Of Love and War

The moon clears the last wisps of cloud drifting near the horizon and breaks through the tangle of branches overhead, shining silver light into the clearing of the woods. Mirion lies on his back, one arm thrown over his head and the other on top of layers of silk robes, staring straight up at the sky, listening to the quiet crystalline sound of water in the brook, and the louder, unearthly sound of voices drifting on the wind, mingled tenors and altos. He raises one hand and squints his other eye shut, covering the moon with his thumb and staring at the stars, watching as they wheel overhead in their slow dance.

“There you are.”

A teasing voice drifts through his consciousness; he drops his hand and raises his head. Calathiel stands on the very edge of his vision, her white dress shifting around her ankles in the wind.

“It’s a good night,” Mirion says, returning his gaze to the skies. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

“You always liked the stars too much.”

“If you would stop staring at the trees for one second, wood elf, you would like them too.”

Calathiel just laughs.

“We were looking for you,” Calathiel says, and sits next to him. “Your father was starting to worry.”

“He worries about everything,” Mirion says, almost irreverently, but softens it with a smile and a hopeful glance. “I thought maybe you would be kind enough to–”

“To what? Cover for you?” She laughs. “Come. You’re already late.”

But he doesn’t get up, just sighs and holds up his thumb again, returning his gaze to the stars.

“Just a minute, Lathiel,” he says, and pats the ground next to him. “Just look. It is truly beautiful tonight.” He winks at her. “Not unlike yourself.”

But she shakes her head, grabbing his raised hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Petulant elf,” she says playfully, and smooths his robes flat, arranging his dark hair over the delicate point of his ears. “You’re the crown prince. Stop shirking responsibility.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Me either, but unlike you, I have a choice.”

“Not for much longer,” he says, and lifts her left hand, kissing the ring on her finger. “You had the unfortunate fate of falling in love with me.”

“A truly unfortunate fate.” Calathiel lets her hand linger before pulling it away. “Come on, Mirion, you were expected at the feast an hour ago.”

And so he lets her tug his arm and pull him away from his beloved stars, into the woods and the feast of celebration.

A long table winds its way between trees like a river through the mountainside, filled with food, and people in long robes and light dresses, the air heavy with laughter and music, soft light spilling from lanterns held by low hanging branches. Calathiel produces his crown, a thin circlet of silver, and hands it to him. Mirion takes it, as only he can, and places it haphazardly on his own head (as only he would).

“Don’t give me that look,” Mirion says indignantly. “It’s only Midsummer’s Eve. There is always another Midsummer’s Eve.”

But she just shakes her head, smiles, and brings him through the crowds, as the herald cries his name– the High Prince, Mirion son of Aearion, with not a small amount of chagrin at his tardiness. The people smile, and bow, but he only has eyes for his betrothed, dark hair shimmering in gentle light, and the smile she bestows upon them on his behalf. She catches him staring. He blushes. She laughs.

The High King sits at the head of the table, reclined on a seat of entwined silver and wood, fine robes of intricate design sitting neatly on his shoulders; pale silver and deep blue, the colors of the night sky. A crown sits on his head, a heavy circlet of thin silver strands, entwined with sparkling gems. Mirion stops, and bows before his father. Calathiel follows.

“My King,” he says, and straightens.

The High King Aearion rises from his seat, grasping his son’s forearm in greeting.

“Mirion,” he says, his voice deep, with a hint of humor. “Finally. Basking in the starlight once again, hm?”

“Sorry, Father,” Mirion says; apologetic, but not necessarily contrite. Calathiel laughs.

“It’s not the father who cares,” Aearion says, and motions for his son to sit. “But the king, on the other hand… There are rules. Not to mention responsibilities.”

Mirion waits until his father is seated before doing the same.

“And what would the king have me do?” Mirion asks with not a small amount of humor, leaning back in his seat and taking a berry from the center of the table. He puts his boots on the table.

“Act like the prince that you are, for one,” Aearion says, and glances pointedly at Mirion’s boots and his crooked circlet. Mirion lets his boots fall with a thud. He doesn’t fix the circlet.

“Walk with me,” Aearion continues. “There is something we must discuss.”

Mirion takes his leave of Calathiel with a quick kiss to her hand, and follows the High King, away from the crowds and into the woods, on one of the paths, lit by the soft golden light of lamps. It is quiet, the air still and calm, broken only by the rustling of silk robes.

They walk in silence, each secretly enjoying the other’s quiet company. Too often, Aearion the king was called away by duty (or responsibility, as he so aptly put it), leaving little room for Aearion the father. Mirion doesn’t mind; so long as his father lived, Mirion was free to live as he pleased, free of the duties of king.

But he missed Aearion the father, the one who would lift Mirion onto his knee on his throne, wrapping one arm around his son and the other around his scepter, reserving stern looks for his councilors and winking conspiratorially at his son. But those times became less and less, until the only surefire time to see his father was at night, when Aearion would come, tuck the covers around his son, and plant a quiet kiss on his forehead.

