10. For Those We Have Lost, We Mourn
Chapter 10
For Those We Have Lost, We Mourn
6 th Day of the Blood Moon
Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Dann fidgeted with the top button of his tunic as he walked. It was too tight, and it rubbed against his neck. But Therin had gifted it to him for the ceremony, and Lyrei had nearly taken his hand off when he’d tried to undo the top button. Apparently, it was against tradition and would have done Therin a great dishonour. Even then, as they made their way through the city, thousands walking around them, Lyrei glared at him, her eyes sharp as his mother’s words.
He stared back at her, moving his hand closer to the button, then pulling it further away, trying his best to make her laugh.
A flicker of a smile touched her lips but vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she stared off into the distance.
Dann let out a subdued sigh, reaching back and pressing his fingers into the muscles along the nape of his neck. Lyrei had barely spoken since the battle – since Alea’s death – and Dann had no idea what to say without making everything worse.
He wished he had Calen’s knack of always seeming to know how to say the right thing at the right time. Calen had been born with it. He would never admit it, but he had been. Those speeches Therin would tell tales of, the ones given by ancient heroes on the eve of legendary battles, Calen had been born to give them.
Dann, on the other hand, had not. Words came easy to him, true enough, but rarely the right ones and never at the right time. All he wanted was to take Lyrei’s pain away. He hated seeing others in pain. There was nothing worse. Well, except maybe the cockrot - as it had been so beautifully named.
Ahead, elves marched in the red and gold that Dann had come to associate with the kingdom of Lunithír. They loved their gold.
The elves marched in step, as though all their minds were connected by an invisible string. The single-minded discipline was otherworldly. Each of them was garbed in the finest of clothes. Thick crimson trousers embroidered with gold. Polished black boots that came up past their shins. Stiff, high-collared white tunics – not dissimilar to Dann’s – with golden cloaks draped over their shoulders and swords strapped to their hips.
He looked over his shoulder at the column that marched behind him. It stretched off into the distance, winding through the streets of Aravell. Three thousand three hundred, a blend of elves and humans. Each of them had pledged to fight at Calen’s side in the war to come.
The elves among them all wore the same stiff tunics and thick trousers, but none displayed the colours of any kingdom. In fact, when Dann looked closer, he saw that a number wore ribbons of white and purple tacked to their trousers. Colours that had fast become tied to Calen.
In contrast to the elves, the men and women who had come from across Epheria could not have looked more disorganised and incoherent. They were a confused assortment of random colours and garments; some in fine linen shirts, others in battered cottons, and others still in all varieties of garb from sleeveless tunics to roughspun woollen jerkins. Many of them had come to Aravell with nothing but the clothes on their backs. But still they walked with their heads held high, moving with a rhythm that Haem and the other knights had drilled into them.
Despite the disparity between the elves and humans, between the armies of Aravell and those who stood behind Calen, there was something common between them, something shared: pain.
Dann had felt it from the moment they’d stepped out into the streets. It clung to the air, made its home in the stone, and pierced the heart of every soul that walked towards the ceremony.
Three thousand three hundred. That number had been near five thousand three days before. Almost the entire population of the villages around The Glade – dead. Thousands more had died from the three elven kingdoms that called Aravell home, and the number of dead went up every day as the Healers struggled to keep the injured alive.
Friends, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters. The scale of the death had been so vast that no soul had gone untouched. It was a horrible thing to share – loss. But in a way, there was nothing else in the world that bound people together more closely.
Dann’s throat tightened as he walked, and his thoughts wandered. Alea and Baldon’s faces floated in the back of his mind, the realisation settling in that he would never hear the sound of their voices again. He would never see the gold of Alea’s eyes or Baldon’s toothy amused grin. They were gone, and he was less for it. Before he’d left The Glade, Dann had barely seen death. Now it seemed to follow him like a wicked shadow.
