t may have been a dream, or maybe not; to Mey it made no different. As he looked on, he beheld it: a hooded figure below the fading trees, wandering amid the shadows of death till the world's end. If it was a dream, then what did it mean? If not, then who was it?

He tried to chase after it, but whenever he got close, it disappeared in a whim, as if a distant memory. The lights around him deepened and darkened, drowning the land in light or darkness, one or the other and sometimes both at once, a choir of bards following.

And so his eyes opened, awash with bright light, in what seemed to be an infirmary. Though he could not tell at first glance, he could feel the comfort of attentive eyes.

"Good morning," an aged elf greeted him, "glad to see you're still alive."

"Lord Felwin," Mey rubbed the weariness off his eyes, trying to adjust to the bright light that penetrated in from the balconies, reflecting back from the blue cobblestone walls of the building. "Where am I?"

"You are currently in the City Hospital, Ostithil."

"Hospital?" he pressed against his forehead, "what calamities fell upon us?"

"As the one who lived through it, I hoped you'd know better. All we know is what Lord Vilyánur's instructions relayed: the coordinates and orders, that's all. About a week ago we got the letter, and sent out a team of medics immediately."

"Oh," Mey stared absentmindedly at the ceiling, "was I in a bad condition?"

"So I'd say, you looked sickly pale. But fortunately for you, Lord Vilyánur had saved you by transferring a part of his essence into you, that's what kept you alive until we arrived."

A dread fear ensnared him. "And what of Vil? Is he okay?"

"Oh, yes he is, although not very healthy, but he'd never say that. When we found him, he was on the floor beside you, having suffered a massive blow to his spirit, but he wasn't hurt in any other way. He awoke two days later, and the first thing he asked is how you were."

"And how many days was I asleep for?"

"A week under our supervision, and the crude bandages you came with add an extra two days to that." Mey looked at his arm, it was dressed in white cloth, still stained by blood, but much well bound.

"Vilyánur has been very worried about you, just a couple hours ago I pried him away from here, poor boy worsened his own health looking after you. He barely slept the whole week; neither did he have any proper meals."

Mey felt a pain in his heart, what was he doing? And most importantly, what was he even thinking when he first did that?

"He loves you," Lord Felwin said, "I've seen it in his eyes, you are the only person he cares about now."

Mey lowered his eyes in shame, what he did was stupid; Vil almost killed himself to save him. What would he have done had Vil died and he lived? Could he have lived knowing his folly cost the life of his lover?

...

"You tried to kill yourself, did you not?" asked Lord Felwin.

"Uh," Mey tried to speak up but could not. "Yes, I did. I was feeling worthless."

Lord Felwin gave him a disappointing glance, "well, at least you won't do so again, right? Now that you know the price he'll have to pay for it?"

Mey covered his eyes, weeping ever so subtly. "Oh gods, I am so stupid."

"Do not blame yourself, you tried to do it for a reason, right?"

"Yes," he said, "my father said if I ever stepped out of the palace, he'd execute my frien-" it came to him what Vil's actions had resulted in, "Oh no, what am I to do now?"

"Friend?" asked Lord Felwin, "you mean her?"

He faced the door, Mey following. And there they were: the twins, alive and well, as healthy as ever. "Niall!" he let out a cry of joy. Niall said no words, walking up to him ever so slowly, embracing his cold, half-dead bony appendages with all the love she had in the world.

"I thought you died," said Mey, tears brimming his eyes.

"Hey, I helped redesign the dungeons, remember? No prison can hold me."

Arial approached the two, embracing with a happy heart. "We missed you, little prince. But I must say: the amount of attention your boyfriend gave you was so heart-breaking and heart-warming at the same time, we didn't know if to squeal or cry."

"Well, at least you two are alive," said Mey, content with life. "So what now? Will you two operate in the shadows?"

"Yeah, we will," said Arial, "we shall raise partisan forces, do not worry. We must go now, get well soon."

"Farewell!"

*****

Mey had been awake for an hour now, he felt healthy enough but the doctors said they'd like him to stay a bit longer. He couldn't deny, seeing how it wasn't half bad. The rooms were serene, water was served warm, and he had pierogi to feast upon.

"You like it here, do you not?" asked Lord Felwin, "if you feel healthy enough, I'd be more than glad to take you to Lord Vilyánur, he's still asleep though."

