Horrors in Timbrethinil

[Ataraxis]

“There!” Lillian shouted in haste, plunging her hands deep into the roiling green of the stream. She felt her fingers graze along a patch of scales before the salmon zipped past, slipping away between her ankles. The girl spun to recover her catch, almost losing her footing on the slippery stones that made the riverbed, but she found it too difficult to ford even these shallow waters. She ran after it in clumsy splashes, but gave up short of a dozen yards.

She could have easily fashioned a fishing rod from the long sticks that riddled the floor of the embowering forest, but chasing after fish without any clever apparatus had seemed like an amusing idea at the time, what with all those washed-out relics in the city complaining about how simpler things were back then. “That’s it, I’m never trusting elderly nostalgia again.” She padded along a few feet further, rousing the murky surface with froth, until she stopped before two tall branches, each towering soldierly over one side of the waterway. Between them was the open weave of a net, its dark and web-like threads reflecting the sunlight as would a glass mosaic. Trapped in it was the salmon that had escaped her, struggling in vain against that supple but unbreakable cage.

“Sorry, little guy,” she said after crouching over it, her tone genuinely apologetic. After dampening her hands in the stream, Lillian slid them beneath the flailing creature, closing the left around its tail while only using the right to support its head. With the utmost care, she slipped it into a half-filled wooden pail she had awkwardly assembled from leaves and slivers of bark. “I can’t afford to die from starvation just yet.”

Though not quite short of breath, the mere thought of working up a sweat had made her tired. Deciding she could afford a moment of respite, the girl closed her eyes, taking in as much as she could of her surroundings. The freshness of noontime air cleansed her lungs with every whiff, and the warm rays of the sun at its zenith, filtered through the emerald canopies overhead, felt like gentle sleeves that swathed around her protectively. The coolness of the stream washing against her forelegs was a pleasant contrast, and that subtle but undeniable smell of coursing freshwater caressed her nose like the sweet aroma of a heavenly balm. With that done, she undid her net and rushed to the riverside. Slipping into her boots, she feelt ready to tackle the long way back to her makeshift home on the hillside.

Lillian was deep in musing as she trekked up a natural path that cut between twisting rows of evergreens. It always amazed her how quickly this place could rejuvenate her, and it helped her understand just why the elves cared for this forest so much. It held something magical, something beyond the tired and secular meaning of the term, beyond the utilitarianism that so many had come to associate it with. It held a magic long forgotten, much more than parlor tricks or showy displays of power. It held something… sacred. Yes, she thought: there were things in this world she knew to be sacred, and without a doubt, the forest of Timbrethinil was one of them.

“Or at least,” she added with a sigh, stopping at the crest of a crisp and grassy rise, eyes wandering over the western panorama, “it used to be.”

There in the distance was the heart of the forest, but at its core was a cancer that had spread unchallenged. For miles and miles, the forest had darkened like an infection, and where proud trees had once stood as its stalwart guardians, only gnarled and crooked shells remained, corrupted into undead traitors by the far-reaching hands of the Necromancer. That wave of death was advancing, and she could almost see the forest wither, could almost see its colors fade before her unbelieving eyes.

She turned her gaze away, feeling like the lowest of the low, feeling as if a murder was being committed, and all she did was to turn a blind eye, thinking those exonerating words that all cowards think.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

[Ataraxis]

The cave was, in every conceivable way, a miracle. Finding it was by itself a most unlikely coincidence, considering it was over fifty feet above ground into a hillside, hidden by a natural growth of curling vines and halberd-shaped leaves. It had taken her quite some time to investigate, as she had to rappel down to it from the hilltop using what few tools she had on hand, a task made no easier by her mild fear of heights. A few heightened heartbeats were, however, far more desirable than the prospect of wandering the forest for days at the risk of encountering hordes of undead.

Lillian had been pleasantly surprised to see how vast the cave was, but the more she inspected it, the more she realized it could be turned into the perfect hideout. The stone floor slanted downwards from the entrance, reaching a plateau a few dozen feet in – no risk of rolling out the cave during a night of tormented sleep. Moreover, the ceiling rose sharply the deeper she went, which was perfect to set up a small cooking area. Serving as a hot plate were piles of sticks and tinder, walled in by adequately sized and shaped rocks and topped with a stone plate thin enough for the heat to reach. With a few patches of sealing web here and there, the smoke would only travel along a fireproof tube she’d magically sewn and affixed to a hermetic hole the ceiling, thus minimizing any risk that the smokes give away her presence and location.

In the three months since she had made it her primary residence, Lillian had spruced it up with a smidgen of feminine touch, albeit a very primitive one. She had fashioned a few sets of very basic chairs carved from fallen boughs, one for necessity and the others to kill time. A medium-sized slab of rock sat on the even area of the cave, and it doubled for a table. She had also broken the two mirrors she carried with her – one for detecting potential threats around a corner, the other for grooming – and hung the pieces at strategic points in the cave which she had determined with a few calculations that depended on the sun’s position. This allowed her a stream of light that reached her makeshift cooking device exactly at dawn and noon, for the span of an hour or so.