“You all right?” Erik appeared at Dann’s left, his blond hair tucked back behind his ears, his eyes focused on Dann. Around them, elves and humans alike shuffled their way forwards, the slap of feet and the murmurs of quiet chatter drifting through the city. But the man had a way about him, a kind of intensity that made it feel like his attention was always singular.
“Me?” Dann asked, raising an eyebrow. He sucked in his cheeks and shook his head. “Never better. If only I could undo this damn top button.”
Erik gave Dann a half-smile that held more sadness than he’d anticipated. The man forced a laugh and touched the high collar of his own shirt, identical to Dann’s but for its deep yellow hue in place of white. “It’s customary,” he said, trailing his finger along the rim of the collar. “A bit uncomfortable, but still. Therin gifted you that one, did he not? It would?—”
“It would be a great dishonour to him if I were to undo the top button. I’ve been told.” Dann inclined his head towards Lyrei. “ Many times. Where I’m from, a great dishonour would be taking a shit on someone’s doorstop, not undoing the top button of a shirt.”
Erik choked out a laugh, turning as Tarmon Hoard patted him on the back and stepped between him and Dann, Vaeril following close behind.
“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Vaeril said, lifting his index finger in the air, “but I do believe Therin would also find great dishonour in you shitting on his doorstep.”
“I think you might be right,” Dann answered. “When did you develop a sense of humour?”
“We’re not so different, elves and humans.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
The smile that spread across Vaeril’s face made Dann think back to the first time he’d met the elf, the same time he’d met Alea and Lyrei. Every one of the five elves that had accompanied them from the Darkwood to Belduar had been stony-faced and rigid. For a time, Dann had actually thought elves couldn’t feel emotions at all. How wrong he’d been.
A silence passed amongst Dann and the others. He didn’t like silence – it left him alone with his own thoughts – so he filled it.
“Do we have much further to walk?” he asked nobody in particular, stretching onto his toes to see over the column of elves that marched ahead. “If I’d known this ceremony was taking place on the other side of the continent, I’d have brought food.”
“It is not far,” Vaeril answered, looking ahead. “With King Silmiryn falling in battle –Heraya embrace him – King Galdra and Queen Uthrían had the Craftsmages construct a new section of the city for the ceremony as a memorial.”
Tarmon shook his head, casting his gaze about at some of the white stone towers that jutted up towards the sky. “You would think there would have been better uses of the Craftsmages’ time, given half the city is still in ruin.”
“To my people, there is little that is more important than remembering those we have lost.”
“Well,” Tarmon said with a tilt of his head, “if we don’t repair the gaps in the walls, we’ll be joining the lost once the Uraks reach the city.”
“Delightfully morbid, Tarmon,” Dann said, shaking his head.
Tarmon shrugged. “Just realistic.”
After a short while, the street sloped downwards, broadening into a large courtyard.
“Well, fuck.” Dann stopped in his tracks.
Before him, on the other side of the courtyard, stood an enormous archway where the city backed against a sheer cliff that rose a couple hundred feet. Two dragon statues framed the arch, both carved from the rock itself. They stood a measure with the arch, wings folded at their sides. Glowing veins of erinian stone traced along the pattern of the scales. It was, quite simply put, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, even in the crimson light of the moon.
The elves ahead of them continued their march, passing through the archway without a second look at the statues. Dann hoped he’d never grow so accustomed to beauty that he failed to notice its presence.
Erik tapped Dann on the shoulder, then nodded behind them to where the column of over three thousand had ground to a halt.
“Why did they all stop?”
Erik looked at him as though he were an idiot. “Because you stopped.”
Dann paused a moment, narrowing his eyes at Erik before looking back at the others. The five captains Haem had selected – Ingvat, Surin, Narthil, Allinín, and Sylehna – all looked to him, backs straight, shoulders squared.
“Does anybody realise how bad an idea it is to put me in charge of anything?” Dann whispered to Tarmon.
“You’re not in charge,” Tarmon whispered back as he turned towards the column of warriors, many of whom were still gawking at the statue. He raised his voice. “Captains, ensure the silence is kept during the ceremony. Onwards.”