"No, maybe I'd not disturb his slumber," said Mey, "he's a light sleeper anyway; any sort of movement in a ten metre radius wakes him up."

Lord Felwin laughed, "yeah, you'll get that too if you're plagued with what he is."

Suddenly Mey's smile disappeared. It makes sense when you think about it: something's wrong with Vil, he acts strange, always rambling on about ghosts and deaths, and complaining about nightmares all the time. "Can I ask you something, my lord?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"What ails Vil?"

Lord Felwin drew a long breath, "what ails him is what ails most soldiers, especially the ones caught in the fray of fire: a force so fell, your kindred would fail to even fathom such horror."

"I'd like to try," said Mey, sitting upright.

"Imagine you are there, on the front line, behind your shield are enemies. All you see before you are planks of wood, but you hear screams – unending and relentless. Days pass, the foes die, but the screams remain, and on repeat they play in your head, forever, haunting your very existence. The horrors of war are limitless: a horror so grim, only soldiers can feel it."

And Mey was afraid, even though he had not witnessed beforehand such carnage, he could tell how horrid it would have been.

"Very few in a military hospital are truly wounded, for the pain is mental. Half the patients have to relive those moments all the time, seeing their comrades die, wishing it had been them and not their friends. They yearn for knives, to cut their veins and join the fallen."

"Oh," Mey's eyes widened, now it made sense why Vil never allowed bladed weapons in his chambers, and why seeing him like that truly broke Vil.

"And the other half? They yearn for more – more blood. Bloodlust drives them mad. That is why our men use large shields: for they do not protect us from them, as much as they protect them from us. Should you look beyond your shield, you shall see death: father and son, uncle and nephew, cousins, brothers, lovers . . . all die, for naught but different opinions."

And Mey was scared, it was not that he could not fathom, but that he should have not, for the sake of his sanity.

"Depression and bloodlust: the two pits of anguish, sanity is but a thin wire which every man must walk, and war is a gust of wind: a gust that shakes the wire violently, and the walker plunges into the abyss below, never to get back up again."

Mey's bones ached – he could feel himself plunging below. Inside he cried for his dear Vil.

"And of Vil? He may be a war hero, but he lost too many people in his life, more than half the people he grew up with are there no more, he was the only survivor of the ten men he spent the night with. In his mind he sleeps with ghosts, even now. He can hear them whisper those jokes to him, he can recall them calling out to him, he lives with ghosts."

Both their eyes brimmed up with tears.

"I would tell you more, but I do not think I should," Lord Felwin said, "I prefer not to harm your little mind."

"No, I understand," Mey replied, "so am I the only one he has in his life now?"

"So so," said Lord Felwin, "he's had a tough life. His father died before he was born, his mother died giving birth to him. He made few friends in his life, and even those he made tended to bully him for any way he was different from them, they would name-call him and tease him around."

...

It felt horrible, Mey knew the feeling. He never had any friends in his boyhood for that very reason. Now he felt selfish for trying to take his own life. Who said he was useless? He was the reason someone else did not mutilate himself.

"And why did you attempt what he so deeply avoided?" asked the old elf, "I presume the lack of control, right? You felt you did more harm than good."

"Yes," said Mey, rubbing his forehead. "But now I'm beginning to think otherwise."

"Good," Lord Felwin rested his hand on Mey's shoulder. "See: nobody is useless; even if you think you are, someone cannot imagine life without you. And who knows? Maybe this'll be the only life you'll ever get, so why not enjoy as much as possible?"

Mey tried hard not to sob, but he couldn't hold it in. At the same time he felt curious, pondering over something: what if this is the only life we'll ever get?

"Prince Meneldir, I know what you're thinking: what if this is the only life you'll ever get?"

Mey looked at him in wonder, "how did you know?"

"I'm a teacher, I've known ten thousand pupils. And I'll tell you what I've told them all: I, unlike so many others, do not pretend to know what happens after death. As such, I'm ready for all."

Mey never put much thought into religion, but Lord Felwin's viewpoint did make sense, and it was an interesting point. "So what would you do if you were wrong?"

"Considering we have no knowledge of the gods, chances are I'll be wrong one way or the other, so I don't bother," he laughed, turning his head to the side, "ah, looks like the doctor's here. Take care."

Mey nodded, Lord Felwin picked his stool up and set it aside, letting the doctor in.

"How are you, my lord?" asked the doctor, "does anything ail you, or are you feeling fine?"

"Fine enough," said Mey, "the pain has subsided."

