’t necessarily mean all of them got along.
Near the entrance sat a desk cluttered with various papers, pens, inkwells, record books, and a small oil lamp for when the days went on a bit too long. The front desk was the territory of Diantha Dumont, the troupe’s official secretary, record keeper, and guildmarm: a young Elven woman—perhaps only fifty or sixty years old—with pale lavender skin and a mop of long dark green hair tied up into a messy bun atop her head. Her fingertips were stained black with ink, and a pair of reading glasses sat precariously on the bridge of her nose. She was scouring through several copies of the two local newspapers: the Lionbrand Epitaph and the Pioneer’s Gazette.
Beside the desk was a noticeboard containing the various bounties of wanted criminals, and jobs requested by the city-watch or local merchants, as well as articles and stories posted from the local newspaper she believed could lead to any potential job opportunities for the troupe. A quick glance at the noticeboard was always a good habit for mercenaries to get into.
As Rukifelth and Emecar entered, Diantha hadn’t even looked up from her papers as she said, “Busy, busy, yet an awful lot of idle hands sitting around.”
“G’morning, Diantha,” said Rukifelth. “I see you’re as warm as ever.”
Diantha sniffed loudly, not even giving him as much as a glance. “It’s good to see you’re both well. How was Coldan Cove?”
Rukifelth pulled three silver pennies from his pocket and set it on the desk. Diantha smiled and began to rummage through her various logbooks and ledgers, before pulling out the official license that detailed Rukifelth and Emecar’s job: escort Mr. Kuskyn Renault from Lionbrand to Coldan Cove; bodyguards: protect the client at all costs. Half-regalian payment–one third to the troupe.
Diantha scooped up the coins, grabbed a stamp from one corner of her desk, and slapped it onto the corner of the page and told Rukifelth and Emecar to sign. Once they’d given her their crude signatures, she waved the paper to dry the ink and tucked it back into her logbook.
“Thank you for your work, gentlemen. Always appreciated,” and she went back to scouring the papers.
“Say, Diantha,” said Emecar, “have you read anything about fae in the papers?” She briefly glanced up at him before shaking her head and going back to her work. “We heard some rumors back in Coldan Cove, and just this morning, I heard about something going on in Amber Meadows, and—”
“Sorry, love, but there’s always gossip about fae,” she said without looking up. “People claim fae are attacking when they misplace their shoes, or when their horse gets sick. It’s just the way of the world I’m afraid.”
“But this ain’t just normal gossip, is it? Fae don’t come close to cities, right, so why’d people be—”
“Like I said: same old, same old.” Diantha glared at him, and when she did that, Emecar knew that the conversation was over. Diantha was all business all the time, and she took her business seriously. Rumors about fae attacks, as she said, were a very common occurrence across the country. People often felt like they were being terrorized by forces they didn’t know or couldn’t see, but it often amounted to nothing and rarely warranted looking into.
But fae were tricky creatures; they enjoyed playing pranks on mortals, some harmless and others not so much. Stories ranged from people coming home to find their furniture rearranged or turned upside down, or having water suddenly dumped on them when there was no water around, was inconvenient, but generally harmless; the stories of people and young children wandering into the forest as the fog grew thick only to be nabbed away was rather horrible, but it was seen as a folly of the individual and not a greater threat. It was believed that when the fog drew in, fae were close behind, and that any who ventured too deep inside risked their own life.
Rukifelth and Emecar made their way back to a table where a trio of fellow mercenaries were waiting about and playing cards: Oliver Bonhomm, Abigail Levett, and Tomlin Rouzét. The trio often worked with one another, and usually kept to themselves, but had no qualms with either Rukifelth or Emecar.
There were currently around fifteen mercenaries employed by the troupe, but rare was it for all fifteen to be stationed at the same place at the same time. As long as they’d been with the troupe, Rukifelth and Emecar had only barely made acquaintances with their fellow sellswords; Oliver, Abigail, and Tomlin were amongst the few they’d built a modicum of rapport with.
Of the fifteen, ten were currently dispatched across the country: four had been tasked with helping the city of Dand deal with a band of roving highwaymen that plagued their roads; three had been hired to act as bodyguards to a merchant traveling towards the Tri-Cities up northwest, and three were headed up north, tracking down a criminal who’d been spotted off the outskirts of Zaldean.
Rukifelth and Emecar approached their table just as Tomlin was shuffling the cards in his large, burly hands. When Oliver caught sight of them, he boastfully laughed and offered them each a seat.
“I hear ya Plan on huntin’ some fae, eh,” he asked. Olvier wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he wore a certain charm about him that made it easy to see past his hooked nose and crooked teeth. He wore an old brown coat that was a size too large for him with disheveled frills around the sleeves. His black hair was slicked back, and his amber eyes glistened in the light.
“He’s been nagging my ear off all morning about these fae,” said Rukifelth.
“I have not,” said Emecar. He sat down between Abigail and Tomlin and continued, “I just think there’s some merit to these rumors. Surely, we can do somethin’.”
Tomlin grunted and started dealing out the cards. Iron Tomlin, as he was called, was a man of few words; Rukifelth supposed it was what made Oliver and Abigail like working with him so much: you told him to do something, and he’d do it.
Despite his massive size, Tomlin had quite a pair of nimble fingers on his meaty hands. On his hip was secured a heavy cleaver that looked more like a hunk of raw iron rather than a sword, and he wore a large ash-gray coat. Tucked in his pockets, Rukifelth could see the outline of a pair of knuckle dusters. He had dark tanned skin, and his ragged, sandy blond hair drooped more like a lion’s mane. His large nose rested crooked on his face, clearly broken two or three times.
“It’s so sweet that you want to help, Emecar, but you know there’s no point of worryin’,” said Abigail. She rested her head in one hand, and her red hair draped down to her shoulder. Her face was covered in a series of scars–one particularly gnarly one dragged down from just beside her eye all the way down to her chin–and on her belt was a sabre and parrying dagger. “You heard the guildmarm: there’ll always be rumors about fae attacking people and napping up children. What you plan to do? Venture into Helhaym and kill ‘em all?”
“No, of course not, but fae can be dealt with other ways,” said Emecar. The way Abigail stared at him with her piercing gray-blue eyes almost always set Emecar on edge. She had a frightening visage when she wanted. Emecar cleared his throat and picked up the cards Tomlin dealt out. “They’re tricksters, right? They enjoy a good prank, so let’s just trick them into going elsewhere.”
“And then they’ll be someone else’s problem,” said Abigail. “Is that what you want?”
“N-No. We just trick ‘em again.”
“And again,” said Rukifelth. “And again, and again, and again.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” grunted Tomlin. “Outwitting a fae once is hard enough, and they never fall for the same trick twice.”
“You want to keep tricking them forever? That’s impossible,” scoffed Oliver. “They’re smarter than us. They’d outwit you eventually.”
“Maybe smarter than you, Oliver,” joked Rukifelth, “but I think Emecar is right. He just ain’t thinkin’ big enough! We don’t trick ‘em somewhere else; we trick ‘em into a big ol’ trap, where we can grind ‘em into powder and turn their bones into weapons. Eh?”
No one seemed to think he was serious, but Rukifelth certainly was. After all, what Emecar said was true—tricking fae was often the best way to get rid of them—but they’d always return. The only way to deal with fae for good, was by killing them or learning how to keep the fog from rolling in. Rukifelth didn’t know which one would be easier.
He picked up his cards, and the five enjoyed a few rounds of Shovel, a classical Dwarven card game they’d all picked up over the years: a game of deduction, trickery, and just a touch of ambitious greed. One didn’t win at shovel by playing it safe, but one didn’t win by playing stupid either; it was all about reading your opponents, and knowing how they would read you.
