EDIT! YAY! Character note: Nyren is now Nyn.
Faeid
Draft III, Mon 13 Mar 2006
Part Two: The Six Spokes of the Wheel
“Do my eyes deceive me, or has the New Champion of Lamlis finally found us worthy of his presence.” These mocking words greeted Elandir as he entered the common hall of the keep’s east wing, where the Dîthen had their quarters.
“Damek, you wound me so with your words.” Elandir embraced the elder Dîthen, and then lowered himself in one of the room’s deep sapphire divans.
The room had not changed since his leaving; it had not even been rearranged as he feared. A few of the men regarded themselves as having quite learned tastes, and chose to voice those through room decoration- when Elandir only wanted his favourite chair by the fire, and for it to be there at least a season. Leaning back in the comfort of the cosy, worn fabric, Elandir was barraged by two nuzzling large, wet noses. The first even tried to fling itself into his lap.
“Na, na Dragonet.” Elandir pushed his arms forward to stop the onslaught of a very excited, very large cat.
Elandir dug his hands in Dragonet’s silky cuff and pried the cat from him. At Dragonet’s succession, Elandir scratched him behind a drooping ear. Etailiné, the more placid of the two, set her large head on the arm of the chaise, waiting patiently for attention. Dragonet now content that his human was not moving rested his great bulk against Elandir’s legs; with something half between a growl and an exhale, he relaxed. Elandir absently petted both listening to Andras and Damek carrying on.
Sundi hunting cats were rather rare creatures in Ilen; about the size of a small pony, the male being larger, they came level with a man’s thigh. They were solid but slender, sleek creatures weighing around 16 stone, with large paws, sharp claws, and a jaw that could break a man’s skull. Both bore bright blue eyes, tinged with a ring of bright yellow and thick coats especially in winter. Their ears, long and pointed, with tuffs of white on the ends, had a tendency to droop slightly or lay flat. Dragonet’s coat, true to most of his gender, was a singularly unique pattern of stripes, the primary being a deep crimson red fusing into white, over that was a scattering of obsidian dashes. Etailiné was a striped mess of russet orange and chocolate brown, with an underlying of white. Usually solitary creatures they were first bred as protectors for Sundi desert tribes, now mostly trained to hunt plains game, or for tracking. Elandir had received the two as a gift, a gift he treasured well, from a Sundi merchant. With them alongside, Elandir was sure of his safety, as well as the promise of interesting times. Turning from the cats, he looked to Damek.
“Where are the rest?”
Damek turned from where he was pouring a glass of Idimir wine, “Gauvain is visting home, Gwydan the same, Timon is off with that lady of his, Caedyr and Nyn are sparing, the rest I have no earthly clue.”
“What keeps you in then?”
The elder chuckled, “I’ll do anything you ask, all I want for is a reprieve from you louts once in a moon’s shadow.”
“I’ll leave you to your wool-gathering then.”
“Hmm yes, and be sure to take those two nuisances with you as well.”
Escorted by his silent, slinking cats, Elandir let his laughter ring through the halls.
~
Elandir found Caedyr and Nyn in the Dîthen’s sparing arena methodically tending to their weapons, sitting on a box seat in one of the rooms alcoves. Though both clad in simple sparing leathers, they appeared opposites.
Caedyr, barely the elder of the two, lounged on the wide seat, one leg propped up against the siding. His perpetually messy flaxen mane shielding half his square-jawed face and oval eyes, the color of fresh tilled soil, intent on his task; his mouth pressed in a fine line. Four wheel turns past Caedyr came to Myraven to foster under Perdhel, and Elandir had made friends with the youth, two turns his junior. With his cheer and charm he had many followers. Many a Gongolas maid had sent their affections his direction, even Sariel was fairly smitten, and with a patience Elandir marvelled at he turned them all away. His unflappable disposition and inherent ability to diffuse anger and discontentment was something Elandir thanked the gods for.
Nyn, although rapier thin easily filled up the rest of the bench. Nyn was from the Outlands, often his spindly looks made him seem weak, but Elandir hadn’t seen anyone quicker with a blade or a knife. He did not know much of Nyn’s background, he doubted even Caedyr who was closest to him knew. He had come to Myraven with a caravan, and been caught thieving bolts from a blacksmith’s. Elandir had pleaded long with his father to see if the youth would be rather suited to serving Gongolas, than spending it in one of the dungeons, thus his annexation into the Dîthen. Because of his closeness in age to Caedyr they had bonded early.
“Good morrow.”
Both flicked their gazes to his, and upon recognition lighted up.
“Morrow ‘lan. It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back, Cae, I have something for you.”
Caedyr set aside his blade, and stood; Nyn took the opportunity and straightened out in the space he had vacated.
Elandir produced a sealed letter from inside his simple surcoat. Caedyr, confusion tugging at his features, took it and inspected the seal.
“Your cousin Bethan took me aside to hand me this, she seemed very troubled but would not tell me cause. Is something amiss at Windelwyn?”