The most important piece of furniture, however, was a little wooden tray that hung on the wall. She had sanded it to a smooth white, and then proceeded to draw on it a map of the forest with pigments from crushed leaves. What was notable about it, however, were the pins she had arranged in a tentative circle around a cross mark that represented the hillside cave. Each was tied to a thin but strong thread that ran along the wall, streamlined by a little hole she had whittled into the very rock with her dirk. Each thread then went on for a little over a mile into the forest, spun around the midpoint of tall trees. Tied to those were weaker webs that hung between trees and rocks and into the underbrush at knee-height.

Anyone who crossed these would cause the higher threads to tug, alerting her to their general location via the oscillating pin on her board. Wild animals could potentially trip these as well, but they had become rarer and rarer, even in these unaffected regions of the forest. Animals had keen senses, and their instincts reacted much more strongly to the advancing wave of corruption than most sentient beings did. If only a single pin vibrated, then she would almost always investigate: the undead were rarely solitary, and even small regiments would trigger a minimum of two pins at once. If lucky, she would find quarry to hunt. If not… well that had not happened yet.

[Ataraxis]

“Not yet,” she repeated to herself, the gleam in her blue eyes deadening as fast as the daylight. She chewed on what little cooked meat remained of the salmon she had caught, then put the fish bone away. Sometimes, these moments would come: moments where she wondered why things had turned out this way, why she was here, alone, in the middle of a dying forest, hiding from a plague that would inevitably reach her one day.

Lillian thought back to that terrifying morning, months past, when she escaped from the city of Eluriand with each and every of her citizens. At that time, she was a new student of the Istien University, and only beginning to adapt to this new environment with the help of a friend who had long since vanished. Perhaps he had survived like she did, but perhaps he had died on his way out, run over mercilessly during the riots and stampedes. Perhaps, even, he had been infected... and the notion disheartened her. The girl held a quavering hand over her eyes, in a vain attempt to calm her breaking heart and troubled mind.

She remembered being whisked away to Carnelost during that escape, remembered trudging through the poisonous vines of the Red Forest with all of those in her situation, all the way to the Obsidian Spire - how they could have thought the mythical abode of Xem’Zund to be a refuge for their weary souls still eluded her. She fought next to the mercenary Godhand and alongside the daughter of Devon Starslayer, fought against one of his undead generals and then three of his lieutenants before escaping that god-forsaken tower as it burned and crumbled to the ground. All of this, so long ago… but here she was, still right in the middle of it.

Every attempt to leave this dying land had been met with failure, and each time, she was driven further and further back into this maddening war. Stumbling upon long-dead cities when she had expected the welcome of saviors, falling into ambush after ambush rather than finding a way to escape, all foes and no friends, every day of every month, for longer than even her weary mind could count… she was tired. So very tired.

Throwing her head back, Lillian forcefully stopped the tears from falling. It was silly to fold now, she thought, especially after enduring all this time. There would be light, one day, and she would be able to leave this dark cave where only shadows of the world she yearned for existed. No more adventures, no more battles. No more wars, and no more deaths. For once in her life, she truly wanted to live.

“It’s going to happen,” she repeated to herself, repressing the quaver in her voice. “It’ll be over soon,” she went on, the words becoming a manic mantra.

Alas, during this struggle of her heart, she had not noticed the pin move.

[Ataraxis]

Sparse few rays of moonlight could make it through the forest canopy, and Lillian knew this darkness to be unnatural. The obscurity seemed to thicken with every passing night, a phenomenon that she theorized had found its origin in the plague of corruption that was afflicting Timbrethinil. Not only did it violently siphon the life out of everything that stood in the way of its crashing tide, not only did it warp its victims into minions of a darker motive and of a darkest master, but it also drained the world of its very radiance, turning any glimmer of hope into mere fodder for the abominations that were growing stronger in its womb.

Lillian could still manage in this deepened darkness, her strange blue eyes having always favored the nightly realms to the blinding shine of broad daylight. What shafts of light had pierced through the shroud of palmate leaves overhead served as her guides, facilitating her navigation through the woods. Though she did not run, fearing not only the noise of withered branches snapping underfoot but also the traces they would leave, the girl could still travel fast over the dry soil and leafy patches. Be it her light weight or her fleet feet, she hardly left any visible tracks an undead scout could follow – not with their enfeebled minds and this advancing gloom, at the very least.

It was only a matter of time before she would make it to the edge of the perimeter linked to the vibrating pin, one she had noticed almost too late. A slew of hypotheses were running through her mind: it could have been the first solitary undead to ever wander into her web, just as it could have been nothing more than a lost hare or lone wolf. Were it the former, she would circumvent it as silently as she could and repair the thread it had walked through, then make her way back: this had to be done as quickly as possible, as a broken thread was a blind spot in her surveillance system.