Rukifelth wasn’t the best shovel player, and while he thought he understood the rules well enough, there was always something he was missing; keeping an eye on your opponent’s cards—what they were throwing away and what they were keeping—seemed to be more important than keeping track of your own. No matter what kind of strategies he tried to employ, it always seemed to come up short. Regardless, as long as they weren’t playing for money, he didn’t mind losing.
As they played, the five went about discussing other rumors they’d been hearing on their previous jobs, as well as local gossip from neighboring towns. Up to the north, in the academic city of Zaldean, there were a series of unsolved murders done by someone the local watch had named “The Shadow Singer;” over on the eastern coast of Dracothunder Bay, storms had been growing more and more restless, and some even believed they saw demons emerging from the ocean; up near the Gunstone Mountains, a group of highwaymen had been terrorizing the roads; and near the western border, a tribe of savage Hoofkin were spotted attacking caravans.
After a handful of rounds, often won by Oliver or Abigail, the office door near Diantha’s desk opened, and in walked troupe captain Vaan Grisdel. He was a tall and slender man with several decades of experience under his belt; before joining the troupe and swiftly becoming its captain, he was rumored to be a crownsguard and officer of the royal Singardian military who was forced to retire after an act of zealous defiance.
He was just over a century old with dark violet skin, sunken blue eyes, and a thin black moustache atop his lip. His dark hair was well groomed, and he wore an elegant, finely pressed green coat.
“Good morning, everyone,” said the captain. As he faced them, the five mercenaries hopped to attention. “Eager to work, I see?”
Captain Grisdel leaned over to Diantha and whispered a few words. She handed him a couple of pages from her ledger, as well as pointed out a few articles from the paper she’d been reading. The captain quickly looked them over, sighed, and then approached the others.
“Unfortunately, it looks like business is a little slow right now. We got a couple escorts, a couple updated bounties,” he fanned through the papers, “a goblin haggard needs cleared out, an ogre needs dealt with, and the watch is looking for assistance with night patrols.”
“That’s it,” asked Oliver.
The captain shrugged and looked back at Diantha. “That it? You don’t have anything else?” She shook her head without looking at him. He turned back to the others and said, “Sorry, but it looks like that’s all we got.”
Rukifelth leaned against the table and thought about what kind of job he wanted: after the trip to Coldan Cove, he didn’t much want to deal with another long escort across the country, and he knew Emecar was never fond of bounty hunting unless it quarry was last spotted close to the city. Additionally, he didn’t much like the idea of working with the city-watch if he didn’t have to. He mulled over the goblin haggard and the ogre; neither of those should be much trouble, he thought, but they’d both be pretty dangerous. Goblins were deadly in high numbers, and clearing out a whole haggard would mean they’d be dealing with a couple dozen at least. A single ogre, on the other hand, would be just as dangerous as a whole haggard. An ogre could rip a man’s head off with ease and were extremely resilient with heir accursed skin, but surely, he and Emecar could take on either task.
They could always recruit the others, of course, but then they’d have to split the pay five ways. That certainly wouldn’t be worth it, especially not after being forced to pay the troupe its dues.
As Oliver and Abigail began talking payment, Rukifelth turned to Emecar and whispered, “What’re you thinkin’?”
“Honestly, nothing sounds good right now,” he said.
Rukifelth shrugged. “That’s what I was thinkin’ too.”
He then heard the captain say something about fifty pennies a night for the city-watch, and then heard him say about a regalian for clearing out the haggard, and three for the ogre. Rukifelth shook his head; how much more terrible could things sound for the watch? Fifty pennies per night? At that rate, it’d take him and Emecar ten days to earn as much as clearing out that haggard. He bit his thumb and started to mull over the options: goblins weren’t easy, but dealing with them would certainly be better than working with the watch. Counting up their dues…
“Say, if we worked with the watch,” whispered Emecar, “that could give us a chance to investigate those rumors, eh?”
“You’re still on about that?” Rukifelth glared, but there was something about the genuine look in Emecar’s eyes that almost made him forget how much he disliked the watch and all their snooty and uptight attitudes.
Almost.
Why does he care about these stupid rumors so much?
Rukifelth sighed and said, “If you’re up to helpin’ the watch, then I’m up for it.”
Emecar then asked Diantha and the captain for the paperwork pertaining to the night watch: eight hours of work per night, fifty pennies each, fifteen pennies will go to the troupe as work dues for each night worked up to a maximum of 100 penters; speak with Lieutenant Vechelot to receive station and license of employment.
After the paperwork had been completed, the captain finished up his business with Oliver, Abigail, and Tomlin; they’d chosen to clear out the goblin haggard for a full regalian. Once all had been assigned work, the captain saluted them and returned to his office while the five mercenaries stepped out into the smoggy city air.
“Night watch, eh,” said Abigail. “Fifty penters ain’t enough to deal with them if you ask me.”
“We just got back from a twelve-day trek, and I’d like to stay and sleep in my own bed for a while,” said Rukifelth.
“Besides, night watch is easy work,” said Emecar.
“Boring work,” mumbled Tomlin.
“Easy, boring work that pays the two of us a combined rosepent every night,” laughed Emecar. “I’ll take that over risking my life clearing out goblins.”
“Well, thanks for leaving thems to us, boys,” said Oliver. “The three of us will enjoy making ten times that which you’ll be makin’ workin’ for those blighted bastards at the watch.”
“In ten days, we’ll have made as much as you lot, for half the work,” said Rukifelth.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” sneered Oliver, “we have a goblin hunt to prepare for.”
The three bid them good luck and farewell, and disappeared into the crowded streets.
Rukifelth rubbed his head and felt his stomach churn. Just thinking about having to work with the city-watch and their pompous attitudes made him sick, especially after their last job with them ended in such a disaster. He wanted to back out, to go back and ask the captain and Diantha if they could hunt the ogre instead, but like Emecar had said, boring work was easy work, and would pay them well enough.
“Shall we report to the watch now,” asked Emecar making his way down the steps. “Get it out of the way quick? We can let them know we’ll be helping in the evening.”
Rukifelth bit the knuckle of his thumb until it nearly bled. Speak with them already? No, he needed a couple drinks in him before dealing with their portentous lot.
“I’d rather not. I have some…” his words trailed off as he tried to think of an excuse. “I, er, have some personal business I’d like to tend to beforehand.”
“Do you now? Well, I suppose that’s possible. We were on the road for some time, weren’t we,” Emecar said jokingly. “That’s alright. I have a little personal business I’d like to tend to myself. Meet at the garrison by sunset, alright?”
Rukifelth let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you, Emecar.”
His brother laughed and patted him on the shoulder before making his way into the crowded streets and heading westward. Rukifelth rolled his eyes; there was no secret about where he was going: the temple.
Rukifelth shook his head and wished that maybe, just maybe, Emecar would finally grow out of that place, but ever since he began courting that maiden, it seemed like that day would never come.
He’s a sentimental fool, but then again, I suppose he has happier memories there than I do.
Rukifelth stood atop the stairs of the troupe hall for a short while, watching as the crowds of people walked by, mostly elves with their violet-lavender skin and misty eyes, some humans just like him. Occasionally he’d spot a gnome with their vibrant colored hair and clothing, or the colossal dwarf that towered over everyone. All of them just went about their day, not thinking about who walked beside them, or whom they’d just bumped into. They’d no thought if that person could be plotting to kill them or rob them blind, or if that person was suffering from grief or loss. Everyone in the crowd was just a nameless nobody to everyone else.
