eneldir opened his eyes to all his companions sleeping: both wood-elves and high-elves, not even the watchers. The night was silent, enchanted by the soft hum of voices from the deeps.

The wood-elves slept in a random fashion, their armour and belongings scattered around their sleeping blobs. The high-elves organised themselves in a grid, sleeping within their bedrolls, most of them with their arms and armour on, with their shields covering their bedrolls.

Vil slept in a corner, curled up like a kitten between Vareth and Aeresil, his bedroll resembling less of a bedroll and more of a bun. He might've been a mythical warrior, but he looked as harmless as a child whilst asleep.

Mey walked up to him, carefully taking steps to not wake anyone up. He was there: a couple inches from his lover's face, looking down and smiling as Vil slept carelessly like a child. "Sleep well," he wished him, planting a kiss on his cheek, thereof removing himself from the scene.

The withdrawal of Meneldir's presence woke Vilyánur from his trance. As his eyes regained light he saw his lover walk off into the darkness of the cave. "Mey, wait," he whispered, grabbing his blade and helm and heading off into the cave as well. "Mey!"

He ventured into the shadows; passing through the dark curtains to meet in one of the narrower caverns. "Mey," said Vil, "what are you up to?"

"Just scouting," he answered, "nothing more."

He tried to remove himself, but Vilyánur had him pinned to the wall, looking down with a sinister smile. Mey stared back, almost challenging Vil, placing his hand on Vil's shoulder and waist. Vil pulled Mey's waist closer, their bellies touching, and softly bit his partner's lips.

Mey answered with a stronger bite, his wolfish canines leaving a scar on Vil's lips, his sharp claws digging into Vil's hands as he grappled his hand, but Vil couldn't care less – he felt the immense aura of Meneldir enchanting him, the flowery scent of his hair beguiling him, only to realise to his horror that the aura he felt was not only Mey's.

...

"M-Mey," he stopped, placing a finger on Mey's lips, "do you feel that?"

Meneldir sniffed the air, his eyes widening in horror to smell the stench of a bear. They both could hear heavy footsteps on the ground, and worse: beside that came the noise of hooves on the ground.

"What was that sound?" asked Garamond. "It sounded like two ghouls were feasting on the flesh of their victim."

The two crept to the wall and cast a cloak to hide their scent and aura, even though they knew that Vareth could see them in their invisible forms. Looking out through one of the cracks, Vilyánur looked at Vareth and Garamond as the two of them strolled about, looking for their ghouls. It seemed like Vareth had almost seen them, but luckily he did not.

"Where are your ghouls, Garamond?" asked Vareth, "I smell nothing."

"I am sure I heard the noise of something gnawing."

"And you think I wouldn't have smelt them?" he said, turning his eyes towards the two elves. "You're being paranoid, Satyr King. Or perhaps it is the caves: perhaps in some remote corner there are ghouls, but too far from us to be a bother. Caves do that sometimes."

"Aye . . . maybe you are right. It seems as if old age is beginning to affect me after all."

"Yes," said Vareth with a small chuckle, "now let us scour the other sides of the caves."

With that uttered, the two of them walked away, letting the two young elves breathe a sigh of relief. Vilyánur tried to walk away, but Meneldir grabbed his shirt and pinned him to the wall. "From next time onwards, ask my consent ere you do something like this," he said before planting a last kiss on his lips before departing for the caverns. "Good night."

"Tarry," said Vilyánur as he hopped to his side. "Let us trek together."

"Very well," said Mey, "but no more intimacy, at least not in here."

*****

As they descended further and further into the ancient caverns, the feeling of eeriness only seemed to increase. The halls were all but lightless, adorned with a faint stench of methane and echoing sounds of water dripping and wind rustling. If not for their powers, they'd have been lost. They did not stroll through the dark, but rather jumped through the darkness between swathes lit by luminous mushrooms or lava vents.

"Tell me something: do you folk really learn to march three days without food or rest?" asked Mey.

"As much as I'd like to admit, that's mostly untrue," Vil replied, "but I did march through unforgiving deserts for seven months with few supplies, last year. That was my last assignment."

"Please, tell me more."

"Far from the prying eyes of the world, amid the barrens of Vaerolia, there lay a temple-turned-redoubt we call Shadow-Mourn: a gateway between the worlds, and until last year it lay overrun by daemons. Last year's spring we took the highway west of the Feral Hills, trekked the Black Plains for a month, then spent six months in the desert."

"What's a desert?"

