The exile hated the open blue sky, unbroken by any cityscape, and the yellow sun that reminded him too much of the shimmering workings he was banished to possibly never see again. The world was too vast, he felt exposed it felt like anyone could see him in all his disgrace if they stood as far as the horizon with no streets or turns to conceal him.

The mountains did not offer much comfort though he appreciated them rising like teeth to devour the sun. The day was much too bright for him, even if he came to dwell on the surface, he still worked more often than not at night as he grew accustomed to scheduling without consideration of the sun’s path. However, he felt as he made his way through valleys that there might be spying eyes above him, staring down from those high peaks. One of his only comforts being that the folk that raised him were accustomed to dark tunnels and could not see as far as he could so perhaps he might see them in great detail but they may not appreciate what they bore witness to as he crossed what was once was his home into strange lands.

The exile garbed himself only in a black cloak, a single blanket. He covered his face in shame when unfamiliar eyes witnessed his freshly shaven head. He possessed no beard so his head was shaved clean instead.

The black contrasted strongly with his pale skin that barely knew the kiss of the sun, making his complexion appear all the more deathly and the garments all the more dark like a corpse dressed in the stuff of midnight with matching eyes the same as coal.

If he claimed to have any honor, he had to hide his face, at least from strangers. Exiles need not hide from other exiles or those that chose to join them.

In that regard, he did have a companion even as he was cast out from all he knew. Though this new constant companion, Ceronus, was more a stranger to him than anyone else.

Their bond was one of blood. They shared no ideals or customs, not yet. Though that would soon have to change.

His companion was one of the only people the exile knew to be taller than himself. While the exile still had some years left to grow, Ceronus was a true adult, the first glimpse to the full height the exile could anticipate for himself. Though what some years meant with his new understanding of age was still a vague concept. He expected in his decade and a half of life a modest five hundred years to be his future, eight hundred if he dared to wish to continue in a most decrypt state, only to discover he was bound to no such span.

While the two elves would have shared similar black hair if the exile’s scalp was not freshly shorn, Ceronus’s skin knew the sun and his eyes reminded the exile of bark.

Ceronus offered the exile clothing but the exile refused. Ceronus was not a citizen of the empire, a foreigner of their ways.

The exile silently tried to blame this stranger for what came to pass but he knew better. Just as he was taught, apologizing would not not undo his mistake. Still, he tried and as prayers failed, guilt needed to be attributed to someone so it rested upon his own shoulders.

He had been taught there were two ways to correct an irreversible mistake, start over from the beginning or work around it and turn the imperfection into a feature of the whole. Trying to undo something bred further faults.

Besides the simple piece of cloth, his only possession was a single bronze icon of a hammer. A ring sat at the end of the handle for a fine chain or thread to run through. But nothing went through the ring, he clasped it in one of his hands at all times as if his heart would cease to beat if he let go.

The only thing the exile could bring with him was what was offered to him by those he passed by. He had been naked and bald except for the icon during the beginning of his journey across the empire, the symbol given to him as he took the first steps of his journey by the same person who pronounced his sentence. Fortunately, he did not journey far before someone who once knew him threw the blanket along his path. Even if strangers had been willing to show him pity, he was much too tall and slender for any garments the locals may have been willing to spare.

Even as a baby, he instinctively understood those that raised him were not his parents. That disturbed the couple that initially took him in, enough for them to be willing to part with him. He possessed fond memories of them and wished them well but there was a strain to their bonds, those trying to be family and one that always knew they were not. Yet, they had been there to grant him a blanket to shelter him from the cold.

His sentence compelled him to walk across the Empire where he was greeted at the border by a two wheeled carriage drawn by a pair of wolves. It was essentially a chariot but built to accommodate more in the back. Those awaiting him at the border did not recognize the custom of how he was garbed in black and hid his face but could guess by the nature of the exile’s banishment that it did not carry pleasant connotations.

Most of the mountains that cropped through his homeland ran into a pattern that could be attributed to from east to west as if the entire continent was compressed and folded like a piece of crumpled foil. However the border was a range of mountains that stretched from north to south like a scar from two continental plates crashing together. They needed to take a natural path up between the peaks as what roads the dwarves paved for their campaigns went below such obstacles.

