hat is your name?" asked Vilyánur, climbing over Mey's frail body, his dark visage gleaming pale in the faint evening moonlight, his fingers running over Mey's soft lips.

"Kalen Ruthfel," Mey replied, a light chuckle playing across his face.

"Come on, I need to check on your sanity levels."

"I told you: Kalen Ruthfel," Mey answered again. Vil gave him a disgruntled look and rolled over, grabbing a pen and inscribing something into his notebook. Day 33: Subject #97-B has forgotten its name; it now refers to itself by the name 'Kalen Ruthfel'. No other changes have been noticed.

Mey laughed, "Aw, Vil, you act so cute at times, but seriously, you've been doing this for a month now."

"Well, I need to make sure you're well," Vil gave his silliest chuckle.

Mey drew a long sigh, "alright, my name is Prince Meneldir Fionhen II, I am the only son of King Arvedui, making me the rightful heir to the throne (I hope). I am 320, and I love you."

"Sorry, I didn't hear the entirety, can you go again?"

Mey chuckled, "come on, cease your foolish game."

"No, really, I think something got into my ear; I didn't hear you say it all."

Mey smiled and climbed on his lap, fondly kissing his cheek under the golden leaves of autumn. "Vilyánur Sarmäcil, son of Eldärion and hero of Alledoria . . . I love you. Is that alright?"

"Go again."

Mey flopped down and tossed a flurry of dead leaves in his face, falling away into the soft cold loam.

"Mey, please," Vil followed, "Go again, at least once more."

Mey tried to get away, but Vil climbed on top of him, pinning him to the ground, biting softly at his neck. "Please, you're maturer than that," Mey laughed, rubbing his long black curls with some dirt. "Anyway, I have three questions."

"Ask."

...

"Firstly, why do you think Morthaur is so persistent on destroying us? And secondly: why do the dragons, brothers and nephews of Morthaur, support us and not him?"

"There are two possibilities," said Vil, "one: he wants to stop us from learning whatever spell our ancestors were cooking, and two: he has come for the elven unions as a whole, and we are just the beginning. And I think it's most likely the first, since we Reds and Whites still have contest. As of the second question, all dragons are brothers of Morthaur, but in their own free of will."

"Ah, I see," Mey nodded, "so last question: do you think we should reveal ourselves to my father now?"

"Agreed," said Vilyánur, "we haven't shown ourselves for four months; it is about time we do that. We'll need King Arvedui's help anyway, or at least the help we can get. Plus he should know that you're alive and as healthy as ever now."

"Aye," he sat upright, "should I look for someone to smuggle me in then?"

"Nay, do not bother yourself with all those formalities. I have a pylon installed in your groves; from there we can visit the king in secret. I do not wish to create a fuss with my presence anyway."

"Very well, warp awa- wait a minute," Mey furrowed his eyebrows, "you have a pylon set in our groves? What have you been doing, stalking me?"

Vilyánur blushed, "should I lie pointlessly?"

"You're weird," Mey shook his head, somewhat in disgust. "Somewhat creepy too, do you know what I'd have done if I wasn't your lover."

"I wouldn't have told you then, or even set it up in the first place. But anyway, shall we leave now?"

"Fine," Mey sighed, grabbing Vil's hand.

*****

The warp was cast. A shroud of blackness took over his eyes as his eyes adjusted from the dazzling mountain moonlight to the scanty moonbeams that came down filtered through the daunting canopies. He knew that part of the grove: they were at its heart, still close enough to the royal apartments to venture in and out in a couple minutes.

The grove was draped in undead mists which loomed overhead like thick black smoke; the trees were charcoal-black, their leaves waxy and wreathed in darkness, shutting them away in a corridor of wood and wax.

It was discomforting to Vil, his idea of a grove was a thin garden dappled with natural lights and decorated with marble and melody, not this untamed woodland. And what was discomforting to Mey was that there was a pylon concealed in one of the trees.

"What now?" questioned Vil.

"Firstly, you should curb your stalking. Yes, I know it's illegal only if you get caught, but whatever, it's creepy," he looked at Vil with a smile, making him blush as red as a ruby. "Anyway, now I have a plan: you stay here, out of sight, whilst I go up to talk to my father. I will not make it long, and if anything bad happens, I will-"

"Meneldir?" they heard a whisper from behind. It was King Arvedui, his eyes weary and brimming with tears, he walked the vales and wore no crown, his haughty, prideful figure reforged to that of a humble pauper now.