“I have not heard, neither from father nor Noa has said anything in their missives.”
Caedyr fixed himself on the words, but said nothing.
“I don’t understand…” His face skewed in bewilderment, “…this makes no sense.”
He shook his head, hair flying in every direction. Passing it to Elandir, he gestured for him to read.
My Dearest Cae,
The wheel turns but six times, six for each of the fates.
The wheel turns but six times until at last it breaks.
Your Adoring Beth
Elandir pondered the statement, the wheel most likely alluding to how the passage of years was calculated. Six wheels, yes, but six wheels from what? There had to be something more. If there was not it was as Caedyr said: it ‘just made no sense’.
“I am at a loss, she was fretfully tearful when we spoke…”
Caedyr sent a dark glance, “Na, say it.”
“I fear she is not of a right mind, if this means nothing to you why would she send it. Unless it is some kind of code, but then you would know of its meaning, and since you do not…Maybe tis just to get your attention, na? Write your father I am sure he will speak on your behalf to her, and uncover this.” Elandir worried his bottom lip in concentration.
“Yes,” Caedyr brightened, “I will write to father, forgive me ‘lan, if I am to make the post, I must go…”
He ushered Caedyr on. “No go. I hope you find the truth of this.”
He watched the retreating back with a heavy heart. He had been there with her, and yet done nothing.
He didn’t even heed Nyn when he righted himself, and followed Caedyr minutes later.
This is madness, the poor girl is nonsensical, Elandir quietly rationalized. Turning the words over in his mind he couldn’t defeat the feeling in his gut, that fleeting sensation that there was something more to those words.
*
The rain pelted down from the heavens so vigorously that Brioris feared for the safety of the camp. If it continued at this force, it would flood. And if it floods… Brioris placated his wayward thoughts, trying not to think of all that rested here, and all that could be lost: children, families, men, animals; so he turned to stare as the water slicked off the sides of the tent. It was quite a sight, the storm, from his sheltered spot just under the entrance canopy. The night’s sky was marred by the disfiguring rain. There was a slight shimmer of violet light in the distance, and the growl of thunder only seconds after. The storm was close, and getting closer.
The patent fall of footsteps interrupted another murderous train of thought.
“Brioris,” The Elder Sidhe spoke softly, and joined him, “could you not rest?”
“Nay m’lord, I could not. And you?”
“I make it my business to make sure all is well.” The Elder shifted, his orange splotched brown wings, glittering with the darkness.
When Brioris did not answer, he sighed, “It will be an early, long winter.”
“Yae,” the word was barely whispered through his lips.
He spared a look at the Elder then in the quiet, just the sounds of nature waging its own private war outside.
He wore the plain clothes favoured by the working class, a loose pair of pants, and a loose tunic with slits in the back for his wings, both in mulled brown. His straight, brightly hued hair, the colour of new-fallen snow hung loosely down his back ending just before his waist. His wide wings were spread wide, akin to that of a great butterfly though not so flighty, the colours, -ginger, sepia, coffee, just the hint of black at the tips- intricately mingling with each other. His thin, pointed ears another trademark of his kin, speared the curtain of hair, and in one was a simple silver ring. But despite his humble appearance he exuded power and dignity: every inch a lord. Brioris knew without further thought he would follow him to the death if need be. He felt somehow lacking, his old favourite cloak wrapped around his body, midnight hair in disarray from aborted sleep, and his own wings (a dark shade of scarlet) tucked into his body, warm and soft against the bare skin of his back. He felt deficient, a child in comparison.
“Look the rain is letting.”
Brioris flicked his attention back to the storm, which did seem pasted its climax. Before he could comment, one of the runners burst in.
“da’Emyris, Sire! The Lady Marot…” the young Sidhe did not have to finish, both knew what that meant.
Brioris followed quickly at the Elder’s heels, not want to miss this of all things. The Lady Marot, the most skilled Sidhe Seer in all of Aea, had not had a vision in over six sahms*.
Upon arriving Brioris was not quite prepared for the visage accosted him. The Lady Marot who was curled in on herself like a lost pup thrashed violently. He caught sight of a flash of blood trickling from her nose and the whimpers like that of something wounded. He was caught by the sight, until he feared she would hit her head. Shifting forward to try and help, his movement was cut by a pale, gnarled hand on his chest. He glanced up into the Elder’s impassive eyes and the warning there stayed him. Then it was if nothing was wrong, the shaking and the whimpers stopped; the Seer bolted upright, and opened her dainty lips. But when she spoke it was in a voice, not her own.
The spinning-wheel forgets not its turning
Its course in the lee of the stars,
Blood shall drown both the guilty and the lost.
The one without wings but sees
And the man of two minds
Burn ever brightly.
Two shall stand opposites
Upon the hedgerow
Death is the only road.
The wheel turns but six times, six for each of the fates
The wheel turns but six times until at last it breaks.
The coming darkness is upon us.
__________________________
* Sahm – a Sidhe decade, 11 years or so.
This seemed vaguely rushed in its breaks from character to next, and event to the next.
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