Rukifelth stepped off the stoop and joined that nameless crowd to become just another one of them. All of them were just like him: people with their own lives, memories, traumas, beliefs, thoughts, and prejudices. Many of them went to work; many of them didn’t. Some made their money through an honest living, and others made theirs through pickpocketing, thievery, and deceit. He held fast to his coin purse, despite knowing that no one would be stupid enough to try and steal from him.
Would they?
What if someone did stab him in the back and stole all his coin? Would anyone even bat an eye at him? If they didn’t see the culprit, would they even try? Of course not. He was just a stupid human; he wouldn’t even live a century. What did it matter if he died? The city-watch would just wrangle him up and toss him in a ditch outside the city. He’d be gone soon anyway, right?
Rukifelth felt his blood start to boil, and he tried to calm himself: deep breaths in and deep breaths out.
He walked along several long city blocks until he eventually made his way down towards the southern district: the slums. Shanty homes lined the streets—which Rukifelth thought gave the area a sort of rustic appeal—with more and more popping up every day. As the factories grew and work became more available, people from all across Singard flocked towards Lionbrand, as well as other growing industrial cities like Zaldean and Dand. Unfortunately, the cities didn’t have enough space for everyone to come in, and the number of people living on the streets or in half-made shanties was becoming more and more common.
The scent of refuse and garbage filled his nostrils.
Rukifelth remembered when he was just a boy, playing in the streets with Emecar and the other orphaned children, and seeing children their age marching off to work in the textile factories and stone mills. He wondered how different his life would be if he went off to work like a normal person: to be a faceless factory worker in the endless cog of industry. No, he was never cutout for that kind of work; he was built to be someone fighting off highwaymen and clearing out goblins and ogres.
Eventually, he arrived at the Coalrock, the slum’s largest tavern, and home to some of Lionbrand’s worst. The patrons inside were often raucous drunks, pesty panhandlers, nogoodniks, and occasionally a racketeer or bootlegger would stop by. It was a place where one could enjoy all the worst vices: alcohol, gambling, brawling, and ill repute. It was an all-around terrible dingey place that reeked of old beer and piss.
It felt like home.
Rukifelth pulled a small pouch of tacleaf from his pocket, took a small pinch, and tucked it into his lip as he stepped into a tavern already crowded with people despite its time of day. Many of these people, he figured, probably didn’t have a home they could really go back to, so simply spent all their free time lounging about on cheap booze and greasy food.
As he made his way towards the bar top–carefully stepping around globules of tacleaf spittle on the ground–someone had hurled a pint cup through the air and struck another drunkard in the back of the head. It was impossible to know if the pint was intentionally thrown or not, but the cause didn’t matter, only the result. The struck man turned around and began swearing up a storm, demanding to know who’d thrown the cup at him. Another man–possibly the culprit, or possibly innocent–was shoved forward, and a fight broke out which no one tried to stop it. Instead, many began cheering the fight on and taking bets on who they thought would win.
The two men clobbered one another, blood spilling onto the floor. Rukifelth tried to ignore them and continued sucking on his tacleaf. He sat at the countertop and waved down the barkeep who seemed completely unaware of the fight going on. There was a loud snap, followed by a scream, as Rukifelth placed two pennies on the counter and ordered a beer.
The scream continued to echo through the tavern as people cheered. He then heard the man get lifted up and hurled outside. Rukifelth didn’t even look to see if it was the man who started the fight, or the one who got struck by the errant pint. Instead, he slipped away into his thoughts. The shouts and murmuring from the crowd drowned out the screaming; the same screaming he heard in his dreams that morning. He closed his eyes and tried to drown it all out.
The Black Beast prowls. It stalks silently and waits to strike.
The barkeep returned, placing the pint of beer in front of him, but before Rukifelth could take his first sip, someone crashed into him from behind, and spilt his beer all over the counter.
Without thinking, Rukifelth spun around and struck the man. He felt his fist tingle, and a loud crack rang in his ears. The man collapsed to the ground–unmoving–as blood trickled form his mouth.
Everything fell silent. Rukifelth looked across the faces of the stunned bargoers, all of whom stared at Rukifelth in total fear. His heart beat wildly, his arms trembled, and his breathing grew heavy.
“Vile cretins! Why can’t you control yourselves for a damned minute?” No one dared speak. A couple reached for their belt knives, but Rukifelth snarled. He brandished a flash of steel from the sabre on his hip. Those who thought they could fight backed away. Rukifelth loudly snapped his sabre back into its sheath, spat a large globule of his tacleaf onto the floor beside the unconscious man, and sat back down, waving for the barkeep once again. “I’ll need another please.”
“Y-You killed him!”
Rukifelth looked over his shoulder at a man in grimy clothes and greasy hair who was pointing at the unconscious man on the ground. As the barkeep returned with his second drink, Rukifelth paid the man, took a long and deep swig before dumping the remainder of the contents on the unconscious man.
He gargled and twitched.
“See, he ain’t dead,” said Rukifelth to the greasy man, “but by fire if one more of you interrupts me, I’ll fill this whole tavern with dead men.”
The crowd began to disperse, dragging the unconscious man aside, and giving Rukifelth plenty of room to himself. Even the other patrons sitting at the counter moved further away. He could hear the people murmur and gossip about him, talking about how he seemed almost more monster than man. Some said they’d seen him before, and that he was notorious around these parts. It made Rukifelth smile.
The barkeep then dropped off a third beer. “You gonna actually drink this one?”
The man showed no fear around Rukifelth; he’d seen him lash out before and knew that if Rukifelth got angry, that he’d be the last target of his ire, and by then, he’d have likely cooled off. Rukifelth smiled and paid him another two pennies.
Quickly, he downed his beer as he felt his hands began to tremble again. The screams echoed in his head yet again, and he could smell blood in the air. He set the glass down and rubbed his eyes.
Blood everywhere; the sight, the scent, the taste…
Rukifelth rested his head in his hands and tried to shake the nightmare from his mind. Their screams wouldn’t leave. He could still see their twisted faces. He bit his fingers until they bled, and blood dripped down his chin. He ordered another beer, and then another, and then another; each one tasted worse than the last, but slowly the visions began to fade.
He didn’t know how long he’d spent in the Coalrock, but when he saw the sunset outside, he knew he’d been there long enough. He stood from his seat and made his way out, not offering so much as a glance to the other patrons. Some scowled at him, but others–wisely–looked the other way. He heard some people daring him to return if he valued his life, and Rukifelth chuckled at that. Those people thought they could intimidate him?
No, try as they might, they were the ones scared of him, and that was exactly how Rukifelth liked it.
Sister Emli L’Aveline sat in an old wabbly chair at the center of the temple’s cramped schoolroom surrounded by the six children: Kayo, Malinda, Benjamin, Isaac, Shiriam, and Adel; each of whom was sitting in their own equally wabbly chair. She read from the Galivre, the holy scriptures and teachings that had been passed down from generation to generation ever since Lord High Lord Galdane the First. It detailed the great and noble histories and traditions of Singard, and described the holy words and will of Sindelle the Elf-Mother herself.
The schoolroom was filled with dozens and dozens of books bestowed to them by ordinance of the Lord High Lord–books that recounted the great legacy of Singard, depicting their histories in ways that the Galivre couldn’t–as well as books detailing mathematics and literature that Liza had accrued over her many years. Hanging from the walls were various portraits and paintings of great figures of the Galdic Lineage such as the Lord High Lords and heroes from the Age of Dragons.
