Completed Namesake

[Hahnah]

Hahnah, with stiff movements, entered Rathanon's chamber when prompted. So focused she had been that she had not even noticed the footsteps back on the stairwell, and the voice of the human master Eloise came as a small surprise.

Certainly small, in comparison to the surprise that came from what Eloise and Rathanon spoke of and how they spoke of it. These were not the words of a captor speaking to the captive. Hahnah would know, recalling the tenor of how Vestof Stringin had spoken to her when she was captured, and this was far from that. Griffyn may have shared a few glances with the other elven occupant of the room, but Hahnah did not. Hers was a gaze that was locked down on her shoes, wide-eyed and empty as supremely disquieting thoughts commanded the whole of her attention.

This entranced, troubled downward gaze was only broken when Rathanon shut the door. Hahnah frigidly moved to the chair and sat down, rigid and brittle, her hands tightly held on her knees and arms straight.

A flick of her eyes towards Ethriellan. It was utterly strange, to both want and not want for what he said to be true. If it was not true then neither he nor Rathanon nor the other elves in the place called the workshop would be danger, but if it were true then there would be meaning and purpose in Griffyn and herself being here, in doing what they were doing.

She was being addressed, and she returned her pale expression to Rathanon. A brief blankness in her mind as the simple question blossomed open into an endless array of answers that she could seek. But the most pressing, the most burning, naturally boiled its way to the surface.

"If you are not in the captivity of the humans of Menura, and you were never in danger, then...why is your brother engaged in this siege?"

The answer would have been simple--obvious--before. Hahnah would have cheered on Rathierel before, aiding him without question against the profane hive of humans that was Menura. Now, it was not, and it never would be again.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Rathanon scowled and looked at the floor. For a long moment, Griffyn wondered if he would not speak after all. Whether all he had said until now had been bravado, and now he was facing the true test of his courage. But in time, he did respond. His voice was thick as treacle, dark as the unnatural gloom of an eclipse.

"I wonder what my brother said of me to bring you so far into peril," he said, still not looking their way. "Did he speak of love and fear for his kin, perhaps? For if so, then you have been deceived. Rathariel has never feared for my wellbeing, and the last of our love dried up long before. However many years past it was that I suggested our mission to him, he laughed in my face. He called me a fool, and ridiculed me in front of the others of our little council. The rage I felt in those days... I pushed my own compatriots to follow me through passion, not the keen logic they deserved."

A hand came down softly on Rathanon's shoulder. Ethriellan's other hand was across his own eyes, and his voice was unsteady. "We came with you because you were right, my friend," he all but sang in his native tongue. "Ours was a risk that had to be taken, and your brother was the fool for not seeing that."

Rathanon smiled sadly, but did not look up. "Regardless of the reason why, the resolution is thus. We left for Oban, and came to Menura. We planned to make a small name for ourselves in a little shop off the Dusk Row on the north side of town. We paid much of our funds in the initial expense for the shop, and got to work..."

He hesitated. Griffyn saw his friend's hand tighten on his shoulder.

"There were... procedures that we had not considered. In my haste... I neglected-..."

"We neglected," Ethriellan interjected. He was weeping softly.

"...We neglected to file a deed to the property for the requisite amount of time and... ended up thoroughly in debt for our negligence."

Griffyn nodded slowly. It was the fate of many independent traders in Alliria also to fall victim to the red tape of the system. He had heard some of his father's colleagues speak of this as something of a rite of passage to the Inner City, so that only the truly attentive survive in a saturated market. "What then? I assume your pride kept you from returning home?"

Rathanon chuckled once more. "Pride, yes. Pride is the true enemy of both our peoples here. I reached out to any helping hand that could support our little group. That hand was the Lord Sunderland's. He allowed us to work in his own private workshop, incurring no costs for materials or living expenses, in return for his own name upon the products we supplied him. In truth I was rather flattered. Clearly we were doing something correctly for a noble lord to wish his name on the metalcraft that we created."

"Still," Griffyn added in the space left, "not a generous offer. Lord Sunderland gains much more from this deal than you."

"Does he? For by his aid I am... I am sheltered from the mockery of my kin. I am not discovered as the... as the fool that I am. This is safe..."

Rathanon faltered, and Ethriellan sobbed.

But Griffyn scowled. "Are you certain you are not treating your brother too harshly? He has spent much to bring an armed force to the edge of the city. Would he truly do that for kin he cared nothing for?"

"He cares." Rathanon's eyes were black as night. "He cares to know that I have fallen in my mission, and that I have brought others down with me. He cares to know whether a group of elves have sullied the name of our proud race by falling into the servitude of a human!"

His voice and stance rose both, standing tall and furious before his seat. Griffyn tensed, but held his own posture, staring the elf down.

"That, sir, is the cause for which his little army sheds its own blood! Not kinship, but base elvish pride! He needs to prove beyond doubt that such a travesty as ours did not occur, or to bring Lord Sunderland lower even than we in recompense for our folly! Then... Then, what happens to us is inconsequential. Social exclusion, public mockery... I will not allow such to happen to my companions. I would rather death."

A mortuary silence fell upon the room. Griffyn watched Rathanon with his heart tugged in a multitude of directions, and found he did not know what to say. Rathanon was convinced. And Lord Sunderland was steeped high with dishonour for putting the elves in this position, but his was no crime. Not strictly. There may even have been kindness behind it. What now?

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

It all came crashing down.

Hahnah couldn't look at Rathanon nor Griffyn. She couldn't look anywhere except down at the hands in her lap.

The sky and the ground had completely switched places. Here, in Menura, Humankind was caught in a callous cruelty perpetrated by elves. It was not the "captive" elves that needed saving.

A slow shifting of her eyes, and only her eyes, over to Griffyn. Hahnah's face absolutely pallid with the horror of realization. In all humans was both the sacred and the profane. They could be kind. They could be cruel. They were neither all of one or the other.

And that meant...

(Zael, speaking to her: "You are a monster. You don't even know what you've done. You don't. Even. Know.")

A small shimmer of pleading in her eyes. Pleading for the forgiveness of a thousand murders. Brief. Fleeting. She could not ask this with her eyes for long.

Then she stiffly looked over and then up to Rathanon. Allowed hatred of him (and of his fellow elf, his friend) to fill her heart. In all elves was both the sacred and the profane. They could be kind.

They could be cruel.

She slowly rose out of her seat.

Spoke. No righteous conviction in her tone, as it normally would have been. Just the cold horror that she was here, at this point, having to say what she needed to say.

"There are many who are dying because you will not speak with your brother."

(My caretakers, if they were alive, could well have been two of them.)

"You know how to stop this."

Hahnah flexed her right hand harshly, fingers like a claw. And a long, writhing Tendril of Elemental Hatred--a flexing appendage of swirling and deadly white, black, and maroon energy--slithered out of her palm. A momentary flick of her eyes from Rathanon...to Ethriellan. An implicit threat.

But she needed to be what Zael had accused her of being. She could see no other way.

"Make a good decision."

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Griffyn rose slowly and approached Hahnah. He eyed her worriedly but said nothing, did nothing but stand at her back. He then turned his eyes to Rathanon. In truth, he felt a great deal of sympathy for the elf. He had seen how folk reacted to being backed into a wall, into a situation from which there was no visible escape. He knew, had seen what desperation could do to a man. To an elf, who in the stories had always felt their emotions so much more acutely than humans, it must have been excruicating.

But Hahnah was enraged, caught in the storm of her own emotion. That sickly-looking sorcery of hers flickered and twisted like a worm on the end of a fishing line. Glancing at it itched the back of Griffyn's spine unpleasantly. And he wanted to see how this played out. Rathanon had boldly claimed he would rather die than face shame for he and his friends - how resiliant was such a claim?

The elf slowly rose from the bed. The pupils of his eyes were mere specks in the twinkling hazel. His hands shook as he took in the shape of Hahnah, visceral and primal.

"What... What are you?" he all but whispered. "This is no elven enchantment, nor the work of human magic...!"

Ethriellan slowly rolled out of his chair and ducked down behind it, whimpering softly. The empty wine glass rolled disconsolately along the carpet, leaving a dripping line.

"We did nothing wrong!" came his pitiful murmurs in his native language. "We did nothing wrong!"

