“...from ashes cold flames overdue

spill blood for blood and old for new...”

Varyo Ngehsi Rovikya II

2:3:1:2/5, III:IX

Larin scraped over sharp stones, dragging one spectral leg in anguish. Torn from her body, her shadowy soul bore fatal wounds that refused to end her. But after hopeless weeks of suffering, she felt it – snip! Her last thread of life drifted away, and the dark form around her burned out. Larin’s pain dissolved and a flicker of victory seized her, until orange hellfire belched from the rocks. With no body to carry her to safety, her presence writhed in the howling flames.

An oily gurgle wrought Larin upright, and she hacked blood into her mossy bed. Not again! It oozed from the corners of her mouth, her fingernails crusty and stained. Snatching up a fistful of moss, Larin mopped her dripping nose with a shudder. More black than red, the unnatural blood shimmered in her memory. She’d watched Haisrir’s dragon tear him apart, and the same glossy blood had rained from her old master’s corpse.

Stirring her magic, Larin grew fresh tufts from the patches of soiled moss. She coaxed a juicy leaf from the wall and scrubbed her face. “...Yerron?” No one answered, and Larin peeked around the flimsy partition of broad leaves screening her bed. A polished silver mirror and bowl of water sat on the table, along with a smear of churned soap on a leaf. He’d left a note in strange Allanic hand:

Be cleansed. I shall return hence.

Had he seen? Larin scrubbed the crusts of blood from her face, anxious to return to A’lara for Kingard’s advice. She worked the streaks from her hair and the stains from her clothes, a red slick beading over the soapy water. “Larin? Are you awake?”

“One second!” Dumping the tainted bowl over her clean moss, Larin smoothed her hair and triple-checked her fingernails. “Okay, ready!”

He entered from the courtyard, waving aside the vine curtain to lament, “Il’non can’t speak with you. He’s taken the oath to N’ero and sworn off all contact with women.”

“But – this is different!”

“Not for Il’non. It’s a sacred oath, and a holy man can’t renounce his vows! But he does want to meet you. You have to swear something first, though.”

“Swear what?” chuckled Larin.

Listing on his fingers, Yerron briefed, “You can’t address him directly. Talk to me, and I’ll repeat what he says to you. Don’t touch anything, either. The Keeper’s hut has no back door, so I’m supposed to escort you through the yard. Follow close and keep your eyes down. Some of the men don’t know you’re here yet.”

The stipulations pried a scoff from Larin, but she nodded. “I swear. Lead the way.”

Beyond the hanging vines, the ringed courtyard sprawled around a mighty tree. Dappled sunlight filtered through its soaring branches to warm a fierce game of ball, and they passed a boxing match and a flower garden on their march across the yard. They reached a grand home in the base of the old tree, every inch of its gray bark painted with intricate designs. “Master Il’non? She’s ready.”

Three loud claps approved their entry, and Yerron pulled Larin from the bright sunshine. “Wait here.” Overwhelmed by the sheer size of the home, Larin appraised the bookshelves curving up its walls. Yerron strode to a barricaded hallway, a long table barring Larin from the rest of the house. Seated at this table, a proud man greeted them with a sere nod. His straight back and young body disguised his great age, but the stone weight of his eyes flooded the room with wisdom. Compelled to pay her respects, Larin tendered an awkward bow.

Yerron leaned an ear toward his ageless mentor and announced, “He says he was devastated to learn you were a woman.” Pausing to hear Il’non speak, Yerron relayed the message in pieces. “Since the midnight flash of the unbinding, he’s hoped to welcome the son of Alin home. You are female, and that is unfortunate.”

“Yet,” he continued, “you are proven blood of Anyale. You belong to this village, as no other woman in time.” Yerron lost momentum in his exultation, then hurried, “We welcome you not as a woman, however, but as a brother. Therefore, you must act as a brother.”

Watching Il’non murmur to Yerron, Larin nodded her understanding. “Anyale’s resources are open to you, but only during daylight. You must leave by nightfall, and forsake all nightly visitation to this or any village. When you come, you must come to me and go nowhere without me. The men of Anyale stand divided on your presence. Do not bother them. If you bind your chest, you may meet less hostility.”

Larin cleared her throat. “So, Yerron,” she broached as requested, addressing the apprentice and not the Keeper, “what about those mer prophesies? Can I read them?”

Beaming, Yerron delivered, “Yes. You’ll speak with me and I’ll retrieve the records from the archive. Do you need help growing a hut nearby?”