"Good," the doctor nodded, "let me do the dressing, after that you can leave."

Mey extended his arm forward, resting it in the doctor's abode. Like a swan the doctor surveyed his arm, carefully taking off the bandage. Where it once used to be cut that trailed half a feet, now was a red crevice: a bloodied canyon that stretched so long, dividing the beautiful skin in two, some parts of it still leaked a red liquid.

"It'll take a week to heal completely," said the doctor, tying a fresh bandage around the wound. "You're free to leave, although I'd have you stay in the city, and out of trouble."

*****

For the last three hours, Mey had been wandering about the gardens, under the constant surveillance of the palace guards, but he couldn't care less. Although at this point he looked no different from the other high-elves, his hair washed and perfumed with the finest soaps, garbed in garments of red and beige.

"It's not half-bad," he told himself, turning his head towards the castle, watching the banners flutter in the easy wind, and under them the anthem of the state played, in a deep united voice.

O, peoples! O, peoples of this nation, rise and take arms,

we will not beg for freedom but we'll fight for our terms;

from the taigas to the desert, and on all lands in between,

we will lay our battlefields against the poison of greed.

From the taigas to the desert, and on all lands in between,

we will lay our battlefields against the poison of greed!

From the old ones we have inherited our blood and iron,

now it rests upon our shoulders to bring pride to them;

threats of thunder, and of murder, are come to us in vain,

for aeons we will endure despite the struggle and pain.

Threats of thunder, and of murder, are come to us in vain,

for aeons we will endure despite the struggle and pain!

Mey's eyes widened with patriotism, forcing him to take a stand and join the thousands of others who stood up with him, honouring the anthem. There was something strange about it, he felt patriotic for a nation he was not a part of, or at least not yet.

"My prince," a guard called for Mey, "Lord Vilyánur requests your presence."

"Yes, finally," he sighed in relief, walking as fast as he could, almost running, into the royal apartments, his face full of concern.

"He's inside," said the guard, pointing at a door.

...

Entering Vil's chamber was like entering a dark cave: quite a contrast from the bright summer gardens, all the windows and vents were barred, shrouding the room in a cloud of darkness. Oh, Vil, how can you not suffocate? He wondered, struggling to breathe in the closed environment.

And there was Lord Vilyánur: on the bed in a distant corner, curled up into a ball inside his bedroll, on the bed with a pillow where his head should've been. Letting go the superfluity of so many pillows and blankets, it was pretty eminent that Vil had his own meaning of comfort.

But not a sense of air, complained Mey, opening the windows to let the cool summer breeze and bright light in.

Vil groaned and purred, covering his eyes with his hand. "Why?"

"Do you not have a sense of breathable air?" Mey asked with a pinch of annoyance.

Vil got up and out of his bedroll, squeezing the sleep out of his eyes. But then it occurred to him. "Mey?" he looked in wonder, "you're . . . you're-"

Mey leapt at him like a panther, catching him off guard with a long and deep kiss on his lips. And Vil kissed back, grabbing Mey's waist, pulling his hip on his own, his other hand moving to the back of his head. Their eyes closed, minds clouded, thoughts hindered, the two thought of nothing more, for they needed not to.

"Mey," said Vil, touching his forehead to his, eyes closed, laden with tears. "Why did you do that? What would I have done had you not survived?"

"I'm sorry," Mey cried back, taking Vil in with a hug, "I was stupid to have done that."

"Please never do that again, I can't live without you."

"I won't," said Mey. "And again, I'm sorry. I was just . . . I was too depressed; I thought you'd never need me. I'm sorry for what I put you through, I should've known better."

"Don't apologize," Vil cried back, "I should've treated you better, I shouldn't have treated you like an object, forgive me for not caring for you."

"What are you talking about, Vil? You never did that, you've always loved me."

Vil took Mey's hand in his own, touching his bandaged wrist to his cheek, as if listening for vibrations in the blood. Mey watched, leaning in for a kiss on his forehead.

"So you have to stay in the city for a week?"

Mey nodded, "wait . . . how did you know?"

Vil rested his hand on Mey's shoulder, exposing all the brown scars that had formed on his nimble arm. The very sight of it haunted Mey: what was Vil even doing?

"Please don't," said Mey in a dreamy state, picking his hand up and kissing his scars one by one, "I need you, Vil. And I love you."

"I promise I will not anymore, and you won't either, savvy?"