But Mirion would often be at his window instead of his bed, chin resting on the sill, gazing up at the stars. Aearion would enter silently and stand in the door for a moment, watching his son watch the skies, before saying sternly,

“Mirion, to bed.”

And Mirion would run to his bed, as if he could fool his father that he had been there all along, and he would be kissed goodnight, before dreaming about little silver stars spinning across the skies, and how they always seemed to bring his father to him.

The same stars spin overhead tonight, over the father and son, as they walk through the woods. Aearion clasps his hands behind his back; Mirion reaches out to graze his fingertips on passing branches.

“Calathiel has taught me to love the woods more,” Mirion says, almost bashfully, as his father gives him an amused look, then returns his gaze forward.

“We are going to war, Mirion,” Aearion says finally, and it is not Aearion the king who says it.

Mirion frowns. “Father?”

Aearion takes a breath. “We go to war with the Hithilain.”

Mirion freezes. The wood elves who live to the south, in the dense parts of the forest. The wood elves who are under Aearion’s kingship, who have kept an uneasy peace with the elves of the north for millenia.

Calathiel’s people.

“My King,” Mirion says, but speaks to him as his son. “What of Calathiel?”

Aearion shakes his head. “I do not know. But you will lead the charge. It is your duty.”

“My duty?” Mirion stares at him in disbelief. “We are to be married. I cannot wage war on her people– besides, I haven’t been in war in three thousand years.”

“It was two thousand years,” Aearion says. “And you will remember it, when you pick up your sword.”

I don’t want to, Mirion thought, but didn’t say that. Instead,

“Why?” Mirion asks, running to catch up with his father. “Why are we going to war? What have they done? Are they not our people?”

“Their king has declared war,” Aearion says tightly. “They have encroached on the southern border, and they have built outposts out into the fields.”

“The Hithilain are under your kingship,” Mirion says, walking rapidly down the path. “Why do you not order them to stand down?”

“I am not so big a fool,” Aearion says. “Their king has not done so, clearly. War is unavoidable.”

“There are other ways,” Mirion says desperately. “Diplomats, peace treaties… Calathiel and I–”

“Do you not think I have tried?” Aearion snaps. “We are already at war, Mirion. They made the first attack last night. The outpost on the river was taken.”

The river was lightly guarded because of the proximity to the Saethron elves of the east, but the outpost was most important; it guarded a trade route that runs through all three realms. Losing it means cutting off trade, which means destitution for some, starvation for most.

“How? Do the Saethron forsake us too?”

“No,” Aearion says. “They will stand. But there were lives lost.” He stops on the path and grips his son’s shoulders. “Do you see? We have no choice.”

Mirion does see, but he does not want to. He turns to the sky, but the thick layer of entwined branches covers his beloved stars.

Mirion finds himself in the palace.

The palace is a sprawling, hidden place, both in the forest and the mountain. In some parts are the caves, hollowed out caverns of stone riddled with gems that twinkle in the lamplight, and in other places the forest, silver paths lighting the way. The royal residence sits on the uppermost part of the mountain-palace, peeking above the trees, and this is where Mirion finds himself, perched on his balcony, gaze upwards, hands clenching the railing to keep from shaking.

We declare war, Mirion thinks, on my wife’s people.

Well, not wife, not yet. But close enough. Perhaps too close, because who knows which side Calathiel would choose? He fights back a wave of nausea and grips the rail again, the smooth ring of silver digging into his finger.

“Mirion?”

Calathiel’s voice comes closer and suddenly she is there, with one hand on the small of his back and the other tucked in her sleeve.

“You disappeared again,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but continues to stare over the night sky. The stars have begun to blink out, one by one, as the moon descends and the sun rises.

“What troubles you? What did the King say?”

Mirion found his throat dry, too dry to talk, which was just as well. He will not tell Calathiel, he decides, in a moment of what he calls cowardice, and will wait for the King to do so.

“Nothing I can speak about, yet,” Mirion says, in a half-truth-but-mostly-lie, and he smiles, twining his fingers with hers, mirroring the twisting in his stomach, pretending it is not dread. “The King will say, in time.”

The King does say, the next morning. He sits on his throne, a high seat of stone entwined with silver and gold and wood, a tribute to all people under his rule– stone for the Saethron of the east, wood for the Hithilain of the south, and precious metals for his own people, the Vaniyar of the north, the people of the skies. He holds his scepter in one hand, crown upon his head, and calls his counselors to order.

They are arranged in a half circle of eight counselors, with Mirion to his father’s right. The Saethron king sits on Aearion’s left, in long robes of gray, a crown of darkened steel upon his head. Calathiel stands behind the counselors, there at the King’s invitation.

