"In which the party buckles" - Phemelius
The cart traveled ceaselessly for an hour, maybe two. At that time and by Phemelius' command, Jaskell somehow managed to turn the heavy cart, skidding, to the right, so that they were heading due West. "As long as we're far enough from Joriantum," the Elf said. "we need to be heading West as fast as spreading flame." Den caught a glance of the Prince pointing at another map, and surmised that they had passed into Friedlund, the southeastern human state which lay at Newandrale's southern border. At some point shortly after that, Den laid back and realized just how exhausted he was. He fell to sleep. Others did the same: Dregal, Gule, Fia, and Getta all found a nap inescapable as the sun sunk lower over the human lands.
***
Den awoke, and it was dark out. Dusk was falling on the lands. And what lands—where were they? The cart was stopped. Tandric and Dreg were busy starting a fire, Phemelius pitched their tent. He saw Jaskell coming towards them all with a bundle of firewood. The others were asleep, as he'd been. Their horse looked worse for wear; its head drooped, and it munched at grasses half-awake.
Den stepped down from the cart, and Dreg called out pleasantly to him: "Sorman! Good to see you alive, fr'all the work I did protecting you!" Den waved and Dreg smiled cheerfully, rolled his eyes and added: "Alright, there'll be time enough for talk. Go help Jaskell gather wood for this fire."
As Den passed Jaskell towards the woods, the man grinned also, saying: "Hey-o Denbas! Got lost out there? You're lucky Fia went out looking for you and Phem; we thought you'd beat her back here… what a joke!"
"I did reach the cart before her, Ashrubar," said Den; instantly Jaskell frowned and glared back at the campfire. "And you don't know the half of it!" Den sauntered away proud as any other Prince might, grinning deviously. At last, he'd gotten one-up on Jaskell.
Dead wood was not hard to find; wherever they were was far enough from any town or city. They'd turned West somewhere after passing into Friedlund, hadn't they? For how long was I out? They might even pass through Tarlast, which was in Friedlund… if they hadn't already. Den stopped short and collected himself. Did he really want to see all those old faces? He had a new family now, a soldierly crew, a purpose. Best to leave the past behind him. More kindling, he thought. One by one he gathered dry old branches into his arms.
He returned to the clearing and their camp and beheld a peculiar sight: Fia stomping angrily towards the woods opposite him, with Dreg, Tandric and Phemelius hurrying after her, looking surprised and upset. He hurried to the men at the fire: Gule was awake now; he and Jaskell poked at it, and they whispered to each other. "What happened to Fia?" Den asked them. He dropped the wood he'd found in a large pile by the pit.
"Shit, I dunno," said Gule. "She was buggered about somethin', that's for sure."
Jaskell shoved Gule and rolled his eyes. "I heard; she was askin' about you, Denbas. All Dreg said was that you were out in the woods, and then she stormed off like that. Maybe you've got some idea? What happened to you two back in Signestad?"
Den sighed. "I don't mean to insult her, but I think she's feeling inadequate," he said. "And, well, I did kind of steal her sword, but it was for—"
"Sorman!" Dreg shouted from afar. He tromped over to the fire, clearly upset. "Sheezus, what've you done?"
"...that's what I was just trying to explain! A bunch of Dark Elves attacked us, and I had to—"
In Signestad's Keep, Den had seen how fast Captain Dregal, a stout and short-legged man, could actually move; it still surprised him, now especially because the movement came towards Den himself. Den winced in shock as Dregal grabbed him by his tabard and shouted directly into his face: "IDIOT! DON'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!? DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ANYTHING, AFTER ALL WE'VE—"
"CAPTAIN!" Phemelius shouted from the distance, as irate and commanding as Den had ever heard him. Dreg shut his mouth and breathed; Den took the opportunity to look around at the other men, to try and understand what Dreg was angry about. Both human soldiers by the fire avoided Den's gaze; Den caught a tear dripping from the eye of Jaskell, of all people. Phemelius reached the fire. "Captain Dregal, Fia needs your help," the Prince said firmly. "Go assist her. Now!" Dreg released him and, without another look at Den, stormed off.
Den's shoulders sank. "What's happening? Why does Dreg hate me!?" All the others stayed quiet. Phemelius looked at him, and Den caught a fey look in the tall Elf's eyes. The Prince was watching very closely, more calmly than Den could've managed in the circumstances. "Sir, please, I was trying to do what's right!" he cried. "And… and anyway, it's clear I have some trace of Elvish blood! Not much, necessarily—it's clear by my own face and hair—but my Prince, I was able to set Fia's sword aflame! I am an Elf-human, same as she!"
Phemelius shook his head. "Blood is not the matter, Den. Sungold functions on the animating certainty of the mind; Righteous Anger fuels its fire."