The meeting place was the middle point of a narrow valley, the location marked with a shallow mound. The exile knew stone and soil well enough to know it was not natural but its small scale and simple form made him not appreciate the craftselfship. To him it seemed to just be old soil displaced in the shape of an oval a little over eight feet across

Still, before he even addressed the charioteer he found himself kneeling to place his hand on the edge of the mound, the first expression of his new people ability to shape the earth. It proved no less rudimentary than he first assumed, he could feel the grains of dirt held in place by grass roots. This was something pushed and plowed rather than cut and chiseled. It felt gentle.

“What is this?” the exile inquired. “A marker?”

“That is a grave,” Ceronus answered.

“This?” the exile almost spat. It was a lonely sight, no company beside it or even name to identify it by. “This is a grave?”

“Yes,” Ceronus replied without shame of their mistreatment of the dead. “I am aware it is not how dwarves inter their fallen but that is what we have come to do. The person here was a warrior, they had to have been. It was rare before but we decided that we would bury those that fell fighting where they could watch over what they died for.”

The exile gritted his teeth to stop himself from biting his own tongue. It was an odd gesture but not one he was sure he could say was cruel or kind. To him, it seemed as though they banished their dead to the edges of their map when they should have kept the departed near their families.

The exile would find later it was not alone but one of a company of ghostly sentinels watching the border and other important sites. The elves had disturbed and collected many of the departed from their original resting places and spent the last decade rededicating them to hopefully their final posts.

How strange it was to learn his own people found death to be so alien as to lack funerary traditions before their war. Ceronus explained each passing was mourned individually in a way that the deceased might have most appreciated. Until recently, the youngster had been convinced that he would one day grow old and be entombed but that was not a fate for one of his ilk.

Though he wondered if his new people could suffocate. A knot of something vile weighed on his heart and with every beat, it felt like his lungs were constricting as it inflamed like an infection, a sensation he never knew and was never meant to know. The only way to save himself was to expel it.

If each passing was recognized uniquely, then he would have asked that his friends and family wore black. Though that would have been when his own death was worth mourning. Now, he would ask that his body be burned and all forget that he ever was as was proper. Better yet, he should be lost to the sea, the worst fate for one attuned to the ground. He wished for the phantasmal contamination inside of him to drown him in venom so he could at least pass in that manner. But he would not die, not by the hands of others or even time itself, instead justice would be denied and he would still be named king as if rewarded for his crime.

He stepped into the carriage and discovered for himself how it was obviously built for speed yet proved surprisingly comfortable crossing untamed terrain. Still, there was a definitive wrongness to sitting or standing upon a moving object, the jostle as wheels met rock and roots. The world he knew was solid and still, he was meant to travel about it, not it rush past him.

The people he called his own until only days ago preferred to walk, wagons were often saved for hauling vast loads one could not carry on one’s own shoulders. The intimacy between his former people and the ground ran deep and most proved time and again reluctant to part from it, some part of them always touching the earth. The exile adopted that habit without ever noticing as that always seemed the norm.

He experienced perhaps the first and only case of an elf knowing motion sickness as he grew dizzy with nausea. Perhaps he already felt that way since the beginning and the sudden change as he transitioned from slowly marching and brooding was complicated further by an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation.

There were new colors to be seen, the orange brown of autumn plants ready for winter. It would soon be his birthday, he being a child of cursed winter as elves called it. Dwarves only knew of two seasons. Bright season when all grew and dark season when all waned. Fall and winter were but part of the same descent.

He did not know it was possible but he grew paler. His skin practically transparent as Ceronus described it and they halted their journey in a forest for his sake.

He stared at the strange place, the sun’s light breaking through the ceiling of leaves as if shattered into stars. This he could tolerate. He would think he was inside a giant flawed gem, the tree branches like cracks or impurities. The sounds of unfamiliar bird calls and other strange noises like the wind broke the otherwise pristine silence. He welcomed the sounds if only to spare himself from being alone with his own thoughts.

The strange new people who claimed kinship with him took shelter in trees and sailed across waters. Within the great underground cities he knew so well, all routes followed roads and streets. This foreign wilderness lacked even an animal trail.