Aearion passes through the pleasantries and formalities of court quickly, before saying, with no preamble,

“The Hithilain have declared war against the High King.” His voice is deep, and brooks no argument. The counselors start, whispering to each other, and Mirion sees Calathiel go pale, her fists clench at her side.

“They have encroached on the southern Vaniyar border, and destroyed a Saethron outpost on the river. I have sent for the Hithilain king to answer for his actions, and have gotten nothing but contempt and increased movement of his army.”

“Will the High King go to war?” one of the counselors asks.

“We ride in four days,” Aearion says. Mirion’s throat closes.

“Is the High King decided so soon?” the counselor says carefully. “Will we risk bloodshed over a border dispute?”

“The border dispute cost me thirteen lives,” the Saethron king snaps. “We are not so careless, nor cowardly, to leave our outposts empty. The soldiers were burned alive. Saethron stands with the High King.”

“It is peacetime,” the counselor implores Aearion. “We should not risk hard won peace over–”

“It is no longer peacetime,” Aearion says sharply. “Blood has already been spilled. The destruction of the river outpost leaves the Saethron cut off from trade, and they will starve if no action is taken. I do not forget the past crimes of the Hithilain so easily. We ride to war in four days.”

Mirion keeps his eyes trained on his father, watching every movement, every twitch of his finger, searching for a sign of regret, of doubt. There is none.

Mirion turns to Calathiel, dread twisting his stomach.

She has gone still, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, and fury barely restrained is in her eyes. She glares at the High King, jaw clenched, before turning to Mirion, and he flinches.

She holds his gaze for a second, then two, and disappears from the hall.

“I could not tell you before.”

Mirion finds her in the lower parts of the palace, in one of the caves that empties into the forest. She sits in the mouth of the cave, back turned, and Mirion hopes against all hope that she will understand.

“Could not or did not want to?” Her voice is low, laced with anger and sarcasm, and it echoes in the cavern. “You, my love, have a silver tongue, but I am not half-witted.”

Mirion remembers his dry throat, the feeling of dread that twisted in his stomach, and decides he did not lie.

“What will you do?” he asks instead, coming behind her.

“What would you have me do?” she counters, suddenly standing to face him. “Stay here like a caged bird, while you wage your righteous war on my people? Or go, and be branded a traitor by your father?”

“You would not be a traitor to me. I understand.”

“Oh, you understand,” Calathiel says, voice rising with every word. “You, the crown prince of the Vaniyar, the son of the High King, who has sat comfortably in your father’s shadow your whole life? You who has never had to choose anything in your life?”

“I chose you,” Mirion says quietly.

“Your father chose me,” Calathiel retorts. “You were simply lucky enough to like me.”

“I love you,” Mirion says sharply. “With all of my heart, and you cannot take that away. My father did nothing more than introduce us.”

“Your father,” Calathiel says, and laughs, a high, humorless laugh. “Your father, Aearion the Courageous. So courageous, he declares war on his own subjects! What does he think we will do, hm? Turn the trees against him?”

“The Hithilain are far from defenseless,” Mirion says, thinking of tales of savage warriors and bloodstained mouths.

“Ah, so now you support your king? I expected no less from you.”

“Do not insult my father,” Mirion warns. “The Hithilain king–”

“That’s my father, you coward,” Calathiel spits. “And do not pretend I was anything more than political gain.”

“Calathiel,” Mirion says, and takes a step forward. “You are angry, and rightfully so. I will not hold you to either choice. But do not make a choice now, before thinking.”

“I did not ask for your permission to choose, prince.” Her voice is cold, but her hands shake as she rips the ring from her finger.

“Take it,” Calathiel says, and throws it at his feet with a small clink. “I choose my people.”

Mirion takes a step closer, but she is already gone, disappearing into the woods, leaving nothing more than the ring on the ground.

Three days is just long enough.

On the first day, the High King musters the Vaniyar army, and they gather before their king beyond the palace gates, ten thousand strong, in silver armor, with shining shields, tall spears and tall helmets, and arrows with gold fletching. Mirion is given command of one third of the soldiers. He does not think of Calathiel.

On the second day, Mirion is kept busy, the morning spent in the armory, with soldiers, and the night recalling old memories of war, remembering the feel of his sword in his hand, and the bowstring underneath his fingers.

He does not think of Calathiel.

He meets with his father in the time between night and day, sitting in the throne room, bent over maps and borders and war plans.

“The Hithilain hold the southern part of the forest,” Aearion says, drawing a finger across the dark ink under the river, the border between the Hithilain and the Vaniyar. “They have taken the Saethron border in the field, and come up past the river.”

“We will meet them there?”

Aearion shakes his head. “In the fields. We cannot hope to win against the Hithilain in the forest; they are too crafty, too close to the trees themselves.”

“The trees have allegiance to us also.”

