Proud?

I wrote this to cover a bit of my absence for the past couple of weeks (and also for the smidge of an absence to come). I'll be moving soon, and settling into a new store, possibly a new position (promotion) if all works out, so yay! Hoping to definitely be around more once the dust settles.

She settled the cowl of her jacket onto her shoulders as she approached the monument housing the remains of her parents, side by side. Staring at the monument, she wondered what she should say, if anything at all. It seemed rather odd to try to talk to the dead as though there was anything they could say back. Was she to hold a conversation with a marbled wall, the words slightly echoing throughout the family’s memorial?

She opted not to visit often after the funeral because… why? Things had been settled, new information was learned and she was really nowhere closer to the truth than when it was spelled out in front of her in plain Elven writing. Closure was hard to come by and the last communication from her father was less than forthcoming with where to look for answers. She had no idea what she was even looking for, or even if she should be looking. As far as Elanthia was concerned, nothing had really changed, and so few would know the truth of her heritage. Only those she deemed close enough to call a true friend… and the occasional obligatory life-shattering confession to a near stranger after five too many glasses of wine. She winced as she thought about that. No matter.

The time had come, though, to have a moment with the dead, to speak of things that happened since her last journey to the graves. It was a ridiculous practice, really, but oddly cathartic. It never changed what she said or how it was received, but it did offer her a sense of peace, her concerns voiced as she considered the words, often coming to a conclusion she would not have before.

Her face scrunched a bit as she adjusted the sash across her blouse, the weight of her awards shifting it out of position. Instinctively, she thumbed one of them, smudging it slightly as she gazed up, her mind searching for what to say, what to do. Creating things out of air with a song was so easy… trying to pull words from it was much harder. After a moment’s pause, and several failed starts, she began to mumble anything that came to her lips.

“Mother… Father… Well, I’m here.” She brought her forehead down into her palm, thinking how stupid this all seemed. Exhaling, she continued, “It’s been a bit since I saw either of you, talked to… either of you. Last you… last you saw of me, well… I was quite a mess, wasn’t I? I still am, but I guess I’m getting better at hiding it.” She managed a half-hearted grin.

“That’s all that was expected, wasn’t it? That I hide my failures and do what I could to make the family proud, right? Well… you would be proud of me now, I think. I’ve done it. It took several years of being in the Reserves and I’ve done what I couldn’t even do during my 100 year service. Everyone… believed in me… which, I don’t know… it feels… off,” her face scrunched again as she realized what she was saying. “I guess I was always the one who shied away from the responsibility. It’s really scary, all things considered… knowing what you do could mean the life or death of those in your bandon. It’s unsettling, and I’m terrified I’m going to fail. It’s why I always avoided this sort of thing… I never wanted to fail… either of you and shame everyone simply by association.”

By this point, her bottom lip started quivering and tears made their slow crawl down her cheeks. “I wish you could have seen it, Mother… the night I was given the awards. It was… surprising. So many others deserved it more than I did, but I guess my fear of failing did something right… And when I was promoted… I just… it was… I can’t even describe it. I wish you had been there, Father. Would you have been proud of me, then? Would you have welcomed me back home, then?” Her voice cracked as she paused, making sure no one could hear her as she looked around. She took a deep breath, wiping roughly at the tears, causing her alabaster skin to pinken.

“There’s other stuff I could talk about… but, I guess this was the only thing I cared to, all things considered. Anything else is… frivolous, I guess… and Father did always have an issue with frivolity.” Her brow furrowed somewhat. “I’m becoming who you had always hoped I would be, Father… a soldier, a leader. I just… wish you had been there… and that it hadn’t been too late for you to see it.”

She stood there in silence, staring once more at the monument, questioning why she even came. Catharsis was not easy to come by, even now, and she just shook her head as she realized the weight remained on her shoulders. Stepping forward, she placed two ivory roses, snipped from her mother’s garden, at the base of the marble structure before turning away and preparing for her return to the Fortress.

Originally posted 5/23/17 on Gemstone IV Official Ta'Vaalor Folder.

The Past... the Present...

She had been coddled a good deal of her early life, sheltered by her mother from the overly militaristic ways of her father and elder brothers.  Her mother, Lareina, had always wanted a girl after conceiving three males and watching her twin sister delight in the birth of her daughter.  While her sons started training early in life, sparring against each other in their estate's courtyard with their father, Vezeret, overseeing them, Nihrvanah was often treated to afternoon teas with her mother, or various shopping trips to fill either her wardrobe with gowns, or her jewelry boxes with ostentatious accessories or trinkets.  Her mother intended to raise her as a maiden first, and a soldier second, treating her with special attention as her father seemed entirely lost when it came to raising a girl.  The agreement was made, and Lareina was given the opportunity to do with Nihrvanah as she wished until she was a certain age.

Nihrvanah reached that age the prior week and training began that day.  Her mother watched from the balcony overlooking the courtyard, removing herself from sight so her little girl could focus on the task at hand.  She watched as her daughter shook nervously in front of her father, his dour presence intimidating to this delicate flower.  She watched as a spear was thrown to her daughter's feet and Nihrvanah was commanded to pick it up.  She watched as her daughter did just that and heard the whimpering as her father directed her to defend an incoming blow.  It was not a hard one, nor a difficult one to deflect, but Nihrvanah was soft, having never seen her brothers in action.  Lareina sighed as she watched Nihrvanah cry and drop the weapon, cowering away in fear of Vezeret.  She watched as her sons laughed at the girl who feared what they embraced so easily, taunting her with seemingly harmless jabs as brothers were wont to do.

She watched as Nihrvanah continued to walk backwards, head lowered yet looking for an exit, and she watched as her husband’s patience broke with the girl, grabbing her before she could run.  She swore she would not interfere, but she heard her husband’s rising temper in his voice as he yelled at the girl, her sobs intermingling with his tirade.  She couldn’t just stand around, not now.  Her baby was being threatened and she had to rescue her.  She ran through the balcony doors, hurrying down the steps and out into the courtyard in time to watch her husband and sons fall silent as an audible snap followed by a pained scream erupted from Nihrvanah.  Vezeret released her from his grasp, took a step back with regret in his eyes as he looked up to see his wife standing before him, her expression one of cold anger as she saw the result of his wrath.  Her daughter curled up on the ground, holding her now oddly angled arm tightly to her chest, tremors wracking her body.

Lareina said nothing as her husband, already an elf of few words, stumbled across an apology, his voice fumbling as he attempted to express contrition.  She remained silent as she gathered her daughter in her arms and carried her inside, away from the patriarch of the family and their dutiful sons.