In case others walked through while she was away, however, Lillian had affixed weak webs going from the wooden slate to the tip of each and every pin: a strong wind would only pull at the pins with so much force, managing only to stretch these webs, but the transferred force of a trespasser would break them cleanly. This she would see upon returning to her hideout, and in those circumstances she would simply repeat the process of replacing the broken webs, albeit grudgingly. That was, however, a possibility she would have to deal with another time. Right now, she already had her hands full with this intruder.

Though not a clearing per se, the trees were thinner where she stopped, save for the snapped trunks and hollow boles that littered the forest ground. This particular location seemed to have served as training grounds for inexperienced song-mages, from the hints left in the wreckage. Some trees were singed, their bark blown off and core burned out by what could have been a series of lightning bolts. Others had simply been shaved clean of their bark by some unknown feat of magic. The scores in the wood also matched the general shape and make of flute-blades, though she had a hard time believing that some of these mages had managed to cleave through a mature tree with what looked to be a single slash.

The more she looked, the more she was certain they had not been elves: they were foreigners to Raiaera, perhaps students of Istien who did not quite share their hosts’ symbiotic worship of nature. Over the ages, the grounds appeared to have fallen into disuse, either forgotten or replaced in the hearts of the men and women that had come to practice here. Perhaps they had been discovered, and chided for this sacrilegious vandalism. Then, she thought grimly, perhaps they all died without ever passing on the word. With a wistful look in her eyes, she brushed her fingers against the bark of a tree that had healed over its scars, tracing the grooves as she imagined the youths that had left them there as what could very well be the only remaining traces of their existence.

It was then that Lillian felt a sharp edge slide across her index. Her eyes widened, and as she inspected the score in the wood, she realized it was recent. Not months, not days… minutes recent.

A muffled sound reached her ears, like fingers snapping underneath layers of cloth. She then noticed a red glow dancing along the rough bark, until it tore through the pitch darkness. Lillian spun on the ball of her heels, unsheathing in one fluid stroke the glass dagger that hung from the rope belt at her waist. The blade slashed through the nipping air with a ringing vacuum, and from its core a sorcerous gust of wind was summoned forth. It flew through the clearing in a crescent of aggregate particles, meeting head on a monstrous wave of crackling fire that had cast the whole woods in a golden light. They erupted upon collision, the gust swallowed into the ravenous flames as the oxygen within made them flare up for an instant. Fortunately, the force and velocity of the squall had been enough to cleave through the burning gas, putting it out like a blown candle before it could reach Lillian.

Just as she thought she could rest, the girl saw a red blur slice through the diffusing fires, a silver blade trailing behind it in a deafening whistle. Lillian leapt backward, hoping to sidle the tree she had been inspecting and use it as an obstacle to her assailant, but she was caught unawares as willowy arms wrapped around her neck and arms, one strong grip on her dirk-wielding hand. Immobilized, heart beating against her chest, hearing the frenetic pumping of her blood, Lillian could only watch the blade’s arcing approach, watch it sweep through the cold night’s air, closer and closer to her neck.

Her mind went blank. Through her eyes, only red.

[Ataraxis]

How?

How could a body so small contain such unbridled power? Moments ago, the girl was helpless in his vice grip. Now, his feet had been robbed of purchase, a surge of vertigo had overwhelmed his mind, and panic had lodged itself in the pit of his stomach. Panic, because his body was careening through the air. Panic, because the creature he still held on to had sent them both soaring with a single, earth-shattering kick of her legs.

Just as he thought his back would break against a tree, the girl dug her boots into the earth, heels biting deep into the ground and leaving a backwash of dirt and peaty soil. His body jerked from the sudden brake, and he felt her reach for an armpit, felt the muscles in her fingers cord and coil like steel wires. He screamed as she threw him forward, straight at the red-cloaked swordsman that had not stopped his charge and whose blade was still singing closer, closer, dangerously closer.

The swordsman spat an oath as he corrected his aim, the silver blade slicing along his partner’s shoulder rather than his neck. Blood splashed over his face, and he heard the man cry out in pain as he landed in a heap, rolling along the dust until his wounded arm struck a hard mass of gnarled roots.

“You… you just cursed in High Elven,” he heard the girl with blood-red eyes speak, and the swordsman found his legs had slowed to a stop. “You’re'… you’re not one of them.”

“Orophin…. you were wrong.” His partner wailed weakly from behind, hands plucking patches of grass as he struggled on all fours. “When I grabbed her… she didn’t smell like rot.”

“You… you thought I was undead?” The girl was clearly insulted, but as she looked down to her dress, she seemed to realize it was so filthy and unkempt that the misunderstanding was, to some extent, justified. “Wait… Orophin?” There was a glimmer of recognition in her voice, in her gaze. The sanguine hue in her eyes receded like fading clouds of blood, leaving behind the strangest hue of sapphire he had ever seen. He knew them, just as he knew that lilting voice. “Orophin Súrion?”