“We are not wood elves, Mirion.” Aearion shakes his head. “No. We march to war in the fields, play to the Saethron advantage. King Taurion will hold the fields.”

Mirion nods once. He does not think of Calathiel.

On the third day, Saethron troops pour in from the east, fifteen thousand, in steel armor engraved with runes of protection, stout spears and stout swords, short bows and arrows with blood red fletching. High King Aearion welcomes them, and they set up camp at the foot of the mountain. Mirion looks to the south, beyond the encampment, and imagines the Hithilain readying for war. He does not think of Calathiel.

On the fourth, they ride to war.

Mirion wears his full armor for the first time in two thousand years; a tunic under finely wrought chainmail under a silver breastplate, vambraces over his sleeves, spaulders holding back a dark cloak, the color of the night sky, the star of the Vaniyar emblazoned with silver thread. His sword is strapped to his horse, long and gently curved, honed to a fine edge. He wears his crown to battle, a gem of white sitting on a circlet of silver.

The High King rides at the head of the column, Mirion to his right, the host of the Vaniyar arrayed on the field. They are flanked by the Saethron on either side, their king on Aearion’s left. The banner of the High King, the four rayed star of the Vaniyar, rides ahead of the deep red banner of the Saethron.

It is dawn, the sky pink but the sun still below the horizon, streaked with gold. The hosts wait, armor glimmering in the pale light. Mirion places a hand on his sword, and looks to his father.

Aearion sits tall in the saddle, a kingly figure against the backdrop of the sky and his banner fluttering in the breeze.

“Be brave, Mirion,” Aearion says, for his son’s ears only, so quietly Mirion wonders if he imagined it.

The forest shifts, perhaps with a breeze, but then the Hithilain come, materializing out of the trees, dressed in dark green, arrows drawn. Aearion draws his sword, his horse rearing, and cries,

“Forth!”

Mirion draws his own sword, summons his courage, and together, he and his father rush forward into battle, the high call of the horn piercing the silence, just as the sun came up over the horizon in all its brilliance, blotting out the last of the stars in the sky.

The battle is quick, harsh, and bloody, and Mirion learns why his father did not want to fight in the woods. Vaniyar fight on the ground, with spears and swords and volleys of arrows flying over head; the Hithilain fight like a viper, with knives and fluid movement; there are no ranks, no neat lines of spears and swords, just soldiers behind and around and somehow above you.

Mirion dismounts in one smooth motion and keeps as close to his father as he can, drawing his sword, slashing and stabbing and ducking. Blood soaks his cloak and stains his hands; the feeling of steel slicing through bone and sinew becomes too familiar, and he can no longer distinguish the difference between sweat and blood on his brow.

He keeps the High King to his left as he whirls, his blade clashing with another, the sound of steel on steel ringing in his ears. As he ducks and turns, he catches sight of a figure, tall and slender, dark hair braided in warrior plaits, finishing off a Saethron warrior with a quick stab to the heart before turning to the King.

She brings down her twin blades, and they clash on his sword; with a shout, Aearion spins, scraping his blade across her knuckles, drawing blood. Calathiel brings her knuckles to her mouth, staining it red. She smiles, a feral grin.

“Welcome to the forest, my King,” she says mockingly at Aearion’s ill disguised horror. She says something else Mirion can’t quite catch, but Aearion’s face drains of blood. She takes the moment of weakness to lunge forward, knives poised to slash at his neck.

“Calathiel, no!” he shouts, shoving aside his opponent and fighting his way across the field to the King. Aearion manages to parry her strike, just in time, as Mirion skids to a stop in front of them. She turns, scraping her twin blades against each other.

“Get out of my way,” she says, but Mirion holds his ground.

“Please don’t,” he says, and it’s as if the sounds of battle fade to the back, and all he can see is her, in forest green, which always managed to bring out her eyes, and he wishes they held love instead of hate, joy instead of fury.

She readies her knives, twirling them through the air, catching the early sunlight, and he grips his sword…

A horn cuts through the sound of battle, a Hithilain horn, high and reedy, and suddenly the Hithlain soldiers disappear, melting back into the forest. Calathiel shoots him one last look, unadulterated loathing, before following her kin.

“Hold!” Aearion shouts, and the Vaniyar horn rings through the air, cold and clear. “Do not follow!”

Mirion stops, held only by his love for his father and the threat of treason, from following Calathiel.

“Fall back to the mountain,” Aearion says, and Mirion goes, in a sea of Vaniyar warriors, stumbling as he strains to catch a last glimpse of Calathiel.

Aearion’s gaze follows his son, keeping an eye on his tall frame as he disappears down the field.

“They will not be gone for long,” Aearion says darkly, pacing the throne room, sword strapped to his belt. The counselors are present, not in their usual arranged neatness but standing, yielding their seats to the war generals, both Vaniyar and Saethron. Mirion stands next to his father, devoid of his armor, back in the formal attire fit for one holding court; or war council, as it were.