That was the last time Vezeret was allowed to train Nihrvanah.

She cursed to herself as the rain began to pour, bringing with it the stench of decay.  There was no senior enlisted around for her to get commands from, not even the Champion or Pereus could be found.  Where were they? she wondered as she stared at the courts, bustling with squires, citizens, and visitors who knew what was coming, but had no idea what to do.  She swore silently as she realized no orders would come unless they came from her.

Within moments, she called for volunteers to man the walls defenses, calling for the gates to be guarded.  Valero and Legonilas she sent to Annatto; Krystalena was given charge of triage with Dantineth to assist.  She escorted Pfui and a few others to the Drake, relieved that he was ever vigilant in this role.  She took Vermilion gate, knowing full well that when the waves got stronger, she would be overrun.  In the back of her mind, she could hear her brothers’ taunts, accusing her of being weak, of being soft.  She wasn’t fit for this role, but no one else was stepping up.  Tonight’s success, or failure, would be on her shoulders, the gravity of which weighed heavily upon her already.

They came.  Wave upon wave of undead were thrown upon them, their puppeted lives expendable to sword and shield.  She knocked them down with an elemental wave, and sung a song to speed her actions as she swung her blade in a rapid pace, back and forth, cutting the enemy down.  Another attack came and she raised her voice, her screech sending waves of sonic disruption to cull the beasts before her.  The path was clear before her but she was weakened by the attack.  She ran to the courts for healing, and upon seeing Whirlin and several others representing the Hand of Arkati, silently thanked whatever supreme force saw to send such reinforcements.  She told them to take Vermillion, to see to pushing back the enemy along Timmorain Road.  They easily acquiesced and she went to back to Annatto.  The road was being overrun, so many waiting to make their assault against her home.

She stood before them, scythe of flames held out before her, as her voice prepared to lash out at them. Her cry was released against them, bringing death and utter decimation. Twice they attacked, twice she annihilated them with her scream.  The raspy voice of Vengeance, angered at the loss, threatened the towns’ defenders, telling them they would pay.  In a moment of blind arrogance, Nihrvanah’s only response was “Come at me!”  Once the words left her lips, she knew she made a grave mistake, challenging a being far more powerful than her, the depths of which led to a slaughter amongst her people and those visitors who volunteered their much needed aid.  Again Vengeance taunted them, accusing their, her, arrogance of being the cause of her comrades’ deaths.  She knew it was not wrong.

The cycle continued: resurrection, respell, fight, death.  Demons were brought forth, slaughtering those in their wake.  Both gates saw denizens of the Old City.  Griffins and deathworms worked their way past the walls, either over or under, threatening those outside the safety of the Hall of Arkati.  She stood, still recovering enough energy to join the fray, thinking about how she failed everyone, her commands not enough to battle that which sought their destruction.  Just as she was about to step out of the Hall to continue the fight, Vengeance called out with another taunt thrown to spit in their faces: “Where is your Champion?  Where are your defenders?  Oh yes… dead!”  Shortly after, as if this was all a game to it, it withdrew its forces.

There was small celebration in the streets, for tonight’s battle had been won.  She could not enjoy the time, though, not even when her comrades spoke encouraging words about how she led them through it all.  Her only response was a shake of the head and a wistful glance away, her mind racing with what was to come next, the expectations she had failed to reach, the deaths on her hands.  She left them to their drinks and joy as she headed home to prepare for the lectures on her failures she knew would be coming.

Standing at the Precipice

She stepped through the portal, scythe of air at the ready, into the Old City, pausing long enough to get her bearings before moving further into enemy territory.  Within moments, an Ithzir scout made its presence known by fading into view, its crystal-edged blade slamming against her weapon in an effort to make her lose her grip.  She laughed as it bounced off the sonic forces and sang a soothing tune that caused the alien being to fall to the ground, sound asleep.  She gave the command to the scythe floating beside her and within moments, the scout was dead from both attacks.

She wasn’t here for the Ithzir, though, at least not this time. Right now, her focus was the griffins and so sweet a revenge to cull their numbers as they so swiftly and easily worked to cull those of her people.  One came into view, announcing its arrival with an audible screech that sent chills down her spine.  Oh, how she hated when they did that, but no matter.  They fell just as easily to the swing of her scythe across their necks as the ithzir did.  One by one, she fell the foul beasts, her eyes wide with glee as she thought to herself, This is justice.  This is revenge.  This is my duty.  This is my pleasure.

She continued on, furthering her path into the Old City, seeking out the creatures to fulfill her task and being careful to avoid the notorious swarms that occurred.  How fortunate for her she found another two attempting to scare her into submission.  She shook her head, sang the lullabye and watched each fall to the ground.  Mid-swing, she was caught by another griffin’s screech, followed by a janissary fading into view and attacking her while wide open.  She stumbled back, readying the spell to knock all in her path down, only to be pushed back by the flying menace thwapping her with its wings.  She threw her hands up to cover her face, quickly losing the ground she had gained.  They had recovered and she was getting overwhelmed.

That would not stop her, not today.  The spell was cast, her enemies thrown back from her.  Another song and she was able to speed her attacks and attack she did.  Faster than they could counter, she swung, her expression of determination and anger.  One by one, they fell before her but more came.  They always came.  Another cast sent a wave to knock them down, but some still stood and continued their approach.  She ducked and dodged where she could, slashing when the opening showed itself.

She was out of breath, her mana low and still they came.  She would not run this time.  She had to stop them, even if it was this once.  She held her scythe out before her as her skin adopted an eerie luminescence, the whites of her eyes slowly darkening until they were a sea of black surrounding gentian blue irises.  The air around her began to churn, her hair undulating in the unnatural breeze creating the illusion of flames, as she slowly raised her voice in song.  With a final effort, she released a scream to outdo even a griffin’s horrific screech, the air surrounding her forced out in a sonic wave so powerful that few of her attackers withstood the cacophony of sound.  While the attack succeeded as she desired, she was weakened from the effort,  and as she swung to kill off the remaining Ithzir, an initiate cast a spell that hit its mark so perfectly, she fell into the sweet embrace of death.

The War Wages Within

Been a while since I posted anything, but here goes.  The next few posts are little blurbs that were a peak into Nihrvanah's mind as Ta'Vaalor was being attacked regularly by undead until the lich behind it all was finally defeated.