Tarmon straightened his back and rolled his shoulders, bringing a closed fist to his chest. The five captains mimicked the gesture, lifting their chins.
It was in that brief moment that Dann remembered Tarmon Hoard had once been Lord Captain of the Belduaran Kingsguard, if for a short time.
“He’s in charge.” Erik inclined his head at Tarmon as they started off once more, a shit-eating grin on his face.
Dann mouthed the words back at Erik, twisting his face in a mock impression. To his surprise, he found Lyrei laughing. He didn’t care that it was him she was laughing at. He was just happy she was laughing.
Lyrei held Dann’s gaze for a second, her laughter fading, her golden eyes seeming to stare into his soul. She gave him a soft smile before turning and following Tarmon.
The sound of thousands of boots clipping against stone echoed through the passage beneath the arch, the crashing of water at its back.
“Blessed be Hafaesir,” Tarmon said as they marched into the enormous basin on the other side of the archway. The basin was cut from the rock itself, flowing outwards in a series of perfectly smooth circular terraces. Thousands upon thousands of elves made their way up ornately carved staircases of hewn rock, cloaks of gold, silver, and green adding colour to the grey. Dann had heard of the great stadiums in Ardan where tens of thousands gathered to watch warriors fight for glory and coin; this seemed grander than any tale he had heard.
Five waterfalls cascaded over the ledge at the top of the basin, flowing into streams that fed a circular moat surrounding a central island at the heart of the ‘stadium’.
Four bridges of white stone traversed the moat, providing access to the island. Upon the island itself stood five massive statues about half as tall as the two dragons by the arch.
Each of the statues was built from grey rock, not a seam or crack in sight. One stood taller than the others, its body comprised of thick slabs of muscle, its face smooth and angular, its hair tied in a single braid: a giant – a Jotnar.
The other four were those of an elf, a human, a Dvalin Angan, and a Fenryr Angan. The statues all faced out towards the terraces, their hands clasped at their fronts.
“Well,” Dann said, staring upwards, his eyes tracing the stone antlers of the Dvalin Angan. “I can see why the Craftsmages were busy.”
Elves in white robes directed Dann and the others up a staircase to the left that led to one of the many terraces.
Elven Highguard in their gleaming silver plate occupied the central island below. The armoured warriors stood at either ends of the bridges and around the island’s perimeter, with what looked to be an enormous pit nestled in the island’s centre.
“Excuse me.”
Dann looked up to see Therin approaching, Aruni and Valdrin at his side.
Valdrin wore the same stiff white tunic as Dann, but, as per usual, he was covered in dirt, soot, and grease. Dann couldn’t hold back his laugh at the sight of black fingerprints all along the collar of Valdrin’s tunic. Well, at least I'm not the only one who doesn’t like the top button.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Dann said, inclining his head to Therin.
“You try getting Valdrin to leave the forge while he’s working,” Therin said as he took a spot beside Dann.
Lyrei inclined her head to the elf, stepping aside so Valdrin and Aruni could find space.
“There is a lot of armour to craft and little time to do so.” Valdrin pulled at his collar again, leaving fresh black fingerprints. “And everything’s slower when you have to tell others what to do. I don’t like it.”
Aruni frowned at Valdrin, then stepped into line beside Therin, smiling at Dann. “It is good to see you well, Dann Pimm.”
“And you.” Dann had only met Aruni once or twice. She had the same motherly demeanour as Elia Havel, but Dann couldn’t help but feel unsettled around her. Whenever she looked at him with those red-ringed black eyes, it sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t her eyes themselves that unsettled him, but more the idea of what must have been done to her. The night Valdrin had given them their armour, it had been raining, and the damp had caused Aruni’s dress to cling to her skin. Dann had seen the scarred rune markings carved into her chest.
He drew a breath, pushing the image from his mind, and leaned into Therin while looking out over the thousands of gathering elves. “Have you seen Calen? He said he was to arrive with Aeson and the others, but I saw them down near the island and he and Valerys weren’t there.”