In the icy moment, here in the manor of the city, Griffyn considered their options. One side would need to back down in order to restore peace. Either Rathariel and his Order of the Acer had to be convinced to let things lie, to hear that the honour of elves was not being besmirched, or Rathanon would have to come clean to his brother and accept the shame that came with that. In one direction a lie, and in the other a painful confession. Hahnah's threat of death... would it push them over the edge?

What they needed was a third party.

His hand finally came down on Hahnah's shoulder, softly.

"What are the exact details of your contract with the city?" he asked Rathanon carefully. "Is it fixed-term? Are there any conditions?"

The gods help them if he had signed himself into an agreement without an end-point. Fortunately Rathanon, sweat along his brow, nodded his head slowly.

"W-We renew the contract every four years," he said. His voice shook and his eyes never left Hahnah. "The signing was to take place last week, were it not for the siege. And the only conditions are as we previously mentioned - we are not to attach our own name to our products, nor speak of the deal outside of agreed individuals."

He chuckled, eyes wide and more than a little disjointed. "I suppose in speaking with you we have already unsettled the contract. If you wish to coerce us with your knowledge, I suppose there is little we could do to stop you."

His weary smile faltered as he realised the truth, that Hahnah was already coercing them with much more then blackmail.

"So what if... I were to buy this contract from Lord Sunderland?" Griffyn asked while the elf hesitated. "What if I bought the debt you owed him, and then released you? I could even make some sort of statement attesting to a mistake in the production process, an oversight that..." He struggled to find the technical words. "...that meant your name wasn't on the finished items. I might even be able to pay reparations for the items sold already."

The expense would be extreme. Almost certainly beyond the limit of his few existing investments. He would need to endebt himself in order to see it through. But that was a worry for another time. A later time.

Rathanon shook his head slowly, as though Griffyn had asked him to prove that the sky was green. "Lord Sunderland... he would not part with such a contract. It suits him too well."

Griffyn laughed. His hand came up and waved at the open window, towards the city outside. "It's put him into a war!" he said. "I'm sure he'd gladly have this mess taken off his hands for the right price! He's a man of business, certainly, but from all you have said I am sure he has your best intentions at the heart of all this. He would release you if it made financial sense to him, am I right?"

The elf met his gaze. There was a little glimmer of some indistinguishable light reflected in those white orbs. Griffyn hazarded a smile. But then the elf looked down, and fresh sorrow crossed his features like shadow over the plains.

"Rathanon," Griffyn asked, stomach taut. "Am I right?"

The elf said nothing.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Matters of immediate practicality over the turmoil in her heart, which was home now to the shattered remains of all that she knew, believed, and held dear--a bloody pouch of broken glass sunken into her chest.

With death she could not threaten Rathanon. Yet she was what she had become: a slayer. It was the sole method into which she was accustomed well enough to make meaningful change in the world. So she turned her attention to Rathanon's friend, Ethriellan. Ignored his words, his protestations that they had done nothing wrong. If she needed to hurt him, kill him, to save the sacred lives of elves like Kylindrielle and Elurdrith, the sacred lives of humans like Griffyn, then she would if such would make Rathanon compliant.

Her cruelty, now realized, stretched all the way back to the slaying of her caretakers. Maybe here...she could be a monster in service to something that was truly good.

But Griffyn's hand came down on her shoulder, and she did not step toward Ethriellan. In Griffyn she trusted absolutely. A single word, a single gesture, from him and she would spare or take as many lives as necessary.

He and Rathanon spoke of things which Hahnah was either vaguely familiar or not at all familiar. Contracts and terms. Debt and business. But she followed enough to know that Griffyn had offered to make a sacrifice on Rathanon's behalf--which was more than Rathanon deserved.

More than he deserved. And now this elf, whose cruelty took the form of callous disregard, was refusing to answer his question.

She did not move. Not with Griffyn's steadying hand on her shoulder. But she lifted and stretched out her arm, the Tendril of Elemental Hatred slowly worming and weaving through the air toward--but just out of reach--of the target she intended for it: Ethriellan. Not quite long enough to snake around the chair behind which he hid.

To Rathanon she said flatly, "Is. He. Right."

Still that horror in her expression, but...more resolve creeping in. Dire commitment to what she would do if he did not answer, and if she was given the grim blessing to do what it would take.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Rathanon's eyes darted from his companion to Hahnah and back. Ethriellan, now near comatose on the floor of the chamber, held the leg of the chair like a man caught in a storm. The sound of his laboured breathing was all that filled the air for a long moment.

Griffyn realised then that Rathanon's arm was shaking. The tale of their misfortune in the unfamiliar world of human commerce he had given freely, and freely also had he shared in his shame, compared to this right now. This was something deeper, and it clearly pained the elf to dredge it up from the depths. But just as Griffyn grew fearful that Hahnah would have to go through with her threat (and what damage would that cause his friend, he shuddered to think) the older elf spoke. His lips were tight and taut, like the bars of a cage, as he spoke.

"H-He is... There are other things that... that he... that he desires..."

"Namely?" Griffyn couldn't afford to let Rathanon regain his composure, and fixed his eyes on him.

Rathanon swallowed deeply before continuing. "He enjoys spending time with us," he said. "We would share wine, and speak of our homes. He sh-shared little. And one day..."

A strangled sob from Ethriellan punctuated his tale suddenly.

"M-My... My wife has been... v-very accommodating to our host," Rathanon all but whispered at last. "In th-the absence of profit. When p-promises were insufficient. When debts grew heavy. She has b-been..."

But by then he was weeping, and would say no more.

Griffyn took a half-step back. So dense his mind, the weight of what Rathanon was saying took time to settle in. When it finally did, he found himself strangely breathless.

"Oh." He brought a hand to his lips, but wasn't sure why. He looked away, at nothing at all. "Oh."

That feeling of vertigo returned. Pride and shame, and such fathomless depths between them, unscalable heights... Griffyn's mind turned unbidden to his sister, and his face grew cold.

"This is good," he whispered. Only Hahnah would hear the shameful words that rose to his lips from the unknown. "This is good. This releases me...

"Where is he now?"

Rathanon's eyes were wide with surprise at the sudden question. "H-His rooms are in the eastern wing. Corridor on your right."

Griffyn nodded. "Stay here. Hannah..." he added, eyes resting on her. A moment of indecision crossed his features. "Maybe you should stay, too. Keep them safe..."

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword with the companionable touch of an old friend.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

It was taking everything for Hahnah to hold her composure--this like trying to clutch fine ash in one's palms during the blowing winds of a storm. The inherent danger of their situation here in the manor, the lack of quiet for a horrifying reflection upon all of her past sins, helped her to focus instead on the present, the immediate.

An answer. And her eyes went from the cowering elf behind the chair to Rathanon again. He spoke of the things that the human master Lord Sunderland wanted other than the coins. He mentioned his wife, but Hahnah did not follow and did not grasp the implication when Rathanon could not finish speaking and had fallen into openly weeping. Griffyn seemed to understand, and that was good enough. Hahnah had a sense of him moving behind her, of moving his hand, but she kept her attention honed to a dagger-point on Rathanon.

Griffyn, whispering to her. Yes, it was good. Hahnah would not have known what to do with what little information Rathanon had shared. In this lack she would have begun to hurt Ethriellan, to torture him as she had witnessed some humans once in the dead of night doing to another human. It may not have worked, like it had not worked with Reginald, but she would have been left with no other choice.

Hannah...

Simply the sound of her true name helped ease the crushing turmoil wracking her heart.

...Maybe you should stay, too. Keep them safe...

A small turn of her head. A trusting glance back and up to him. "I will."

She let her hand descend back down to her side, willed her Tendril to slither back into her palm and for the magic to dissipate. Griffyn had a plan, an intent to go to the room in the manor he inquired about, this room where Lord Sunderland should be. She feared for him being alone, for herself being alone, while it was that the armored men called guards could still become hostile. But they had come to save the sacred...and this was part of the way.

And so she was left with Rathanon and his friend Ethriellan. Rathanon. The last elf in a line of them whose actions she could not understand in the confined way she once viewed the world. The final crack that caused the shatter.

"I want you to answer me," she said, looking to Rathanon with all sincerity in wanting to know. "Did you feel in your heart that it was right to leave your brother and to come here to Menura? Do you still feel this way in your heart now, after all that has happened?"