"Father," Meneldir walked up to him. "I know what you will say, but before you say something, know this: Vilyánur saved my life," tears welled up in his eyes, "I was dying, and he risked his life to save mine. Can anyone ever do such a great sacrifice? If it were not for him, I'd have died four months ago, and yet I live, all because of him. Father, can you still hate him? If you do, then you have to hate me. I have made my choice-"

"Are his words true, Lord Lindrúin?" asked the king. "Did you save my son?"

"Well . . . I gave him life, but it was because I didn't want him to die and such . . . it's nothing personal though, just that..."

"Shh..." the king walked to him for a while before falling to his knees. "Forgive me. For millennia I blamed the high-elves for the actions of us both, but what you did . . . what you did cannot go unheard of. Lord Lindrúin," he wept, "I'm . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry for my actions. I'm a cruel tyrant whose anger is unjustified."

"No," Meneldir knelt to him with tear-laden eyes, "father, what you did is completely justified. I know what mother did, for I and Vil went to the Arcaneum a few days ago . . . we saw what happened, and truly: there is nothing to forgive."

And longer he spoke, drowning the evening silence with a speech that could move mountains. The king wept, a terrible pain surged through his heart as he realised the extent of his mistakes, yet Mey persisted with his speech ever longer.

"I am with you..." said the king at last, "...I and my Great Forest Army will join the war against Morthaur, regardless of the cost. Together we shall live, and together we shall die."

Mey embraced his father, tears filling his eyes. "I am the most grateful for these actions, my lord," Vil spoke to him.

"Not your lord," said the king, "call me 'father', for I am proud to call you my son's consort. I can never thank you enough for what you did, I will forever be grateful to you – until my last day shall I remember your grand name, o Grand-Centurion Vilyánur Sarmäcil, the Dragon Prince, the White Lion of Alinor and Prince of the Minyäri People."

"No need to thank me, father," Vil replied, "what I did was my duty."

The king kissed Vilyánur on his forehead, "now do what you have to, I lay my son's responsibility upon you. For now . . . I'll be going."

"Father?" the two of them looked at him with concern.

"No, I need . . . I need a moment alone, I shall see you later. You are welcome whenever you want to stay."

"Very well," said Vilyánur. "Good night, my lord."

"Good night," he said, fading into the shadows as he walked away. A few moments later he appeared one last time on the balcony, waving Vil and Mey a proper goodbye. His aura ceased, reckoning to Vilyánur and Meneldir that they were alone there.

...

"What's your plan now?" asked Meneldir.

"Same as before: go to Xyroth, see if my father's body is there or not, and investigate."

"Very well," Mey shook his head, "good thing now my father's on our side now, I'm planning on bringing a good number of troops with us, I think a thousand or two should do, what about you?"

"I shall bring a whole cohort, six centuries that is: four-hundred-and-eighty legionnaires and ten dozen slaves more for the baggage train, and if I hire four hundred auxiliaries, it should be enough."

"So what are you going to do for your auxiliaries? Elephants?"

"I will cross the Pale Mountains with a host of war elephants rather than bring them to Xyroth with me. You know how much they eat? We'll be travelling through red deserts for weeks without end, I don't want to bring along bales of grass just to feed a couple elephants."

"Oh well, fair enough, but what if I find a way to supply food to them?"

"Still no. We have very few of them, losing them will be a terrible misfortune, and tattered ground is horrible if you're a creature that can't gallop or jump."

"Elephants can't jump?"

"No, they can't. They can't lift all their feet off the ground at once."

Mey nodded, "alright, so horses or can't they jump either?"

"They can jump, but tattered ground breaks them too, albeit a little less. I'll bring few of them, mostly for shock charges. We must rely mostly on infantry for this mission. Fortunately, broken ground will be excellent for the defensive castle-strikes of our impalers."

"Ah well, that's a relief to hear," Mey shook his head, laying it on Vil's lap. "How long will it take to muster an army that big?"

"About a week," answered Vilyánur, tousling Meneldir's long hair and scratching him on his nape, Mey purred in response. "You can wait that long, can't you?"

*****

"Shall we return now?" asked Vilyánur. "It's late already, and I feel awkward here."

"No, I want to sleep here tonight: under stars and above loam, under trees and above roots, under your figure and above your lap. This is my pillow now."