She awoke to sound of her own voice screaming out as her eyes snapped open and she realized she was safe inside her home in her own bed.  It took a few moments for her pulse to calm while she debated whether to try to sleep again or consider it the fifth night or so without proper rest.  The nightmares were getting worse with each engagement with the enemy, the demonic beings that attacked etching themselves deeper into her subconscious, forcing her to face them once again, this time in her dreams.  The horrors she witnessed continued to haunt her as the scenes replayed in her mind: the hag dismembering a child, the tormentor gruesomely beheading a guard, soldiers taking an all too familiar ride in a griffin’s talons only to be dropped with great force to their deaths.  It was all she could do not to lose her stomach in front of her fellow legionnaires, let alone here at home and she nearly fell to the floor as she heaved.  Nothing came out, thankfully, but it still hurt nonetheless.

You’re a fraud, Nihrvanah thought as she sat up and rested against a nearby nightstand, shaking her head as she tried to clear it.  It continued to creep up on her, accusing her of being afraid, of letting that fear take over as every instinct told her to find safety, even though she should be safe in her own home.  It was a nagging feeling that threatened to overtake her even on the battlefield, one she fought hard to suppress in the face of grave danger.  She put on a brave face like always, burying the fear beneath a guise of fragile confidence.  None could know how scared she really was, not just of the war but so many other things.  They couldn’t know how weak she really felt.

She sat in the darkness a little bit longer before deciding there was only one thing to do on a sleepless night.  She had to train, she had to get stronger so she didn’t feel like she was lying to everyone, including herself, about what she was capable of.  She dressed, her voice lifting as her songs created a barrier of airy flames around her, then continuing to form a scythe of flames both in her hand and hovering by her side.  She closed her eyes as she clenched the symbol she hid beneath her shirt, murmuring a short prayer for strength, before heading to the Old City to dispatch a fraction of the enemy forces that were being summoned forth from there.

First things first: Backstory

At the time this backstory was written, Nihrvanah was in a relationship with an elf that changed her life for the better.  Since then, the relationship desolved, but the impact it had on her remains.

                She stared at the scroll as he offered it to her, the sender no stranger to her. The last time she’d received a letter in this manner, it was her father’s steward informing her of her mother’s passing, the formality making the reality of it sting more. He was as familiar to her as the man she’d called Father for the majority of her life… but both seemed so foreign to her now. It felt a lifetime ago since she spoke with either, so why send her a letter now? What could be so important to dredge up such horrible memories?

                With shaking hands and nervous voice, she accepted the parchment scroll, a murmured “thank you” trembling past her lips. The messenger offered a crude bow as he stepped back, leaving her alone to her thoughts. She slowly closed the door, keeping her eyes fixed on him as his form retreated into the night’s shadows. Turning around, she surveyed the modest furnishings of her home. The fire was dying down, casting an eerie glow along the walls. How very fitting.

                She grabbed a couple small logs and tossed them into the fire, barely wincing when sparks and ash flew up. I need… a drink, she thought while staring at the scroll again. I doubt this is good news. Four shots of whiskey did the trick if only to calm her enough to go beyond terrified staring.

                Tentatively, she untied the ribbon wrapped around the letter, carelessly discarding it on the floor. She hesitated, the whiskey within her causing her to falter only a moment, before unfurling the scroll and revealing the contents. The first thing that caught her eye was the familiar seal, four identical swords arranged in an x with their tips pointed at the center, pressed into now dried dark crimson wax. Four swords for four sons. I ruined that legacy when I was born, didn't I, Father? she thought before finally reading the letter.

To the Lady Nihrvanah Tarsonath of House Vaalor:

                It is with great regret I write to you. Your honored father, Lord Vezeret Em’anrus, has passed from the mortal realm. His heir, your brother, Húrion, has taken his seat as lord of Wyvernspear and currently works to settle the estate. It is at Lord Húrion’s request that I write to you, extending an invitation to return to your home and attend your father’s funeral, though you hold no claim to any holdings.

For Honor, Pride and Glory,

Master Rueld Glabor Vaalor

Steward of Wyvernspear, Loyal servant to House Em’anrus

She let the parchment slip from her fingers while sinking into an armchair, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames in her fire pit. He is dead, she thought, my lifelong tormentor is dead. The initial shock was still working its way through her, the whiskey’s effects slowly wearing off. He is dead… dead… dead…. She laughed to herself, a sound of thrilled ecstasy, as reality set in. She had not called him Father in years but not a day passed that she did not wake feeling a failure with his insults ringing in her ears… and now he was gone. She poured herself another shot of whiskey, raised the glass in a mocking toast, drank, and then climbed into bed.

Verzeret Em’anrus, a decorated soldier and lower noble, had high expectations for his youngest son. Senneril Merset Em’anrus Vaalor would complete his line and legacy that seemed almost traditional in his family. Four sons born to the four sons before them, 50 years apart, no more… no less. It had been so for five generations. Vezeret himself was the youngest of his four brothers and had achieved recognition that earned him a higher right in his family and the fortress itself. There was little jealousy from his elder brothers for it was expected that the younger one would constantly attempt to outdo the elders in some way.

One would assume with such a large legacy that Ta’Vaalor would be overrun by those bearing the Em'anrus name, a clan large enough to have their own city and house. Some were casualties of war. Some did not share the same amount of pride in his name and heritage as Vezeret did and foolishly ran off with a human or a half-breed, their sons becoming mongrel offspring. They were disowned, lost their birthright, shunned and left Ta’Vaalor in shame.

Thus why only the highest expectations were placed on Vezeret’s children, as he could say in all his personal lineage, none had shamed the family name. Not his father, nor his father’s father, and so on. He wished only to see his children prosper and carry forth the traditions of pride, honor and glory. All these would be passed to Senneril, his fourth and final son. He awaited the arrival in a separate bed chamber as instructed by the local medic who claimed that the labor room was no place for the father to be. Though kept apart by walls of stone, his wife’s scream pierced deep into his heart and had with every birth prior. He could barely make out the soothing words in the old language from the healer assisting the medic, but he knew they were there, almost as if he himself were in the room speaking them.

Several hours passed, and Vezeret felt as if he had worn a hole into the rug with his nervous pacing. In his own thoughts, he nearly jumped out of his boots when the door behind him creaked open.

“She rests now,” whispered the medic’s assistant. “You may come with me when you are ready.”

Vezeret followed the girl through the halls, anxiously breathing as he got closer to where his wife and son were. Will he look like me? Will he share his mother’s refined tastes? So many thoughts swirled through his mind. His three elder sons all shared his features and mannerisms. If his wife were not the one who birthed them, he would have to wonder who their mother actually was. He finally reached the door, and his breath stilled for what seemed an eternity.