"It's a vast sea of sand, I don't think you'd want to imagine what it's like, not like you can either. Anyway, that is where we spent six months, playing skirmish and siege. We once had to march a hundred kilometres in one day through unforgiving terrain, for our waterskins had emptied and camels died. I swear when I saw the oasis, my heart sang with joy."

"I don't even want to imagine what a desert looks like," said Mey, "I don't like sand anyway."

"I don't either, just as you step on it, it shifts away. Quick to heat, quick to cool, filling in every pocket you have. Even our sand-elf brethren get tired of it. Plus it's rough and coarse and-"

"Stop," Mey called aloud, "we should probably head back, these paths are unfamiliar to me, we might get lost."

Vil nodded, the two turned tail and tracked their scents back to the camp, walking back through the dark chasms. Though Vil had been attentive, these caves seemed to have changed since his last passing.

The caves were partly built into, adorned with stairways and maps throughout, but still a great portion of it remained untouched. Even though Meneldir had walked these accursed halls for long, even he had little knowledge of the locations the great cavelinks which lay beneath the entire forest kingdom opened up to.

"These are endless;" said Vilyánur, "as far as I see, each of these paths can stretch for hundreds of miles."

"Indeed," said Meneldir, "these caves are the swiftest means of travel through our kingdom, they have openings everywhere, and yet only about five per cent of the great cavelinks has been effectively mapped by our kin. Rumours say monsters of unimaginable prowess hide underground, waiting to take back the world from the surface-dwellers."

"That's ominous," Vil shuddered, "I hope to never encounter them."

"Do not fear, most likely they are but myths, although at times we can hear odd rumbling noises coming from the depths, rumours of the Deep Ones dwelling these halls . . . these constant murmurings have driven many insane. Fire from the deep-" he was interrupted by a loud bang which made the stone-chips dance on the floor, for a while silence fell over and then there was another bang, and another.

"What was that?" asked Vilyánur.

"I do not know," Meneldir answered. "We should go and check it out maybe."

...

The two of them crouched and walked down the caverns towards the source of the sound. The darkness and cold routed with them closing the magma caverns, and the sound deepened, and then they beheld it – a gate, two giants operating a ram to bring it down.

Beside them was a cohort of chaos-elves, numbering anywhere between a five hundred and six. Standing in the middle of the host was Serethir: Lord of Satyrs and High-Priest of Morthaur, flanked by two giants.

"By the Forest Gods, what are they?!" Meneldir looked in horror. "And what are they doing here?"

"I know not, but I am certain whatever lay beyond that gate is but an ill omen to us."

"Vil, I do not think we should stay here..." Meneldir was interrupted by a fell screech.

"Intruders!" an imp yelled, "up there by the mouth! Do not let them get away!"

"Fie," Mey put on his helm, "we've been spotted, what do we do?"

"Escape is not possible," Vil replied, drawing his sword. "Their hounds are much faster than us, we must stand and fight."

Mey nodded, Vil was right: they could not escape, now their only hope was to stand and fight. Aye, he thought, grasping his blade with both hands, lowering it towards their enemies.

"Fall back!" shouted Vil, drawing Mey with him into the deeper caverns, evading arrow volleys and awkward contact: a strategic retreat.

The chaos hounds charged, but in the narrow caverns where their momentum fuelled them, they found nowhere to go but forward into a wall of swords. A third hound leapt above, but Mey pounced at it, his sheer weight throwing the beast off his trajectory and onto the earth.

Thereof Vil charged with a bloodcurdling roar, and with a heavy swing hew off a conjurer's head, Mey following with moves like a snake, taking down two foes at once.

And for long they kept battling, their aggression as a defence to cover their retreat, but eventually their strength failed before the enemy's overwhelming numbers. One moment as Vil's guard lowered, a poisoned spear lodged itself unto his knee, bringing him to the ground.

"Vil!" yelled Mey, his face filled with horror. He rallied to Vil's side, saving him from impending doom with a swift slash of his blade, only to be knocked down by a mace landing on his head, his helm cracking upon impact.

*****

When Mey opened his eyes, he found himself next to Vil, imprisoned but still alive. The door which had been standing so far had been broken down, revealing the gateway to be a portal. At the mouth of the portal stood Serethir, prancing about in joy – his very look instilling hatred in both their hearts.

"Now," said Serethir in a fell voice: "I require the energy of a powerful wizard to open the gates, therefore do not try to make any hustle, it'll be a slow and painful death. Should you not resist, it might be just a bit more comfortable."