For most of the children, the Galivre was little more than a history text that contained the occasional fun parable or exciting story. Benjamin and Isaac were captivated with the tale of Lord-Captain Crissinger who protected the holy city of Galdcore from an onslaught of demons and fae and later became the first of Singard’s crownsguard; Malinda and Shiriam were enamored with the tale of High Lord Galtress, his High Lady Galaimer, and their love which spanned a century of calamity and tribulations. Adel was still much too young and had a hard time really understanding what Sister Emli was teaching him, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless.
Kayo, however, seemed a bit distant. For him, these were not just stories or legends; these were a part of his lineage–the blood of Galdane–as well as the words of Sindelle herself. They were the lessons and customs all Elven children were taught to embrace, yet despite that, Kayo seemed completely uninterested and instead just stared blankly at the floor.
“Is everything alright, Kayo,” asked Sister Emli. He didn’t say anything. His ears didn’t even twitch. She gently closed the book and said, “Kayo?”
The young elf’s amber eyes darted up. “Er, s-sorry, madame. What was the question?” The other children giggled and laughed at Kayo’s apparent absentmindedness, but he seemed to hardly notice.
Emli crossed her arms and said, “I asked if something was wrong. Are you feeling well?”
Kayo lowered his gaze as the others continued to laugh, prodding him for dozing off. Adel leaned over, laughing, and nearly toppled over in his chair as he said, “Kayo is bored!”
“I am not!” Kayo pushed Adel back, and the little boy continued to laugh as he rolled onto the floor. Kayo gritted his teeth and said, “I’m fine. Maybe I am bored. I’ve heard all these stories before.”
Shiriam, the second youngest, hopped up and said, “Nu-uh! You can’t ‘ve heard them all! That’s ‘mposs’ble!”
Kayo let out a defeated sigh as the other children continued teasing him. He looked up at Sister Emli, his plum-colored face nearly pink, and said, “I’m sorry, madame. Go on, I’ll pay attention.”
“No, no,” said Sister Emli setting the Galivre on a nearby bookshelf. “I think this would be a good place to take a small recess. Children, why don’t you go out and play in the gardens for a bit?”
The younger children cheered and quickly scampered out of the schoolroom with Malinda desperately trying to keep them under control.
As Kayo was leaving, Emli gently took his hand. “Kayo, you know you can talk to me.” He didn’t speak. “Are you scared? Is something bothering you?”
“I’m not scared,” he said ripping his hand away. His voice was full of bile, something Emli hadn’t heard from him since she’d arrived at the temple. He took a deep breath to calm himself and said, “I-I’m sorry. I’m just…angry.”
“Angry at what?”
Kayo looked away, gazing at the paintings on the walls of the legendary elves from their nation’s past. After a quiet moment, he composed himself and said, “I don’t want to be here, anymore.”
Emli felt a pain in her chest, but she understood what he meant: he was fifteen–right at the cusp of adulthood–and he was still sitting in the same schoolroom, hearing the same stories, with other children much younger than him. He was tired of being seen as a child the same as them. Arnold and Harold–the two other boys close to his age–had left a little over two weeks ago, and he wanted to go off like them, and make his own place in the world.
She cupped his face in her hands, looking him in the eyes, and said, “I know you’re frustrated, Kayo, but know that this soon will pass. In but a few weeks, you’ll be free to be the man you want; do as you please, but in the meantime, try and enjoy these final few days with your brothers and sisters.”
He scoffed. “They’re not my siblings,” he said coldly. “They’re…I’m…”
“They’re human,” said Emli, “and you’re an elf. That’s what you want to say, right? Well, that doesn’t mean you aren’t family. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Kayo pulled away. “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“I never said that.”
“But you’re thinking it,” he snapped. “You’re thinking: ‘Why can’t Kayo be just like the others? Why can’t he just be happy that he has to spend his days wallowing around with those other inférals, and—”
Emli slapped him. It rang through the schoolroom, and Kayo stood stunned. “Don’t you ever talk that way again, Kayo.” He stared at her in disbelief, gently rubbing his cheek. “I don’t know who told you that, but humans are not inferior to us, but if that’s something you truly believe, then why don’t you tell that to them? Why not say that to Arnold and Harold, or Emecar and Rukifelth?”
He glared at her. He wanted to snap, but instead stormed out of the schoolroom and slammed the door behind him, leaving Emli alone.
Inféral, inferiors; a vile and filthy word from ages long past, and that which the elves called the humans they believed beneath them. Emli felt disgusting just thinking it; she couldn’t fathom the bile on her tongue if she said it, yet Kayo spoke it so easily.
She slumped back into her chair, looking across the portraits of the Lord High Lords and heroes of Singard: Lord-Captain Crissinger, High Lord Galtress and High Lady Galaimer, Lord High Lord Galdane the First, and the reigning Lord High Lord Gallon the Great as well as Supreme General Elderanth.
Emli took the Galivre from the bookshelf and began to softly thumb through its pages. Generation upon generation of Elven history was written within; the destiny of every Elven man and woman was to return to Sindelle and the others of their proud lineage when the time came. As a maiden, it was her duty to make sure they got there, to guide their hand until Sindelle could take it from her.
Was it any surprise that Kayo felt the way he did? All his life, he’d been told how great his lineage–the Elven race–was. What had humans accomplished? The Galivre certainly didn’t say.
Emli closed her eyes and removed the coif from her head. Was there anything she could do? She’d spent nearly a decade training and studying to be a maiden, and for what? She’d learned the verses and teachings of Sindelle to guide the elves to their final resting place when the time came; to teach them to best exonerate their proud lineage, but what of the others? What of the humans in her care? Did they not deserve to be proud of who they were, or was it simply her duty to teach them that they were inferior to elves and would be best to try to replicate them?
She pulled the book close to her chest, gripping it tightly. Emli’s eyes began to water.
What do I say? What do I do?
She decided to stop wallowing and get to work. She picked up the clutter left behind by the children, cleaning off the chalkboard, organizing books on the bookshelf, and sweeping up the chalk dust from the floor. After several long minutes of tidying up, Emli’s head was still cluttered with unsure thoughts, and she returned to the maidens’ quarters she shared with the other sisters.
Inside were ten beds and wardrobes, three vanity tables, and two large bookshelves. Emli was certain that decades ago, the ten maidens that resided in this bedchamber would’ve driven one another mad with how cramped it was. She could barely manage with five; how were ten supposed to live comfortably. Perhaps they weren’t.
Emli plopped onto her bed; its dingey and musty smell filling her nostrils. It was oddly comforting, she thought. After nearly ten years of training and study at her convent in the holy city, she was finally starting to feel like the temple was her home.
She thought of happier memories. After all, how could she possibly teach the children and cheer them up if she was all gloom herself?
Emli rolled onto her back and looked out the window. She thought of the day she was annunciated as one of Sindelle’s maidens and officially joined the sisterhood. The joy on her mother’s face beamed brighter than the sun; the prideful tears on her father’s cheeks said more than any words ever could. A decade of study, of working her hardest to learn the passages and the hundreds of verses from the Galivre, and it was finally worth it. She remembered the times she’d needed to stay up until the early hours of the morning trying to memorize the verse of Sindelle’s Prophecy:
“Though the sun may rise, darkness shall always approach; for without dark, there is no light; for without pain there is no pleasure; for without chaos, there is no order; for without death, there is no life. Cherish the time what whence we all have, for that time be impermanent; for that time ends, and new time begins; and what soon lay over the horizon but a new age of fire, what burns sins of the past and ushers in the era of glory or naught.”