“We’re waiting, my love,” called out a tired voice from inside. “And she is beautiful.”

She? He must have misheard her. There was no way his son was a she. He walked into the bed chamber, his breath still catching in his throat. There she laid, his lovely wife, Lareina, and in her arms, his newborn child. Finally calming himself, he walked over to the bed, and sat on the edge, not saying a word.

“Would you like to hold her, my sweet?” came the still weak voice of his wife.

Her?  So he hadn’t misheard his wife’s words. What am I to do with a daughter? It was supposed to be another son. Why a girl now?

“Listen… I know we had agreed on the name, Senneril… but it does not seem right to give our daughter a male’s name. Perhaps a different one? One more fitting for a girl than a boy?” His wife spoke slowly. She could clearly see the look of shock on his face and though he was known to be a man of few words, this was severely out of character for him. “Have you any ideas?”

All he could do was shake his head. A daughter. He had fathered a female heir. Would a daughter be so hard, really? He had no experience in this matter. No sisters, no female cousins, only his wife. What sort of curse would take his hopes for continuing tradition away?

“What of the name Nihrvanah? It is pleasant enough, right?” He slowly nodded. Was he even present or was he in a dream? He felt as if his wife’s voice grew more and more distant, and his eyes stayed on the baby in her arms. A daughter.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was rushing out of the room and down towards stables. He could hear his wife’s voice in the background, frantically calling his name, but he had no response. How was he supposed to act? Was this child even his? No, his wife would never have affair. He just needed to get away, to think, to clear his head. What was he to do now? How was he to raise a girl?

Preparations for travel took a longer, more stressful time than Nihrvanah had originally expected, between packing and ensuring all her affairs, personal and business related, were in order. It was an odd thing to tell her peers the reason for such a long absence as most knew only of her life in the town proper and nothing of the family she was forced to leave. The hardest of her good-byes were the ones to her adopted father and her gallant, Hanshayr and Oreh. Both knew the circumstances behind her dismissal from her family, the years Vezeret broke her down, mentally, emotionally and physically, and both understood her need for final closure in this matter. They were her heroes, the rocks upon which she could finally stand firm, and they offered all the support she needed for this journey.

With farewells said, she climbed upon her horse, grabbing its reins and those of her packmule, and headed out the gates. There was no immediate desire to rush there as she still had to face her brothers, the secondary tormentors. Each had a hand in her misery at some point and with each step her garron took, dread overcame her.

“Is this really wise?” the bardess asked aloud with a shaky voice. Realizing she was too far from any sentient conversable being, she blushed. Only a quarter of the way there and already I begin to speak to ghosts. Sighing, she spoke out loud once more. “Really, though… what reason do I have to go there? I have no inheritance, they took my name from me… They only seek to further insult and I go there… willingly… to receive it. What sort of fool am I…?” The only responses she received were rustling leaves from a sudden gust of wind and quiet whinnying from her horse. Fool indeed… I continue to beseech the air for answers.

She continued the rest of the ride in silence, keeping her concerns within lest a random traveler happen upon her and think her mad. Nihrvanah stopped a few times to allow her animals the much needed rest while she stretched out. She could feel her legs cramping up and concern over saddle sores grew as well. It had been some time since she’d traveled this distance on horseback and her lack of practice was taking its toll on her endurance.

She looked on as the horse and mule nibbled at the grass while her own stomach growled. Nervous energy flowed through her, though, and as hungry as she may be, the food would not stay in. Instead, she opted for her wineskin, taking a few swigs before resting against the nearest tree. He could have passed without them telling me. I don’t even carry his name… why tell me? Her eyes began to tear as her thoughts returned to the man who raised her.

He watched the child grow before him, her appearance and mannerisms foreign to him. She giggled, a lot, more than he was accustomed to or comfortable with. The boys laughed but never giggled. They also understood the difference between work and play and when each was necessary. This… girl… all she desired was play and her mother indulged her entirely too much. Today, he put his foot down.

She was brought before him, escorted by her mother, his wife, wearing an oversized worn leather jerkin and leggings that hung limply on her legs. The girl was a skinny little thing, hardly more than flesh and bone, and as he continued to observe her in her brother’s hand-me-down gear, he wondered again how she could be his. Her skin was pale, much too pale, and despite all the time she spent outside with her mother in the rose garden, not a hint of color. Vezeret himself had a light bronze to his skin, a trait shared by his sons. Lareina’s tone was lighter, with pinker undertones, but never so white as the girl’s.

And her eyes… he’d never seen such a hue. The boys shared the same color with Vezeret, a blue-grey hazel, and his wife, a ghostly blue. The girl’s eyes were such a deep blue, it was as if looking into the depths of the sea, and violet haloed that. Her hair was no less alien in traits, a rich golden yellow at the roots that ended in a blazing red. It was unnatural, as if some mystic placed a spell upon her, and even when cut, it was only a moment before the red crept back into the tips.

He watched as Lareina gathered the girl in her arms and kissed her forehead after whispering what could be assumed were reassuring words. Nihrvanah nodded and turned to face him as her mother left, leaving them to each other. Both were silent, letting moments pass before Vezeret spoke.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Y-yes, F-father,” she stuttered out.

“Tell me.”

“I… I am t-to t-train, F-father.”

“For what reason?”

“Y-you s-said s-so.”

He twitched in response, putting forth effort to not grow so irritated with her or her answers. He reached for a dulled spear and tossed it in her direction, watching as she fumbled to catch the weapon. It landed in the dirt with a small thud. He clenched his jaw as she stood there, unwilling to retrieve it, while avoiding his judgmental gaze. “Pick it up!” he commanded.

Nihrvanah’s bottom lip trembled and she sniffed in response.

“Are you crying?”

She quickly shook her head.

“Then pick it up!” he said louder, irritation coming through his tone. She whined and did as told, her body trembling. The child held the spear awkwardly away from herself but at least she held it. He could build on that.

He began the day’s lesson with a speech about the pride of her heritage, their role in the military, and what was expected of her. She listened intently or appeared to try. He continued onto what her training would consist of; today they would start with defense. Vezeret reviewed a few defensive stances and watched as she clumsily mimicked them, patiently offering pointers here and there.

But practice stances only went so far in battle and he had to instruct her to defend against active attacks. He lunged at her with his own spear with a fraction of his strength while she feebly moved aside from the blow. He lunged again, this time hitting her in the arm. She cried out, dropping her spear, though he knew it was just a tap. He pointed at the spear, giving no verbal instruction, and she picked it back up, resuming a defensive posture.