"Such a romantic thought," Vil smiled with sarcasm, "under the stars and trees, under the constant vigil of sentries and visitors, under the haunting risk of pneumonia and-"

"Wait, no, I got it," Mey got up, "so come on, let us warp back to-"

"Stop right there!" an aged voice shouted like a piercing bolt of power. Vil and Mey sprang up in terror, it was Lord Nixior. "Ah! For once, I: Nixior Moonseer, have caught the two of you – a high-elven scum, and a royal traitor, together. Now I have all the reasons I need to kill the two of you."

"Don't be that stupid, Nixior," Meneldir spoke to him, "my father spoke to us, and agreed to join our cause. Maybe you should too, as a water-carrier perhaps."

"Do you think I am stupid?" he wailed, Vil nodded ever so slightly, "I know it was Lord Lindrúin under whose command the star-wyrm assailed our people. He is guilty of assault! I will have his head!"

"Hey, Asir didn't kill anyone," Vil responded, "but I killed one, I admit, for he was blocking my way to Meneldir."

"Ah, so you agree," Nixior smiled in wrath, "and I hope you know the penalty of the murder of innocents."

"Firstly, the guard was far from innocent! And secondly, Vil did it to save me!" shouted Meneldir, "Have you no intelligence you thick-headed, ugly, old toad?"

"Ah, 'thick-headed, ugly, old toad', isn't that the same thing you called me the night I asked for your hand?"

Vil was dumbstruck, his jaw dropped in awe.

"Nixior . . . you're literally fifty times my age! And besides that, you did not wish for my hand because you loved me, but you wished for it to gain power. You knew that I was a short cut for you to get into the king's list of heirs. You used me as a tool, a toy!"

Nixior snarled, there was no point in hiding that fact.

"So now our tale has a love triangle," Vil laughed, "not exactly how I expected, but whatever."

"Vil, shut up," Mey whispered, continuing his speech thereafter. "Vilyánur, your Lord Lindrúin, on the other hand he gave almost his life to save me, because he loves me. When did you do something similar?"

"I don't think he understands anything more than to kill and feast," said Vilyánur, "he's probably not even listening to you, or maybe thinking of hilarious comebacks, but his mind so slow fails at that task too."

"Enough," he whispered, "I will not tolerate your presence here, brothers!"

...

For long his voice echoed through the shadows, and the shadows answered with feral barking: there in the deep undergrowth two pairs of golden eyes, fidgeting through the bushes with clawed fingers. Out stepped two werewolves, fangs like swords and claws like spears, jet black their fur like night. Two moon-elves stood behind them, arrows pointed towards the two.

Mey gazed in worry, "we can warp out, right?"

"Fear not," Vil replied somewhat nonchalantly, "we are safe."

Like a raging storm Nixior lunged at them, sword aloft, mind filled with battle-lust, only to hit something mid-way ere he could make it to them. He fell to the ground but his sword remained up, held up by a giant shadow.

"You cross the grand-centurion, you cross me," replied Vareth, bending his sword with one hand, Aeresil stood beside him, Arial and Niall with them.

"But . . . they're consorting with each other, this is outrageous!" exclaimed Nixior.

"Do you think we are blind to that?" asked Vareth, "times have changed, Nixior, now this is something no longer frowned upon."

Nixior stood up; routing behind his werewolves for safety, but even his brothers cowered in terror at the sight of Vareth. In fear the werewolves lowered their ears and snarled. Vil looked up, "You ought to be careful, she's not fond of dogs."

Suddenly it came: a roaring screech like the howl of winter's breath, followed by the rustling of branches above; a loud shriek that shook the earth around them. One of the werewolves fell to the ground, squashed beneath Banewing's great talons. The other turned tail and fled.

The archers looked in fear, drawing back the string of their bows at Banewing. "Your bows are spent," commanded Vil, in that very moment their bows cracked and shattered in their hands. The huscarls of Arial and Niall sneaked in from behind and took them captive, leaving Nixior alone and unarmed.

"This is not over! I will get you Meneldir Fionhen! I will get Lindrúin Lúthmegil! I will get you all! One day or another, my revenge will come!" he said and escaped.

"He's gone," said Niall. "Good riddance! We'll make sure he's exiled from the court, under the issue of your father that too."

"Well, at least now the king, eh . . . father, has agreed to help us," Vil replied.

"I'm happy for you, Vil, but what do we do now?" asked Vareth, "do you need another month off or do we already make a move?"

"Yeah, you're right; we've taken too many days off," Vil replied, "so we'll leave in a week for Xyroth, search for clues about my father and what he did to defeat Morthaur. A thousand of Mey's and a thousand of mine shall follow us, yet we shall travel light and leave little baggage behind. Get ready, comrades, we have a long journey ahead of us."