15 - Shadows and Blades
Tariel
The training hadn’t gone well. Cassian would roll his eyes and, sometimes, snap his fingers to stop him from casting a spell or to counter his own with a wave of his hand.
Combat… well, combat was a vague concept to the elf.
Of course he knew how to fight, but with the safety of magic, not with the weight of steel.
Tariel grimaced. He had no desire to be there. Physical combat was undoubtedly the worst thing that could happen to him. Okay, maybe he was being a bit dramatic, but that didn’t change his aversion to that annoying and exhausting discipline.
He’d resolved to choose a light sword from the arsenal: he refused to carry anything heavy, just as he refused to engage in overly intimate hand-to-hand combat.
True to form, his lesson—which lasted far too long for his liking—unfolded with a great deal of drama.
The elf didn’t put much effort into learning something he couldn’t care less about.
If he ever found himself deprived of magic…
he’d simply bat his eyelashes at Cassian and leave his fate in the hands of destiny.
Sometimes, out of annoyance, he cheated. He’d send out small bursts of magic to push his attacker away or to vanish completely from his line of sight. But who could blame him? He was an elf! It was in his nature to bend the vague rules established at the start of the lesson.
“Tariel, stop shirking your responsibilities! Lyara isn’t here to make a fool of you, but to train you!”
Cassian’s tone was harsh. Deep down, Tariel knew this exercise was for his own good—for their own good—but he couldn’t help but protest. His body ached after such a long journey and so little rest. Every movement was a groan from his muscles, so why not use a little magic to make life easier?
After all, he deserved it. He deserved a long, hot bath, a whole crate of juicy fruit… He deserved all the comforts in the world when he got home—
No. He could not afford to let his mind wander down that path. He refused to think about Caelendor again, or his family, or what he’d had to leave behind for a glory that would never come.
Projecting the illusion of his library had left him more vulnerable than he’d anticipated. He felt exposed, his nerves on edge. A dull ache in the pit of his chest called him to return home, to find his little corner of tranquility in the city of Mistvale.
Eventually, overwhelmed by his own thoughts, his capricious self—a trait he no longer tried to hide—started to let his opponent win.
He hoped to end the lesson sooner or even get injured so he’d have a valid excuse not to fight again anytime soon.
But Lyara was incredibly skilled and knew exactly where to strike without causing any real harm, much to Tariel’s annoyance.
Then, something changed.
The elf straightened up suddenly, dropping his sword to look around.
Something’s wrong.
He fixed his gaze on the distance as an icy chill ran up his arms. Among the clan members present, one figure set off an alarm in his instincts. Tall and slender, a woman exuded a peculiar aura.
No… it was the magic surrounding her that felt familiar. Too familiar.
As if she had caught his gaze, the middle-aged woman blended into the crowd.
Without thinking, Tariel sprinted after her, ignoring the calls of those around him.
They moved away from the camp at a surprising speed.
When she began to run across the open plain, Tariel called upon nature.
In an instant, gnarled roots burst from the green soil to entangle the fugitive’s ankles, causing her to stumble before immobilizing her completely.
Tariel could sense it now: the glamour.
He could see the illusion’s essence and with almost cruel ease, he dispelled it. The Olyar’s tanned complexion gave way to midnight-blue, almost black skin. Her hair turned as white as Tariel’s, and her ears elongated. It was a Dark Elf who found herself caught in his bonds.
“You…” Stunned, he whispered the word as he looked at one of his own kind. The Dark Elves were almost a separate species, but they were still elves, nonetheless.
“You are the Shadow that has been following me. What do you want, and who sent you? Answer me!”
The Shadow sneered, baring sharp fangs. “The Council is concerned, Tariel Elenion. You seem to be straying from your duty by consorting with mercenaries and savages. I am merely a spectator, but they… they are growing impatient.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying! That dragon—”
“No, you don’t know what you’re doing. The creature is a threat and must be eliminated. Your name carries great significance, son of Councilor Elrohir Elenion. If you were to fail… or change your mind, the Council will show no mercy.”
“What do you want—”
“Do not stray from your task. Today, I am alone. That may change.”