“My King,” a Saethron general says. “We must pursue them while we can.”

“That is madness,” a Vaniyar says back, dismissing the idea.

“We must,” the Saethron insists, rising. “It has only been a day; less than that. If we pursues them while they are weak–”

“You are a fool if you think their retreat was weakness,” the Vaniyar general says, his tone mild, almost delicate compared to the harsh tones of the Saethron. “It was bait; to lure us into their woods. We cannot hope to beat them there.”

“High King Aearion,” King Taurion says. He is still arrayed in armor, his hand clenched on his sword. “The Hithilain will not meet us in open battle again. It is not their way.”

“That much is true,” another Vaniyar said, reclined in his seat. “They fight like savages, scraping their knives and staining their skin with tallies of kills. They despise honorable combat.”

“Peace,” Aearion says, holding up a hand with a warning look. “To each his own.”

Mirion’s mind conjures up the image of Calathiel sucking blood off her knuckles, staining them red, and winces.

“We must go into the forest,” Taurion says. “There is no other way. Let me send a company, just to scout. And perhaps we will find weakness instead of strength–”

“My King!”

The cry comes high and harsh, echoing off the cavern walls of the throne room, followed by running footsteps. At a signal from his king, Mirion moves swiftly to the entrance of the chamber to intercept the messenger.

“My King,” the cry comes again, this time stopped short by Mirion’s forearm and steely glare.

“We may be at war, boy,” he says quietly, but no less firmly, “But you will show respect for the High King. On your knees.”

The boy looks up at Mirion, fear and wild horror in his eyes, and drops to one knee.

“My Lord,” he says, voice trembling, and it is now that Mirion notices the Saethron emblem emblazoned on the boy’s cloak. “I have a message for my King.”

“Speak,” Aearion says, and Mirion moves aside.

“Begging your pardon,” the boy says, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone ground, “My message is for the ruler of the Saethron army.”

Aearion’s gaze flashes with anger, and he raises an eyebrow at the bowed figure. “Am I not the High King? Speak, boy. You have tested my patience enough.”

Mirion frowns. When had his father– or for that matter, the king– become impatient with messenger boys? The coldness of the king was not something he was accustomed to, even under the pressure of war.

The pointed tips of the boy’s ears redden, but as he rises, he glances at the Saethron king for approval, and Mirion can almost feel the cold rage rippling off of Aearion. The Saethron king gives the boy a small, almost imperceptible nod, not daring to meet Aearion’s eyes.

“Of the two companies you sent, my king, none have returned, save one soldier,” the boy says, keeping his gaze away from Aearion at all costs, his fingers twisting behind him. “He is gravely injured, near death, my king, but has bade me to send for you.”

“Ah!” Aearion says, and his fury is unmistakable. “A company for scouting, did you say? Do the Saethron forsake me also? When did the title of High King become so lightly thrown aside?”

“My King,” Taurion says, but Aearion cuts him off.

“Enough!” The High King clenches his jaw and raises his chin. “See to the poor soldier you foolishly sent to his death. I will speak with you after.”

With that, he rises from his throne and leaves, brushing past the generals, who hurriedly rise and bow as he sweeps out of the room, the air thick with tension.

The door slams behind him, echoing in the cavern, and all eyes turn to Mirion; for leadership, perhaps, or to calm his father from his rage.

But Mirion is not a leader; he has never wished to be, and he will not take up the mantle now. He forces down his rising panic– “dismissed,” he barks, in a poor imitation of the king– and rushes out of the room.

Mirion follows as Aearion bursts through the doors of the palace, into the morning sunlight. He follows on the stone path, twisting and turning until disappearing into the depths of the forest. Mirion stays behind him, motioning for the guards to stay silent.

“He is a fool,” Aearion mutters under his breath, walking quickly in his anger. The wind moves in response, shifting his robes around his feet and sending leaves skittering across the stone. Mirion clears his throat.

“My King?”

Mirion’s voice breaks the silence, gentle and cautious; or perhaps wary is a better word. Aearion turns; to his credit, his expression is appropriately neutral.

“Yes?”

Mirion gives him a small, almost sardonic, bow. “You left in a hurry.”

“The fool of a king will get his people killed,” Aearion says, fist clenching on his sword hilt. “Sending two companies against a woodland army? Did he think they would survive?”

Mirion shrugs, coming to his father’s side. “Perhaps he acted rashly.”

“He is a king.” Aearion spears his son with a look. “He cannot afford to be rash. Remember that.”

Mirion falls silent. Always they dance around the subject of succession; of Aearion’s death, really, because why else would Mirion wear the crown?

“High King Aearion,” a voice says behind them, and they both turn. The messenger bows.

“King Taurion has spoken with the soldier,” he says, and then hesitates briefly. “He… he humbly requests your presence.”