The day continued on, much with the same results: a gently blow landed followed by the dropping of arms accompanied by an overdramatic cry. His patience grew thinner and thinner and each incident caused his following attacks to be stronger than the prior. By the end of their session, NIhrvanah’s body was covered in welts and bruises while she pointlessly fought not to cry.

Vezeret, past his breaking point, grabbed the girl by her arm and shook, thinking to bring some sense back to her. Instead, her sobs grew more hysterical, crying out that she couldn’t, that she was too weak, that she wanted to go back to the gardens, that she wanted her mother. He shook her again, longer and harder, blinded with anger at her words. He hated quitters, he hated weakness, and he would not have his child, male or female, be either.

He heard a snap followed by a pained scream and he released his grip on her while she collapsed to the dirt. She cradled her left arm against her chest and he realized what he’d done. It’d already begun to swell around the oddly bent forearm and her fingers were visibly limp. Her cries were louder than before, agonized in sound and mixed with the pounding in his head. I am a monster, was all he heard over and over until the sound of Lareina’s voice interrupted.

She knelt beside Nihrvanah, cuddling the girl to calm the screams. When her eyes met his, the ghostly blue shade seemed paler, colder, her expression matching. Without hesitation, she scooped the child up in her arms and carried her inside while Vezeret looked on in horrified shock.

The sky was just beginning to darken when she finally reached Wyvernspear, lending the old manor an even more intimidating appearance. To her right, she saw her mother’s once lush rose garden, now overgrown and untended, and to her left the stables, another place she’d enjoyed time in. She smiled to herself as she turned to the left, remembering the long rides she and her mother used to take.

She arrived and dismounted, handing off the reins to the new stableboy who looked at her curiously and not without reason. Hers was an unfamiliar face to anyone who had not been around eight years ago and she doubted those who had would speak of her often. She unloaded her belongings from the packmule and after giving very specific care instructions for her garron, headed to the manor itself.

Nihrvanah marveled at how familiar her old home felt, and yet how very different. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. Her gaze returned to the garden once more, her place of sanctuary when trouble came her way. She paused, contemplating its neglect and was tempted to hide away there as she had when she was a child, trying to spot the faeries her mother so often told her stories of. With tears welling up, she turned away and continued her walk to the front door.

She was greeted by yet another new face, but at least this one was better prepared for her arrival. The servant took her cloak and her bags, and escorted her to her old room. It was pleasant enough, though entirely unnecessary. The house and its halls hadn’t changed at all in her absence, not the tapestries hanging on the walls, nor the rugs on the stone floors. The steps they climbed still bore the scars of long over matches between her brothers wielding wooden swords.

They arrived at her room and the servant entered first to ensure it was ready to receive its guest. Satisfied with his brief inspection, he bid her enter and left, closing the door behind him. Alone in her room, she looked around and took note of how little it had changed as well. A little girl’s room, she thought as her eyes wandered over the pink sheets on her bed and the lacy décor. Above her vanity hung the painting her mother had commissioned of a faerie much like the one tattooed on her back. I am glad you are still here. She removed the artwork from the wall and carefully stowed it away in one of her bags. She wouldn’t leave that behind again.

On the vanity itself was a filigreed silver platter containing a decanter of chilled white wine, a single accompanying glass and a pale pink envelope set between them. She moved the envelope long enough to pour a glass of wine, then took both to sit at the bay window that overlooked her mother’s rose garden.

Though night had settled in by now, the moon offered enough illumination for her to view the true state of the garden… utterly decrepit. The bushes were choked with weeds, only a few blooms visible here or there and even those appeared frail and lifeless. No hands tended the gardens since her mother grew ill, more like than not by his command. She would have seen to its care had she not been removed, but there was no way to change the past. Instead, she turned her attention to the pink envelope, and just as she broke the seal, she heard a knock at her door.

“…and each morning, the faeries dance upon the petals’ dew, their tiny toes helping the roses bloom,” he overheard Lareina tell the girl, perhaps for the thousandth time. He found them wandering in the garden, as they always did this time of day. Nihrvanah’s left arm was still splinted and in a sling, but she did not appear to be in the pain she suffered through days before. Still, his heart sank as he watched this frail thing walking to her mother’s left, hand in hand. He’d done this to her and the sharp pangs of guilt were as fresh today as they were before.

Vezeret did not move to join his wife and daughter, opting to stay in the shadows of the garden’s entryway. It was not his place to interrupt their time together, especially not after what he’d done. Instead, he waited and listened to the faerie tales Lareina recited. The child would constantly interrupt and giggle, a sound he welcomed now. For a time, all he’d heard were her cries and painful screams. He would have given anything to hear the giggles again.

It was some time before they noticed his presence and it was Nihrvanah who saw him first. Her happy expression melted to dread and she quickly hid behind her mother, whimpering as she did so. Lareina looked up then and her own warm expression faded while she offered the girl a reassuring squeeze. He grew nervous suddenly, even more than he had going into any battle. He was a proud elf and not prone to apologies. It was far past the time he should, though.

They approached him with caution, not that he could blame them. He saw the girl peek at him from behind her mother’s skirt, feeling another pang of guilt as he saw the terror in her eyes. His wife held no such gaze, only cold anger. She was protective of Nihrvanah, now more than ever, and he had incited the mother’s wrath. He flinched away from the gaze he’d earned and did the only thing he could think to do. He knelt.

“I am surprised to see you here, my lord,” his wife spoke, her tone even.

He bowed his head, offering as much humility as one such as himself could. It was too late to turn back now. “My lady, I have come to beg forgiveness from both of you. I allowed my anger to blind me and caused grievous wound.” He kept his head bowed, uncertain as to their response. Concern grew as silence was all he received.

He felt the child’s hand on his shoulder and he looked up, his face even with hers. In her eyes, he saw a sad forgiveness replacing the fear and for the first time, he embraced her. And he cried. Father and daughter held each other for some time as Vezeret whispered over and over his regret. When they finally separated, he pulled a pink envelope from his jacket and handed it to her. Nihrvanah tore into it with childish delight and squealed at its contents. Within, she discovered a niello rose locket dangling from a twisted vaalin chain. He chuckled while her fingers struggled to undo the clasp and ultimately put it on her himself. Carefully picking at the latch, she opened the locket and hugged her father again when she saw his picture inside. He looked over her shoulder to see his wife smiling as well, though it never reached her eyes.

