he fledgeling sun of the morrow shone bright behind a thicket of dense trees which shielded Silverhearth from stranger eyes, gleaming as a symbol of hope for the diurnal denizens, signalling the beginning of a new day.

The warmth of daylight was a welcome change from the weeks of torrential downpour which ravaged the countryside and urban complexes, wood-elves looked up in hope as scanty sunrays chased away the clouds, bringing in the promise of summer.

But there was something off about it: one cloud moved faster than the others, much faster, blotting out the sun now and then under translucent membranes, casting a shadow over parts of the city, terrorizing the folk with a thunderous roar like a hurricane striding through the sun with the grief of eclipse.

The pines of the forest creaked and cracked in the jaws of the zephyr which came down from the mountains, ever so slowly growing a serpentine figure: a head long and jagged, wings like clouds, and a slithering tail following. A piercing screech echoed, accompanied by a blast of blinding light from the sky like a second sun.

It was a great wyrm of the Western Peaks: Asir, the slumbering doom, a living embodiment of fire and death, had come down from the mountains with wrath and vengeance.

"Dragon!" an elf screamed at a distance, but his voice was lost among the screams of terror and despair. Those who were armed essayed forth a volley of arrows and javelins, but their easy missiles of cedar and ash pierced not his creamy hide, instead they snapped and bounced off harmlessly like toothpicks.

And Asir answered: with a great sweep of his wings, he knocked many archers off their feet, a rattling noise growing in his belly. For long the wood-elves hearkened to it in fear and awe, until at last their morale broke. Not once did Asir assail anyone, for he needed not to.

...

Palace guards hastened to the parapets, fearful of the great beast which hovered above them, too occupied to notice the griffin landing behind them. They didn't even notice: the griffin was being ridden.

In rode Lord Vilyánur, eyes ablaze with the fires of vengeance, wisdom blinded by love. Many a guard looked upon him and despaired, his brow beset with the wrath of a storm unforeseen. Like a daunting shadow he walked up to the palace, four arcane templars following, warping in out of thin air. And all those who stood before them fled – save for two palace guards who dared to stop him.

"You cannot enter here, Lord Lindrúin," one of them scoffed, cowering behind his shield, "though a worthy warrior you may be, we are tasked with protecting the king, and we will not let you get in without a fight. We will die but not disobey our king."

Vilyánur stared back with fury unbridled. The other guard stood aside, knowing what was to come. "You sure you want to die?" asked Vilyánur, to which the guard made no response.

"Very well," said Vilyánur calmly, his eyes flickering blue. "So be it."

The air shook and simmered as a tempest gathered around Vil. One moment there the guard stood, eyes fixed at Vil's, and the other he lay across the hallway, his skin withering to ash. The other guard watched in fear, stepping aside as Vil and his companions walked in.

Through the dark hallways they walked, until at last their senses led them to Mey's chambers. Flinging the door open, they saw Meneldir on the bed – pale and gaunt with a red bandaged arm, beside him there stood Daeron and three other chaos hunters, Mey's personal retinue.

The sight of Meneldir's unmoving figure maddened Vil, his eyes left open in horror. Why him and why not me? Vil thought, tears filling his eyes. Vil's bodyguards drew out their swords, but the chaos hunters of Daeron stood motionless, not agreeing to engage.

"The king's men will be here soon," said Daeron, "you must go now."

Vil nodded, "Comrades, warp away. From here on, I must go alone."

The guards heeded his command, one by one leaving the room. At last only Vil stood there, looking down on Mey's mangled figure with a pain unmatched. But no, now was not the time to break down, he had to act fast, or else Mey's life would be in jeopardy, every second was valuable.

"Hold tight," said Vil, wrapping his arms around Meneldir.

Conjuring the mightiest energies he could muster at once, he cast a warp, basking them both in the gallant glory of arcane energies. The next moment Vil opened his eyes, they were no more in the royal palace, but a wooden shack high up in the mountains, away from harm.

*****

"Mey?" Vil called to him, his soft voice sailing like a galleon through a calm sea. He placed his left hand on Mey's head, scratching his soft curls, and his right tightened around his hand.

"Why did you do that? What made you do that?"

He put his head on Mey's forehead, but he felt not the cold, but rather a wave of heat surging through his body. "Mey, you have a high fever."

He pounced away like a cat on the prowl, rushed out of the shack with a cloth in hand, wetted it in the waters of a nearby flowing waterfall, and ran back to apply it on his head.

"Meneldir, you'll be fine, I promise," he whispered to him as he put the cloth on his head. With his hand over Mey's head, he closed his eyes and chanted a spell of healing upon him.

Of all the grace that is of me,

let it pass through him.

As his chanting finished, Mey drew light breaths, nodding ever so slightly.

"Why?" he started sobbing, tears dropped from his eyes and unto Meneldir's face, waking him from his death-like state.

"Vil?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Mey, yes, that is me! I'm here for you!" he said in ecstasy, his voice trembling, his eyes brimming with tears, his hands ruffling through Meneldir's red hair. "I swear I'll never leave you, from now on we both will be together always."

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry that I'm . . . that I'm not fit enough to take care of you. You . . . you . . . you deserve someone better than me..."

"Hush!" he silenced him, "don't you dare say that. Mey, you're going to live. I'm going to save you."

"Vilyánur," he looked at him, "sometimes if you love someone, it's better to let them go. I'm not worthy enough to love you. If I do, my father will kill you, and I don't want that. Let me die, I will go to Elinor and tell him of you, and you will find a fair prince or princess and carry on your life without me."