Some time passed before a voice crept into his ear. “Are you better, my lord?” Ceronus inquired with concern. The two interacted in the tongue of the dwarves as Elfish was foreign to him.

The elf had been speaking to the king for some time but the lord could not say he had been honestly listening until then, his ears open only to appreciate the sounds of the forest.

“I believe so,” the exile lied.

The charioteer guessed correctly that they would linger there for a while and loosed the wolves for them to hunt. The chariot slanted backwards as it came to rest without the weight of wolves.

The exile remained seated, not ready to know the sensation of soft soil beneath leaves and grass as if setting foot there would complete his exile.

“Please remind me,” the exile began. “Who is it that awaits me at the end of this path?”

He knew at least his parents did not await his return. That much he knew, but he was not sure what else may or may not have been explained to him, his attention having been directed inwards.

Ceronus repeated himself and the exile nodded in acknowledgement as he recognized a name that may have been spoken to him several times now.

Ceronus began with Kirous and said the name as if the name itself was sufficient. It seemed everyone was supposed to understand the meaning of having him accompany them.

“Which one is Kirous?” the exile requested before his companion moved on to the next name.

Ceronus did not seem annoyed at having to divulge information once more, instead smiled at what was now possibly the longest string of questions his new lord had yet to ask. “Kirous was the only elder sensible enough to join us.”

The exile found some comfort that even immortals possessed a concept of elders. That was a value he had already learned to respect.

“Thank you,” the exile noted. “Please continue with the others.”

“I expect Vernigen to be there as well-“ Ceronus began.

That caught the exile’s attention. “Do you speak of a person or phenomenon?” He interrupted, unsure if he heard right.

“Pardon me, my king, but I do not understand your confusion.”

“Vernigen means utter destruction,” the exile explained. “Do you mean to say I will face utter destruction?”

Ceronus scratched his cheek in momentary thought as he processed that information. “So, to dwarves his name has come to mean annihilation,” he realized with a hint of satisfaction. “That is news to me but I am not surprised. Vernigen was a staunch opponent against them. His name does not mean that in our tongue though I fear their meaning may suit him better.”

“What does his name mean in his native tongue?”

“It means great. I suppose dwarves might translate it to “of high quality,”” the elf said slowly as if reviewing his every word before speaking. “I would even hazard to say it might mean superior except that word would suggest a comparison, his name means great without need of comparison, an independent value. His warriors have come to interpret it as mighty.”

The elven tongue was a language crafted by immortals. Languages, even those of the dwarves, were refined and evolved with the generations with words set in the foundation of basic ideas retrieved to apply to newer concepts but Elfish might still have its original users still very much alive and possibly made contributions in parallel with each other. It possessed few root words and it seemed terms were based on what someone happened to name something resulting in at least a few words the exile encountered sounding remarkably similar but otherwise completely disconnected.

Their use of lettering was actually the most difficult transition though at the moment he was still at the barest rudimentaries of their speech.

Elfish made heavy use of diacritics and their alphabet is arranged from shortest sound to longest, with their vowels being at the end. Every letter was its own sound, not syllable sound so the letters’ enunciation did not change based on arrangements but would be still spelled out in other languages while abiding to the rules of that languages’ arrangements. An example would be that they had a letter for every variant of vowels which might otherwise be expressed in foreign tongues by placement. They also added prepositions to the end of their verbs so that proved complicated when Ordelas thought at first they were employing an entirely new word.

“How did he earn his name becoming so twisted?” the exile inquired.

“There are many events that earned him equal share of renown and infamy,” Ceronus recounted. “Two come to mind that both sides might attribute to him, He tracked and killed a compbyany of dwarves in the span of a single night. And he at least once led his warriors into a trap so they were cornered and their only escape was victory or death. He is proud of the latter but do not speak to him of the former. I doubt that even Alfar would be afforded understanding if that subject was broached.”

Alfar. That name should have meant something to him but it did not. Alfar was his sire, the one he should call father but could not even begin connecting to that word. He was a dead stranger. He thought the same of the one that carried him in her womb, Narcissa.

He did not hate them. He simply did not know them and never would. They were little more related to him than anyone else.

