ather, I have a question," Vil whispered as the two elf-lords strolled through the dark halls of the palace, conversing behind public eyes.

"Ask away," the Oracle replied.

"Did you know Rau was going to die?" asked Vil, his father nodded ever so gently to it, coming off somewhat ominously. "And you still sent him to me?"

"I didn't send him," he replied ever so silently, "I just let him know of you. He went to you on his own accord. He knew well what he was getting into, and he still did it."

"But why let him?"

The Oracle smiled. "Death is not something to be afraid of, sooner or later everyone dies.

Cattle die, kinsmen die,

you shall too, take heed,

but a thing that will not

is a fallen person's deed.

Furthermore, Raucion's concern was not to live on, but to know why he lived in the first place. Considering he learned why, I'd consider his death an occasion to be rejoiced."

Vil nodded, though he was not entirely content with that answer. "What about me? Do you know what I went through?"

"I do," his father replied, "I know who you met, what you were shown, and which path you took."

Vil's face fell pale, "you know what Lord Darrian showed me?"

"I do," he replied, "and I know you lied about it to Meneldir and everyone else. I know what you're thinking: he's not ready for it, but even then, as his best friend you should let him know."

"I have not the heart to," Vil mumbled, "I want not to scare him."

"Let me ease your lading," said his father, "in sooth, I cannot see everything, I only know the approximate chances of something happening, and predict accordingly. Of everything Darrian showed you, he made up most of it. That doesn't mean you should ignore him as a deceiver, but still."

Vil nodded, somewhat in relief, "so is there something you do not know that you want to?"

His father nodded, "I do not know what drives Morthaur, what drove him to invade our world a second time, and the manner in which he'll return. I also do not know your version of the meaning of life, for everyone has different meanings."

"I don't know yet," Vil replied.

"For Raucion it was to live and die beside those he loved, for Vareth it was to do his duty righteously, for Meneldir now it is to accept who he is and live accordingly."

"Well in that case, I guess Meneldir is my reason. He taught me to live, die, and then live again."

"That's an acceptable meaning too," his father nodded. "anything else?"

"I think . . . life is about three things," Vil raised his head, "one: standing up for those you love regardless of how unorthodox it is, two: letting go of the world and the past and enjoying the little things, and three: to realise change is the law of the universe, and to embrace it instead of fighting it."

"Those are wonderful explanations," the former king laughed. "You taught me a lot of things today, things I never knew."

Vil smiled, "so what's your version?"

"I'll tell you next time we meet; right now I should flee," he replied, fading into naught, "someone's coming."

...

Vil peered ahead: the air before him was coaxed in the clamour of footsteps, laden with one familiar aura and the other not. "It's our land, not yours," he heard an unfamiliar voice say. "We won't cede it to you."

"Then we'll take it by force," King Aiwind replied, "not my orders, the Senate's."

"Please, try to understand," the voice requested, "the people of Laifi are ethnically Minyär, I understand that, but the lands rightfully belong to the Kingdom of Doreth."

"Rightfully?"

"They have been under our direct control for ages," the envoy argued.

King Aiwind gave him an unsatisfied glance. "Just because the land was entrusted to you doesn't mean it's yours, it belongs to the people who live there, they alone should be the ones to decide."

"You can't have everyone decide for themselves, that way you'd form the strangest borders."

"Then you can't play victim if a land you forcefully vassalised rebels against you. But very well, I'll be merciful and say this: as long as your kingdom stands, Alinor soldiers will not set foot in Laifi with the intention of conquest."

"Thank you," the envoy said in joy, Vilyánur watched from a distance as the envoy and his uncle shook hands. Yet as the envoy left, his uncle turned to his squire.

"Send a messenger to Silverhearth," he said, "we need wood-elves mobilising. Our invasion of Laifi stops, but of the whole kingdom of Doreth begins."

Vil laughed, his uncle might've been the most sinister politician in the entire commonwealth, albeit he couldn't say if it was something to be proud of or not.

*****

Of the many difficult things in life, finding a seven-feet-three high-elf is not the hardest, yet for some reason it took Mey half an hour.

With good reason: Mey had been scouring the gardens, half-drunk and half-asleep. It wasn't until Lord Felwin told him to go search the workshops that he found him, sitting in a bed of metal scraps, wreathed in oil and coal dust, sweat trailing lines on his shirtless figure.