“I do not think so.” Intrigue swamped her plan to hasten to A’lara, her revelation for Kingard eclipsed by the chance to discover lost portents.

“How long do you plan to stay with us?”

“As long as it takes?” If their prophesies unraveled her nosebleeds, she could linger outside A’lara until she chose to return. “I may leave after I learn what I came to learn, but there is little for me in A’lara anymore.”

“One last thing,” coughed Yerron, a tinge of pink creeping up his cheeks. “When you bleed, you must stay out in the woods. Don’t come to the village during that time of month.”

Larin paled, the horror of her exposed secret ebbing into mundane realization. “Oh. Yes, I can do that.”

Il’non clapped his hands again, and his sage face crinkled into a well-worn smile. With an amiable wave for Larin, he breathed some parting words to Yerron and shooed him towards the door. They emerged into a throng of unclad men, who burst into an uproar.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s she doing in here?”

“What did he say?”

Yerron fended them off, guiding Larin through the chaos. “Don’t worry,” he assured her, closing his hut’s curtain behind them. “They’ll calm down after it’s not so fresh.”

Pondering where to place her new hut, Larin probed, “Did he say anything else to you?”

“He suggested I leave off virile duty,” confessed Yerron with a grimace. “He said it would be unwise to entertain women both day and night.”

“Oh. Is... that all right with you?”

“It’s fine. These are unusual circumstances, to say the least. Now let’s get your hut up, so we can start on those prophesies.” Sauntering out his back door, he led her into the glade in search of a worthy plot. “And welcome to Anyale, brother.”

“...awash in pain to see all things

the grieving prince rejects the kings...”

Karyeh Njuyek Gusya III

2:3:1:3/5, III:IX

Fraught with a vital quandary, Haisrir stalked the halls of the palace. His delayed report tortured him with looming retribution, and he scraped his hazy memory for details. Kingard, something about Kingard. He recalled the elf’s face and staunched the jab of recognition, but the rest of the kidnapping slipped from him like water over wax. Am I waiting for you? Why?

“Psst!”

Haisrir whirled in the vacant corridor, his magic surging at the ambush. Shedding his disguise, Kingard rippled from the stone wall and dropped the hood of his cloak. “How do you keep getting in here?” snapped Haisrir with clashing sentiments.

“Magic.” Kingard’s slow steps closed on him. “I said I’d come back for you, Varyan.”

“My name is Haisrir,” he spat, plotting to capture the prized elf. He can offset the empress, and then...

A wince broke Kingard’s deliberate calm. “Fine. Do you remember me, Haisrir?”

“I remember you taking the empress,” sulked the blond. His old plan to retrieve Deira cracked over him like a fresh egg, and he resolved to fool the elf. “You and that brat Jorn.”

Kingard stifled his knotted heart and pacified, “Will you come with me, now?”

“Why not kidnap me like Deira?” He crossed his arms and huffed, “You weren’t so polite last time.”

Boggling at Haisrir’s reluctant scowl, Kingard prompted, “Because you’re immortal? With the weight of your magic, nothing can move you against your will. Not even me.”

“Immortal?” scoffed Haisrir with a wave. “You’ve got your elves crossed.”

Kingard grit his teeth at the depths of this amnesia. “You’re immortal, Varyan. Why haven’t you aged in all your years?”

A moment’s reflection startled Haisrir. Suspicion bloomed, and he challenged, “How did you know that?”

“Because I remember you, Varyan. You look like you did three centuries ago, before they made you their servant.”

“Well then, how do you know me?” the tree elf wheedled, determined to recover Deira before communing with his masters.

“It’s a long story, one I can’t tell here. You’ll learn everything, but you have to come with me.” Pained and exposed within the palace, Kingard prompted, “Your bride, abandoned. Your lands, burned. Your family slaughtered, by your master’s hand.”

Enticed despite himself, Haisrir reigned his curiosity and pressed, “You’ll tell me everything? And I’m free to come back when you’re done?”

Jubilation gleamed in Kingard’s eyes. “You have my word.”

“Fine.” Feigning hesitation, Haisrir thrust out his hand, and a flash of uncertainty needled through his chest. “...You do look familiar.”

Kingard grasped his forearm in a hearty shake. “That’s good to hear, my friend.” The rune on his brow shone red, and he broke the ether with a clap of thunder. Guided by the arm, Haisrir careened through the crack in time and space, and the empty halls rumbled behind them.