“Does he,” Aearion says flatly. Mirion coughs into his fist.

“I will go,” he says, “If it pleases the king.”

“Stay,” Aearion commands, then to the messenger, “Bring Taurion to the clearing. He comes to me.”

“Yes, my king.” The messenger bows, and goes back into the palace.

“You will run the messengers to their deaths,” Mirion says lightly, as they continue on to the clearing.

“Then Taurion will have to learn to keep his head next time,” Aearion says coldly, and walks quickly down the path.

Mirion hurries to keep up. The sun filters through the branches, the brass lanterns hanging empty and unlit, swaying as they pass.

“Father,” Mirion says carefully. “We cannot afford to lose another ally.”

“Neither can the Saethron,” Aearion counters. “He will yield to me.”

Mirion shuts his mouth.

They arrive in the clearing, and it is bright, unlike the night of the feast. The shadows shift and change, harsh lines instead of the softness of the night, bright yellow sun instead of the gentle silver of the stars. It is warm. Mirion tugs uncomfortably at his sleeves.

Aearion doesn’t seem to mind; he stands in the center of the clearing and clasps his hands behind his back, a sunbeam across his face, casting one eye into shadow, and the other glimmering a deep blue.

Mirion touches the trunk of a tree, feels the hum of life underneath his palm. Calathiel taught him that, he thinks, with a sense of regret. The sun is glaringly bright.

A soft rustle of leaves precedes Taurion’s arrival. He is still dressed in his armor, plates of darkened steel and a matching crown, and a red cloak, and his eyes are unreadable. He takes a knee.

“My King,” he says, his voice rough, as all Saethron voices are.

Aearion doesn’t move except to turn his head. “Taurion,” he says, neglecting his title, and the king notices. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“I spoke to the soldier,” Taurion says.

“Ah,” Aearion says. “The soldier you sent to his death.”

“Yes.” Taurion’s voice breaks. “He is dead. Tortured within an inch of his life, but kept alive to be sent back. And stayed alive long enough to send his message.”

Mirion grips the trunk of the tree, digging his fingers into the rough bark, and forces down his nausea. Aearion, to his credit, does not flinch.

“What was he sent to say?”

“He is a warning, my King. To… to stay out of the woods, and to show their vengeance,” Taurion says. “And their cruelty.”

Mirion steels his expression into one of neutrality, but the image of a tortured soldier flashes across his mind, bloodied and broken beyond recognition.

“The Hithilain will stop at nothing, not even torturing boy soldiers,” Taurion says, raising his head, anguish in his eyes. “Will you not fight?”

“If you do not want boy soldiers to be tortured, do not send them into battle,” Aearion says coldly. “Better yet, do not make boys into soldiers. I trust you have learned your lesson.”

Mirion swallows hard, taking a step forward. “My King…”

“You have one company left in the woods, do you not?” Aearion says, cutting off his son’s words. He turns to face Taurion, expression impassive, cold, toying with the hilt of his sword.

“Yes, my King.”

“Send word,” Aearion says. “Capture a Hithilain soldier and bring him to me. If they wish to send a message, perhaps we should send one as well.”

The Saethron king’s face drains at his words, but he scrambles to rise as Aearion brushes past him. Taurion throws a desperate glance at Mirion, who stares back in equal horror.

This is not the king he knows. This is not the father he knows.

The Saethron company comes back three days later, with one Hithilain soldier and half their elves, the others dead in the forest. The king orders him to the dungeons– in a cold, detached voice Mirion hopes never to hear again– and they wait.

They wait far enough away not to hear the screams of the soldier, but Mirion thinks he can hear them anyway. Aearion paces the length of the hall, light footsteps echoing, sword still swinging from his belt. Mirion sits on the edge of the bench, swinging his legs nervously.

“Stop that,” Aearion says, with a humorless smile. “You’ll wear your knees out.”

Mirion plants his boots on the floor.

“You do not have to do this,” Mirion says quietly.

“You have no idea what I must do,” Aearion says, and that was the end of that.

One of the captains comes out of the dungeons, bowing before the king, hands at his sides.

“It is done, my king,” he says, and Mirion notices the blood on his boots, staining the leather a deep brown. As he rises, his gaze meets Mirion’s; it is oddly devoid of emotion, blank and empty.

Mirion rises and follows his father into the dungeons.

It is dark and damp, another cave in the mountain, but not the airy ones that spill into the forest; this one is deep, cut off from all starlight, and Mirion swallows hard, forcing breath into his lungs. The lanterns cast a strange light on the prisoner.

He is chained by his wrists, hanging from the ceiling, shirtless and bloodied, head hanging on his chest. He is young. The smell of blood and the lingering echo of his screams hang heavily in the air, and Mirion gags.

“Will he live?” Aearion asks dispassionately.