Emli chuckled. Did she really still have it all memorized? It had been so long since she’d recited that verse before the Maiden Superior of Galdcore, basking in the glory of Lord High Lord Gallon himself. Emli gave out a sigh, recalling just how exhausting it felt.
She remembered the day she’d first met Lady Liza and was escorted to Lionbrand where she would find her new home; she remembered how kind and welcoming and excited the other sisters were, as well as how wonderfully sweet and kindly the children treated her. Would she forget their faces in time? She didn’t think she would, but then again, there were some she hadn’t known for long. Arnold? Harold? Annette? Would she forget them? Would they forget her? Perhaps, perhaps not. Humans did tend to have bad memories after all.
Emli caught herself. Why would she think that? How could she snap at Kayo for saying such horrible things about humans and yet here she was doing the same thing? Frustrated, Emli tried to think of something else.
Her mind fluttered around from memory to memory until eventually she remembered the first day she met Emecar: this young, brash human with fiery red hair and welcoming eyes who marched into the temple with a bright smile on his face. The children were so eager to see him. He told them stories of ogres, goblins, and trolls, and how he and his brother–another orphan from the temple the children spoke fondly of–were hired by the towns of Amber Meadows, and Angelden, and Coldan Cove, and Gunstone Hill; all by various wealthy merchants carrying their wares, and so much more. All to protect them from those monstrosities.
And then he turned to her. At first, he said very little, but his smile was warm and welcoming. Whenever he’d visit, he’d always made sure to greet her and treated her no differently from the other maidens. Then, one day, Emli asked for his assistance in clearing out the cobwebs and cleaning up the cellar. Perhaps it was the way the maidens spoke so highly of him that intrigued her, perhaps she was feeling overwhelmed and just needed the extra help, or perhaps it was just his handsome smile. Honestly, Emli didn’t remember why it was she asked him, but as they worked together, she found it so easy to talk to him.
He was so kind and patient, and when she was spooked by a shadow in the darkness and sprained her ankle, he did not mock her or laugh, but made sure she was alright. He was so gentle as he carried her up the stairs and into the maidens’ quarters where he helped tend to her wound, and the two talked long into the night until he had to leave.
Not long after that, Emecar had to leave for a few days on another job, but he promised her as soon as he returned, he’d come see her first thing and make sure she’d recovered. Emli remembered how long those days seemed to drag on without him. She was so eager for him to come home, but why? Every night and day she prayed to Sindelle for Emecar’s safety; that she’d get to see him just once more.
When he finally returned, she couldn’t contain her excitement. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. At the time she was so embarrassed–even thinking back on it caused her cheeks to pinken–but then he kissed her back.
It felt like time stood still. She’d never felt that way about anyone before, much less a human. But Emecar wasn’t like the other humans she’d met, he was generous and compassionate, not greedy or short-sighted as she’d expected from a mercenary. He was brash and cocksure at times, but also humble and modest. The way he held her hand was so soft that she just…
The more and more she thought of him, Emli’s sadness and fears began to slowly melt away. If there was any human who deserved to be regaled in the Galivre, it was him.
There was a knock on the chamber door, followed by Liza’s voice: “Sister Emli, are you feeling well?”
Emli’s eyes shot open; had she dozed off? She looked out the window and was relieved to see it was still light. She bolted up and out of her bed, dusting off her apron, and making her way to the door. “Y-Yes, madame! I’m alright!”
She opened the door and saw Liza standing with her hands delicately crossed in front of her. Emli curtseyed and said, “Good evening, madame. Is something the matter?”
Liza’s expression was stern as she said, “I’ve been called to do a Resting. I was curious if you’d care to join me.”
“A-A Resting?” Emli felt her body tense. “I’d be honored, madame!”
“Very good, then we best go quickly.” Liza started to make her way down the temple hall before Emli had fully comprehended what she’d been asked.
Emli quickly composed herself and followed behind Liza as they made their way outside onto the temple steps. There, Emli saw an Elven man sitting with his head in his hands. As the door shut behind them, the man looked over at the maidens and hopped to his feet, wiping distraught tears from his eyes.
“I’m sorry this is so sudden, sisters,” he said. “I-I thought we still had more time, but his condition has…”
“Of course, monsieur,” said Liza raising her hand. She curtseyed, and then gestured to Emli. “This is Sister Emli L’Aveline. She will be joining us for this Resting with your permission.”
“But of course, madame.” He bowed to Emli, who curtseyed back. “My name is Ailer Farnelís. M-My family’s home is not far from here. Please, my grandfather, he—”
Liza raised her hand to cut him off yet again, and then gave him a gesture to lead the way.
The two followed the man as he lead them through the crowded city streets. As they reached the Farnelís home, Ailer quickly brought them inside where the rest of his family was waiting.
Nearly two dozen young children, more than a dozen young adults, and half as many elder elves all waited in the house’s cramped living room. Upon seeing the maidens, the family’s frowns and tears faded and were replaced with relieved smiles and chants of joy.
“Thank you again, sisters,” said Ailer. “M-My grandfather is in the other room, just down the hall. Please.”
Liza rested her hand on Ailer’s arm, calming him and said, “Of course, monsieur.” She turned to Emli. “Whenever you are ready, sister, you may begin.”
Emli’s eyes widened. “Me?” Liza nodded, and Emli felt her knees begin to tremble.
Me? The Resting? No, I’m not ready! I-I’m…
She looked across the faces of the Farnelís family, and they stared back at her expectedly. Emli closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying again to calm herself. She’d never done a Resting before. In her time as a novice, she’d certainly studied them–all maidens needed to learn how to conduct Restings at some point–but she was still much too young. She hadn’t completed her first year and already Liza was asking this of her?
Was this alright?
Emecar’s words rang in her head: “Liza thinks very highly of you.”
Emli opened her eyes and said, “Madame, are you sure?”
She nodded. “May Sindelle’s blessings be upon you, sister.”
Emli took another deep breath and followed Ailer down the hall and into a small, quiet room where a few more family members were waiting. They stood around a bed, consoling and comforting an elderly Elven man; his aged lilac skin was heavily wrinkled, and his breathing was coarse and weak. Another elderly elf–a woman Emli assumed to be the man’s wife–held his hand in hers.
As she entered, all eyes fell upon her. They were full of sadness and remorse, but in the old man’s eyes, she saw only acceptance. Emli stepped forward and said, “Once everyone has said their departing words, I would like everyone to leave us, please.”
The family said their final farewells to their father and grandfather. The last to leave was his wife who kissed his hand and whispered, “Sleep well, Almer. May I see you again soon.”
Tears streaked down the woman’s cheeks as she stepped out of the room, leaving Emli alone with the elderly elf. She sat on the bed beside him, her hand gently holding his, just as his wife had done.
“D-Do you hear the song,” asked the old man.
“Excuse me?”
“The song!” Almer coughed painfully, and Emli gently tried to calm him. As he caught his breath, he said, “I-I can’t see them. They’re hiding.”
“Who,” she asked. “Who’s hiding?”
“I-In the fog.”
Fog? There’s no fog? What is he…perhaps…
Emli placed her hand softly on the old man’s cheek. His breathing slowed, and she tried to do as she’d been taught; to listen to what his soul was trying to say.
It felt as if she’d been cast into a raging river as her mind and soul merged with Almer’s. Never would she have ever imagined a Resting to feel like this; she struggled to catch her breath, almost as if she truly was trapped in that river. It took her a moment, but Emli reclaimed her senses and merged her and Almer’s thoughts as one.
Just as he’d said, she saw fog. There was a little Elven girl running around in a white dress. She heard a song, a lullaby, linger in the air and then suddenly, the girl was gone.