“Vernigen is one that is best admired from afar,” Ceronus warned, failing to notice in that moment that his audience grew distracted with their own thoughts or having becoming accustomed to the exile’s long silences. “There is little difference between his heroism and recklessness.”

Once again the exile found his attention drawn in spite of himself. “Define “heroism.”” the exile spoke softly but it was more a demand than a request. “We- Dwarves have multiple words for heroism. The one you just used refers to the conscious choice of selflessness, to risk oneself to save others. That is a value all its own. I do not see how it can be mistaken for anything else.”

“What I refer to would be more connected to glory. You will see what I mean. It is best not to accept any advice from him over delicate matters.”

That suggestion did not sit well with the youth, not when he had yet to meet this Vernigen. Where he was from gossip could easily be interpreted as slander. However, in a society of immortals, one was more likely than not to cross paths with each other at some point in life, be it the past or indefinite future. Gossip was how family and friends might keep track of each other.

It was yet another matter for the youngster to grow accustomed to.

Yet Ceronus continued. "I recommend you not be near him. Not when you have more reliable company. He might still be unstable."

"Unstable?"

"It is unfortunate but he had a short bout of madness."

The exile gritted his teeth as his old understanding of matters came to clash with his new reality. "What is short by our standards?"

Their conversation drew the charioteer’s interest and the exile noticed how the elf looked at Ceronus disapprovingly. Maybe Ceronus answered the latest question but the exile instead focused on the driver as their eyes met.

“Do you understand Dwarfish as well?” he asked.

Ceronus translated, his words to the elven tongue, disproving the exile’s assumption.

"I heard Vernigen's name and words I have heard the dwarves shouting at us,” the driver replied. “I would not think they were kind words."

With that, the exile directed Ceronus to another matter. “If you advise against him. What better company would you recommend?”

“I hope you do not find this to be uncouth but the youngest of your new counsel would be my own nephew, Sceadu. I would hope you two share some interests.”

“What interests might those be?”

“Forgive me but I would hope you two would discover that for yourselves. Though I must say he is a crafter at heart. A fellow creator such as yourself.”

The youngster lowered his eyes to his own hands, afraid to bring them closer even as one still clutched to the icon of a hammer. They had once shaped things but the last thing they had done was destroy. Still, he would not deny the life he lived until that point. He had been a smith, that was his greatest accomplishment, what used to make him happiest. To reject that was to reject everything he ever came to value.

“What does Sceadu mean?” the exile asked, relieved at least that it was not an ominous as Vernigen.

“Sceadu means “shade” like the shade of a tree that offers shelter and rest, it is a gentle name,” the companion translated fervently. “His parents planned ahead with him and any future sibling he may have. He was supposed to be named Kyndri which means shine so they might be a pair.”

The exile grinned however slightly at Ceronus. His fellow elf’s enthusiasm seemed contagious. Ceronus was allowing the king glimpses into his life. It felt welcoming. “So they might be called “Shade and Shine” or “Shine and Shade?””

He imagined that might inspire jealousy. He envisioned glittering gems shining then his mindscape dulled at the thought of the shade of some tree in comparison. Perhaps his new people had different values from himself to not see the sheer difference in value those two names seemed to carry. He looked to his surroundings again and the patterns the leaves weaved together to shield him from the sun. Maybe he could understand its value.

The exile dedicated the three names to memory but sensed a gap. “Is there anyone else I should expect to meet?”

“There is Odlig.”

“And what distinguishes him from the others?”

"Among many things, Oblig is also our best tactician," the companion stated.

The exile sought clarification. “Odlig is the best in such matters? Not Kirous the elder?”

"Warfare is something new to us,” Ceronus elucidate. “Youngsters have the same years of experience as our elders."

The exile accepted that with a subtle nod. “And what does Odlig mean?” He had already established a pattern with Kirous and Vernigen and the exercise was becoming an opportunity to grasp the language he would need to soon master.

“Odlig’s name was invented by his parents. Let me try to phrase it correctly in Dwarfish. They meant for it to come to mean “One that always grows.” More accurately it means our concept of “immortal” as to keep growing would mean to keep living.”