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Spoiler: Diplomacy

When Griffyn was eight years old, he had been reading one morning in his room when his father had called for him. 'And dressed well,' had been the command. The maid had supplied him with a fresh white shirt and the stuffy blue riding jacket he did not care for, and he had descended the stairs of the manor to meet his father. When he had arrived in the front hall, Lord Faulkner von Spurling had not been alone. With him had stood a tall and imperious fellow that little Griffyn hadn't recognised, with skin like alabaster and hair like starlight. The elf lord had barely acknowledged the boy's presence before turning back to his father, and Griffyn's attention had also faltered quickly, for their guest was not alone.

Standing with them was a little elfen girl seemingly about Griffyn's own age, though he was learned enough to know that appearance meant little where the fair folk were concerned. Her lidded eyes had beheld him with quiet, stoic indifference, her small hands folded before her forest green frock politely. His father had introduced the two, but he had not been listening.

Griffyn's father had tasked his son with entertaining the elf-girl while her father and he managed some business. He gladly acquiesced, though his heart was beating fast as he led the way to the gardens. He did not, he shamefully remembered for years after, offer her his arm. Knowing the elven penchant for flora, he lingered in the little rose garden and named the plants that he had learned the names for. He had greeted the servants that he liked, and gone out of his way to avoid the ones he knew would treat him like a child. When the whole garden had been toured, he took his guest to the library. He asked her about her reading habits, and she had not responded.

The afternoon ended shortly after. The girl had curtseyed at her father's command, and the lord had added his own, steely thanks for Griffyn's courtesy. Griffyn had watched them leave through the main door by his father's side.

"Who was that?" he had asked.

Faulker had been wearing the wide grin of a successful venture as he answered, "That, boy, is your future bride."

The next few weeks had been a flurry of activity for the young lord. Griffyn had devoured every text on elven culture, had thrown himself into his studies of the language and had taken every opportunity to quiz his tutors on the fineries of elven diplomacy and even, when he was feeling brave, elven courtship. Echoing about his mind was the fearful excitement he now held for his future. Would he be good enough for his ethereal wife-to-be? Would the father ever accept his presence in his daughter's life? Would she not age slower than him - wouldn't that be horridly awkard?

One evening the family had been dining together in the main hall. Griffyn had spent the afternoon leafing through treatises on marriage that he couldn't hope to understand, and his mind had been full of questions. His mother had sat on his left, his father on his right at the head of the table. Little Robyn had been across from him, handling her cutlery with a newly-acquired mastery. All this he remembered clearly, etched into his memory even so many years later. After a long silence, he had mustered the courage and turned to his mother.

"Elves would prefer to be wed outdoors in a forest, would they not?"

His mother had blinked at him, bemused. "They might, depending on their home culture. Why do you ask?"

"Because if I'm to marry an elf when I grow up, I'll want to make sure it's a good day for her."

Larc von Spurling had cast a questioning look at her husband, who had returned it. But then realisation had cross his features like lightning, and he had begun to laugh. And laugh and laugh. He had rocked on his chair with the gales of his hilarity.

"My son," he had said through his tears, "I was only joking!"

Griffyn stalked the halls of Menura Manor like a prowling cat, shoulders high and face set with iron determination. He did not have to go far. Just two corners and he spotted his target, a door at the end of the corridor flanked by two guards in thick leather, swords at their belts. He dimly recognised one from the wall, did not recognise the other. They had looked up at him as he turned into view, and to their credit they quickly recognised the threat for what it was.

"He in there?"

A harmonius sshink as two swords were drawn and stances chosen. Griffyn, for his part, merely stood. A grim cast across his features told the soldiers all they needed to, and one pointed with the tip of his weapon at Griffyn's belt.

"Sword on the ground! Now!"

"If he's in there, I need to speak with him," Griffyn replied with folded arms and nodded at the door behind them. "Tell him I have a business deal to make with him. I imagine he will find it to his liking."

"Shut up! Sword, down, now!"

The door opened. The guards turned, alarmed, as Lady Sunderland emerged from the chambers beyond. Her face was darkly shadowed.

"Enough of that," she commanded her retinue. "If he's here to talk, let us hear him. Commander von Spurling, I am glad we finally have a chance to discuss your mission to the enemy encampment, since you were unable to debrief on your return."

Griffyn couldn't help himself. He started to chuckle. "It's you I can understand the least in all this," he told the lady. "Your husband gets a tidy profit and some fun on the side, Rathanon and the others protect their precious bloody pride... But you get nothing from this deal. Not a thing! Why in the name of all the gods do you let him go on like this? Don't you expect better of him?!"

"I do wonder how different the matters must be in Alliria, Master von Spurling, to produce such naivete." Sunderland reminded him of his tutors, her brow terse with disapproval. "A contract is not just a series of words on a page, you understand. There are concords forged in conversation, expectations set and met. All of this is necessary for the full efficiency of a deal to come to fruition. Not just the outcomes of the original contract, but the satisfaction of all involved."

"Satisfaction?! You cannot tell me that this is right!" Griffyn yelled. "You cannot truthfully tell me that you don't wish matters were different! I came here with a resolution that saves lives and pride. You would do well to assist me in enacting it if you have any decency left in you!"

He shugged, and awaited her response. It came shortly after in the form of a resigned sigh.

"It appears I was wrong," said Lady Eloise Sunderland. "You are a fool, von Spurling."

A nod from their lady, and the soldiers advanced.

---

Rathanon watched the human leave. He thought he had met all the important members of the Sunderlands' home, but he did not recognise the broad-shouldered, cropped-haired brute. His accent, too, spoke of a home far from here.

The little one asked him a question. At least she had put that vile sorcery away, but her stance and her eyes spoke of barely-concealed violence.

"Was I wrong to leave?" he asked. He hated the way his voice sounded, dried out from tears. "Let me put it this way. If I could go back to the moment the idea reached my mind and prevent it from ever becoming realised as inspiration, I would do so in a moment. But once the idea was in my mind, my heart set itself upon it. And then there was no going back. To stop at any point after that would be to either be unfaithful to what I knew was right, or to grant my brother the opportunity to destroy me. Neither option would be tenable.

"As I believe I said at the start of our conversation," he added with a dark scowl, "this no doubt sounds foolish to one such as you. The plan was sound - all else is naught but misfortune."

Ethriellan was quiet where he sat on the floor of the chamber. He could have been sleeping. Rathanon's heart had taken a beating this evening, but his younger accomplice had handled their situation far harder than he. The drink had been an easy comfort, too easy and too freely available. He hoped dearly that there would be recovery for him soon, away from all of this.

But for now, if Rathanon could keep 'Hannah's attention on him, that was all the better.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

A strong resonance in his answer, and Hahnah dipped her eyes down as it struck her. She knew it all too well, especially now, looking back, how one's heart could be set upon a decision with such a force of commitment that there was no undoing it. Years removed from the deaths of Kylindrielle and Elurdrith, and Hahnah could still summon that pain in the core of her chest, summon it as if she were there again, amidst the swaying branches of the forest with the clear sky above, afternoon sun casting the light of what should have been a beautiful day, the wind and the smell of the trees, the precise feel of the dirt of the forest path beneath her feet...and the overpowering grief at the sight of her caretakers' bloody bodies. And though they could no longer hear her, it was then that she had made her promise.

The promise that now, if she too could have had a way to go back to that moment, she would have stopped herself from making.

...How many...? How many Griffyns had she killed...in her cruelty...which she had believed so strongly to be righteous and good...?

"It is not foolish to follow the guidance of your heart," Hahnah said quietly, almost apologetically, as she looked back up. She no longer had complete faith in those very words she'd uttered. "How could you have known?"

Words that cut into her as well. She was not of Elvenkind, not of Humankind, and did not think like either of them nor any of the other Kinds of people elsewhere on Arethil. Her caretakers had done the best they could with the time they had to teach her of the world around her. They had spoken of the other peoples in distant lands, yet Hahnah had never seen any others save elves, and it was only on that day when she first met Humankind and bore terrible witness to the first thing these new emissaries of another Kind did. She wished dearly that the Dying God had the strength to speak then, to guide her when she needed it most.