“Run along inside, Nihrvanah, dear. It is time for your music lessons,” Lareina said at last. The child nodded and skipped inside. Once sure she was out of earshot, Lareina refocused on Vezeret who’d stood once more. The smile was gone from her lips, her expression matching the coldness in her eyes. “She may’ve forgiven you, but know that I will not.”

Dinner was a modest affair: roast pheasant with a honey sage glaze, a couple side dishes, and no dessert. There was little small talk amongst the siblings, only a few phrases followed by long pauses and awkward silences. Her brothers kept their conversations in whispers with their significant others but she could feel everyone’s eyes upon her, almost hearing their judgmental thoughts.

The dinner service was cleared and a shy servant girl brought out a tea set decorated with cherry blossoms while stealing glances at Haedirn, the youngest of her elder brothers. His wife caught her and shooed the servant away, blushing and stammering out apologies as she left. Silence fell upon them again, each little sound exaggerated, until at last, their father’s eldest spoke.

“Is it true?” asked Húrion.

“That depends on what it is,” was Nihrvanah’s response, her voice coming out harsher and more guarded than she’d intended. The brothers exchanged a glance between them.

“We had heard you stood vigil when the King’s body was displayed publicly,” Adasser, the second oldest, hesistantly asked. “It seemed odd that… well, you would be chosen to do it.”

Not exactly the most tactful way to ask. Taking care to ensure any hint of annoyance did not come through her tone, she answered, “I wasn’t chosen. I volunteered.” The brothers exchanged looks again, each seeming more confused than the other. She tipped her head down slightly, a smirk playing across her lips that was left unnoticed by her brothers. You didn’t expect that…. “There was a strong possibility that there were more than a few visitors who intended to defile our King’s viewing sight. Besides… having caught his attention once, I felt it only right that I stand guard.” Silence. None of you expected that, either.

Húrion’s wife spoke up now. “You held His Grace’s attention?” she asked, her voice a mix of awe and envy. They all looked at her now, awaiting a response as if her saying it again would give the original statement final confirmation in their minds. Nihrvanah just nodded. “What was it like?”

“His Grace spoke rather highly of me.” They don’t need to know he referred to me as a tart. “And when I danced with him at the ball held in Ta’Illistim last year, His Grace was very light on his feet for one of his age and quite charming.” And a Faendryl and another… but they don’t need to know that either.

It was the women’s turn to exchange glances, theirs more excited than confused. Nihrvanah bowed her head and smirked to herself again. You would think I was some sort of celebrity the way they carry on. Her head jerked up, the smirk gone, when the next question was asked.

“Is Lord Relarem as charming as His Grace?” The voice belonged to Haedirn’s wife, Alyana, though Nihrvanah suspected the query was more his than her own. She felt a deep blush creep across her skin as she averted her eyes. They did not hear about a dance with the King, but they hear about this. Odd which rumors make their way here. Alyana continued when her previous question went unanswered, “You are being courted by the Champion’s cousin, yes?”

Clearing her throat and shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Nihrvanah nervously stammered out her reply. “Well… yes, Oreh… er, Lord Relarem, he is quite charming and…” She wasn’t prepared for them to ask about him, at least not yet, and they had blindsided her completely. Don’t give them too much information. She coughed, recomposed herself, and spoke again. “Yes, we are in a courtship.”

“How long has this courtship taken place,” Haedirn asked, his eyes shrewdly staring her down.

Keep calm, speak little. “A few months,” Nihrvanah answered offhandedly while sipping her tea. She could tell by their looks they did not approve of her less than informative answer. She was okay with that.

“Ladies, would you please excuse us? We have not seen or spoken with our sister in quite a bit of time and perhaps it is best we speak among ourselves for the moment.” Húrion was sending Nihrvanah’s barrier away and would now attempt to back her into a corner. She furrowed her brow and said nothing as the other women stood. Each curtsied in her direction and kissed their husbands lightly on their cheeks before exiting. Another moment of awkward silence fell until Húrion spoke again, his voice weary and reluctant. “We are not your enemies, Nihrvanah. I wish you would stop acting like we are.”

She tilted her head down again, though her expression remained neutral. She kept quiet, unsure how to respond or if she even should. For a time, they would allow this and give up with the questions. They always had and she hoped they would now.

They didn’t. “How long has Lord Relarem been courting you?” Haedirn asked again, only to be met with silence. “Damnit, Nihrvanah! Will you stop acting like a child in trouble?” He slammed his fist on the table, causing her to jump. She was in the corner.

“Officially, a few months,” she blurted out as she stood while keeping her eyes down. That familiar blush colored her skin again. “Officially, he asked my father f-.”

“You mean Hanshayr?” Adasser interrupted, despite the obvious answer.

She snapped in response, her defenses rising much higher than they had at the beginning of the dinner. “Hanshayr is my only father, yes. And now you will excuse me as my trip was long and I am too tired to even begin to want to speak with any of you on this subject!” She turned away and stormed from the dining hall, leaving the brothers before they had a chance to stop her.

“Always so difficult,” was all Adasser could muster.

“Mother did that to her,” Húrion replied.

His wife saw to everything for the girl, almost obsessively. Food, lessons, battle training, all of it. Every detail pertaining to her life, her mother controlled.

She wouldn’t allow him time alone with her, either, not that he could blame her. Vezeret had done something horrid, and not only did he beat himself over it, Lareina would as well. She also reminded Nihrvanah of that event as often as she could with small, subtle gestures or words.

He knew the girl desired his attention; he could see it in her eyes when she watched him with his sons. It stung at him over and over, a thousand needles attacking his heart, knowing it was his own doing. With all repentive efforts ignored, he merely stopped trying. Lareina’s intent since that day was to turn the girl against him and she was more than succeeding.

Their marriage had slowly grown cold several years before Nihrvanah’s conception, but they played the expected part: loving husband and devoted wife. It was difficult keeping their issues secret, but separation was not an option. A failed marriage was a shameful thing, something he would not curse his name or house with. Their chambers remained together and they still slept in the same bed. There was, however, a great abyss between them, an abyss that Lareina had created.

She’d grown increasingly withdrawn, her talks with him short and curt. Their lovemaking was dutiful, expected, and fully lacking of the passion they’d once held in each other. Vezeret could not understand this ever growing change in demeanor and felt helpless when it came to her emotional wellbeing. Her moods shifted as night and day as well, often angered by the smallest things: a pot being out of place, a torn sheet left unmended. All in the household walked on eggshells, and he felt the worst of it.