"You'll never succeed, cultist!" roared Vilyánur.

"Hah! Brave words for someone about to die," Serethir said as he approached them. "But do not fear, you will get to see it work maybe a moment before you die. And you, my prince, can watch as your lover dies, for our Lord will deal with you when he is here."

He placed a siphon on Vilyánur, connecting him to the portal. "Behold! Lord Morthaur!"

A storm gathered around the portal, Vilyánur's visage gleaming like a blue beacon of power, but it was terrible: every moment of it felt like hell on earth to Vil, who writhed in pain and agony as arcane energy surged through his veins, his life essence absorbed into the portal. His vision blurred, but he could still see the smile of Serethir, and the sorrow of Meneldir.

"Vil!" he cried, writhing like a fish out of the water, "do not give in to fear, you can stand."

"Let it be," he said back, "I am all but done, let it be."

The portal whirred and grew in power, ringing with a deafening screech and shining with a blinding glare, and thence it came – like a whisper on the wind, taking the form of a promise – a promise of protection. By some chance, the vision of a surveyor fell to the entrance of the cave: thence the enemy approached.

"Leave them alone!" a loud female voice commanded, forming a dark silhouette before the rising sun. "Let them go lest you be run down and hunted to the last foe!"

Serethir looked up in scorn and disdain. "And who will stop us, you?"

And the chaos-elves heeded, taking up arms against them, forming before them a wall of shields. Like a bulwark of power they stood, but they were not prepared for the full force of their foe.

It came like an earthquake, the stone-chips dancing on the rock floor, accompanied by loud rumbling and bells shaking, like the voice of a hurricane striding up the coast. And then came the cavalrymen.

...

And then came the cavalry: two hundred strong, coming down the mouth of the cave like a rolling sandstorm, shaking the ground as they marched. Armoured knights upon heavy horses, spear and shield in hand, charged like the sea.

And the chaos-elves breathed a sigh of terror, their green eyes left open in terror. Feet startled as horses galloped, shields dropped as lances couched, morale dropped as horns blared: nightmares came true as the knights fell upon them, carving a path of blood and bile as they trampled through the enemy lines.

Many an elf saw naught more than a charging storm ere their eyes shut forever, and others enjoyed the luxury of standing behind, trying to strike the riders and their horses, but in vain.

"Do not be overjoyed, my friend," said Serethir, cracking a smile. "Once the ritual is complete, Lord Morthaur will be here to end you personally, and nothing you do will stop it! No-"

A sharp pain grasped his chest, climbing up his spine like the serpent of time, as he looked down he beheld a steel point poking out of his bare breast, green blood oozing from it like water from a mountain spring.

"Unless you stop the siphon," said Mey, pointing his fingers at the portal. A red bolt of flame shot out from his fingers, and the siphon was severed. Vil gasped, choked by an unseen force.

A dread frustration captured Serethir; his inner voice dampened by the ominous sound of electricity surging about. To his left was the portal which was little more than a stone arch now, and to his right were soldiers entrusted to him being slaughtered by the knights of Vilyánur.

He turned to Meneldir, falling to his knees in forgiveness, yet he sought not forgiveness, nor did he curse his fate, for he was too overwhelmed to reply, and wounded with a shortsword in his chest.

Mey pulled the shortsword out and stabbed another time, and two more times, slicing his belly open, neon green bile and entrails littering the rocky floor. He writhed in pain, but Mey felt no mercy.

"You are foul and unruly," he cursed in high-elven, "neither in Niflheim nor Aetherius shall you find peace. For ever shall you roam the fields of Ngaath, houseless and formless, amongst daemons of your kind, never will you attain salvation, not until the ends of the earth, whence the gods of great may judge your deeds and find you at fault, thus be cursed."

Mey pounced upon Serethir, but he hit naught but a cloud of green smoke, Serethir had already escaped through the collapsing portal.

"Damn it," he cried, "looks like I spent too long a time on the curse."

As the light awayed, Vil's consciousness returned to him, voices echoing in his head. As he looked to his right, he saw his troops roll through enemy ranks like water through sand, but he could not tell if it was true or not. "Vil!" Mey jumped for him, saying something to him, but he could not make out, hearing nothing more than a trailing mumble.

"Vilyánur," he heard a voice call, but it was not Mey, neither any of his comrades, but a different voice altogether. He recognized it, but still did not. It felt like a voice he hadn't heard in ages. "Vil," the voice called again, "calm down, the battle is over."

Once again his vision faltered, and he saw no more.