"It is...deeply saddening...when trusting in one's own heart fails," she said.

And she could not speak on it more, lest the tenuous grasp on composure she had go to ruin.

She awaited Griffyn's return. Felt the growing desire to pray for his safety. For she had a confession, once this all done, that she desperately wanted--needed--to tell him.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Rathanon let out a long sigh, thick with grief, and took his seat on the bed once more. He looked up at Hahnah with hesitant hope, and gave her a sad smile.

"It is kind of you to say so," he replied, switching back to Elvish without noticing. "When you have lived long, perhaps too long as I, it is easy to become complacent with the past. What is done, is done. Regret... can be hard found."

He reached out a hand and touched Ethriellan's shoulder. The younger elf sobbed raggedly, and did not look up.

"Perhaps I would do well to learn the pain of regret, that I might be spurred to take action that would otherwise be harmful. Such as speaking with my brother on the path ahead. Such as... putting my foot down with Lord Sunderland."

He looked up at the ceiling. The sunset above the canopies of the forest reflected in his hazel eyes.

"It is out of my hands now, for better or worse," he said. "Oddly liberating, this feeling. To leave these matters in the hands of another, and to simply accept the fallout. This is... This is good."

The lie was obvious.

---

Griffyn's refusal to draw his sword caused the first soldier to hesitate, and that was his undoing. Griffyn reached out his open hand in a feint, mimicking the act of summoning flame, and his opponent swung wildly to counter. Griffyn pushed the swing aside with his open hand and the weight of the steel did the rest of the work for him, leaving the soldier's face unguarded. One hand touched the man's face, the other ran along the wood of his sheathed wand, and with a shove and a whispered word the soldier fell against the wall with a thud. His mind succumbed to the combined head trauma and arcane enchantment, and his eyes fluttered shut as he hit the carpet.

Griffyn shook out his hand to refresh the blood as he advanced. The second guard eyed him cautiously, stepping into the centre of the hallway to shelter the lady of the city. Their eyes met. Griffyn shrugged, arms wide. We needn't do this, he said through his body. This man had done nothing wrong, only followed his duty in protecting Menura. He'd spare his enemy any harm if he could.

But no luck. The guard stabbed forward swiftly with his weapon, and Griffyn ducked to the side. But the next attack came immediately, a quick chop to his right flank. Griffyn raised his arm to block the blow, and once more drew energy from his wand. The sword swipe that would have cut deep into his arm instead bounced against a transparent shield of energy. With a flick of his wrist, Griffyn palmed the edge of the blade and pushed forward. The shield shoved itself forward and the sword hit the wall, held in place by the strength of his vitae.

The guard's last mistake was to try and retrieve his weapon from the hold. His futile tug was all the time Griffyn needed to unsheathe his wand and, held in both hands, slam it into the side of his head. The soldier was immediately unconscious, and fell atop the fallen form of his comrade.

Griffyn stepped up to Lady Sunderland, who stared defiantly up at him. But there was genuine fear and uncertainty in that gaze, and Griffyn found his heart going out to her. Whatever she said, however much bravado she threw up, she was in many ways a bystander to everything that was occurring. How much power did she truly have? How much could she really have prevented what was happening?

He scowled. "Go. Get some help for your husband. You will want to be fast."

With one last, venomous glare, Lady Sunderland departed down the corridor at a dignified quick-step. Griffyn watched her leave. And then he turned to the door ahead of him. Steeling his heart for what he was about to do, he gripped the handle and pushed his way into the Lord's chamber.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

What is done, is done. Regret... can be hard found.

Hahnah found that it was not easy for her to consider this idea. That if it were phrased into a question and asked of her, Do you regret what you have done, then both the answers of "yes" and "no" would be correct. But a tremble that shook through her legs, weakening her knees, prompted her to stop thinking on the matter for now. The collapse of her worldview had happened in the worst time and place, but the reckoning thereof she had some measure of control over.

The pain of regret. That for which the answer to the hypothetical question was "yes." Telling Griffyn, face-to-face and heart-to-heart, certain terrible truths with complete honesty. Seeing what it might well do to his face, to the way he looked at her. She both feared this pain and knew it to be utterly necessary.

Hahnah, too, switched to Elvish when she spoke again to Rathanon. His latest words did not carry in them the firmness of one who believed in them. It was, in fact, not so dissimilar from the tenor in which she had said that it was not foolish to follow the guidance of the heart.

"You may still act," Hahnah said quietly. Feeling the blade of her own words again slicing into her as well. "You do not have to continue in your cruelty, or allow your brother to continue in his."

To speak with his brother Rathiriel. To confront the human master Lord Sunderland. To comply earnestly with the plan Griffyn had in mind. Many were already dead because of--

(her fervent hatred)

--his callous apathy. But it did not have to continue. There were good people yet who still lived, people on both sides of Menura's walls. And it was much like Idreth had said to Hahnah back in Alliria.

The war could be over, if Rathanon chose it to be.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Rathanon studied Hahnah for a long moment. Her words put one part of him into a vicious internal battle with the other. His brow twitched and his hands tensed and slackened against each other over and over. Finally, he looked away.

"I did not like the look in your friend's eyes when he left," he said at last. "I'd not want to... to act now and interfere, or... or to be a part of it, I'm not certain which is worse. No, I stand by what I have said. It is better to allow matters to play out as they will, now. Whatever may happen."

As if puctuating his statement, there came the sounds of booted feet on the landing. A great number. The door to the chamber was suddenly kicked in and two guards with slapshod leather armour entered without ceremony. Neither Rathanon nor Hahnah had ever met Amon, and the rotund soldier had no intention of making a polite greeting. He had a wooden club in one hand, and he came forward swiftly towards the gathering of elves, one hand forward to keep Rathanon at bay. His companion stayed by the door to block any escape.

"You," he demanded of Hahnah. "You're coming with us. Always figured you'd just use your position to sow unrest in this city, and here you are conspiring to murder our lord."

He brandished his weapon. Rathanon advanced, but was held back by the larger man's bulk. "No! She means no harm, she only wishes to help!"

"Sorry, sir, but the call has been made." Amon did not smile, but certainty washed over him like an aura. "Judgement has been passed."

And whether she resisted or not, the club swung down at the half-elf.

---

Lord Alistair Sunderland was a man beyond his prime, that much was certain. He stood now at the window in a simple nightshirt and wrapped in a thick cloak. The window was grand, almost reaching the very edges of the walls, and a thick set of richly embroidered curtains wafted gently in the breeze from the open panels. The view was of the east, the expanse of the city and, presumably, the grander city of Oban in the distance. Lord Sunderland had his arms clasped behind his back, surveying his domain.

The man himself was old, as evidenced by his white hair and wrinkled, sundark skin. But his tall shoulders and straight back spoke of days of strength and vitality. Griffyn recognised the set of the lord's feet as something he had learned from his swords instructor. And when he turned, facing Griffyn with a pair of startling blue eyes, his expression was set, calm and utterly in control. A friendly smile played across his face.

"I'm glad we finally have an opportunity to meet," came a sonourous, melodious voice from the old lord. "You and your companion have caused quite a stir with my wife. And of course, it is always beneficial to meet with representatives from the other great cities."

He smiled beneath a neat goatee, and Griffyn found his fury faltering. He looked away, and peered about the room instead.

The chambers were wide and spacious, with round rugs over dark carpet providing an unobtrusive variety of colour. The bed was expansive, neatly made and with polished posters holding a silken overhang. A paper screen divided the room from what was presumably a bathing area in the far corner. There was a bottle of wine on a side-table next to a pair of armchairs - he recognised the style from Rathanon's chamber. Two glasses, rimmed with red. Both half-full.

"I deeply respect the proactivity which has brought you here... May I call you Griffyn?"

Griffyn shrugged, setting a scowl upon his features. "If you must."

"And if I heard correctly you have a business proposition for me? Clearly your father's son!" He chuckled kindly, stepping towards a dresser at the wall by the bed. Griffyn tensed as he saw the mounted sword on a frame above it, but Lord Sunderland didn't even glance at the weapon, instead retrieving a roll of parchment from a low set of drawers beneath it.

"Well then, young man, let's hear it! I'm all ears."

