4. The Price of Grief
Chapter Four
The Price of Grief
Eltoar stood with one hand resting on the cold, white stone, his palm flat, jaw tight as wound wire.
He ran his other hand down his face and stared at the mix of dirt and blood that coated his fingertips: Maquil’s blood.
He closed his eyes, drawing out a long sigh as the rain drummed against the windows, the fire crackling in the hearth.
Every pull of air that swelled his lungs reminded him that Maquil no longer drew breath, of how Carasín had crashed into the ground with her wings wrapped around her soulkin.
He had never taken an apprentice before, never considered himself worthy of such an honour.
What opinion did he have of himself to think he was worthy of teaching another soul the correct path in life?
Farda was a man of such ability, such honour.
There was none in The Order who would question Farda.
But Eltoar was still in the process of learning his own heart. He should have known better.
But when he’d seen Maquil in the Cradle of Fire, when he’d seen that young, brave, kind boy’s eyes light up as Carasín crawled from her egg, something within him had shifted. A need to protect that kindness, that light.
Chora had always told Eltoar of the joy to be found in watching a person grow, of the pride that would swell in his heart at even the simplest of successes. For as long as he could remember, she had badgered him, as was her way, about this. And for the longest time he’d thought her insane.
But she had been right.
What she had failed to mention, however, was the visceral, soul-rending pain that came with losing that person, watching the light fade around them, hearing their soul shatter, and holding their cold, dead corpse.
At that moment, and in every moment since, all Eltoar could think of was the seconds stolen from that young man.
Of the joys he would never feel, of the love he would never know.
Eltoar lifted his head and opened his eyes, staring out through the glass into the storm beyond. The brooding sky had come upon them with little warning, as though reacting to the darkness within Eltoar’s chest. Lanterns burned across the city, a thousand tiny fires keeping the night at bay.
Helios lay a mile or so south with Vyldrar and Shinyara.
All three had been crushed by Carasín’s death.
Not just in that it had happened, but in watching the young dragon lose all will to live.
Even at that moment, images of Carasín wrapping her wings around Maquil and crashing into the earth flowed from Helios into Eltoar.
Over and over those images flowed, relentless, unyielding.
In his heart, Eltoar begged Helios to stop, but the dragon either could not or would not.
His heart was sorrow, and his grief was not yet done.
They would share in it as they did all else.
And Helios’s grieving would end in its own time, not upon Eltoar’s whim.
Behind him the door creaked open, wary footsteps tapping on stone.
“Eltoar…” Tivar’s voice was like a knife to his heart. She had loved Maquil as a brother. “Is it…” Her voice trembled. “Eltoar, is it true?”
He continued to stare out the window and nodded silently, knowing full well she couldn’t see the gesture.
“Eltoar…” Tivar’s footsteps grew closer, her voice brittle as autumn leaves. “I only saw him this morning… He… he was laughing.”
It broke Eltoar to hear her heart bleed in her voice so. He shook his head and forced himself to turn, and the moment his gaze met hers, Tivar crumpled into his arms, a sobbing mess, pressing her head to his blood-stained breastplate.
She had seen twenty-three summers, naught but a child.
“I’m sorry,” Eltoar whispered as she sobbed, wrapping his arms around her. “I should have protected him… I should have…”
He could feel Tivar’s head shake against his chest as she sniffled. “He was a man grown. He was not yours to protect.”
“You are all mine to protect.”
A few wordless moments passed, her head against his breastplate, her sobs low and broken. When she pulled away and looked up, he saw the young woman’s eyes were red from tears. “Was he scared?”
Eltoar shook his head. “He was a warrior.”
Tivar sniffled and nodded, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight as she focused on him. “What happened? Why would they do this?”
“I do not know. But I will find the truth of it. I promise—”
Eltoar cut himself short at the sight of Alvira appearing in the doorway.
She still wore her blood-stained armour, just as he did, the white steel dulled by dirt and grime.
Her dark hair cut sharp against her pale skin, her eyes always seeming to stare within his soul.
She was everything a Draleid should be. Fierce, bold, compassionate, honourable.
On the field of battle, the woman was a storm made flesh.