Like a panther Mey prowled behind him, the workshop's sounds dousing his own. Like a panther he leapt at him, wounding his hands around Vil's neck.

For the first time ever Vil jumped in horror, involuntarily reaching for a metal pipe near him, only to realise the next moment. "Mey," he sighed in relief, "you scared me! Where were you gone?"

"To check on Arial and Niall," said Mey, "they were wounded in battle, although now they are almost healthy again."

"Aye, give them my regards; tell them to stop by the palace before they leave."

"They have a lot of work to do," said Mey, "Daeron fell in battle, so they as blood siblings have to sing his lament. What have you been doing though? Everyone else is out there, getting drunk. And here you're sitting wreathed in dust, toying with gears and machinery?"

"I'm recalibrating my newest invention," Vil replied, a soldier of steel in his hand. "I call this a knight killer: a weapon grand enough to take down a heavily-armoured knight."

"This?" Mey laughed. "It looks barely able to take down a kitten."

"Oh, this is just a model," he replied, pulling Mey's head up. There stood before him a statue of steel, a golem of iron five metres high. "This is the real deal," Vil replied.

"Brilliant," Mey looked up and smiled, sitting back down to plant a kiss upon Vil's dirty cheek. "I'm glad you're putting that big brain to some use."

"I always loved mechatronics," he replied somewhat absentmindedly, "maybe that is the fourth meaning of life: to build things superior to yourself, so they may achieve feats of greatness that you could never hope to."

"What was that?"

"Never mind," Vil responded, "that is a story for another day."

"Another day it is," Mey replied, "but what will you do in the meantime? Will you run for kingship or just retire for a long while?"

"Nay, never. Ruling a kingdom requires politics, and I am no politician."

"Rightly said," Mey smiled, but Vil did not. "Vil, is something bothering you? You've changed ever since that Morthaur incident. You seldom show yourself in public, always remain absentminded . . . what happened to you?"

"Ah yes," Vil clutched his head, "it's because I lied to you."

"Lied to me? How exactly?"

Vil gave him a grave look, "sit down."

...

"So what is it?" asked Mey as he sat down next to Vil, "what did you lie to me about?"

"I lied to you about what I saw and did whilst lying unconscious, pulled from the realm of Mundus by Darrian into his own. The part about waking up in a swamp and choosing paths was true, but the content of the chat was not."

Mey's didn't know how to react to it. "Tell me the truth then. I promise I won't judge you, no matter what you say."

Vil drew in a deep breath, "he didn't just talk to me, he showed me the fruits of our labour."

Mey's amber eyes widened as he peered into his soul. "What did he show you, Vil?"

"Oh, my sweet Mey, the seeds we have sown are sinister. We shouldn't be surprised though, what else could our deeds have resulted in? We fiddled with forces we didn't fully understand, and now we shall reap the rewards."

Mey ran his hand along Vil's head, trying to calm his weary mind.

"I saw a vision of the future: pillars of fires as high as the sky, settling ablaze worlds by the hundreds; parades of dead men, crossing rivers of blood. And that was it, the world had stagnated: a world of permanent darkness."

Mey looked in horror, "tell me not, did he not say the world will fix itself?"

"He did," Vil answered with a smile of insanity, "but there is a twist."

"And that is?"

Vil reclined back, looking up unto the dark cobblestone ceiling of the undercroft. He should've been worried about it, but for some reason he was not, for the very thought of it calmed him down, somewhat ominously.

"You see, Prince Meneldir," said Vil, "chaos is not always a force of evil, sometimes when corruption takes hold amongst the hearts of a country's people, it becomes impossible to avoid chaos."

Mey nodded, "true. Dark times create strong folk, strong folk bring good times, good times create weak folk, and weak folk bring dark times. It's a cycle."

"And that cycle is Morthaur," Vil replied, "that is the nature of Morthaur."

"I completely agree with that."

"In the absence of Morthaur, the world will fall to the pestilence of corruption and excess, oil shall replace water and straw shall replace stone, but there will not be the spark in the wind that can set it afire. But no, in that vision I was shown, I saw fire – and we set it, we!"

A terrible darkness climbed over them, or so Mey felt.

"In an attempt to thwart Morthaur, Prince Meneldir, behold: we are become Morthaur, the Destroyer of Worlds."