“Oh, it’s you.” Orophin paused, ashen eyes rolling up as he raked the confines of his mind for her name. The scowl of disappointment across his face could not be any more obvious. He had seen her months ago, long before the return of the Black, in a magical maze of sorts. They had been trapped like lab rats with many others, to be observed and dissected. Though her participation had been crucial in their escape, he could not help his pathological dislike of the mousy little child. “Annoying girl.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied, brows knit in an equal expression of contempt. “If I knew we were using pet names, I’d have opened with ‘lecher’. The name is Lillian.”

“Really, Phin?” the supine elf asked, his tone part incredulous, part revolted. “That young?”

“Oh, no: he’s a least respectable in that regard. No cradle-robbing in his book.”

“Do enjoy this rare chance to laugh at my expense, but need I remind you that this is not a picnic?” The younger elf clamped up at this, and his attention returned to the bleeding gash on his shoulder. “We need to find shelter, or else we are sitting ducks to the forces of the Necromancer.”

“Yes, yes,” Lillian answered, waving her hands dismissively. “Do you think we just happened to cross paths by pure happenstance? I came here to investigate from my hideout once I detected trespassers. It’ll be safer to talk there, if you’ll deign follow me.”

As she began her trek out of the training grounds, Orophin stayed behind in silent consideration. When she turned to see what was the hold up, he knew he had seen true. With one arm, he pulled his injured companion to his feet and helped him along like a crutch. Just as the girl turned back to guide them through the forest, he used his other hand to grab at her shoulder, gently so as not to alarm her senses.

“There is no need to hold it in, Lillian Sesthal.” He felt a quaver run through her body, perhaps surprise that he actually had remembered her full name. “It must have been hard.”

“I can’t,” she said simply, one hand over his. She held it, squeezed it, as if to take in any amount of solace she could find in it. Letting go, she swept the back of her hand across her eyes, and walked onward. “Not until it’s safe.”

[Ataraxis]

Orophin did not harbor any hatred, any ill will toward the girl. His natural dislike of her stemmed from his certainty that the Lillian he had spoken with on so many occasions in that maze, the Lillian that had insulted his proclivity toward philandering, his haughty demeanor and highfalutin ways… that Lillian was a façade.

He could see all too clearly, all too painfully, that this mask was her only armor. The biting remarks and witty replies, that coy conceit and prissy attitude, all were fabricated to shield a soul that was constantly on the verge of crying. What he hated was that defensiveness, that refusal to let those who worried about her to come close, to let them support her and to help her mend. He hated to see her isolated, hopelessly watching this unforgiving land through an impenetrable shell. The song-mage had an inkling that she had been hurt, terribly hurt, and that the mere notion of opening herself up to that world of pain again terrified her.

But if she closed herself to avoid the risk of others destroying her from without, she was still destroying herself from within.

Looking around this cave in the cliff-side, Orophin was overwhelmed by two feelings. The first was awe, because this young adolescent had been able to devise a functional living space from wood and stone, as well as an intricate surveillance system with threads, pins and a slab of oak. The stove that did not let the smoke escape, the mirror shards that that reflected what little moonlight there was, he thought it all very clever. The second feeling, however, was an incredible sorrow. From the looks of it, she had lived here by herself for months.

Sorcerous spheres of dim light hung about the air like lanterns, summoned by the rhythmic click of his fingers, and with that he had seen the darker details of this makeshift home. Fish bones lined the bottom of the back wall, with the occasional remains of a hare or a fox. Amidst the trash, there were also locks of hair, hacked off by the blade of a dagger, and their length was further evidence of the accuracy of his first estimate. He wondered what this place would have looked like if they had met months later... wondered if this innocent child would have kept her sanity for so long.

They had waited in silence while she cried. Ever since their arrival to the cave, she had shed countless tears, unable to stop their flow, try as she might – it was like hoping to seal off a broken dam with mere sheets of paper. Orophin did not move, did not intervene, knowing that things like this needed to run their course. Rávion, his travel companion, had moved to sit next to her: though he was her senior by two centuries, he was still a boy whose heart was easily moved by the tears of a woman. In the end, however, he could only sit there in the dark, offering a patched-up shoulder to cry on, even if he knew it was one she would never accept.

“You’re... as skilled as I remember, High Bard Súrion,” Lillian said at last between soft sobs, pointing to the orbs of light floating in the cave like diamond stars. “Maybe even more. I don’t remember you ever summoning waves of fire with the snap of your fingers before.”

“And last I saw you, you only had those strange webs of yours: strong as steel and with an explosive adversity to magic. I do not think you were quite able to throw a grown man around like a rag doll back then, either.” He saw her smile at that, faintly, but it was quick to vanish, coming and going as fast as a wayward breeze. Rávion laughed nervously, remembering the ordeal with vivid clarity as he rubbed his sore arm. “I did not have the time to inquire about your studies at Istien,” he stated matter-of-factly, but Lillian could guess his true intent.