“He’ll be here.” After a moment, Therin leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Dann…”
“Please don’t.” Dann shook his head, a knot twisting in his stomach. He knew what Therin was going to say. And he wasn’t quite sure why, but the sincerity in the elf’s voice had somehow cut straight through him.
“Baldon thought very highly of you, Dann.”
“Therin, I said please.”
Therin nodded gently, letting out a soft sigh.
After a while, the flow of souls into the basin waned and ceased. Tens of thousands occupied the terraces, the sounds of their low chatter and shuffling feat echoing in the natural acoustics. Those sounds dropped to nothing though when a voice thundered through the gathering.
“My people.” The voice was so loud it sounded as though it boomed from the mouth of a god. Dann had seen the trick many a time from Calen and others. “Din n?rvarvin gryr haydria t’il valana.”
Dann didn’t understand the elf tongue – or the ‘Old Tongue’, as Calen was fond of correcting him – but he had recognised the word ‘valana’. Lost .
“Your presence brings honour to the lost,” Therin whispered.
Dann looked down at the central island to see a group arranged near the pit at the island’s centre. Two figures stood ahead of the group, likely Queen Uthrían and King Galdra. Dann would be surprised if the others weren’t the elven Ephorí – the sycophants who trailed after the monarchs wherever they went. The voice that spoke was that of Uthrían.
“We have come here today to mourn the loss of those we loved and to mark their passing in history. I…” The queen trailed off, whispers and murmurs spreading through the crowd, rising to a din.
“What’s going on?” Aruni asked.
“There.” Lyrei pointed towards the ridge that overlooked the basin.
It took a moment for Dann to realise what she was pointing at, but then he saw the light of the Blood Moon glistening off Valerys’s white scales as the dragon spread his wings. Dann could just about make out Calen’s outline standing to Valerys’s left, his hand resting on the dragon’s side.
Dann gave a downturn of his lip. “He’s certainly gotten good at making entrances.”
“He’s showing them who he is.”
“Who?” Dann asked.
“The Inari – Uthrían and Galdra.” The smile that spread across Therin’s lips looked almost out of place on the usually stern-faced elf. “He’s learning.”
As Therin spoke, another murmuring wave spread through the crowd.
Two more shapes emerged on the ridge, so large they cast shadows that covered half the basin.
“Varthear and Sardakes.” The tone in Therin’s voice completely changed into what Dann could only describe as reverence. The elf looked down towards the bridges where Aeson and the other Rakina stood.
The larger of the two dragons – Sardakes – spread his wings wide, blocking out the light of the moon, and unleashed a mighty roar. The creature’s black scales stood stark against the striking blue of his wings.
Valerys and the third dragon both followed suit, their roars carrying through the basin, slowly fading until only silence remained and the three dragons stared down over the gathered crowd. Many still whispered when Queen Uthrían spoke again.
“The light of the Enkara shines upon us,” Uthrían’s voice echoed, amplified by magic. “And the fire of the dragons returns to our side. Du gryr haydria til ourín elwynar, Velikír Ayara.”
“You bring honour to our hearts, Great Ones,” Therin whispered again.
“I got the gist of it,” Dann whispered back.
Therin frowned.
“The Eleswea un'il Valana is not simply a ceremony to mourn those we’ve lost,” Uthrían called, her voice lingering unnaturally in the air. “It is a waypoint in history. It is a monument upon which our descendants can look back and say, ‘this is the day something changed in the fabric of the world’.”
To Dann’s surprise, a raucous cheer erupted from the gathered elves. They’d never seemed the cheering type. They barely ever seemed the smiling type, if he was being honest, more like frowning happily.