Griffyn stepped forward slowly as Sunderland rolled out the parchment on a low table by the window. It was already headed with a crest of arms and the flowing script of noble decision-making. With a low growl to himself, he set his resolve and began.

"I suspect you already know why I'm here," Griffyn said. "I want you to move ownership of the contract that binds Rathanon and the others to me, so that I can undo the mess your agreement with them has cause. I will need your seal to release them from servitude in such a way that protects their pride, so that the Order of the Acer do not decide to overrun the city in the next two days. Which, I should remind you, they are in a position to accomplish with ease."

Lord Sunderland was writing. Griffyn couldn't read the tight curls of the script, so he assumed it was some form of courtly shorthand.

"I see," the old man said. "And what payment do you offer for this extremely lucrative contract of mine?"

Griffyn shook his head. "I've already stated it - the end of the siege. That should be a prize worth more than gold to you."

"I cannot make a deal based on uncertainty, you realise. There are too many factors that might make my side of the agreement utterly worthless in a matter of hours - the arrival of our King's forces from the city, as an example. I will not sign my reputation and a not inconsiderable sum over to an unlikely promise. No, you will have to do better than that."

He allowed himself a tight smile. "Then let me make this deal a little more enticing. Sign over the contract with the elves, or I take your head off your shoulders."

Something clattered and fell on the far side of the paper screen. Griffyn's hand went to his sword as he turned, spying a silhouette beyond the divider. Lord Sunderland arose calmly.

"And there it is," he said solemly. "A threat of violence, in trade for another. How disappointing."

Griffyn turned back to face the lord as he dusted off his hands, but kept his periphery on the screen.

"You should understand, Griffyn, that we of Oban are a proud people. We stake our claim and then we hold it jealously. We do not appreciate threats. And we do not allow our peace to be upset by thuggery. I had hoped a man of a city such as Alliria would be above such base methods of coersion. But alas."

"This is on you," Griffyn spat. "You forced my hand."

"Did I?"

The writing on the lord's parchment was glowing, he realised too late. And a moment later, Griffyn realised he could not move.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah regarded Rathanon, a small touch of sadness in her gaze. And so that was decision, to simply stand by. She was keenly aware that she, standing at the end of a long path lined with the bodies of the cruel and the good alike, did not have room to judge. But she could not help but wonder if there was a portion of his heart yearning to do something, torn much in the same way hers had been torn all throughout Menura, and yet this portion was smothered, the acknowledgement of regret the only hint of its being there. It was good, then, that Griffyn had a plan. Whether or not that required Rath--

The door flew open violently, slamming against the wall with a hard clap. Hahnah snapped her head to the side, the motion precise and avian like a bird on alert for danger, and she saw the men. Armored--not in metal, but armored. Stern expressions. Carrying weapons.

They made their intentions known, and Hahnah shifted her stance to face them. A torn heart in her chest, as she'd only just been thinking about. That lingering horror, in conflict with something else. Something terrible. That for which the answer to the hypothetical question, Do you regret what you have done, was "no." For even in the wake of the realization which had inspired the horror, still...her heart did not lament the act of slaying itself. And as it was with Rathanon, her cruelty smothered the good.

She lifted up her hand. Open palm, the perfectly circular hole in her glove, facing Amon. She said, "I will do this."

He came at her. Hostile. Aggressive. Like she had seen many times before.

She began to manifest her sorcery, a Tendril--

And it failed. Simply dissipated before it could even emerge an inch from her palm. Hahnah's eyes widened in alarm. She tried to will a halo of Knives of Elemental Hatred into being, but that failed too. In that moment, the gifts from the Dying God she, without knowing why, could no longer command.

Hollow was her voice. "Are You still with--?"

The club smashed her on the head. Her vision crackled and broke apart into scattered stars. She felt warm blood running down in rivulets from the broken skin immediately--her Living Armor offered no protection above her neck. Her knees and her legs felt as though they had instantly turned to water, and she collapsed down like a dropped doll onto the floor, dazed eyes staring blankly, conscious but hardly cognizant.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Griffyn's muscles were not just stiff. It felt as though his bones had been replaced with steel bars. His skin was hot with unreleased tension, and the line of sweat that moved down his brow and onto his neck was almost painful. His eyes roved, wide and fearful, seemingly unrestricted by the curse laid upon him. But the rest of his body was immovable.

Sunderland nodded. "You surely did not assume that you alone possessed arcane ability in this city?" he asked, a smile on his lips. "A leader of men requires that he collect power wherever he can find it. You see, there is much alike between us, young man."

Griffyn strained to speak, but his jaw was sealed by the enchantment. His voice emerged as a low growl.

"Ah, my apologies." Sunderland wandered quickly back to the parchment on his low writing table. He placed one thumb upon the words and ran it along, smudging the ink along one line close to the bottom of the written incantation. Griffyn's jaw came free suddenly, and he moved it in a wide circle to return life to his aching muscle.

"Bastard..."

The lord chuckled. "A man of conviction would not lower himself to vulgarity, I have always thought."

"A man of conviction would not resort to sorcery either, unless he knew his words were insufficient to absolve him."

"Hm. Very good." Sunderland walked slowly away from the table, towards the screen dividing the room. For a moment he was occluded behind it, and the sound of moving water could be heard. He returned a moment later, drying off his hands with a white towel.

"Let me tell you how this ends, Griffyn, that you might select your words carefully. They could save your life. In a moment, my wife's guard will appear in the room, most likely with your half-elf friend in tow. The two of you will be placed in confinement until the conclusion of the siege, comfortable but secure. The King's Guard will save the city from desolation, and we will inform them of your indiscretions in prying into sensitive matters that do not concern you, abusing positions of authority to commit crimes against the leaders of a foreign city. You will, I assume, be taken to Oban for trial. A fine, most likely, which you no doubt have the resources to weather. And then..."

The old man shrugged, arms wide in a magnanimous gesture. "And then your lives are your own again."

Griffyn scowled. Still, it was a surprisingly generous ending to their adventure. In times of war, the means of keeping the peace had a tendency to veer in a more vicious direction. He had fully expected a hanging.

"And I suppose word of your misconduct here is never mentioned again?" he asked. "In payment for this royal treatment?"

"No misconduct occurred here, Griffyn, whatever you believe. The papers agree it, and so will the King. So will the elves, of that I have no doubt. What happened here is regrettable, lamentable. But it is certainly not illegal."

The door opened suddenly, and in walked Amon. Griffyn's eyes followed the large soldier to the side of the room to deposit his load, a barely conscious Hahnah with her arms tied tight behind her back. Griffyn's rage surged as he saw the thick blood on her brow. He opened his mouth to make some idle threat, but was beaten to it.

"Oh, Alistair, no! She is but a child!"

Griffyn turned his eyes back to the paper screen. A tall, fair elf maiden stood at the side of the room, clad somewhat indecently in a silk nightgown that left her arms bare. Her pale hands were clasped at her lips, and her hair was bound over one shoulder. Rathanon's wife, no doubt. And with a lurch in his chest, Griffyn recognised the shape of the lady's nose, the slant of her eyes, as belonging to another elf he had met. One he had run through with his sword not two nights prior. An elf only looking for his lost sister.

"Agreed," Lord Sunderland intoned. "Was this not a little too rough, soldier?"

"Cannot be too careful with this one, my Lord," Amon replied, folding his arms before him. His weapon, a club, was stained with red. "Better safe than sorry."

"You shall be sorry..." Griffyn growled beneath his breath, but he was not heard.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Hahnah did not know why, but her thoughts--what fragments there were--trailed back to being captured by the monster hunter Vestof Stringin.

Easy now. Thing killed some Templar. Don't let its size fool ya.

Back to when things were different.

Slow. Grab it slow. And don't touch the 'fur.' It ain't fur--it's alive.

Back to when she knew right from wrong.

I know you can talk.

Or when she thought that she did.

What in the hell are you?

The cleanser...of profane things.

Did you do it?

Yes. I killed them. I killed all of them, and it felt good in my heart to do so.

Her own words now, echoing to her now from then: Your sins have brought you to this.

I was so certain. I knew it to be true. How...how could I have been so wrong?

Her own words, echoing again: Because your gods will allow it to happen.