“The... entrance examination went very well. Your letter of recommendation… it eased things along, so... thank you for that.” She stared into oblivion for a moment, twiddling her fingers. When she resumed, she feigned a chipper tone. “They transferred me to a fledgling program called the Empirical Major.”

“Ah, yes: the result of my work with the lovely Aria Aerotone.” He could remember working with a number of other professors, but their names and faces were as ghosts, for they had all been either male or unattractive. “Did you learn much?”

“I did. Solfege, Musical Theory, Songwriting… I even learned how to play the flute rather well by the end. Unfortunately… I had no time to truly learn how to use songs or music for combat. I didn’t even have time to pack most of my things during the escape.” She was referring to the invasion of Eluriand, he knew. He had been there during the riots, had seen the frenzied citizens trample one another as their peaceful lives came to an end. It had... sickened him.

The girl chewed on her lower lip, sniffling once or twice before she found the courage to ask. “Do I… do I really look so terrible? For you to mistake me for one of them, I must…”

“It was dark, Lillian. Though my eyes are keen, they cannot see as well as yours in this kind of obscurity. I could only make out tattered clothes and livid skin… after that, I was blinded by the heat of battle – as were you, I believe.”

Lillian only nodded, but there was a darkness to her weary eyes. It was as though no matter what he said, she would remain unconvinced, fully believing she had become as horrid as the abominations she was hiding from. “What are you doing here in Timbrethinil, anyway?”

“We’re looking to rejoin the ranks of Nalith,” Rávion answered this time, feeling it was time for him to contribute in the conversation. “And I’m Rávion, by the way. From the Valdaglerion House. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Valdaglerion?” Lillian repeated, the first sign of genuine intrigue reaching her swollen eyes. “You mean the family of Soundsmiths that crafts the instruments and weapons used by song-mages and Bladesingers alike?” The elf nodded proudly, not as a child that had been flattered, but as would a young man that had just upheld the name of his family through heroic deeds. The emerald gleam in his eyes showed a true passion for his art, and that was something the girl could admire. “That’s very impressive. Though, how did the two of you end up traveling together?”

“Orophin, he…” Rávion hesitated, running a strong hand through the copper curls of his hair as he put words to his thoughts. “He saved my life during the riots. Some broke into my family’s establishment to steal our work. My brother and I tried to stop them, but we would have died if Orophin hadn’t come. Laerion left on a caravan to Tor Elythis, but since Orophin needed someone to maintain and repair his equipment, I decided to come along on his search for Nalith and her army.”

“Who is this Nalith you keep mentioning?” Lillian asked, and the looks of surprise both had given her made her feel rather ignorant.

“She’s the Lady General, High Bladesinger Nalith Celiniel! She’s the first real light of hope since this war began: every surviving High Bard and Bladesinger is under her command, and she’s been leading her armies to victory after victory. The problem is, by the time we learn of her latest exploit, she’s already moved on to another battle. The fact that we just can’t keep track of her is a good sign that her plans aren’t being leaked, though.”

“And you came to Timbrethinil because?”

“Because the undead forces that occupied Nenaebreth were pushed back to the forest recently, and we were hoping to establish contact with whatever general comes to finish the job. Re-sanctifying Timbrethinil is one of their greatest goals, so we gambled on that and came here. And now, thanks to you, we have a safe place we can use to bide our time until they arrive.”

“We should sleep,” Orophin said dryly after keeping silent during the younger elf’s recounting, a harshness to his voice that was thinly-veiled by his reasoning. “The undead favor the night to scout, but seeing how well-hidden this cave is, I doubt they will ever find our location. It is best to sleep while they are most active, so that we can use every bit of daylight for our own purposes.”

“Such as?” Lillian inquired, surprised to hear there was more to their presence here than to simply wait for allies to come and pick them up.

“For one, Rávion will need to study: our travels have forced him to neglect his profession outside common maintenance and repairs. You cannot allow your hands to grow idle.” The elf nodded at that, and it was obvious that he had been itching for an occasion to resume his practice.

“Of course,” Orophin continued, his mouth contorting into the first wry smile she had seen since their capture in that maze. “We will resume your bardic training, Lillian Sesthal. You should feel honored: it is not every day that a lowly student can take private lessons with a High Bard, let alone one as illustrious as I.”

Lillian blinked, twice, thrice. Then, for the first time in months, she laughed. “Oh, joy.”

[Ataraxis]

The break of dawn always had been a comforting relief from the dark and dreary nights that cursed the forest of Timbrethinil, and it was even more so when she could share that sunrise with comrades. Lillian stood on the hilltop above her hideout, greeted by the fresh and almost nipping breezes that cleansed her lungs from the stale dankness of the cave. Orophin stood nearby, still shrouded by his cloak of regal red, lined with golden trims and a slew of titular markings that announced his rank and seating amongst the other High Bards. At the very least, though, he had decided to take off his hood, letting streams of golden hair flutter like flaxen fields in the wind. It always amazed her how an elf that had nearly seen two millennia unfold could look like he had been born less than thirty summers ago, but at the very least, his eyes betrayed his age. Eyes the color of ash, full of verve and hope and even mischief, but there was still that undeniable wear of time, traces of that tempering wisdom that few long-lived races could ever escape.