A second voice rang out – King Galdra of Lunithír. “For hundreds of years, we have taken shelter within the Aravell. The Nithrandír have guarded our borders, the glamour has kept our existence a secret, and the rangers have stifled the Lorian ability to move from north to south. Yes, this day is a marker of remembrance for those we’ve lost. But it is also a marker of the return of our people to Epheria and the rebirth of old alliances. We once again stand with a Draleid watching over us, the Rakina at his back. It was not only elves who stood in the defence of Aravell. It was humans, Jotnar, Angan, dragons. This is a day that will echo in the annals of our continent. This is the day the elves of Lunithír, of Vaelen, and of Ardur?n stopped hiding. This is the day we joined the fight. This ,” Galdra said, holding his breath for just a second, “is the day the empire first began to crumble.”
“And so,” Uthrían continued, “we mark the dead and this point in time by remembering who stood here.”
As Uthrían spoke the last word, brilliant white lights burst into existence at the base of the statues, illuminating every groove and line in the immense stonework, making each one look alive. Dann had seen Calen and the others make their baldír before, but he’d never seen baldír like this before. It was like the light of the sun had been casked and controlled on command.
“As you all know,” Uthrían said, “we lost many unique souls in the battle for Aravell. One of those such souls was my dear friend and the beloved king of Vaelen – Silmiryn Vaelen, the Silver Hawk. As King Silmiryn left behind no heirs, we waited until the succession was decided before we held this day. And as such, today is both a mourning and a celebration. A lament and a triumph. For today, I present to you the niece of King Silmiryn, and the new queen of Vaelen – Queen Tessara Vaelen Alumír!”
The cheers that broke did so amidst subdued murmurs as over a hundred Highguard poured from somewhere down near the island, creating a framed pathway over the eastern bridge. A figure made its way onto the island, too far for Dann to make out any features.
“Not everyone seems pleased,” Erik said.
Therin pressed his fingers into his chin, scratching. “Tessara is… divisive.”
Once Galdra and Uthrían had placed the crown on Tessara’s head, the applause and murmurs quietened and the new queen stepped forwards. She allowed the silence to hold for a few moments more before speaking. “For over four hundred years, my uncle guided the people of Vaelen. Through our darkest hours, our darkest centuries, he was our beacon. And I will not let his light be lost. Now, I would ask Asius, son of Thalm, and Thacia, daughter of Ulin, to join me in commencing the Eleswea un'il Valana.”
Tessara gestured towards the same bridge she had crossed. Two hulking shapes stepped onto the bridge, their bluish skin and Thacia’s blood-red hair striking against the grey stone.
“The Jotnar are the oldest and dearest friends of our people. Once, we were sworn enemies. For hundreds of years, the Blodvar filled the soil with the bodies of our ancestors, but after the Doom at Haedr, we set our differences aside and grew ever stronger for it. Today, their numbers are few, for they did not succumb to Fane Mortem’s influence. They fought to the last. And during the battle for our city, one more gave her life. Senas, daughter of Iliria. The Eleswea un’il Valana is one of our oldest traditions, taught to us by the Jotnar as an offering of peace – a shared unity over the cost of war. So it is fitting today, of all days, the day we reforge the alliances of old, that our people perform this ceremony side by side—” Tessara turned her gaze upwards “—with the dragons watching over us, as they always have.”
On the ledge above, the dragons shifted, watching, Calen by Valerys’s side.
Therin leaned closer to Dann. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye.”
“That’s because you’re taller than I am,” Dann whispered back.
“Dann, please, shut up for just a second.”
“Harsh, but continue.”
Therin stared at Dann for a moment, then shook his head. “I need you to be serious for a moment. Can you do that?”
Dann clenched his jaw, then nodded.
“Good. What you’re about to witness hasn’t been seen since before The Fall. Even I have seen it but once. In the days of old, the Jotnar would sing entire forests into existence. Watch. For the likelihood is you will never again see what you are about to witness. I think it is something that will stay with you.”
Dann looked back at Therin, then inclined his head. “Thank you, Therin.”
“You’ve come a long way, Dann Sureheart.”
That name cut straight through Dann. Just as they had many times since the battle, Baldon’s words repeated themselves in his mind. “It is the name you have earned. As Therin Eiltris is Silverfang, Aeson Virandr is Broken One, you are Sureheart.”