A sharp pain jolted in Emli’s chest, nearly ripping the breath from her lungs.
Is that his pain? His remorse?
“Who is she,” she asked. “The little girl? A daughter? Granddaughter? Is someone waiting for you?”
The man’s distant gaze grew closer as he looked into Emli’s eyes. “My…my…Elyna…”
“Elyna,” Emli repeated. “She waits for you?”
He nodded.
Emli kissed the man’s hand and offered up the prayer of Resting. In traditional Galdic, she said, “May Mother Sindelle take your hand from mine as you walk this final path; may your family–may Elyna–welcome you home with open arms. May you finally be at Rest.”
The image of the little girl in white fluttered back into Emli’s mind. She danced in the fog, her white gown flickering in the wind. She laughed as the alluring song continued its haunting lullaby in the distance. The girl turned to Emli and smiled, offering up her hand.
Come on, she said, but the voice was not her own. The voice was that of an older woman. Emli felt a hand that was not hers take the hand of the little girl and the vision began to fade. Emli’s chest burned.
Again, she repeated the prayer, and again she saw the vision of who she knew to be Elyna. Each time the little girl offered her hand and each time before the hand could be taken, the vision faded, and Emli’s chest burned even more.
She was feeling the pain Almer felt, all his guilt and sorrows; she felt the pain of life slowly fading away, but then as the pain whelmed into her, she began to see more of his memories: his first love, his first heartbreak, the loss of his mother and father, the birth of his children and grandchildren; but what most lingered in heart was the memory of this girl Elyna. She was not a daughter or granddaughter, but a sister, and Emli could feel the guilt pressing on Almer’s chest as he watched her disappear into the fog, powerless to help her.
He was only about ten in the memory, and she was maybe five or six. They were playing together, dancing to the strange song in the distance. Mother and father had warned them about playing near the fog, that the fae would nab them and take them back to Helhaym, but he didn’t care; that was all just to scare them. The fae wouldn’t come.
But then she was gone; without warning Elyna had vanished, and the song had stopped. Almer shouted for her to come out, but there was nothing. He heard his mother’s footsteps as she ran out and picked him up, scooping him into her arms and running back into their small house in the country. Almer cried out for Elyna.
But she was gone.
Emli’s sight returned. She gasped sharply as she felt all of the old man’s burning pain and sorrow flood through her body. The pain in her chest was that of a knife through her heart. Her hands trembled, and she couldn’t imagine holding onto that pain for as long as he had, but when she looked down at Almer, she saw his breathing had slowed, and he stared at the ceiling with an empty expression.
“I see her. I see all of them.” He gripped her hand. “Home. I-I’m home, mother. Elyna…” Almer’s breathing slowed, and then stopped, and he was gone.
Emli sat alone, staring at the lifeless body of Almer Farnelís. She closed his eyes, and for several minutes held the old elf’s hand in hers. Unable to hold back her sadness any longer, Emli let the tears flow down her cheeks, carrying with them the pain and guilt she’d taken. Her throat burned as she held back the wails of despair, but as was her duty, she endured it. As a Galdic Maiden, she was to take on the burden of the dying so they may great their loved ones within Sindelle’s Court in the next life, happy and free of grief.
She took several long, painful breaths as she slowly calmed herself. She wiped away her tears, hoping that her Resting was a success and that Almer could smile in death. Emli gently took the old elf’s hands and crossed them over his chest, and after taking one last moment to compose herself, Emli stepped out of the room to rejoin the others.
All eyes were upon her, and she hoped her owns eyes weren’t puffy from crying. “It is done,” she said. “He has left us to be with Sindelle in the world beyond.”
The eldest elf, the one Emli presumed to be Almer’s wife, stepped forward and asked, “Was he happy, sister? Did you feel it?”
“Yes,” Emli said quickly. The word nearly got caught in her throat. She continued, “I felt it all. He was happy. He died without regret.”
The family let out warm sighs of relief, thanking Emli for her service, but she couldn’t appreciate it. This was her first Resting–a tremendous occasion for her as a maiden–yet she felt hollow. The lingering sorrow whelmed over her still. How long did this last? How could the maidens do this regularly? How was it possible to take in so much pain? She tried her best to push past the family without offending them, and luckily Liza was there to help. Liza was quick to stand by Emli’s side and guide her from the home, answering all the questions the family had for Emli.
Once outside, they made their walk back to the temple in silence. Despite the murmurings and commotions of the people on the crowded streets, Emli’s ears rang in hollow silence. Would she have to endure this pain again? Of course, she would, but how could she? Was she worthy to be a maiden? After this, could she do it again?
Back at the temple, Liza escorted Emli to the maidens’ quarters while Sisters Magda and Claire took care of the children and got dinner ready. Liza closed the door, and once the two were alone, Emli collapsed onto her bed, sobbing frantically into her pillow. She was desperate to let it out, and she thought her heart would shatter into a thousand pieces.
“It’s never easy the first time,” said Liza. She sat beside her and began gently brushing her fingers through Emli’s hair. “In fact, I’d argue it never truly gets any easier.”
“How can you bare this,” said Emli.
“Because I must. Because we must,” she said. Emli looked up at Liza, but before she could speak, Liza wiped Emli’s tears with her apron. “Perhaps you are still too young. I am sorry, sister. I shouldn’t have made you do such a thing.”
“N-No! I should know this pain. I need to learn, don’t I? It’s my duty.” Emli sat up, cleared her throat, and smiled. “Thank you, madame.”
“Do not thank me. What I did was unsuitable as Maiden Superior,” said Liza. “Will you be alright? If you are not well enough, you needn’t partake in anymore chores for the evening.”
“I thank you, madame, but I think I should be—”
There was a knock at the door, followed by Sister Magda’s voice. “Lady Liza, Sister Emli, we’ve a guest!”
“A guest,” asked Liza. “Who?”
The door creaked open a small amount as Magda popped her head in to say, “Why, young Emecar, of course!”
Emli felt her cheeks grow warm, and her breathing briefly stop. Emecar was back again? Why so soon? He wasn’t leaving again, was he? Would he worry if he saw her like this? She stood, trying to mirror Liza in her posture and composure as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“He says he needs to speak with you, Sister Emli,” Magda said teasingly. “I wonder whatever for?”
Emli blushed.
“Thank you, Sister Magda. She’ll be out in a moment,” said Liza. The older sister giggled as she closed the door. Liza turned to Emli and said, “Will you be alright to see him? Again, you needn’t do anything if you aren’t feeling well.”
“I-I think seeing him would do me some good,” she said. She smiled and twirled her fingers beneath her tear-dampened apron. “At least, I hope it does.”
Liza gently placed her hand on Emli’s cheek and said, “Well, you best not keep him waiting. If anyone can cheer you up, I know that boy can.” Liza kissed her forehead, whispered, “good luck,” adjusted her glasses, and then left.
Emli looked at herself in the mirror on the vanity: her apron was covered in tears and snot, her coif had nearly fallen off her head, her eyes were puffy and pink, and her orange curls were all tangled together. She spent a minute doing her best to brush out the knots in her hair, but soon gave up. Emecar wouldn’t mind if she looked a little ragged, would he?
No, of course not.
She dusted off her apron, adjusted her coif so it sat nicely on her head, and did her best to put on a happy smile—she supposed that was as good as she would get in such a short time—and made her way to the temple foyer.
She saw Emecar delightfully playing with the children, Kayo included. It made her smile seeing them all behave so cheerfully. They bombarded him with questions about his travels and story requests about ogres and trolls, goblin haggards, and mischievous fae. He played along with them, weaving his tales the same way Liza would, with vibrant hand gestures and various voices.