Rávion had remained inside the cave, to ensure that no one would trespass upon this haven of theirs without immediate notice. He had, however, offered her a gift before she climbed up from the cave to the hilltop: it was simple flute, carved from a maple bough he had found in the abandoned training grounds. She remembered the score in the tree, and realized he must have been testing the wood to see if he could work on it with his tools.

“He really crafted this over night?”

“The children of the Valdaglerion always were very skilled, but trust that this is nothing compared to what he can do given the right tools, materials and time. A masterpiece by his hand would have magic of its own, independent of its wielder.”

Lillian smiled at that, glad to hear that Orophin was actually capable of giving praise. What pleased her most was that the young elf had remembered her mention how much she enjoyed playing the flute, and how regretful it was that she had no time to pack it. “Alright then: what do we start with?”

“I will need to assess your skill, first. Even with so little time in the Empirical Major, I would be sourly disappointed were you not capable of calling forth the semblance of an element. Do you remember the Melody of the First Revelation?” Orophin was referring to the ancient tune that students of Ost’Dagorlin played to discover their prime affinity. The average student would call upon sparks of fire, with the occasional mist of suspended raindrops or faint rumble in the earth. Some were gusts of soothing wind, others sudden squalls that lasted naught but an instant. The limits of how this affinity manifested, however, were virtually infinite.

“Of course I do,” she answered with a corner smile, feigning offense at the question. She brought the embouchure of the flute to her lips, and with a deep, soundless breath, she began to play. Orophin could instantly notice what qualities the idiosyncrasies of her personality brought to the melody: the music began slowly, much softer than he would have played it, almost timid to a fault. There was a power behind every high note, however, as if she were aware of this weakness and did everything she could to either hide it or defeat it. That desire to hide, he recognized it well in her, but he was pleased to hear that she was struggling to change, to stop hiding behind that façade of hers.

His mind focused to attention when she reached that determining note, which was the harbinger to whatever manifestation of power the Melody would call upon. However, he saw no spark of fire, no mist of rain, no quaking in the ground or sudden breeze upon his skin. “Did I overestimate Rávion’s work? Or is it you that I have overestimated?”

“Look at your feet, Phin,” Lillian said, interrupting the tune. She resumed the melody midway, and upon hitting that note a second time, Orophin noticed his shadow moving in a quite peculiar way. Though the sun had risen from the east, his shadow was not trailing to the west: it was facing the sun, disobeying the burning star with an insolence he found reminiscent of his own. He even thought he saw it shake the semblance of a fist at the golden disk in the sky. “An affinity to shadows?”

The look that crossed his face was not the one Lillian had expected to see. Grudging awe, she would have liked to see. Even pure interest and curiosity would have been acceptable. She doubted it could elicit fear in the bard, but that would have been fascinating to witness as well.

The psychotic glee that warped his face, however, had struck fear into her instead. “Could you… stop making that face? Please?”

“It is rare to see a manifestation outside the basic elements. I have seen orbs of light, heard the groans of metal, watched as plants blossomed at a student’s feet… but shadows are among the rarest. Not quite the rarest, but close enough.”

“And… your point is?”

“My point is that students whose manifestation was of a basic element had a set but broad range of acquisition in what kinds of magic their songs or melodies could call upon. Though still possible, it would be extremely hard for them to master what Istien has kept in its repertoire of shadow songs. Conversely, those with rare affinities have a more restricted range, but are more able when it comes to learning from other advanced domains as well.”

“You’re going to teach me a melody from one of those?”

“Precisely.”

“That still doesn’t explain why your face is like that.”

“Oh, but it has been ages since I have had the opportunity to teach these special classes…”

And then it struck her. Lillian had no need to ask him what he implied; she remembered during her stay at Istien University, the stories of a teacher sought out by many students for his successful but highly unorthodox teaching methods. When the administration discovered this, they had banned him from ever teaching advanced classes outside of a school’s set curriculum again. And, in reminiscing that event, the teachers at Istien would often say, somewhat jokingly, but with a genuine tint of dread:

Missing a note never had been a health hazard before that Phin came along.

[Ataraxis]

“Mother Aurient – what happened to you, Lillian?” Rávion had been sitting at the improvised table that the girl had fashioned from random slabs of stone, whittling away at a rod of crystal with a gem file when he saw her climb down from the hill to the cave. Her summer dress was in even more despicable shape than the day before, and he wondered if those were singe marks he saw at the hems of the off-white fabric. Her face and arms had been blackened, not bruises from physical combat but traces of soot and ash. His first guess was that Orophin had taught her how to sing or clap or snap fire into existence like he had last night, but the minute slashes and burn marks were not congruent with that type of spell.

“B-Butterflies,” she stuttered while stumbling into the cave like the living dead. Her eyes were wide in shock, a stray and frazzled strand of hair falling down her face unnoticed. “So… so many b-butterflies, I can’t...”