* * * * *​

Awareness crept back to Hahnah, piece by piece until a whole could be reformed, until her eyes actually could see again and her ears could hear and her mind could know something of the world around her. The blow to her head had been traumatic, in effect having caused her to blackout and dreadfully close to cracking or even caving in her skull. But now she was cognizant again, and her surroundings had changed. Her arms were bound behind her at the wrists, she lay on the floor in a different room than she remembered.

Half-open, groggy eyes searched. And though she did not hear the words Griffyn uttered under his breath, her wandering gaze found him after a time anyway. After seeing the soldier who had clubbed her. After seeing the strange presence of an elven woman. After seeing--who she now assumed--was the human master Lord Sunderland. And the terrible state of the situation began to dawn on her.

She blinked her left eye, squinted it and then closed it shut, trying to squeeze some of the blood that had run down into it out and away. She opened her mouth to speak, to say to Griffyn, I am sorry, I failed you, I failed us, but no words came out. Only a small, pained groan.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Griffyn tried to turn his neck at the sound of life from Hahnah, sending another jolt of discomfort through his muscles. He grit his teeth.

"Hannah...! Get her something to drink!"

The elf moved swiftly at his words, returning from behind the paper screen with a decanter of clear water. Sunderland said nothing, stepping back to allow her past to minister to his friend. Amon folded his arms at his chest as he watched the display.

"We can move her to the triage centre, my lord, if you would just pronounce judgement."

"Yes, but have some patience, soldier." Sunderland's expression was grim. An affectation of compassion for the lady? Griffyn couldn't tell. "My judgement will be rendered moot if she slipped away from us before it can be enacted."

Griffyn watched Amon out of the corner of his eye. The large man said nothing, but the raise of his brow spoke volumes. Would it truly matter?

"I have heard tell of this young companion of yours, Griffyn, from my wife," Sunderland continued. "Tell me, how did the two of you come to cross paths? You make an unlikely pairing."

Griffyn's eyes turned back to Sunderland as Rathanon's wife wiped some of the blood from Hahnah's brow and held a glass of water out for her to drink.

"She's a porter," he explained. "I imagine hired on by a division lead. She... She isn't from the city, and she didn't want to be here. But she needed money for food, and a place to sleep that wasn't out in the street."

"So you took pity on her."

"I... She has proven herself a valuable ally many times since the beginning of the siege. I'd not be alive without her, and that is no exaggeration."

He thought of lurid sorcery, of savage eyes and a sort of bloodlust in the shadows of an alley. He also thought of a book taken from a shelf, a tale told in confidence and tears upon a slice of bread. He had told Hahnah he would die to give her a chance to escape. Would that opportunity still present itself?

"If there is any way she can be spared the King's judgement, I would ask you to consider it," he added. "She has no home to go back to, and no money to pay any fines. You would lose nothing by allowing her to simply leave for the forest and the Order of the Acer."

Lord Sunderland watched him carefully for a long and quiet moment. Finally, he sniffed loudly.

"I see. You would take any punishment for her upon yourself."

"I would." Without hesitation.

"And you came here tonight to wrest the claim over the crastmanship of the elves from me. But that was not out of avarice, but rather so you could do what I choose not to. To bring blame upon yourself and to allow the elves to leave with reputation intact."

He blinked. "Y-Yes."

"Fascinating... And one day you will hold power over part of the city of Alliria and, by extension, a vast swathe of Arethil. You, who chooses suffering over harm to others. That is... a concerning thought."

"I... don't follow."

"Your actions today, or rather the reasoning behind your actions, run counter to the spirit of competition and business that we in power use as the foundation for our livelihoods." Sunderland shook his head with an air of disbelief. "If you were to rise to power, we can only hope for great cultural change within the remit of your reign. Alternatively, you could bring disaster down upon the heads of your family and trustees through your naivete. It would be something to behold."

The lord turned to face the window, looking out over the city and folding his hands behind his back.

"Because this will teach you nothing," he intoned. "Whatever punishment I or the King imparts, you will take it into your stride, will you not? You will take it, weather it, learn to live with it. And you will learn nothing from it. Given the chance to act against my city and family again, you will do it. All over again, and without consideration for what it will cost you."

Another shake of the head, and a heavy sigh. "I don't think we can have that."

Griffyn's chest tightened as he heard Amon begin to move behind him.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Despite the terrible wake of her old structure of belief collapsing, still Hahnah was comforted by the approach of the elf. The light, caring touch that wiped the blood from her eye. The water, which Hahnah did accept by opening her mouth and allowing for a few small mouthfuls to drink. These were small things, but they helped alleviate the pain in her mind if not in her body.

She became aware afterward of Griffyn and the human master speaking about her. How she and Griffyn had come to meet. Luck and happenstance. The mention of his name and Hahnah's mistaking of it, the letter he had written to his brother and Hahnah finding it and being--as she had said then--nosy. Yet her intrusive curiousness and all else had been met with grace and kindness.

And then their talk came to judgment. To punishment. Hahnah did not know exactly what this "King's judgment" was, but to know that it was a punishment was enough. She had while walking among them heard of and been witness to a few of the select punishments meted out in settlements. And if neither she nor Griffyn could break free from their bonds, then this judgment, this punishment, would be inevitable. The human master Lord Sunderland wanted to keep the elves here, she and Griffyn had sought to free them, and that could not be abided by him.

I see. You would take any punishment for her upon yourself.

I would.

Hahnah drew in a tiny, shuddering gasp when he said it, and her heart simply melted with affection. Tears ringed her eyes and fell to the floor when she blinked. Tears of joy and love and also tears of shame and sorrow, for Griffyn was willing to take on her punishment to protect her, was willing to sacrifice himself if need be, and what had she done for him? It was so that she had, several times, thought of slaying him, on no greater account than for the sole quality of him being human. He made her wish to be better than what she was, better than the monster Zael had rightfully accused her of being, to try to right all of the grievous wrongs which she had under the conviction of her fervent, mistaken beliefs committed.

Then came a certain finality in the last words Lord Sunderland spoke: I don't think we can have that. The large man, the one who had struck her with the club, moved up behind the paralyzed Griffyn. Hahnah's face contorted harshly with fear and worry, and she desperately tried to will her sorcery into being again. And again, nothing happened. The gifts of the Dying God were simply out of reach, unable to be called upon.

So she did the only thing she could do. Struggle. In vain.

"No!" she said, worming her body an inch along the floor toward Amon and Griffyn. Another inch. For all the good it would do. "No!"

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Griffyn's sword left its sheathe with a shudder that ran up his spine as Amon deftly disarmed his commander and placed the steel of his weapon against his neck. Griffyn's instinct was to shrink away from the blade, but he was robbed of that motion by the enchantment upon him. All he could do was scowl defiantly against the cold metal.

"You don't have to do this, Amon," he said. "You're a good soldier, but you're a good man, too. You know right from wrong, and you know this is wrong!"

But his supposed comrade's voice was dark, reflecting nothing. "I know the law, commander. We have it for a reason. You've broken the law tonight, and if our Lord says you die for it then you die. Don't look to me for sympathy. And for the gods' sake, make your last words something less pathetic. I'll grant you that, for services rendered to the city."

He swallowed. There would be no convincing this man. His mind was set.

Off to their right, the elf woman rose from her ministrations. The glass of water, still half-full, was left by Hahnah's side, but the decanter she took with her. She stepped quickly to Sunderland, standing close.

"Alistair..." she implored quietly. "Please, haven't we all bled enough over this?"

The Lord of Menura rose a hand to stroke her pale cheek. "My dear, the pain will not stop without decisive action. I cannot promise you that this will be the last life sacrificed for peace, but we are almost there. Almost at peace, I promise you that much. I do not do this from spite, but from a desire to see the suffering end."

Griffyn could see the water in the slender container shiver with the minute shaking of her slender frame. "This young man's blood is being poured on my hands. Do you understand that? You make me an accessory to this bloodshed, I and my companions. Rathanon..."

Sunderland shook his head, a kindly smile across his lips. "All blame you have I take from you. Please do not grieve for this. My dear..."

She watched him carefully, eyes wide. Then she turned slowly. She looked down at Hahnah, with an overflowing of compassion. And then her eyes met Griffyn's. Despair, yes, but also a little flame burning away amidst the ash. He looked back. My last words...