As Emli watched, she wanted to laugh and smile along with the children, but the lingering pain in her chest made it difficult. Despite the pain, she hung on to his every word; his voice calmed and eased her anguish. When he told a silly story about a fae deceiving him and Rukifelth—snatching up their coin purses and knocking them into the mud—she laughed along with the children.
That caught his attention, and Emecar turned to see her standing in the doorway. He gave her that smile of his that always made her heart turn to honey, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“Good afternoon, sister. It’s been a while,” he said.
“It certainly has,” she said giggling. “How long, exactly?”
“A week. Maybe more, I’d say.”
“Really? It only feels like hours.”
The children cooed and teased them, and Emecar turned to them, warning that if they put off their chores any longer that they’d have to face the wrath of Lady Liza. They laughed, proudly declaring that they weren’t scared of her, but when he told them that Liza was standing in the doorway behind them, they all turned around wide eyed and nervous.
Emecar buckled over in laughter. “Not scared of her, eh?”
The children berated Emecar, calling him a trickster and that he was no fun anymore, but he just brushed their taunting aside and told them to get along with their chores.
Once alone, Emecar turned back to Emli. Her expression must have soured because his smile faded. “What’s the matter?”
“W-What?”
“You’ve been crying. Is something wrong?”
Emli touched her cheek and said, “N-No, just…” The words wouldn’t come out. Her head lowered and she felt tears begin to form. The aching sorrow from her Resting was still eating away at her from the inside. “Just a stressful day is all.”
Her hands trembled, and Emecar reached out to hold them tight. Emli wanted to hug him, to feel him close to her, and to hear his voice in her ears, but something held her back. Embarrassment? Guilt? She didn’t know.
“I-I’m terribly sorry, Emecar. I’m not in my best spirits today.” She tried to pull back, but he wouldn’t let go of her hand. “Please, I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother, Emli,” he said. He let go of her hand as she turned to face him. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something. Emli, a-are you alright with this?”
Emli shook her head and said, “Alright with what?”
He looked into her eyes, but his gaze was distant, almost as if he was staring through her. He took a deep breath and said, “W-With me?”
“Whatever do you mean, Emecar?”
“I’m just a lowly sellsword,” he said. He looked ashamed. “Doesn’t that give you pause?”
“Emecar, that means nothing to me,” she said. “You aren’t just a mercenary, you’re a good man.”
“What about being a human?” Emli didn’t know what to say. Where was this all coming from? Emecar averted his eyes and said, “Emli, I love you more than anything, but what I’m trying to say is: Are you alright knowing that in sixty years, I’ll be gone; dead and buried, but you? You’ll be younger than Liza is now.”
Emli leaned forward and kissed him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close and said, “Of course I’m alright with it, you oaf.” She laughed and pressed her face to his cheek. “And when that time comes, I’ll be sad. Distraught, even, but not a day will go by where I wished anything was any different.”
She stepped back to look into his dark brown eyes and tried her best to smile, but the thought had been planted into her head and refused to leave. He was right: in sixty years, he’d almost certainly be gone, while she would yet to be a hundred. She’d have to watch as his body turned to ash on the funeral pyre while she’d go on living for another century or two. Even then, after she’d gone, humans weren’t taken in by Sindelle the same as elves. In the world beyond, humans and elves were just too different.
That thought as well as her earlier pain began to mesh together, and Emli started to cry. She pulled away, not wanting to cry in front of Emecar, but she couldn’t help it as tears began to fall down her cheeks.
“I-I’m sorry. This isn’t because of you, or what you said. I’m happy, truly I am, but…” Her breath caught for a moment before she could say, “I think I need to be alone for the evening.”
She hoped she hadn’t hurt him, but how else could he interpret her tears, especially after what he’d said.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
His smile faded, and Emli leaned forward to kiss him. He held her tight to his body, and Emli’s knees wobbled. She closed her eyes, dreaming of any way she could spend her entire lifetime with him. If only there was a way.
Emli gently pulled away from him and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Emecar. Truly, I am. It’s just that…” she hesitated. “Perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, you could stop by in the morning? I promise I’ll be in a happier mood then.”
“A promise? By fire, mademoiselle, you’re starting to sound an awful lot like me,” he said smiling. She blushed, and he kissed her again. “Alright, first thing in the morning. I promise.”
After Emli had left, Emecar stood alone in the temple foyer, rubbing his eyes despite the lack of tears. He felt his lips where they’d kissed and thought of what she said: She wouldn’t wish for anything else.
“Is everything alright,” asked Sister Claire. The young sister was standing in the doorway to the nursery wing, her light blonde hair tied neatly into her coif.
“Y-Yes, sister,” he said. He rubbed his eyes, and his head felt heavy. “Say, is there anything you need help with? Floors to sweep? Dishes to clean?”
Claire laughed delightedly and said, “Emecar, you know we appreciate your assistance, but you’re a man now. You needn’t hinder yourself with us.”
“Not a hinderance at all,” he said proudly. “This temple was my home, and I want to make sure it stands for another century.”
“That’s very sweet of you.” She looked around the empty foyer and said, “Well, I suppose if you truly don’t mind, I know the sanctum will need a good tidying up before tomorrow’s ceremony. Care to help with that?”
He gave her a dramatic bow and said, “It would be my honor, madame.”
For a little over an hour, Emecar and Sister Claire worked on dusting, sweeping, and picking up small bits of clutter scattered throughout the temple’s sanctum. Despite its age, the sanctum was as beautiful as always. At the far end of the sanctum was the dais covered in a lustrous red carpet. At its back stood a great statue of Lord High Lord Galdane the First and Sindelle the Elf-Mother, painted in the vibrant red, green, gold, and violet paints that had long since faded.
After they’d finished with the sanctum, Emecar helped Sisters Lucie and Helene get the children ready for dinner, and helped clean up once dinner was done. By then, the sun was just beginning to set, and he knew he’d have to get going. He wanted to say farewell to Emli, but she’d confided herself to the maidens’ quarters for the evening.
As he bid his family farewell, he was stopped by Kayo. He looked guilty. “Yes, Kayo. What is it?”
“E-Emecar, I-I…” He bit down on his tongue, clearly unsure of what he wanted to say next. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” Kayo shook his head. Had he done something wrong to one of the maidens, or was he sorry he’d be leaving at the end of the month? Either way, Emecar thought it was nothing to be sorry for. He patted Kayo on the shoulder and said, “I hear you’re going off to the stables at the end of the month. That’s pretty exciting, eh? Finally getting out on your own.”
Kayo clenched his fists and said, “Emecar, I want to be like you and Rukifelth. I-I want to join the troupe!”
That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting; where did this come from? Emecar scratched his chin, and said, “A sellsword, eh? I think you’ll need to learn a bit of swordplay before the troupe accepts you.”
“And you could teach me, right?” His voice was filled with excitement. Emecar hadn’t the faintest idea of what to say. “At the end of the month, instead of going off to Geffroy’s stables, I could come stay with you and Rukifelth, right? You could teach me all the skills needed.”
“I, uh, our little apartment isn’t really big enough for another body,” he said, “and I’d need to talk with Rukifelth first, of course.”
Kayo looked down at his feet defeated. “If you don’t want me, that’s all you need to say.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Emecar, “it’s just, well, being a sellsword ain’t all excitement and adventure, y’know? There’s a lot of droll and scary parts to it too.” Kayo didn’t seem phased. “Say, why don’t we talk about this a bit more next time, eh? I gots to get goin’ now.”