“Long enough, my lord,” is the answer, and Mirion winces. Aearion nods and steps forward, coming face to face with the soldier.

“Hear me carefully,” he says quietly. “You will take this message back to your king; that the High King is not above using tortured soldiers as messengers, though we prefer not to. But you have forced my hand, Hithilain. Continue, and it will be your end. Do you understand, soldier?”

The head nods, once, before sinking back down. Aearion nods in satisfaction, and straightens.

“Set him loose,” he says, and leaves the dungeons, his son at his heels.

Mirion stands at the doorway of the throne room as his father paces back and forth, back and forth.

“My King,” Mirion says, timidly, but his voice echoes in the cavern.

“Hm?”

“Why do we stoop to the level of Hithilain torture? Is it not enough–”

“I received a message from the Hithilain,” Aearion says, still pacing the room with long, deliberate strides, but he clenches his hands behind his back. “Or rather, from the Hithilain princess.”

“Calathiel?” Mirion asks, taking an eager step forward. “What did it say? Is she all right?”

He hopes, against all hope, that it was a parlay; a peace offering, a white flag. Maybe then the fighting would stop; maybe then the world would return to normal, with his betrothed at his side and his father back the way he was.

“She asked for your head,” the High King says, and Mirion’s heart shatters.

He takes a shuddering breath, and puts a hand on the cool stone wall to steady himself. Aearion is at his side, hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Not in so many words,” his father says, more gently. “She asked for you, to be given over to them, to do with you what they will. A bargain, of sorts; you for the end of the war, and control of the river. Whether it was by her own volition or at her father’s bidding, I don’t know. But I don’t care.”

Mirion, in some desperate, desperate corner of his mind, wants to agree to go, just to see her again. But his father’s hands grip his shoulders, steady him, stop his trembling.

“I will not give up my son,” Aearion says quietly, fiercely. “I will do anything before giving you up.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he whispers, not meeting his father’s eyes.

“Because I have done unspeakable things,” Aearion says, and Mirion can almost smell the scent of the soldier’s blood on his cloak. “But I do them so they will not happen to you.”

“Torturing the soldier will not make her stop,” Mirion whispers, and tries to collect the shattered remains of his heart as they slip from his grasp.

“It is no more than is expected, and no more than they deserve,” Aearion says. “It is what they have already done, to that poor Saethron boy. This is war, Mirion.”

But Mirion knows this is not war; war is blood and death, valiant deeds and bright shields. This is love; heavy with vengeance and hurt underneath the skin, the sting of betrayal and the destroying of hearts.

He closes his eyes and forces his mind to flee, somewhere beyond time, where the stars hang above the earth, detached and beautiful, where he can join them in the skies.

Coward, his mind whispers to him, but he forces that out too.

Aearion readies his army again.

“The Hithilain have taken the message to heart,” he says to Mirion, with no small amount of satisfaction. He stands as his esquire tightens the straps of his breastplate. “This time, we ride to victory.”

“Why did you let me see her?” Mirion blurts out. His fingers toy with the edges of his vambraces. “After I met her. Years ago. Why did you let me see her again?”

Aearion dismisses the esquire. He turns to face his son, amusement in his eyes.

“We stand on the eve of battle,” he says affectionately, “And my son can’t help but spill his lovesick heart.”

Mirion can’t quite bring himself to smile. He sits on the windowsill, watching his father continue to dress for battle. Aearion’s armor gleams in the sun, bright silver, sitting comfortably on his broad shoulders as he clasps his cloak at his throat. His crown sits proudly on his head, looking for all the world like it was meant to be there.

“I let you see Calathiel because you loved her,” Aearion finally says. He tightens the straps of his vambraces, turning his back to his son to reach for his sword.

“You are too good a king for that,” Mirion says. “The High Prince and the Hithilain princess? Was it ever anything more?”

Aearion stops, and he looks over his shoulder at his son, piercing him with his gaze. “It was always more.”

“She told me it was politics, not love.”

“Must they always be two different things?” But Aearion shakes his head. “I would have let you marry Calathiel because you loved her. We were at peace, Mirion. There was no reason to think otherwise.”

“The Hithilain killed your father,” Mirion says. “How could you stand it?”

Aearion is still, except for the breeze, shifting his hair. The reflection on his armor shines in Mirion’s eye.

“That was an age and a half ago,” Aearion says stiffly. “Things have changed.”

“Apparently not,” Mirion says softly. “Now that she wants my head.”

“My father was murdered before my eyes,” Aearion hisses, whirling towards his son. He stalks closer. Mirion scrambles back into the open window. “It was no act of misplaced love, but brutal slaughter just to prove they could. This is not the same. This is not–”

He takes a breath, exhaling sharply, and closes his eyes. He plants his fist on the stone near Mirion’s knee.