Dann swallowed, his throat growing dry. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned to see Tarmon behind him. The mountain of a man gave him a simple nod and returned to watching the ceremony, but his hand remained where it lay.
Below, columns of elves marched over the four bridges and onto the central island, setting themselves around the edges of the pit in the middle. More again lined the moat that separated the island from the terraces.
“What’s inside the pit?” Dann asked, leaning closer to Therin, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
Therin drew a long breath in through his nose. “The bodies of all those who fell during the battle. Washed, cared for, and wrapped in linen.”
“Baldon and Alea are in there?” Dann’s words held a tremble. “But?—”
“Watch, Dann.”
Dann looked down at the pit and the elves that ringed it – Asius and Thacia standing at the foot of the Jotnar statue – but saw nothing.
“Listen.”
He hadn’t noticed, but the entire basin had grown silent as a winter’s night in The Glade. It should not have been possible. Tens of thousands of people gathered in one place. The mere breath of so many should have pushed through the silence in a rocky basin like this. But, impossible or not, silence held the entire ceremony in its grasp.
Then, just as the absence of sound became so deafening Dann began to hear the beating of his heart, a slow, melodic hum reached his ears. It started as faint as the buzzing of a wasp’s wings, rising steadily.
Words followed the melody, but they were not in any language Dann understood. With each passing second, the song grew louder, the words echoing amongst the gathered crowd. The air seemed to shift and sparkle, catching the light of the lanterns and the crimson glow of the moon overhead.
Dann’s chest fluttered. A sensation swept over him as though someone were running their hand across the hairs on his arms.
“Therin, what’s happening?” Dann’s breaths were quick and short as he spoke, a slight panic setting into him. He turned to Therin to see the elf staring down at the pit, entranced. The elf’s lips were moving, the words of the song flowing from his mouth.
Before Dann could say anything else, the terrace shook beneath him and he grabbed hold of the low wall. He looked back at Tarmon, whose face conveyed the same sense of fear and uncertainty that twisted Dann’s gut.
Dann stumbled as another tremor shook the entire basin, a rumble echoing like a clap of thunder.
And then he saw it.
Roots burst from the ground between the statues and the pit, twisting and turning over each other in patterns that, at the same time, seemed completely random and impossibly complex. It was as though Dann was watching an artist weave a tapestry of earth and root.
The roots spread over the pit, covering it entirely. They climbed, coiling around each other, growing thicker and thicker, melding into a solid form. As the twisted roots merged and rose, so too did they spread until they formed what looked like the stump of a tree.
Dann stared on with a visceral sense of awe. The song had grown louder and louder, every other sound in the world yielding to its melody. It was then Dann realised his lips were moving, the words flowing through him. He hadn’t even noticed he’d begun singing. And as he looked left and right, he saw he wasn’t the only one. Every soul in the basin sang.
Erik stood with one hand to his chest, his eyes fixed on the climbing roots. Tarmon’s hand gripped Dann’s shoulder, his lips moving in perfect time.
A hand touched Dann’s, grasping it so tightly he thought his fingers might break. Tears rolled slowly down Lyrei’s cheeks as she squeezed, her golden eyes glistening. Dann tensed the muscles in his hand and allowed Lyrei to squeeze.
He turned his gaze back towards the winding roots to see they now took the shape of a tree trunk, as wide as the entire pit. The trunk spread up and out, forming dense branches that stretched over the statues and covered the central island, casting shadows over the entire basin. Small green buds sprouted from all along the branches, growing and peeling open. Thousands of long, thin vines burst from the buds, tumbling down towards the ground. And from the vines bloomed masses of white flowers tipped with purple that hung in clusters. The flowers swept across the vines, like butterflies bursting from their chrysalises until a canopy of purple and white blotted out the sky.
Then, as the song reached a crescendo, Dann’s breath caught in his lungs and the petals of every flower illuminated with a purple light.