Kayo didn’t argue, and instead turned away silently. Emecar felt like he’d done something wrong, but he couldn’t let Kayo go down the same path he’d taken. Despite his cold shoulder, Emecar bid him farewell, promising that he’d see him again soon, and then made his way to the city-watch garrison.
The city was finally beginning to quiet down: factory workers were heading home, merchants were shutting down their carts, the mail couriers soared down from the skies, the newspaper hawks and shoeshines were all clearing out of the streets, and the shop keeps were closing up for the day. In less than an hour, the once vibrant and lively streets of Lionbrand were beginning to sleep.
Emecar saw the spires of the garrison rise over the horizon. Behind it was Lionbrand’s upper district: the home of the loftiest and wealthiest landowners, merchants, and nobles protected by the illustrious crownsguard, guarded by a massive sigil-inscribed wall. He sat down at a bench not far from the garrison–unstrapping the shield from his arm and setting it beside him–to await Rukifelth.
He felt the license of employment in his coat pocket, he leaned back to rest for a moment. Unfortunately, his rest was interrupted by a pair of nearby watchmen patrolling the area: Corporals Moulin and Périer. They’d been lighting up the streetlamps and casually chatting with one another, but as soon as they laid their eyes on Emecar, their expression soured. Emecar held his tongue and prepared for the worst.
Corporal Moulin, an aged Elven man with sharp eyes and a perpetual scowl, wore a disheveled, old gray watchmen’s coat and a black tricorne hat. He approached Emecar and said, “Well, look what the dogs dragged in? Did your troupe kick you out, sellsword?”
Emecar smiled and stood. “G’evening, gentlemen. If you must know, my brother and I are tasked with assisting you for the evening. We heard you were short on manpower.”
Corporal Périer, despite being younger, had inherited his fellow officer’s cynicism and rude attitude. His own coat was in even dingier condition: the brass buttons not as lustrous, and several patches lined the sides and sleeves. He spat a glob of chewed tacleaf onto the cobblestone, far enough not to hit Emecar’s boot, but close enough to get the message across. “Two of you,” he said. “Mother’s blight, why do we always need to scrape the bottom of the barrel. The troupe used to have good men in it, and now it’s just a bunch of inférals. How far Grisdel’s honor has fallen.”
Emecar tightly clenched his fist. He took a deep breath, trying hard not to get angry, and said, “Y’know, being a sellsword ain’t so bad. It has its privileges and all. For example, I’m a sanctioned—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re sanctioned alright,” said Périer, “Just remember: while you’re here, you work for us. Understand?”
“But of course, monsieur,” said Emecar with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “I could never dream of surpassing you.” The two men scoffed and left Emecar at the bench. As they trailed off, he could hear more of their snickering and insults.
He sat back down and mumbled to himself: “That went better than expected.” He wasn’t hungry, but he pulled out a small bit of dried bread and cheese the maidens had gifted him after dinner. It was supposed to be for their patrol, but he couldn’t help himself and took a large bite to calm his nerves.
Afterwards, as Emecar started to tuck the food back into his pouch, he heard the smallest skittering and squeaking. He looked down near the bench’s leg and saw, scurrying over the cobbles, was a tiny gray mouse, nibbling on the crumbs that fell from his bread loaf. Emecar tore off a small piece of cheese, set it on the ground beside his boot, and waited.
The mouse–either unaware of the gargantuan man beside him or simply not caring–quickly scurried up to the small chunk of cheese and scampered off with it in its mouth.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Emecar said as it ran away, “the other men here won’t give as many gifts as I.” But the mouse had disappeared into the shadows of a nearby alley.
Emecar smiled. Perhaps that little mouse would take that cheese back to its little mouse family. Perhaps, the mice had their own little community where a bread crumb was equal to a penter, and a cheese chunk was as much as a regalian; the chunk Emecar gave him surely would’ve been worth at least ten.
Emecar laughed at the thought and leaned back on the bench. He looked up at the streetlamps as they gently flickered in the spring breeze, then up at the moon—the eye of Velhien—staring back down at him. Surrounding her were the thousands and thousands of stars that littered the night sky. Within city limits, the sky seemed so much darker.
He closed his eyes.
Protect the innocent; heal the hurt; …
“Dozing off, brother?”
Emecar’s eyes shot open, and he saw the blue eyes of his brother staring down at him. He wiped away the small bit of dribble that had dripped from the corner of his mouth. “By fire! Sorry, I didn’t think I was—”
“Don’t worry,” said Rukifelth, “you weren’t out for long.”
Rukifelth extended his hand and helped Emecar to his feet. It was bandaged with a small stain of blood seeping its way through his knuckles.
He hadn’t had that before.
“What happened there,” asked Emecar as he strapped his shield back to his arm.
“This? Eh, don’t worry about it. Nothin’ bad, just a small scrap.” Emecar could smell the lies coming from his breath–as well as the booze–but Rukifelth scoffed it off. “I’m serious, it’s nothing. Now come on, we got work to do.”
Emecar felt again for the license in his pocket, and the two made their way into the garrison. They made their way up to the secretary who sat at a desk near the front entrance and showed them their paperwork. She read it, looked up at Emecar and Rukifelth, then read the license again.
She told a nearby officer to report to the lieutenant that some men from the troupe were here to assist, and if she’d like to speak with them. Despite Rukifelth’s attempted argument that it was in fact an official document, the officer ignored him, and made his way into the garrison proper.
“I don’t doubt its authenticity,” said the secretary, “but the lieutenant is a busy woman, and I need to know if she’s ready to see you now or if she’ll want you to return later.”
Emecar and Rukifelth waited in awkward silence for several minutes before the officer returned with word that the lieutenant was ready for them. The secretary gave the two back the license and gestured for them to enter. They marched through the stiff and claustrophobic halls of the garrison, walking past numerous watchmen, all of whom glared at them as if they were no better than criminals.
Once at the door to the lieutenant’s office, Rukifelth gave a couple knocks, and the two waited. The door opened, and they were greeted by Lieutenant Veronica Vechelot, who smiled at them professionally, but not genuinely.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m glad to see you join us.” She gestured for the two to follow her into the office and to have a seat.
Unlike her subordinates, the lieutenant wore a pristine dark green and gray officers coat, ornamented with a gold-brass medal adorned over her left breast to announce her rank, and a pair of gold epaulettes on her shoulders. Her short silver hair was clean and well-groomed, with no hair out of place, and her bright violet eyes burned with a sharp intensity that betrayed her fake smile.
Emecar handed her the license, and she took a few moments to read over it before setting it down and giving it a quick signature and stamp. “I’ll have the two of you assist at the South 4th district. Show my approval to Sergeant Astier, and he’ll give you your assignment.”
They nodded in agreement, but exchanged a quick, wordless conversation with one another.
Rukifelth’s nod said: “South 4th? She wants us as far away as possible.”
Emecar’s nod said: “As long as we’re getting paid, who cares.”
Lieutenant Vechelot slid the license across her desk and Emecar took it, rolled it up and slid it into his pocket. As they turned to leave, Emecar caught one last glimpse of the lieutenant trying to discreetly wipe her hand on her coat in disgust.
Their walk out of the garrison was nearly just as awkward as when they entered. Beneath the glaring eyes of the watch, Emecar whispered, “They behave as if they don’t deal with our kind every day.”
“If your job was mucking through filth every day, Emecar,” said Rukifelth, “do you think you’d ever find it less disgusting?”
“I say you either get used to it or find a new job.”
The two laughed as they stepped out of the cramped garrison and made their way towards the southern districts: the slums.