He felt different because he was different. He had seen the face of Aria, protector of this world, and Fel’annár, as her servant, had finally understood what he was, who he must become.
He knew. But Llyniel didn’t. Gor’sadén didn’t.
Fel’annár’s eyes fell on a lonely tuft of clover, growing through a crack in the stone. He reached out, took it between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed gently. His mind focussed and he remembered how he had decided that no one save The Company needed to know about the divine nature of the Restoration. But now, he knew it was wrong, an error born of weakness, a fear of rejection he no longer felt.
He had told Pan’assár of the Restoration and now, he would tell Llyniel, tell Gor’sadén what he had kept from them.
“Skulking in the shadows, Hwind’atór?” A mellow voice spoken through a smile.
Fel’annár’s mouth twitched, eyes only half travelling to the newcomers, and although one of them was overly large, they made no sound at all.
“You should be down there, celebrating our victory,” Fel’annár said, not quite out of his musings.
“As should we all. But you know the ways of The Company. We would sit together this night; it seems fitting.”
“And you would know, Wise Warrior,” murmured Fel’annár, striking green eyes finally landing on his childhood friend, Idernon the Wise. His smile widened fractionally and then he turned, first to Ramien the Wall of Stone, and then to Carodel the Bard Warrior. Beside him stood Galadan the Fire Warrior, and then Galdith the Fierce. Sontúr, Alpine prince of Tar’eastór, recently named the Winged Warrior, stood watching, mouth half-up-turned, eyebrow riding high on his forehead. They were seven warriors from three different races, but all with the same giving heart. They were brothers in every way that mattered, and Aria knew, Fel’annár would need them in the months to come.
He felt whole. He felt sure of himself and his duty. He felt wiser and calmer, even though he knew there was still a part of himself that was not complete.
He had not yet met his Alpine family in Ea Uaré, nor his Ari family in Abiren’á.
But he was not angry, not apprehensive or defensive about it as he had once been. All that had been washed away by battle, by the duty that loomed before him.
He was curious, he realised. Curious and willing. He wanted to meet them, however much he could not predict his own reactions when the time came.
Fel’annár’s hand rested on one of the carvings beside him, wondered what the subject’s name had been, how they had died. He felt like a living ghost amongst the glorious dead, one soul that strived to mastery in the Kal’hamén’Ar. But he still had one more weapon to dominate. Fel’annár had chosen the double-edged spear, much to the surprise of his Master.
He breathed deeply, gaze back on the mountains beyond. They were a reflection of his own life, the ups and downs, the hard rock, the cold snow and the odd smattering of green goodness.
Idernon broke away from the rest and came to stand beside Fel’annár. He looked down on the festivities, eyes alight with contemplative thoughts.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
Was he? he wondered briefly. Ready for what? The Restoration? Their return to the forest and his family? Ready for the Kal’hamén’Ar? And then he realised it didn’t matter. Whatever Idernon had been referring to, there was no reserve, no trepidation at all, only quiet resolve.
“I am.” He turned his head to face Idernon. He smiled as the rest of The Company joined them.
“Where’s Llyniel?” asked Galdith.
“Down there,” said Fel’annár, pointing with his chin. “Having fun with Handir.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Not anymore.”
“And are you going to have fun with her later?” asked Carodel with a snicker.
Fel’annár held his gaze and Carodel’s grin faltered for an instant. “Perhaps,” he said, turning away after a while, and Carodel shrugged.
He still hadn’t told her that he was Ari, that he was Ber’anor. He hadn’t found the right moment. But then, he realised, there had been many right moments and just as many failed attempts.
“I wonder what forest we return to, brothers.” He walked forward and reached out to touch one of the crenellations, face cast outwards, a feast below and the still snow-capped mountains beyond. “It may shun the Alpines amongst us, turn against those who have ruled so unjustly these past years—and who would blame them? Pan’assár was complacent and those Alpine sons of lofty lords are the ones who have truly commanded our army. My only question is, will the Silvans turn their backs on the king? Will they claim their independence?”
“That cannot be predicted. Not until we’re closer.”
“But the possibility must be contemplated, Idernon. The Silvans have been down-trodden for many years but that doesn’t mean they’re beaten. It’s not our way; it’s not the way of the forest. They fought for us.” Fel’annár gestured to the recently reforested woods. “They fought and it was terrifying, but should I call on them once more, should I need them in Ea Uaré, this forest is minute in comparison to the vastness of the Great Forest Belt.”
It was a sobering thought, and the ensuing question was whether Fel’annár would be able to control them, should it indeed come to more than words.
“One step at a time,” said Idernon. “First, we must return home and find out what has transpired in our absence. It may not be as bad as all that. Common sense often prevails, in the end.”
“Aye, but the question is,” asked Sontúr, “how long will it take to prevail? And what will happen in the meanwhile?”
Idernon held the prince’s gaze and nodded silently, conceding the point.
Fel’annár turned to The Company. “The night is still young. Shall we return to the celebration? Drink and dance away the night, leave our hefty thoughts for tomorrow at least?”
“That sounds just about right.” Ramien smiled, slapping Fel’annár on the shoulder. The rest nodded and together, they left.
Just for today, this one night, he would seek nothing more than his own pleasure, together with Llyniel and The Company, in a land he never thought he would love. A land he had once hated, but was now sad to leave behind.
The Motherland. His father’s land.
Deep in the forest of Ea Uaré, on the road between Lan Taria and Oran’dor, three Alpine merchants struggled with their wagon. It was filled to the brim with forest produce they were transporting to the king’s palace. One wheel was stuck between two rocks and they had dismounted, guiding the horse backwards and forwards in an attempt to loosen the trapped wheel. Others worked to keep the stacks of goods from sliding off the back. These goods had cost them good money, money they could not afford to lose.
“Push harder!”
“We’re trying, Seila,” ground out one of the three Alpines, pushing the back of the wagon with his shoulder. Their horse whinnied, disturbed at not being able to move forwards, even though an elf was tugging hard on her reins.