“What are you going on about?” Dust and pebbles fell from the hill as Orophin climbed down the same rope of webs they all used to enter and exit the hideout. “What in the Star-Mother’s name did you put her through, Phin? She doesn’t seem like... like she’s all there anymore.”

“No worries: I am certain her synapses will start firing normally sometime soon.” The High Bard had a smile like the young elf had never seen before, and it frightened him to see such a sour and secretive man so openly gleeful that it looked sadistic. “How goes the studying?”

“We... I’ve read the theory from title page to colophon ten times by now, so I figured it was time for practical use.” Rávion lifted the crystal tube he had been working on, displaying it under a ray of afternoon sunlight that was reflected from one of Lillian’s mirrors. Perfect gloss, perfect sheen, and even though he had filed it, there were no visible traces of scratching or scoring. “I’ve gotten the shape and texture just right, but there’s still the matter of whether or not it’ll be able to transform.”

“It will. Trust yourself.” Orophin had taken seat near the ledge of the cavern, finding Lillian’s hand-made furniture fascinatingly comfortable considering the materials. He stared out into the forest, through the high-rise boughs and millennial pines. It was hard to imagine that on the opposite side, there was only rot and decay, and a perversion of everything he thought to be sacred. “I wish I could help you more with this, but the magic I wield and the one your family and others like it do are far too different. Sadly, I lack the mindset for your work.”

“And yet it’s our combined effort that allows Raiaera to fight back, isn’t it?” Rávion retorted with a wise smile, one that wore the weight of centuries he did not yet live through. “Where does one get food around these parts?” he continued, the stream of his mind changing tracks without a moment’s warning. That was the image of a passionate but immature elf to which Orophin was most accustomed. “Lillian?”

“I’m not going to eat them. They’re… evil,” she replied, eyes still wide and dilated.

“The… butterflies are?”

Lillian only nodded.

“How about... rabbits?” Rávion asked, a hook in his brow.

“They’re fair game!” she exclaimed, the light returning in her eyes as she giggled with her hands over her mouth. She was obviously ecstatic. When Rávion realized what she had done, he groaned, deeply, and so had Orophin from his chair at the cave’s maw.

“Did you plan this? That’s terrible.”

“Hey. There isn’t much to do here… so I had a lot of time to think,” Lillian said with a frown. “And I really was out of it at the beginning – I only came to my senses when you talked about magic.”

“And setting up double-puns was the best you came up with in that time,” Rávion noted with a shake of his head, though the amusement was clear on his face. “I think you need to rest, so would you mind pointing us to the areas where you found those before?”

Grudgingly, she complied.

[Ataraxis]

There were still a few hours before dusk, but their hunt had hitherto left much to desire. They had not seen the shadow of a rabbit, or any wildlife of a size that could satiate their hunger, for that matter. When Orophin and Rávion had first crossed into Timbrethinil, the birdsong of blue jays, the scurrying of foxes and the crackling bounds of hare upon fallen leaves had been abundant... but the closer they traveled to the forest’s heart, the closer they came to that expanding mass of corruption, and the scarcer life of any kind became. A day or so before they crossed paths with Lillian, Orophin was forced to tear off a patch of bark from a maple tree, draining it from sap that had served them as both food and water. It had broken his heart, but at the very least, the tree would heal over time.

Rávion considered asking him to do the same again, as they now carried the pails the girl had crafted in her spare time, but he knew they would never survive on sugar and water alone. Without the protein from meat, or at the very least from pulse crops, they would grow weaker and weaker, perhaps even die before the army came to eradicate the darkness that infected these sacred lands. They always could ask Lillian, but there was something to be said about male pride in these circumstances. Considering her current shape, on top of all, she would be incapable of helping them. It was now, for all intents and purposes, their job to feed her – or at least it was Orophin’s responsibility, what with the draconian training he had put her through this morning.

“She said there should be a rabbit hole about eight hundred yards away, south-southeast. Do you think we’re too far past south or too far past southeast?”

Orophin was sitting on a lichen-covered boulder, wary of not sitting on the actual lichen – he would loathe himself if the undead became aware of their presence because he left the print of his buttocks in a carpet of fungi and algae. “I… am a High Bard. I should not be hunting game. The only reason why I have caught nothing is because I have transcended this primitive process.”

“Hard to imagine someone so powerful doesn’t have one song to track a rabbit,” Rávion commented with sharp sarcasm.

“I have many, but they are so sublime they would alert our foes to our presence. I would simply not risk it,” he defended himself with that same mirrored sarcasm.

“With all the time we spent travelling, I would have thought our survival skills would be worth a bit more than this. It surprises me that Lillian managed to make it for that long.”

“The animals have become scare in the months she has spent here. From the mounds of fish bones in the cavern, I would say she fished from one of the few streams that have not yet crossed the field of corruption... but it is only a matter of time before she will have to leave her her dwelling.”