“No, Mirion,” he says, more gently. “Perhaps her father is driven by politics, but Calathiel is not. Calathiel is hurt, and rightly so, lashing out at everyone in her way. Do not take it to heart.”

“But the Hithilain started the war, before she left,” Mirion says, looking at his father. “Didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Aearion says, and there isn’t a hint of doubt in his eyes. “That, I cannot explain.”

Mirion looks down, swallowing, twisting his hands in his lap. Maybe it was him that drove her away, and the battle was merely a convenient excuse. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, hoping the words he says do not come across cowardly.

“Must we go to battle, Father?”

He does not want to risk Calathiel’s wrath, or her sword. He does not want to risk anything more than he already has, and he clings to what he has left with desperate fingers.

But Aearion just sighs, looking at his son with gentle eyes.

“As a father,” he says, “My only responsibility is you, Mirion. But as king… my duty is first to the Vaniyar, then to the Saethron. We ride to war.”

Aearion’s fingers clamp on his son’s shoulder one more time, as if he could impart strength through touch alone, then straightens. Mirion lifts his eyes. Aearion’s cloak flaps gently in the breeze, and as he rests a hand on his sword, images of the High Kings of old flashes through Mirion’s mind, in bright armor, the epitome of bravery, valor, righteousness.

Aearion the Courageous, indeed, Mirion thinks, and cannot feel more ashamed to be his son. I am sorry, Father.

Mirion stands at the head of the column, leading the left portion of the Vaniyar. He sees his father across the field, astride his horse, banner snapping in the wind, jaw set, crown glittering in the sun.

But Mirion’s armor seems to have grown, or fear has shrunk him, and he is inadequate, just a lovesick boy scared on the field of battle.

Find your courage, he tells himself, but search as he might, he cannot.

He swallows hard, grips the hilt of his sword, and closes his eyes; for a split second, he is not on the battlefield but the forest clearing, after the sun had dipped beneath the earth and the lanterns were lit, casting a golden glow on the trees, but not dimming the silver light from above.

He had thought it was the perfect place; the woods for her, the stars for him.

But now it was noon, in the open fields, the bright sun chasing away any semblance of twilight, harsh shadows replacing the softness of the night, and Calathiel is not here; her and her twin blades, too far away, but all too close as well. His knees go weak, and he takes a shaky breath in, releases a shaky breath out.

“My Lord?”

His esquire, a boy no older than the Hithlain soldier they tortured, looks up at him with nothing but loyalty and devotion.

“Is there something you need, my Lord?” he asks again, and Mirion shakes his head.

“No,” Mirion says, and chokes back the words that want to spill out of his mouth- flee, while you can. The boy nods, gaze sliding forward, but not before catching the eye of a soldier on the other side of Mirion, who smiles and blushes and returns her eyes forward.

War, Mirion decides, is kinder than love.

“Vaniyar!” Aearion cries, spurring his horse and riding to the front of the line. “Long have you stood with me, against foes near and far, and now, against our long enemy, I bid you, stand!”

Stand. The word echoes in his mind, and it brings with it the image of Aearion’s fierce gaze and fearless laugh.

Be brave, Mirion.

To stand, boots planted, away from the light of the stars, in the darkness of a noon shadow, nearly took all his strength; Mirion, the son of Aearion, was weak with fear, and he again calls for his courage, dredging it up from the depths of his soul. He finds it deep in himself; the strength to stand, to grip his sword with white knuckles, and look death in the face.

The horn blows, cold and clear into the blue sky, and Mirion raises his sword. Aearion spurs his horse forward, the first company following behind, the cry of battle tearing through the air, just as the first of the Hithilain charge from the forest.

Mirion stands and fights, blade slicing through the air, gleaming in the sunlight. He cuts down the Hithilain until his hands are stained in blood, sword clenched in a powerful grip, until the feeling of steel cutting through flesh is too familiar once again, and he allows himself to smile.

This must be what courage is. This must be bravery.

Two flashes of silver, a cry of horror, and out of the corner of his eye, Mirion sees his father fall, blood pouring from his neck, Calathiel standing over his body, twin knives dripping.

Mirion’s heart shatters, a scream torn from his throat and lost to the wind. He throws himself forward, straining towards Aearion, only to be caught and hauled backwards by his esquire.

Calathiel lifts her head and catches his eye, bringing her hand to her mouth, staining it red.

“My King!” the boy shouts, and it takes too long for Mirion to realize who he was speaking to. “My King, you must go back to the palace.”

Yes, the line of succession must be preserved. But for what?

My father was murdered before my very eyes, Mirion thinks, still staring at the body as he is dragged backwards. Misplaced love, indeed.

Calathiel still looks at him, blood on her lips, just standing there over the body of Aearion. Her knives gleam, her hair floats in the wind, and she smiles.

“For you, my love,” he can almost hear her say, and Mirion turns his gaze upward, searching, searching, for stars he will never find in the harsh light of day.