After a breath, he spoke. "I had to do what I thought was right," he said. He hoped that was steel he heard in his voice, but he could barely hear himself past the heavy beating of his own heart. "Even if I didn't pick the right direction this time, I do not regret my choice to do better than those around me, and than the me I was leaving behind. I had to."

"I'm glad you think that, commander," Amon uttered by his ear. No sympathy, but a sort of iron conviction. No warmth, but a magnanimous cold. "Let those words carry you to the next life."

He drew back his sword arm.

There was a crash of glass. The whole room looked back to the window, to the writing table. Shards of a decanter lay across the wood and parchment. The water dripped off the edges of the table, and was stained black with ink.

And Griffyn could move.

He turned rapidly into the face of a shocked Amon and pushed with all his might, calling out a cry of exertion as his aching muscles forced the large man back. Amon was shoved against the chamber's one door before he could react, Griffyn's hand upon his chest. Griffyn bellowed a word of power and force.

The shield was larger than any he'd needed to manifest before, and his right hand instantly went numb as it was drained of vitae. But the effect was instantaneous. The wood of the door buckled as Amon was held tightly in place by invisible force, and the slamming of fists outside in the corridor proved entry was impossible as the barrier was held. But he could not hold it long, and each moment drew more strength of him.

Griffyn clutched at Amon's belt, retrieving a crafting knife with his free left hand. He tossed it to the side, towards Hahnah, with a shout. He hoped she'd be recovered enough to free herself, he certainly couldn't and keep the soldiers out at the same time.

Behind him, a disbelieving shout.

"Aurielle, what have you done?!"

And another, softer but with the heat of the sun at its back.

"I had to, Alistair. I had to."

Hahnah

"

 

[Hahnah]

The words themselves were absent from her mind but the raw feeling, the brilliant emotion shining and burning like a second sun, pervaded the whole of her body: not again, not again, not again! In her struggles she had knocked over the glass of water with her squirming hip, spilling the rest of its contents out onto the floor. As Lord Sunderland spoke and as the human whose name was Amon spoke, Hahnah looked to neither of them. Her eyes were locked solely on Griffyn, on the sword that threatened to take his life. The female elf spoke as well, but the human master (in his cruelty) did not listen, and still he gave his implicit blessing for Griffyn's execution.

Hahnah would not give up. If she somehow made it in time to Amon, she would do the only thing she could do--bite his leg--and she would do it with all the fervor and ferocity she could muster through the lingering daze of her injury. Yet even with the time that had been purchased by the elf speaking with Lord Sunderland and of Amon granting Griffyn final words, her worming across the carpet wouldn't get her there fast enough to do even that.

And then she paused briefly when Griffyn looked down to her. Daring to harbor some kind of hope, however forlorn, in her returned expression to him. He spoke the words that would be last. Words that resonated powerfully with Hahnah, both in ways that were good and ways that hurt and should hurt, for all of the things she had done.

Hahnah drew in a sharp gasp when Amon prepared to deliver killing blow. And so focused was she on it, on Griffyn, that she barely registered the sudden sound of shattering glass. It was only when Griffyn himself looked that way that Hahnah flicked her eyes in its direction too, saw the pieces of glass on the table and the dripping of water off of its edge. The significance of it, for a solid second, was lost on her.

Yet it became immediately apparently when she looked back. Griffyn was no longer paralyzed, and a bursting wave of joy made her body shiver as he fought back against Amon. The larger man went back against the door, was pinned there by Griffyn's magic. A knife, taken from him by Griffyn, tossed to Hahnah. She spun her body around, fighting against the horrible whiplash feeling swirling in her head from doing so, and her fingers stretched and searched and touched and then gripped the handle of the knife. She had to adjust it a few times to be able to hold it as she needed, with the awkwardness of having her hands bound as they were, but she got the sharp edge of the knife against her bonds. Sawed away until she could feel a little loosening, which helped her get a better angle and get better control and to saw and cut faster.

And with a final snap the thin bonds fell away and she was free. Hahnah stood, and the first thing she wanted to do was to immediately embrace Griffyn. But with the commotion of the chorus of pounding fists against the door from the outside, with Griffyn's magic the only thing keeping the room from being flooded by many armored men, time was short.

She turned her head, her attention, to Lord Sunderland then. Her movements slow and languid, purposefully so despite the shortness of time. She knew how to kill. And she knew how to threaten it as well.

"I am not good at negotiation. Griffyn is far better than I."

Hahnah started to walk. One slow step at a time toward the human master, Lord Sunderland, he who controlled all of Menura and he who had just been willing to execute Griffyn.

"I am good at slaying."

Blood was running down into her eye again, and she ignored it. Simply let a sheen of red coat the left side of her vision. More slow steps. Closer.

"We seek peace for Menura and for Elvenkind."

A brief glance to Aurielle. Back to Lord Sunderland. More slow steps. Right in front of him.

"Will you choose Griffyn's way?"

She whipped the knife up to his throat. But the blade did not yet touch his skin.

"Or will you choose mine?"

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Sunderland backed up slowly as Hahnah advanced. Gone was the composure and control of a man in the full strength of his power. This was just a human, and one fully aware that he had lost his advantage.

"Stay back!" he snarled, one hand reaching out towards Hahnah and another behind him to grant him balance. His leg caught against the side table and he staggered, sending two glasses clattering to the floor. "Back! I am Lord of this city! Strike me down and you shall feel the wrath of the soldiers that protect me! No word you force from me will be seen as legitimate when you are bleeding and dying on the floor!"

"This has to end, Alistair," Aurielle implored, her brow low and eyes cold. "This madness had gone on long enough. We have allowed you to take advantage of our guilt and grief, but no longer! Sign over our contract as these two demand, and put a stop to the bloodshed! You owe as much to your people, if not to us!"

"I owe nothing!" Sunderland came up against the paper screen and held to it a little too fiercely. It toppled down, and he with it. "I-I have done nothing illegal! The King shall agree! I am in the right!"

Aurielle glanced at Hahnah, at the knife in her hand, before turning back to the lord of the city. "I don't think she cares."

At the door, Griffyn's strength continued to seep from him as he held Amon against the wood. The clattering on the far side had been replaced with the rhythmic thuds of concentrated effort. He felt Sunderland's eyes on the back of his head, however, as the old man said, "You will need his sign upon any agreement..."

He heard soft steps as the elf woman moved to the drawers by the bed. The scrunch of parchment as it was pulled from storage, already writ with the lord's seal. She began to write, and each scribbled word felt like an eternity for Griffyn.

Sunderland looked along the knife's blade at Hahnah with cold resentment. "What will you say to your kin in the forest, then, to spare the city?" he asked her. "For as I see it, the only way they will see satisfaction for these supposed crimes is through death. Your compatriot, if he should hold the shackles. Will he truly walk to such a fate? Will you let him make that sacrifice?"

Aurielle's writing hesitated, but she said nothing.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Lord Sunderland had backed up and had stumbled against the table, the paper screen, had fallen down along with it, and in what could have been another life Hahnah would have felt utterly triumphant. It would be a lie to say that none of this victorious sentiment existed in her heart now--the conditioning of years was not something undone in a single night--but said sentiment was blunted. Before, the mere slaying of a human master, that in and of itself, would have been the highest good to Hahnah. But the time in the wake of her transformation had seen much change, none more drastic than the ordeal of Menura.

Hahnah had followed Lord Sunderland down with a crouch, keeping the blade perilously close to his neck. Her gaze, despite the blood in her eye and the throbbing pain atop her head, had been unblinking. Aurielle, truly one of the good people Hahnah had once thought all of Elvenkind to unerringly be, had tried to convince Sunderland. He had protested.

But the word "illegal" held no weight with Hahnah. And this King was not here to save him.

He relented, grudgingly so, and Aurielle went to acquire parchment. The background of steady, concerted banging against the door interrupted in rhythmic fashion the low etching sound of her writing.

Then Lord Sunderland spoke to Hahnah again. She kept her expression intent, features unflinching, even if what he said stirred a new round of simmering worry within her chest. She could not show it to Sunderland, but he was right--or at least very likely to be so. Rathierel's own words supported it.

Will you let him make that sacrifice?

A promise made. A promise kept.

An impulse to look back to Griffyn. An impulse she suppressed. She had to keep her eyes on Lord Sunderland.