That proved to add to the exile’s confusion. So, names could be invented and the meaning ascribed afterwards? With the latter three explained, the exile realized he did not know what Kirous meant.

“With Kirous being an elder, was his name invented as well?”

“Perhaps,” Ceronus considered. “Between the concepts of knowledge and wisdom, Kirous comes closer to knowledge. I am not sure if dwarves have a word for this but it refers more to the ability to learn, an openness or awareness.”

“Curiosity?” the exile postulated.

“We apply the term more often to our sight and hearing than our thoughts. It is a sensory term as much as a mental one,” Ceronus elaborated more. “If you believe it to mean curiosity, you will find it ill suits him. That trait is most prominent in your own family.”

The exile felt a subtle wetness on his exposed feet. He raised his head for that same sensation graced his nose as a gentle pattering grew overhead and the sun was concealed behind more than just leaves. His eyes widened. This was the first time he encountered rain since the fateful day.

He leapt from his perch, the leaves rustling as he reached the ground. He stripped and kneeled upon the ground.

“What is he doing?” the charioteer asked in Elfish. The exile could have guessed that was what was said.

“I do not know,” Ceronus replied.

The rainfall swelled as it poured down, a trickle soon forming into a cascade from being broken by the branches only to pool on leaves to fall in heavier drops until he might as well have stood in the open.

Rather than anything be washed away, he sank into the mud as if the soil wished to slowly claim him. But it did not take him, instead it left him to drown in venom.

He still felt something dark growing inside of him, eating away at what goodness he could claim to have. It felt like the malignity was slowly filling his lungs, if he did not vomit it out, he would indeed drown. That prospect still did not disturb him. He feared more that the malignancy might spread, it would latch onto those around him and do the same to them if it escaped. He would take it with him if only it proved powerful enough to bring an end to what time would not.

Of course he would take it with him and it take him with it. It was something too repulsive to call anger. It was him. It was loathing.

He dug into the soil. If it could not claim him, maybe the dirt could at least bury what washing failed to erase. He plunged his fists into the softening mud.

Then he remembered the cold, hard substance in his palm. He retracted a hand to find he defiled the icon. Rain or tears streamed from his eyes. “I am sorry,” he apologized uselessly. “I am so sorry.”

He let the now pounding rain clean it as if he was unworthy to even brush the hammer.

“Are you ready to leave?” Ceronus dared to ask as he approached the lord cautiously.

The exile turned his head and found himself unable to shake his head in denial. He went utterly still as if catatonic and his open eyes beheld nothing as his consciousness retreated to let itself be lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of falling rain.

His trance was only broken by the ceasing of the rain. Him waking up to find he was still in the same nightmare.

Ceronus placed the blanket back around him, his companion having kept it dry somehow, and brushed the dirt from it while the charioteer whistled for the wolves to return.

They resumed their journey, all three finally silent as if the two subjects were too afraid to address what they saw.

It was the exile that broke the silence first. “What does my name mean? he asked.

Ceronus hesitated. "Ord is our word for blood," he began cautiously. The charioteer’s eyes turned towards them for a moment as he recognized his native vocabulary. "Elas is a very close pronunciation for child. I believe you were meant to be called “blood child” or “child of blood.”"

Ordelas tried to remember the story of his own origin, the one Ceronus told him at least. “Because I was taken during a war, from a time of bloodshed?”

“I would hope that is what they meant by that.” For a moment, Ordelas sensed that Ceronus was hiding something, a story not ready to be told.

“So, they have been calling me a child of war or violence.” The exile sniffed his muddied fingers for a moment as he prayed the world might not affirm his name. Seeping from beneath the earthy stink of mud came the odor of something acrid and metallic like the copper icon. That smell followed him as a constant reminder of his sin. He could not wash it away, nor, as he hoped, could he bury it.

“Indeed,” Ceronus confirmed. “They were cruel enough to name you so.”

“No, it suits me,” Ordelas decided weakly.

The world flashed red and he shut his eyes. Instead of darkness, he saw a vision. In the place of his own hand was another’s reaching out for him and he forced his eyes back open with a gasp, his breathing shallow as if he could only take the faintest of breaths.

“My lord?” Ceronus seemed to call to him from a great distance even as the elf sat beside him.