When Nihrvanah was born, most of the issues resolved themselves. She was elated having a girl to dote on, one she’d spend a significant amount of silvers on just in clothing alone. The distance between his wife and him was even starting to close, a development Vezeret embraced. He’d found desire in her expression again instead of the vacant indifference he’d seen for years.

It was more frigid now, the progress made shattered by his mistake. They slept in separate rooms, had been since that day, and she tolerated his presence only so long. He knew the servants spoke and rumors were flying all over the place. His bed was empty without his wife, his love, so he took one of the maids for those few nights he just needed a release.

He knew his wife and daughter knew of this indiscretion; Lareina was far from stupid, and Nihrvanah was now too old to be so naïve. He didn’t care by this point. His wife held no more love in her heart for him and he’d given up with the girl she had such a tight hold on.

Despite her mother’s attempts, Nihrvanah did not give up on him, at least not yet. When her brothers returned home, she could be seen picking fights with them just to gain Vezeret’s attention. It worked, for a small time, but never the way she wished. In order to prove herself strong in his eyes, she felt she had to defeat someone stronger. Who better than her brothers? Victory was never achieved and instead of his approval, she gained her brothers’ laughter and scorn.

She is trying so hard and there is nothing I can do. His wife hated when she went to spar with their sons and made it a point to speak against such folly. She knew her daughter was only doing it to please him and would fail horribly over and over again. Vezeret knew she used this against him as well. I will never win this.

Much to his surprise, when Nihrvanah came of age, she joined the King’s army to serve her hundred years. He’d expected at least two decades before she would and despite his hidden pride, he sensed she was ill-prepared for it. Lareina had taken it easy with their daughter’s training and overindulging the girl had made her soft. His suspicions held ground as all reports sent to him by both his sons and her commanding officers were negative. She was confrontational, spoiled, entitled and the list went on and on. Had he been allowed the time he’d desired to build her up as a soldier, it would have been different.

With all four offspring out of the house, he found verbal arguments with his wife occurring more often than not, especially about the girl. She defended her choice in raising Nihrvanah, he yelled that it wasn’t enough, and it would all explode when she’d bring up the incident. Tempers flared to an all-time high one night between them with an angry match of heated words flying back and forth.

Five words she ultimately blurted out, five words that destroyed him inside.

They watched as the funeral pyre was lit, some voices louder in their grief than others. Many had come to pay their respects to the fallen hero: aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, acquaintances. The ceremony was simple and each brother delivered a piece of the eulogy while she looked on silently. She could feel the spectator’s eyes upon her from time to time, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now.

Her brothers, Húrion specifically, insisted she sit with them at the front, their wives placed in the audience with the other mourners. So close they were to her, Húrion to her right and Haedirn and Adasser to her left, but Nihrvanah felt distanced from them and the scene entirely. Clutched in her hand was the pale pink envelope she’d found in her room the night she arrived, the contents undisturbed until moments before the crowds began arriving. She held onto it, the seal quite obviously torn open, when she walked into the area, and her brothers exchanged glances as they often did. Each moved to embrace her in turn while she stood there, expressionless and unmoving, her demeanor then as it remained now. They knew.

The first pink envelope she’d received held the locket Vezeret had given her years ago and nothing else. That one had been delivered by his own hands, though the ones that followed each year were left for her to find on her pillow after her music lessons. Though never as intricate or expensive as the locket, the trinkets she found hidden within made her think fondly of her absent father.

This one held no bauble, only a letter written recently, before his passing. Over and over, she read it, each word shocking her to the core. All she knew, all she believed, had been a lie, and in place of the bitterness and anger she’d felt for so many years was an empty numbness. Despite not being in his hand, the letter was genuine as was the seal in the wax, though one of the swords appeared disfigured and made to look like another weapon entirely.

One by one, the guests departed the area as the smell of charred flesh became unbearable. Nihrvanah remained, her eyes fixed on the slowly dying fire. Still, no tears fell for him. She didn’t know what to feel or how to feel it. She questioned everything about herself, her life. All details that seemed insignificant suddenly deserved a second look. So many questions ran through her mind, but two stood out the most. Who am I? Who is my real father?

Húrion stayed with her while Haedirn and Adasser guided the guests into the manor. They stood silent while watching the flames dance with embers flying up and away. He could tell she was hurting, though she remained stone-faced. As the last of the fire died away, he turned to her, his words breaking through the wall built around her.

“Blood be damned, Nihrvanah. You are still his child and our sister.”

He’d watch his wife die from this same illness, empaths clueless to a cure. He knew it was only a matter of time before it would claim his life as well. It was spreading, shutting his body down, leaving him unable to do much of anything but wait.

Bedridden, Vezeret thought back through the years, to his prouder moments and the things he greatly regretted. His wife, his daughter, his sons, his legacy, nothing was safe from the scrutiny of a dying elf. Each moment was subject to detailed dissection. Nihrvanah was on the forefront of this and it was time she learned the truth.

With great effort, he pulled at the chain by his bed, ringing a bell that summoned his steward. Rueld entered, parchment and quill in hand, his balding head bobbing oddly up and down. Grabbing a nearby chair, he sat next to Vezeret’s bed and spoke in a soft, hoarse voice.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Rueld, old friend,” Vezeret murmured, too weak to speak at full volume. “Have you a moment to take a letter?”

“Of course, my lord,” answered the aging steward, his quill readied and pressed against the parchment.

“My dearest daughter,” the dying lord began dictating as Rueld started writing. “I wish there was something, anything, that could make up for what troubled you throughout your years. I know this will not, but perhaps it will shed a bit of light on your situation.

“I want you to know that I never once stopped loving you, even when you hated me. You are my little girl and despite all that has happened, I still can’t help but see you as such. I tried, Nihrvanah, oh gods, how I tried, to be the father you wanted, the father you needed. Had I had a stronger will, perhaps I could have been. After I recklessly hurt you, your mother would not allow it. Under the guise of protecting you, she purposely kept you from me and my own guilt held me from pushing the issue.

“Your dismissal was not a decision made lightly in any sense. You had grown overly willful and defiant, traits I attribute to your mother’s influence. The issue with the sylvan spell slinger aside, your behavior was fitting more for a human than an elf bearing our family’s name. That was then and times so often change.

“As have you. It truly warmed my heart to hear the stride forward you had taken. Hanshayr has done for you everything I could not and you have blossomed into the young lady I always knew you could be. As a father, I could not be more proud of you than I am now.