"Yes, exactly!" said Den fervently. "Only the righteous may use it! I did do good; I saved them all—Fia, and three innocent human children!"
"No," Phemelius replied. "Not 'goodness'. Certainty, which can point you many ways. People can certainly be wrong—that is: wrong, yet certain they are right. I myself have been wrong many times…"
Den looked around at all the others, who still wouldn't deign to look back at him. "What do you—that doesn't make any sense! These are weapons of the gods, of Lord Emolelei! Why would they be made to serve wrongness, instead of noble heritage?"
Phemelius twisted his head back and roared again, now towards the woods: "Captain Dregal! Come here for a moment!" He stepped over to the cart and searched within it, eventually producing an object: Fia's saber in its scabbard. She never seemed to be without it.
Dreg returned, still rankled. He eyed Den suspiciously, as though he were a dog, and Den a stranger in his home. When the Captain was quite close, Phemelius drew the Sungold sword and stared at Den, then pressed the weapon hilt-first into Dreg's hands, and through gritted teeth said: "Hold this." Dreg looked up at his Commander confused, but obeyed; he took the saber and looked at it like he'd never seen such a thing before.
"Thank you," said Phemelius; Den could hear venomous anger in his voice. "I must not possess a weapon now. I have come to fear this man Sorman, with good cause. He threatens The Mission itself, and all that we hold dear."
Both Den and Dregal looked at the Prince confused. "My Prince," Den said. "...what? I am not a threat… Dregal's the one who—"
Dreg stared blankly at Den now. Phem continued: "Yes, he is a danger, Captain, one most grave. We can no longer suffer the risk. I ordered him to flee and he refused; I see no other options before us. Suppose we share words frankly, and see where things may land."
Den couldn't believe what he was hearing. Prince Phemelius was lying, blatantly lying! "I don't know what he's talking about!" he whined to Dreg. "All I've ever done was for The Mission… please, my Prince, it's all I have!" Tears gushed freely from his eyes, and he wiped them so he could see. His nose began to run.
Dregal turned to Phemelius. "Sir, please. He's a common fool, but 'e's harmless. You're messin' with me, you gotta be." He pressed the sword's hilt back towards Phemelius' hands. "Please, take it back. Can the jokes, I won't—"
Phemelius looked down his nose at Dregal. The Prince's eyes were dark; Den felt real terror. He did not recognize this Elf. "You disagree, you, most long and loyal of my comrades?" His voice was haughty, and a most unfriendly smile curled the edges of his mouth. "Den is but a fool, and incapable of doing harm? What would we have to do, to feel the risk his presence poses? What would we have to be?"
The saber's edge burst brilliantly alight. Dreg had murder in his eyes; and then he looked into Den's, and the sword's flame petered out. The Captain looked away, ashamed; Phemelius snatched the extinguished sword back from him, and Dregal wandered off in half a daze.
Phemelius sheathed the saber and spoke to Den again, all traces of derision or anger (all traces of emotion in general) now gone: "Dregal Shennistane can trace his line back many centuries, all the way to the first arrival of your kinsfolk to these lands. You may wish to ask him yourself; no Elvish blood flows in his veins, so he is not a human-Elf even slightly, and still the Sungold burns for him. So you see: how Righteous Anger sets the flames, for any wielder, and the danger of fueling it with lies."
Den collapsed onto a rock around the fire, head in hands. Phemelius had lied to Dregal, and put Den's life at risk… to prove a point. And what was the point? Anyone could use Sungold weapons, even a full-blooded human? That couldn't be true, it just couldn't be. There had to be some other purpose to Phemelius' words. The Prince still towered over him, observing. "So this is why you cannot set your own Ax ablaze?" Den asked; he raised his head. "You fear that you'll lose control in anger, and so hurt innocent people accidentally?"
"Den…" Phemelius stopped to consider this. "I have been skeptical of my own certainty. It is a difficult balance to tread; to do good, one must tolerate a life of constant uncertainty, its paralyzing fear, and yet collect enough faith and knowledge to draw wise conclusions and still choose, with much at stake, to act."
He looked severely at Den. "This is The Mission, Denbas Sorman. A wealth of information is required, from many disparate sources, to build a certainty founded on the many sides of truth. Perspective is what you require, and if you remain with us, I will share all that I can with you. Consider seriously what you'd like to do, and speak to me when you've made up your own mind. If The Mission is too much for you, we'll let you loose to live your own life." Phemelius walked away, following Dregal.
***
Three men sat quietly around the fire. Den mulled things over, all he'd seen and heard. Do they think I was foolish to engage the Dark Elves, rather than flee? he thought. But no, I was protecting innocents! Even with The Mission, that can't be frowned upon. But maybe it was. The others had all killed humans; though, those were soldiers, and traitors beyond that. Maybe they were willing to pay most any price to ensure The Mission's success. Fia had even freed a bunch of Dark Ones from their cages… and sure, one could say that Signestad had it coming for letting the monsters live, but still it was a risky choice, which might endanger more than corrupted soldiers. But no… she'd also carried the children to safety. There was a line between killing the fallen and letting innocents die. Den was certain he was missing something. He looked to the other two men, who still averted their eyes.