And in the quiet moments between the chaos, she was tender and kind.
In truth, young as she was, Eltoar admired her above all.
“They have called for us.” Alvira’s mouth curled in a sympathetic smile at the sight of Tivar.
She walked into the room, removing her right gauntlet as she did and resting a hand on Tivar’s cheek. She brushed a tear away with her thumb, and Tivar cupped her hand over Alvira’s.
“They rest together now,” Alvira said, not taking her gaze from Tivar.
She knew of their closeness, of their bond.
“We carry those we lose with us, Tivar. We speak their words with our voice, honour their deeds with our own, feel their weight on our shoulders. There are no words that heal a broken heart, and time does a far poorer job than proverbs would have you believe. In this, we mend our own wounds and lean on those around us should we falter. He died a Draleid, astride his soulkin, unwilling to let innocent souls burn. There is little nobility in war, Tivar. But we can find it in fighting for those who cannot. Remember him as he was, and remember that he died a guardian of others.”
Tivar nodded sheepishly at Alvira’s words, pressing her cheek into the woman’s hand. “Thank you.”
Eltoar and Alvira sent Tivar to find the others and walked the halls towards the council chamber.
The night was so quiet that even with the crimson carpet beneath their feet, their steps echoed against the stone walls, the rain drumming methodically against the windows.
Alvira stared at the ground as they walked, the candlelight casting shadows across her face.
He had never seen her this withdrawn, this darkened.
He let out a soft sigh, then stopped and turned, planting his feet.
“The weight of their deaths does not lie upon your shoulders, Alvira.”
She physically shivered at the words, her hands clasped behind her back, her gaze not leaving the floor. “It was I who led the charge,” she said eventually, her words soft as the wind through reeds. “You warned me. I didn’t listen. Maquil died so that my arrogance might breathe.”
Eltoar clenched his jaw. There was a part of him who thought as Alvira did. It would have been easy to blame her. To take all the sorrow in his heart and heap it upon her head. But the easy path of the heart was for the weak of mind. “None of us are without fault.”
“Hmm.” She winced, still looking down.
Without thinking, Eltoar reached out and let his hand touch hers, only realising his action when he felt the warmth of her touch.
For the first time since leaving the chamber, her attention left the floor. She stared at him now, her mouth hanging open, gaze piercing into his heart.
“I…” Eltoar stopped beside her, and for a brief moment, it was as though each could see into the other’s soul, laid bare, and he saw the pain that raged within her. She didn’t simply carry the weight of Maquil and Carasín’s deaths, she burned herself with it, let it devour her.
He would have stood there, staring into her eyes for far longer if the council was not awaiting them. He pulled his gaze away and inclined his head down the corridor, a choice made in that moment.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, passing many of the city guard and Praetorians in their burnished golden plate and crimson tabards.
He would have given almost anything at that moment to just be left to sit in a chair in a dark room with a bottle of Caelduin wine and his thoughts.
Thoughts he needed to drown, extinguish.
But instead, he pushed his shoulders back, gave brittle smiles and inclined his head towards every soul that greeted them.
That was as much a part of being Draleid as anything else.
As they drew closer to the council chamber, he found himself staring down at the deep crimson carpet that ran along the centre of the white stone hall.
Images flitted through his mind’s eye, the carpet shifting to a river of blood and back again.
That river flowed towards Carasín’s broken body, her bones twisted and splintered from the fall.
And nestled into the dragon’s body, beneath a protective wing, was Maquil – or what was left of him.
Alvira had told Tivar that Maquil had died a Draleid, that he had died a guardian of others.
Both of those things were true, but they ignored the fact that he died horrifically, his body ripped in half, flesh torn apart, bones pulled from sockets or broken entirely.
He had been little more than a boy. And that boy had died for no reason Eltoar could understand other than Eltoar’s own arrogance.
A cough pulled Eltoar from the visions of death, and he lifted his gaze to find himself approaching the staircase that led to the great bridge.
Farda awaited them at the top, his hands clasped at his front, his armour bloodied as theirs was.
He nodded at Eltoar and Alvira, falling in beside them as they stepped through the enormous gold-plated doors and out onto the walkway beyond.