“There is something you need to know now, something unknown to me until recent years. Please, just know everything I write is true and it does not change how I feel about you, though for most, it would. You were never mine by blood. I learned this shortly after you settling in the Fortress, during a rather heated argument with your mother. When tempers calmed, she told me of her affair and of ending it when you were conceived.

“I am dying, Nihrvanah, and slowly. I could not go to my grave and beyond the Gates without telling you the truth behind the veil over your eyes. All I can do now is pray you will forgive me for failing you all these years.”

With a heavy, hacking cough, he finished speaking and Rueld placed the parchment on the nightstand. With the steward’s aid, Vezeret hastily scribbled out his signature, then embossed the family seal into the melted crimson wax. Before it solidified, he pressed his thumbnail into the wax at the tip of one of the swords, creating a crude looking scythe, his daughter’s preferred weapon.

“Put it in one of the pink envelopes,” instructed Vezeret, his breath staggered.

“Yes, my lord,” the steward replied, bowing, before taking his leave.

That night, he dreamt of Lareina, not as she was in her final years, but as the elf he’d fallen in love with. She smiled at him, her eyes warm and sparkling. They danced together as they had at their wedding and shortly after, came together as husband and wife.

The servants found Vezeret’s body cold the next morning, a content and peaceful expression on his face.

She grabbed at a weed growing at the base of one of the rose bushes then jerked her hand back with the sudden unexpected prick. A deep red bead was already forming on her thumb as she raised it for inspection. With all the callouses and scratches her hands had developed, it was a wonder she still felt the annoying thorns. Sighing, she went back to work, pausing again when flesh met point.

The garden was finally looking as it had in days past. The weeds that once tangled through the beautiful flora were being pulled out and discarded; that alone offered vast improvement to the area’s appearance. As the bushes were weeded, each was given specialized care tailored to rebuild their health and strength. Thus far, only four of the fifty plants required full uprooting, their health too far gone.

“You can let Bronwe take over at any point. You don’t have to do this alone,” came a voice from behind her. She jumped in response and turned to find her brother, Húrion, behind her with his wife. Both looked slightly amused.

Nihrvanah pulled at another weed before answering, “She could, yes… but this was mother’s garden and has been too long neglected. I will see to its tending.” Her brother looked to Bronwe who only offered a slight shrug, and turned his gaze back to Nihrvanah. His expression said it all. “Oh, alright!”

Húrion nodded and Bronwe stepped forward to take over. He watched as his sister gave clear, detailed instructions on gardening basics before standing. “Walk with me. We have a bit to discuss.” Nihrvanah simply nodded. Whatever this was about had to be important. They walked in silence down the various rows of bushes until he was certain Bronwe was out of earshot. Surveying the area with a smile, he turned his attention to his sister. “You’ve done an excellent job here. The gardens haven’t looked this splendid in years.”

“It had to be done,” she responded.

“Had to… because you’re hiding and you often hid here.” Right to the point, as he always was; there was no use trying to mince words with him. Nihrvanah sighed and looked away.

“And if I am?”

“If you are, the question becomes why…” He chuckled when she looked back at him, her expression seeming to say you know why. “You haven’t spoken much on it since Father’s funeral so I can only assume not only are you hiding, but you’re trying to drown out your own thoughts. Again, the question is why?” She said nothing. “Would it help if I told you that you knew your father?”

“I’ve known plenty of fathers, Húrion, enough for three lifetimes,” she answered, her tone less than genial.

“The one who sired you, Nihrvanah.” She cocked her head at him, now curious about the topic. “You knew him… we all did. We just didn’t know about this aspect until much, much later.” He paused while she clearly tried to think about it. “Do you remember your music teacher?”

It took her a moment to process the question, her eyes widening as it all sunk in. “You mean… but that means… but I thought-“

“Yes, he was Sylvan, yes he taught you to sing and play and yes, Mother secreted him into the house.”

She stared at him, confused. She didn’t expect to learn who her mother had had her affair with, let alone that he’d been there all along. Biting her lip nervously, she finally asked, “But how?”

Húrion shrugged and continued, “We weren’t privy to such details… we just figured it all out when that one piece presented it.” He paused while waiting for a response. “For one, you shared his features: eyes, face, even your hair. Though… you quite obviously got a bit of Mother’s golden tresses, too. You were also quite musically inclined while… none of us had such talents.”

“And you all knew… but said nothing.”

“It was not our place. Father didn’t even want us knowing at first, to save face, but it was a family matter. He told us after he’d disowned you.”

“So then who was he… my father…?”

“A traveling minstrel who seduced Mother with drink and song. We never understood why she would hire a Sylvan loremaster to teach you music, but then… it was quite a bold move on her part, all things considered. After we learned the truth, we just assumed they wanted him in your life in some sense.”

“In essence, I am… the bastard half-blood child of a nomadic forest singer, then…” Her voice cracked as she spoke, her eyes brimming with tears. Húrion embraced her, holding her close and comforting her.

“You are more than that, much more. Sylvans are our cousins, though distant, so put thought of soiled blood from your mind. It is not as if you have not been courted by them before so why act as if their difference matters now.” She tilted her head up and he held her gaze for emphasis. “You are out father’s daughter still. He raised you. Such relations cannot be so easily dismissed. And you are the consort to a member of a fairly prominent family… not to mention beguiler of kings.” He winked and she couldn’t help but giggle. “How long did you intend to hide?

Nihrvanah furrowed her brow. “I…”

“You can’t keep running and hiding every time you have a problem. You know this. You’ve built a home and name for yourself in Ta’Vaalor proper.”

“But here-“

“We will always be here, whether you are or not.”

“Mother’s garden-“

“Will be well-tended in your absence and you can visit anytime.”

“But Oreh-“

“Will still care about you despite all this, if he’s a respectable elf. If not… well, Lord Tarsonath will not be the only one he has to contend with.”

“He hates being called ‘lord.’”

“Regardless, I am sure your relationship will weather a great many things and this is just a little shower. Based on how guarded you are about him and all subjects pertaining to him, I can assume he means a great deal to you. If that is so, you need to let him know.” Nihrvanah nodded. “It is settled then.”

She whispered a thank you as she kissed his cheek. That night, Nihrvanah began packing her things and prepared for the trip home. Her hand brushed against the painting stowed away in her bag and she pulled it out, her fingers running over the canvas. She looked at the wall above the vanity and smiled at the empty space. After a moment of hesitation, she walked over and rehung the painting, adjusting it as needed.

“You belong here… but I’ll be back to admire you again.”