Rávion considered this for a moment, worry crossing his jade eyes. “Why hasn’t she yet? We didn’t encounter any undead between the outskirts of the forest and her hideout. She could have left months ago, if she kept being as careful as she seems to be.”

“Rávion… it is not the forest that she wishes to escape. It is Raiaera herself. She is perfectly aware that she can leave Timbrethinil, but then what? Galonan is besieged, as are Winyaurent and Anebrilith. Eluriand is not much more than rubble, save for the few statistical survivors that have trapped themselves within their homes. Tilgonar and Carnelost are in ruins, and discarded undead still roam their vestiges. Narenhad and Trenyce are overrun by the Black’s horde. There is not a single place in Raiaera where a solitary child like her could be safe, where she could find refuge from the nightmares that have seeped into her waking hours.”

Orophin looked down to the brambles and sticks that littered the ground, the harshness of reality hitting him just as much as it would his comrade. “She has remained here, because she has given up hope.”

[Ataraxis]

“So she plans to die here? To become on of that bastard’s servants once the corruption reaches her? That’s preposterous! And she’s not on her own anymore, is she? We’ll take her with us to Nalith – Nalith! You’re wrong, Phin: there is one place where she would be safe, and it is Eluceliniel! Though the rumors never say where it is, and for that I am thankful, we know that she has established a base of operations somewhere in Raiaera. Once the army comes, we’ll take her with us...”

Orophin said nothing, considering the soundsmith under a new light. It was a moment before he spoke, a strange grin playing upon his lips. “Really, Rav? That young?”

“...Quiet, lecher,” Rávion snarled as he went back to inspect the area for that elusive hare.

The High Bard grinned, crossing his arms under his noble cloak as he looked up to the sky, to the clouds tinted in a pale, burning sienna. The more he watched them soar across the firmament, so carefree, the darker his expression became. “The truth is, Rávion… I think I have given up as well.”

“What? On rejoining Nalith?” The younger elf stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he rose to a stand, turning to face the song-mage with a silent furor in his eyes. “You would give up after we’ve traipsed around the country over half a year?”

“Rav… I had my chance of following Nalith, on the first day of Eluriand’s siege. I had my chance… but I let her leave. I regretted it the moment I did, but it was too late. Now she is the last of the High Bard Council - last, as I am no longer worthy of the title and position.”

“So we’ve been on a wild goose chase from the very start?” Rávion spat back, the emerald in his stare harsh and unforgiving in its glimmer. He turned away scoffing, chuckling derisively as he swiped the tip of his nose with his thumb. Spinning back, he swept his arm around as if throwing caution to the wind. “So you dragged me through all of this, feeding me lies about rejoining the Lady General, when the truth was that you were running away?”

“No, no! I... I ran away then, but I had hoped that I would have found her by now... that she would have forgiven me by now. And... will the army ever come to Timbrethinil? Though a priority, taking back the cities we lost will need to come first, and who knows how long that will be?” He lurched forward, hands on his laps as his gaze ever fell to the dirt under his feet. “What if I went on years upon years, hoping for our paths to cross, only missing her by a hair’s breadth? Rav, I am not yet old by our standards, but how I feel it reach, deep within me…”

Rávion had sensed it when Orophin first spoke of the Lady General by her name, but he had dismissed it until now. With what the bard had just said, however, the soundsmith was now certain of it. In a softer tone, he spoke. “In almost two thousand years, you’re still a fool? After philandering for the better part of two millennia, you’ve never once encountered it to recognize it?” To see him look up with that air of foolishness and bewilderment had baffled the young elf. “That’s not age, Phin. That’s love.” Again, that look of hopelessness. “Orophin Súrion, you are a fool in love with the Lady General, the High Bladesinger. You are in love with Nalith Celiniel.”

“That… that is madness!” he exclaimed, his youthful visage pumping red from anger at the preposterous accusation. Accusation? Was it, really? To say that it was an accusation would be an insult to lady Celiniel, and he would not have that. Claim, then. He was furious at that preposterous claim… but was he? Was that fury he felt? He thought back to his conquests, many amongst the eras, but what he had felt in those fleeting affairs was nothing like what was gripping at him now. And then, he understood. He understood, and he sighed. He really was a fool. “But… is there any way that… that she-”

“Of course not, you fool,” Rávion said, bluntly, driving what might as well have been a rusty spike into his chest. “Nalith is the Lady General: once she donned that garb, the burden of that title, she stopped being a woman. If you don’t have the common sense to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around your futile quest to gain the heart of the lonely maiden in a knight’s armor, then you really aren’t worth her trouble, are you? She has sacrificed her womanhood for the sake of saving our country; are you at least willing to sacrifice your loins to help her accomplish that?”

Orophin looked to the heavens, and he saw in it a vast stretch of golden eternity, devoid of clouds or any other obstruction. He realized, then, that the answer was just as clear as the sky. “Yes. Of course.”

“Then start by getting off your High Bard bum and helping me find this god-forsaken rabbit, will you?”