"You will wonder forever as to what I say to them."

Hahnah extended out her free hand toward Aurielle without looking at her. Made a small twirled motion with it, a gesture that she knew: keep going. In truth, Hahnah did not yet know what she would say to the elves, if they would demand certain deaths before they accepted peace as Sunderland had said, and what she and Griffyn would do about that. But that was the path ahead, not the one upon which they were currently walking.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

Aurielle was scribbling fast, that much Griffyn could tell from the sounds he heard over his shoulder. A frustrated sigh from the elf as she worked:

"We will need two. A single copy is too easily destroyed."

"You shall also require the original contract," Sunderland added. His voice was thick and heavy, weighed down by the resignation evident on his features. "Bottom drawer in the dresser."

Aurielle moved swiftly, almost soundlessly, to retrieve it. She copied a few details from the one document onto the other two before sitting up with a nod.

"It shall do."

The elf moved in beside Hahnah, a quill in one hand and the papers in the other. She knelt close as she proferred both to the lord. Still he hesitated.

"I hope you believe this to be the correct choice," Lord Sunderland said to Hahnah, his startling blues on hers. "And not simply the only choice."

He signed his name, a quick flourish, and then sat back with a sigh. "It is done."

Aurielle stood and turned to Griffyn. The man's arm was beyond feeling now, and he held it up with his other, aimed at the doorway. His face was pale, and sweat coated his brow. The door, held shut by his shield, splintered under the force of the impact. He stepped back and away from the commotion slowly, eyes fixed upon it still, until he reached the others. Amon glared daggers at him as he did.

"Extortion, coersion, violence..." the large man puffed against his restraints. "I will see you hanged for this, commander."

Griffyn could only look away. He took the quill in his left hand and quickly signed the weight of the elven predicament onto his shoulders. Strangely, he felt no different.

He reached down next, and touched Hahnah's shoulder. It was time to leave.

"You will be alright?" he asked Aurielle, not looking at her.

"Yes, I can handle this side of the situation," she replied. One of the two contracts was rolled up in her hands now, the other Griffyn folded into his satchel. "I shall see Rathanon and the others safely out of the city as soon as I can. None can prevent our passage now."

Griffyn glanced at Sunderland. The old man met his gaze for a moment, before nodding his head and looking away.

"Alright. Alright, then."

He looked about the room. Truly it would be too much to pray for a secret exit for mistresses or assassins in this building, but the only other exit was untenable. Even now his control was slipping. Amon's feet almost touched the floor.

Instead, he turned about with a resigned shake of the head. He moved to the window and pulled it open. The breeze of the early morning chilled his skin. There was a narrow ledge on the far side of the window, and below it the wide green expanse of a garden. Griffyn wondered how much the trees on the left side would cushion his fall with a grimace. Not much, that was certain. Hahnah, being lighter, would fare better than he would at the very least. And it was far better than being cut to pieces by the zealous guard of the manor at his back.

He turned to Hahnah now with a sad smile, and reached out his good hand to her. His sword he left on the floor of the chamber. Hopefully he would not need it now.

"Unless you have a better idea?" he asked.

Behind him, up in the ebon sky, the glimmering orb of the moon was briefly obscured as a large shape flew past it.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

Lord Sunderland spoke directly to her, but Hahnah did not deign to speak her answer back to him. Yes, she did believe this to be the correct choice. Even if some of the finer details of the arrangement eluded her understanding, Griffyn was confident in this path, and she trusted him. The only choice, no. There was at least one other path. Hers. And even though the gifts of the Dying God had mysteriously receded from her command, even though she was not experienced with using conventional weaponry, she was familiar enough with them.

Hahnah stood when Griffyn touched her shoulder. Shot a venomous glance back at Amon, brow harshly furrowed and mouth a thin line of contempt. Held it briefly. Then dismissed him from her attention.

Amon's knife she would keep in hand--this the opposite of what Griffyn would come to do with his sword. She did not feel safe in settlements, including Menura, to begin with, but now, after tonight and especially after what Amon had just said, she would not feel truly safe until the city was a distant memory.

Hahnah looked to Aurielle after she told them that she would see Rathanon out of the city. Gave her what warm regardings she could muster. Said, "I thank you for what you have done. You have a kind heart."

A moment of uncertainty followed. Where would they go, with the only door out of this room being (locked) sealed by both magic and an unknown number of armored men? But Griffyn moved to the window and Hahnah followed, all too ready to feel and smell the air of the outside. She poked her head out through the open window briefly, glancing about at the sides of the manor and the garden down below, wondering for a fleeting second why Griffyn had come here and why he'd opened the window...until it struck her that he intended to jump. Oh. The notion would likely have never occurred to her on her own, but, thinking of it now, yes, it did seem to be the obvious choice. And it seemed that windows were useful for something other than simply allowing for a small slice of the outdoors to penetrate indoors.

Griffyn reached out his hand. She took it. Held tightly, some small remnants of that powerful terror that he would be slain, of her powerlessness and inability to do nothing about it, lingering within her.

She tried to smile. Could not feel if her will to do so translated into reality upon her lips. Said amidst the continued rhythmic banging of Sunderland's chamber door, "It will be faster than using the stairs again."

And she prepared to jump with him.

Looking out through the window again, Hahnah thought that she had seen something in the high periphery of her vision. Something through the half-haze of blood. Yet, upon a few quick glances up near the shining moon to confirm, she did not see anything. And so she thought nothing more of it.

Griffyn

 

[Griffyn]

They jumped together.

Griffyn hit the side of one of the Lord's trees hard, scrabbling with his one good arm for a purchase on the branches that beat and scratched him in his descent. By the time he hit the grass, he was already winded. His leg twisted unpleasantly and he groaned out in pain where he lay. But mercifully, that was all. Some wounds from the days before were now open and leaking into his shirt, but he was used to those sources of pain.

And in his chest, an elation that fought and cancelled any physical sensation of discomfort. His groans of pain turned to laughter as he rolled onto his back. He slapped the ground with his numb arm, willing the blood to circulate faster, and grinned like a fool. He'd never leapt from a window in his life, true, but the act marked another milestone moment. A leap of faith - Griffyn had thrown himself into danger for no greater reason than because he thought it was the right thing to do, with no guarantee that he would succeed, and was still alive. Moreover, he had a friend by his side. Hahnah had tested herself also, and they had bullheadedly faced the unknown together.

Suddenly thinking of Hahnah made him twist himself to a sitting position. He looked about in the dark garden.

"Hannah!"

He lifted himself up onto his feet, hobbling slightly as he began to move.

"Hannah, are you well? Can you stand?"

He glanced at the sky. Dawn was here, and the Order were no doubt on their way to the main gate. There was no time to waste.

Hahnah

 

[Hahnah]

The wind and the thin edges of the tree's branches whipped against her. Her cloak had briefly fluttered upward in the descent and there was a hissing rustle as it slid past the leaves of the branches in her wake. The ground came up fast and first her feet touched the dirt, her knees bent, and the momentum carried her into a short roll, dispersing the force of the impact, and she came to a stop in a hunched crouch. A graceful landing--one that was entirely unintentional, a fluke of luck that had surprised even Hahnah. If asked to repeat this feat, she would not have been able.

She glanced back with a mild concern, having heard Griffyn's groan of pain. Her hand had slipped from his when her body had gone inadvertently into that roll. By the time her eyes found him he was sitting up, and he had spoken the sound of her true name.

He was alright.

"Yes, I am well. I am not hurt." She paused for a moment. Wiped some blood with the back of her hand out of her left eye as she stood up as well. Felt the need to clarify, "I am not hurt from the fall."

She noticed then, registering what she had seen, the slight limp. Her eyes fell to that leg. Then she looked back up to him, touching her chin with a curled hand, her mild concern less mild. "You walk as though you are wounded."

The city was not safe--now more than ever. This she felt strongly, and it was not good that both of them were hurt. Especially since Rathierel, the elves of Fal'Edwein, and those humans of the Order would be due to arrive at the gates of the city at any moment. And it was then that their demands would be known. Whether Rathierel would end the siege, or if he would persist in his cruelty.

Elven cruelty. Her own wanton cruelty. The sky truly had traded places with the ground...and yet this was how it had always been. She had merely been seeing the world upside down.

Griffyn