They were joined by a fourth, for Getta, at last, awoke. "Heya!" he said to all three. "What's youse so Dour about? We did the gettin'!" He leapt from the cart and ambled over to join them. "Where's the grub?"
Gule shook his head.
"Aw, no food? Cap'n Sour's in a sour way… hey, where's the rest? Elvies?" He looked at Den. "Denbas! You and the Cap are always chattin'. Where they went?"
"Let it be, Getta," Jaskell said.
"Pssh, sods. Cryin' over winnin'. You mopes 'mind me a'the other sods back in Siggy-land…"
Den stood up and walked away. Being ignored was one thing, but Getta always managed to be worse. The spindly little thief followed after him, pestering: "Hey, Sour-man. You gonna get'em? Where they go?"
A few meters from the fire Den wheeled on Getta. "Shut up!" he yelped. "You don't know anything!"
Getta shied away, then looked at Den confused. "What? What you know, Denbas Sour?"
"That we are nothing like the 'sods' in Signestad!" he said. "They serve a twisted Lord, and our Mission is the restoration of the sacred to these lands!"
"Huh? Oh, no, not those sods. The locked-up ones," said Getta. "All sad and boory. But they got reason to be sad, 'cuz locked up, and lost their sod-sticks." Getta looked down, distant. "Getta's been locked up once or twice… but Getta gets away!" He grinned.
Den frowned. "What… the monsters? They're not sods… they're animals! Murderous, thieving…"
"Eh, yeah," Getta said. "Caged up like critters, out in sun-hot." He picked a scab on his cheek. "But, thought they burn in sun… and them Darks looked funny, too. Bigses tappytrees back home are wrong."
"What sort of…" Den breathed heavily. "Those caged ones were starved and naked, and still they tore at men with evil glee. And you didn't see the ones I saw, out in the Dark Lands, they were armed, and wicked, and used foul sorcery, mocking me and threatening children!"
"Ooh, real Dark Sods!" Getta said, excited. "What'd they do, Denbas? Can they really make coins outta leaves? Did you see 'em eat anyone?"
"No, no, I scared them off before it got that far," Den said. "No, they were… they used evil magic to conceal themselves… why, they were entirely invisible, when they fled and when I first found them."
"Ooh, that's keen!" Getta said. "Y'think I could do dark magicks, get un-visible too? Would help with gettin'…"
"No, what," Den frowned again. "You admire their wicked ways? Getta…" He stared now closely; this man, he was a proper thief, and not just one enlisted in a righteous Thieving Mission. If the evils of men came from the corrupting sorcery of the Dark Ones, and Getta was one such wicked human…
"What else'd they do, Denbas?" Getta asked. "What was their soddin' like?"
"Well, they…" Den thought back to the encounter. He'd discovered them through the strength of his own eyes, before they could complete their ambush. He thought back proudly to how he'd caught them. "As I said, they concealed themselves with evil magic. I saw the flickering of this magic from across the border-Trench, and sent a knife their way, at which point they revealed themselves. Then Fia came and they set upon me; I was barely able to keep them at bay with Fia's sword… which, I should mention, I was able to set aflame, using the full holy power of Sungold. Maybe I have Elven heritage… but either way, it was my righteousness that won the day." Yeah, that's about right, he thought. Even if I'm not an Elf, or Elf-human, I at least proved my nobility through my actions. That must have been what Phemelius was getting at.
"Ooh, for spyin'!" Getta said, and he grinned once more. "Y'see Sour-man, that's a nicey trick. We'd be good and hidden if none of the Siggy-sods see'd us; coulda got the Burny and been out 'fore sods noticed!"
"Spying?" Den cried. "They were going to kill me! How can you—"
"Oh, yeah, stickin' too. Hard to slip a shankin' you can't see." Getta furrowed his brow. "Wait, Dark-Sods are stupey. Why not stay un-visible when tryin' t'stick ya?"
Den gaped; he was stumped. Why did they show themselves? He might've not've been as ready on his sword if he wasn't sure that it was Dark Elves who were watching him. Spying. What had the Prince said, perspectives? This Getta was a strange and nasty little man, but his twisted perception put a different light on things. Den felt this insight very important, but knew not why.
"Maybe not as stupey as reg'ler Sods," Getta laughed, and spoke in a mocking tone: "'For King And Country!'...heh. King'n'country ain't f'them, def'nitley not f'Getta!" he doubled over cackling, and Den, sick of Getta's antics getting in the way of his sorting out of matters, shook his head and walked back to the fire. He sat.