Before Tariel could reply, the Shadow recited a dark magic incantation. Before his eyes, the Dark Elf’s body began to dry out, mummifying in a matter of seconds until only an empty husk remained.
Tariel hadn’t realized he’d attracted an audience.
Cassian and the others had arrived, but he didn’t see them.
He stared at the corpse, his expression neutral, but the air began to crackle around him.
The rage he felt at this betrayal was palpable.
His magic weighed down the atmosphere; the wind picked up.
With a single glance, the husk burst into flames.
Blinding blue flames reduced the carcass to ashes in an instant.
This fire, a reflection of his anger, was alarmingly precise: it didn’t burn a single blade of grass around it.
Once the dust had settled, Tariel turned around and began walking without a word. He walked for a long time, until he came upon a small river. There, he sank down into the moss and broke down in tears.
It had been weeks since he’d seen another of his kind.
And his first interaction had been a threat from his own kingdom and from his own father.
Elrohir thought only of his legacy, and Tariel realized that he was not that legacy; he was merely a variable, a threat to the integrity of the very name Elrohir himself had once proudly borne.
His frail body shook with sobs as Brynjar, who had caught up with him, rubbed his back in a reassuring gesture. He could no longer remain in denial: it was either the dragon or him. But he could not bring himself to exterminate an entire species.
So it would be the dragon… That resolution struck him like a dagger. He was rushing toward his grave, and his executioner might well be an elf sent to finish the job.
Footsteps echoed. Slow, steady, firm. They contrasted with the murmur of the water, and the elf’s inner turmoil. Tariel flinched slightly as he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Tariel.”
Cassian spoke his name like a caress. He gently brushed a strand of white hair behind his ear, his fingers barely grazing him as he did so. The elf didn’t want to cry in front of him; showing his emotions was a weakness… But he no longer had the strength to lie.
“You knew, didn’t you?” whispered the mercenary.
It was a rhetorical question. Cassian crouched down, took hold of his wrists, and forced him to face him. Tariel let his hands rest in the alchemist’s, his body yielding all too easily to his will, but he refused to meet his gaze.
How could he? And worse still: how could he look into the eyes of a man so devoted to the cause of the dragons, when his own people demanded their blood?
“Look at me.”
The voice was firm, yet free of violence. Tariel finally raised his emerald eyes, but stopped at the mercenary’s chest, reluctant to hold his gaze.
“Tariel, look at me.”
The sudden shift to such a gentle tone sent a jolt of surprise through him, forcing the elf to look up. He found only a well of empathy and compassion.
“You have every right to cry. You’ll do what you must, but no elf—no being, powerful or not—will strike a fatal blow against you as long as I’m alive. No one, do you hear me? Whether they come from Caelendor or elsewhere.”
The elf had tried to stifle his sobs, but he couldn’t stop his tears from flowing, nor his chest from heaving from time to time in silent, trembling sobs.
He felt pathetic standing before this man who remained so composed, but he didn’t voice that. Instead, he listened to him, only half-believing his words, a look of despair on his face…
…before simply throwing himself into Cassian’s arms.
He wrapped his arms around his neck and buried his face against his broad shoulder, seeking comfort as he confessed through his sobs:
“I don’t want to kill the dragon…” the elf whispered against his skin, his voice breaking.
“I don’t even want to try. But my options are limited to dying at the dragon’s hands, dying at the hands of my own people, or dying at the hands of another kingdom…
Whatever I do, the outcome seems to be the same. I’m scared, Cassian…”
He tightened his embrace, burying his face deeper, refusing to let go of the only anchor he had left in this world that had turned hostile.
Cassian
He is so pretty when he cries.
That thought flashed through Cassian’s mind so suddenly that it caught him off guard.
Standing before him, Tariel seemed to be revealing a fragility that had finally been laid bare, and the mercenary felt no desire to break him any further.
He noticed Tariel’s efforts to hide himself, to look away; the elf was ashamed.
How could he not be, after all, breaking down like this in front of a man who had been nothing more than a stranger just a few weeks earlier?
Yet Cassian felt that these emotions could no longer be contained. As he quietly watched him, the elf’s pain spread through him like an echo, a familiar vibration between the Stone and the Heart.