"No!" he wailed, "don't say that, Meneldir. You have to live . . . for me." He grasped his hand with teary eyes and whispered. "I didn't steal the portrait of a wood-elven hero to have him kill himself, I didn't skip my classes at youth to meet with the person who'd take his own life, I didn't . . . I didn't think of you before every single battle I've ever been to just to have you die."

Mey's face bore no expressions, but in his heart he smiled. "You did all of that?" he looked in wonder, "I . . . I . . . I didn't expect that."

"I've lost everyone I ever loved, my father, mother, cousins, comrades . . . you are the only one who remains, you are the last person I hold dear who is still alive, don't you get it?" Vilyánur kissed Meneldir on his forehead, "do not fear, you're going to live. I swear by all the gods up there: I will save you, you will not die."

"I do not want to..." he said, "I will endanger your life, with me in your grasp you . . . you will be hunted down by my father's forces. I cannot let that be, you must live."

"Do you think I will flee from them so easily?" he smiled. "Fool, I've been assailed, ambushed at, and faced assassination attempts an uncountable number of times. If you think I will be scared by the thought of wood-elf fanatics madly rushing after me for having kidnapped their prince, you're far more foolish than I had previously imagined."

"No . . . please," he whispered, his voice fading. "Let me be."

"Mey," Vil looked at him in desperation, "do you know why I lived even after being on the verge of death countless times? Because I thought of you . . . when I closed my eyes, I started thinking of you . . . your finely-carved face, your silky red hair, your eyes like amber, your grassy scent, your wolfish grin; you're . . . the dazzling smile which reminds me of the stars. I could have gone any time, but I chose to not because I didn't want to abandon you. But . . . I can't live without you, such is the magic of love, your life is tied to mine now."

"Please," he said and fell cold, his hand dropping down.

...

"Mey?" he shook his head to feel it lighter than ever, "Mey?!" he screamed again, but Meneldir lay motionless. "Mey!" he screamed in terror this time, but Meneldir again showed no movement. His aura was ceasing, his scent was going away, his spirit had begun to fade.

Vil put his hand on Mey's forehead, eyes shut, and chanted on:

To all forces foul and fair:

I cry with heart full of wry;

save my love, save his life,

let him not wither and die.

No use, his powers were not great enough to undo one's death.

"Mey, I'm not losing you! Please get up!" he screamed in anguish. He put his hand on Meneldir's forehead and used his aura of healing, but to no avail. His lips had turned blue, skin paler than polished silver, his eyes unresponsive to light. No matter how much he kissed him, he didn't respond.

"Mey, Mey!" he wailed like a banshee, "wake up; I am not having you die!"

Vilyánur got up from the cabin and went outside, cursing himself for not having taken him to a surgeon at first. He knew he had little time now, a little late and anything bad could happen.

He tried to wipe his tears away but there was no way for him to keep them from clogging his thoughts. Calm, he said to himself, there is no use in being afraid. You have to do something, fast!

*****

"Banewing!" Vil shouted at the top of his lungs, Banewing sprang up from the shadows and at him before he could draw another breath. "Do something for me, will you," he said, petting her soft mane and neck, "go to Ostithil, bring someone back. Wait."

He rushed in and quickly scribbled on a note: blood loss, send medics.

"Here!" he handed Banewing the letter, she took it into her talons and escaped thereafter, disappearing into the dark skies.

In darkness and despair, Vilyánur fell to the soft earth, sobbing readily. It will be long before the medics come, he told himself, he'll be long dead since then.

No, Vil, he heard a voice say to him, you can't do that, you have to make decisions on your own.

"But what can I do?" he questioned the voice, "how can I return him all the blood that has been spilt? What kind of sorcery can heal the most grievous wounds? The power of love, maybe, or maybe the dark gods?"

"Yes," said the voice.

"What, love?"

"No, the Dark Gods. We both know Ayur cannot do anything, nor can Elinor. But the Chaos God of Blood and Battles, can."

Vil looked in despair, "at what cost?"

"Any, does it even matter at this point? Who do you love the most? Mey or any other random bloke?"

Vil looked to the earth in despair, "but I cannot . . . I should not, 'tis against the law."

"Screw the law!" the voice shouted, "you love him, save him already."

"Alright!" he replied, taking a long look at Mey before him, who now lay lifeless, his spirit trapped between the void and Mundus. "Mey," he whispered in gloom, "I know this is dangerous of me, but I love you, and can do anything to save you."

...

He picked the knife up from the table, furrowing his brows. I love you, he whispered to Meneldir.

With the knife he slit his hand, letting the blood flow onto the wooden floor below him. "Dö lângrö íz ha fér tú, narìl o kûn o ferï," he said, in memory from the cultists he once used to hunt, "saör o guâ iswe nách angrïl."

What an irony: a former daemon-hunter recalling the speeches of the very daemon-cultists he used to hunt. The voice said to him, but he had little time to laugh.

From the dripping blood he created an elder sign, charging it with his energies to open a portal to the other worlds.

"Oh Sithur," he prayed, touching his fist to his chest, "bless me o Blood God, for I, Lord Vilyánur Sarmäcil, wish to tap into your powers, and use them to save my love. I am willing to do whatever I must, to save my love . . . even if it means to give up my own life, or making pacts with the Dark Ones."

And lo: the elder sign began to glow, and an ominous voice responded from the other side. Although a part of him forbade him, his love conquered his mind and courage conquered his fear.

Dark energies entered the portal through Vilyánur and exited the portal to Meneldir, transferring a part of his energy to Meneldir.

Vil gasped, his vision grew red and dark, but Meneldir appeared in his field of view as a beacon of light. His head got dizzy, and his senses fell vain, and a great surge of force overwhelmed him.

The last thing he saw was Mey's colours return to him, as he himself fell to the earth with a thud, and thus he slept a sleep of iron on the timber floor, only hoping to see him again in this life.