In time the others returned: Tandric, then Phemelius and Dregal, and Fia at last. Phem took Den aside, and asked him: "What have you decided, as for—" he looked into Den's eyes. "—no, nevermind that. Have your rest and tell me in the morning. Enjoy your sup in silence, and Den," he drew close to whisper. "Give space to Jaskell, Dreg, and Fia in particular. They, um… for your own sake." Phemelius walked away.
The dinner was had in silence; Dreg and Tandric put together a delicious bit of stew, which sopped into their fresh breads nicely. The night should have been a warm one: they all together and well, sharing sup and breaking bread, celebrating a hard-won Mission. Instead, a cloud hung over the group. No one talked to Den or around him, though he did hear whispers when his back was turned. Everything was out of sorts. Den ate somberly, thoughtfully, and when he was done, decided to collect the others' bowls; he'd found the nearby stream by watching their horse plod to it for a drink, and hoped to win some favor back by volunteering for dish-duty. He reached for Getta's empty bowl first, but grinning the little thief refilled it and winked at Den. Gule gave up his bowl, and Dregal too, without looking up. Jaskell just stared at him blankly. Den tried to grab the man's bowl, but Jaskell's hands held it fast. "Don't," came the stern voice of Phemelius from behind, and Den relented, hands raised in surrender. Tandric gave his bowl up also, and the Prince. Den quit while he was ahead.
Those dishes cleaned, Den saw better than to ask for a song and, seeing no better option, decided to excuse himself for an early night. "Goodnight everyone," he said sheepishly, and no response came. He took a sack of potatoes and a thin blanket from the cart, and a few meters further out, found a soft-enough-looking spot of sod. Sleep came as a solace.
***
Phem and Fia sat on watch alone together in the chill pitch-black of night. The Moon was vanished, in its darkest phase. For many minutes, they said nothing.
"I fucked up." Fia blurted. Phem scoffed, shook his head, and looked at her with eyes scrunched tight, mouth gaping in dismay. "—I know, I know," she said, "you think I acted bravely. 'It's no evil to feel pity, Fia! This is proof of the strength of love, natural to all peoples,' and bla bla bla…"
"You didn't do anything wrong!" he hissed back. "And I don't mean—you can't blame yourself for what's occurred. Pity is a good, but there's an evil here as well, and not one of your making."
"Exactly!" she said, and looking down she shook her head. "You have all the facts, and still you don't get it. You are a… a Prince. No matter how pity seems to you… for us, it's how we die. By… hesitating, forgetting the truth… giving what we know is not returned. It's why we must feel as we do. Now I know for certain, and still I made the Wrong choice." She beat a fist against her forehead. "Idiot! Idiot! Why couldn't I just…"
Phemelius hung his head, he smiled. "I think," he said, and Fia looked at him skeptically. "I think you're right about everything."
She gawked and flicked both hands forward. "Wha—no, because we argue thrice a day, and you see the knowledge true, with wisdom that astounds me!Me!" she said. "And—and I just told you I was wrong, with ample reason!"
"...well," he replied, grin widening. "Maybe we're both right, in different ways." He shot her a winning smile.
Fia looked away, trying not to smile too. "Fuckin' clever little Ax-boy…" she muttered, and then she felt his long, taut fingers brush up along the fine little hairs at the nape of her neck. She looked up awestruck as he drew closer, expression calm and warm, his eyes like stars in the sea of night. Before he could get any closer she grabbed the front of his shirt tight in both hands, said: "oh, you ridiculous—" and kissed him, ferocious and tender, ravenous and comfortable and frightened. He adjusted easily, drew closer in to put his right hand up around her shoulder, and they sat this way, kissing and nuzzling their foreheads together and staring into each other's eyes, for some time.
Until Phemelius' face turned melancholy, and he pulled himself away to his own sudden saddened thoughts. She was upset, too, first to be robbed of his close presence, and then out of concern for her partner and what had saddened him. She reached out and held his shoulder, searching, hoping to aid him by her presence through whatever troubled him.
He stared back at her. "You've made your choice," he said. "And!—don't you take this as me calling it the right one, but you made it; certainty from certainty, we can all see where you stand." Fia looked away. "It's only fair," he continued, and raised his head. "That I make my choice. We both see the truth now, a truth I've avoided for the same selfish reasons you imply."
"Meli, it's alright. We're far from danger, there's time for us to—"
"No," he said firmly, and his sadness returned to bend him. "I saw myself in the lad… he reminds me of my own wayward anguish out of days long past. But that can't be what dooms The Mission, or…" He sat up again, looked her dead in the eyes. "Tomorrow, I will choose."
Fia trusted him absolutely. If anyone knew the price of affection, it was Meli. Only now could she see how hard it was to pay.