11. Those Who Love You
Chapter Eleven
Those Who Love You
Eltoar had sat in front of that hearth until the sun had set. Silence had consumed him, the wood crackling and burning until it was nothing but glowing embers and ash. And even still he’d sat there.
Fane had taken Eltoar’s darkest thoughts and spoken them aloud. The man had a way of doing that, of peering inside a person’s soul and knowing the truth of their heart.
“And yet she still obeyed. She still stood and watched thousands die, only taking to wing so that the dragons who had fallen over the city would not suffer.”
Those words were the same Eltoar had spoken over and over again in his own mind.
Alvira was not the same soul she had been all those years ago at Vastillion.
That day, it was she who spoke against inaction, she who become enraged at the thought of leaving the innocent to die at the words of the council.
And now it was Alvira herself who carried out those same words, who argued for them.
Though, that wasn’t entirely fair. She raged against the council in quiet quarters, holding the line only when the argument had been lost. He understood why, understood that it was her task to keep the peace. And yet…
As he walked the streets of Ilnaen, Eltoar knew the precise moment Alvira had changed. When he looked through his mind’s eye, he could see it before him, feel it, viscerally, in his heart.
He could see Alvira standing amidst the raging battle, her níthral glowing bright, the blade pressed to Panakír’s throat. He had known in that moment that she would have killed Panakír if he hadn’t intervened. And so he had leapt from Helios’s back and entered the fray.
Panakír had deserved to die. But Eltoar had refused to allow Alvira to be the one to swing the blade. He had refused to allow her the weight of such a deed. She had been so young, her heart so strong. A heart that was his duty to protect.
On that day, he had thought that taking that burden would spare her in some way.
But in time he had come to realise that he had waited too long.
She had been in the right that day. The council’s words shouldn’t have mattered.
The duty of the Draleid was to the people of Epheria.
And there was no world in which standing by and watching those people burn would have been an honourable act.
But it should have been Eltoar who had said as much.
Instead, it had fallen to Alvira. And with that, all consequence of the choice had fallen upon her soul.
Maquil and Carasín’s death had followed her for over a century.
He could see it in everything she did, in her caution.
She had charged forth that day, and it had cost the lives of a Draleid and his soulkin.
Eltoar should have made that choice. He should have taken the weight of it. It had been his command. But he had hidden behind the words of others.
He had placed that weight on Alvira, and in doing so he had brought rise to this moment.
“I’m sorry, Alvira,” he whispered as he walked across the paved white stone beneath the light of the moon.
He continued to ponder that day at Vastillion as he passed the Great Ilnaen Library and the Temple of Heraya, carrying on towards the Path of Legends.
He wasn’t quite sure why his feet had taken him there, but he trusted them nonetheless.
The Path of Legends was Eltoar’s favourite place in all Ilnaen, alongside the statues of Nasríl and Ralcrain and that of Varahír.
As he stepped through the open gates, the four guards bowed at him, all whispering “Draleid” as they did.
Eltoar pressed a closed fist to his chest in return, inclining his head. At that time of night, only Draleid or a select few souls were granted entry to the Path. Which was a small part of the reason he preferred visiting under the light of the moon.
The greater part became evident within a few footsteps.
The Path of Legends was an enormous open area of forested land within the city of Ilnaen itself.
And that alone was breathtaking. But a lake larger than Tanovar’s Arena occupied the centre of the Path, with statues of heroes long past lining the water’s edge and standing on plateaus that bisected the body of the lake.
And at that time of night, with a clear sky overhead, the moon’s light glittered upon the water like ten thousand diamonds scattered by Varyn’s hand.
Eltoar made his way to the water’s edge and to where the first statue stood, the countenance of Lavah?r Caelduin, the first Archon of the Draleid, gazing out at the waters with stony serenity.
It was said that Lavah?r stood six-and-a-half feet tall and wielded a greatsword large enough to cut a Bloodmarked clean in two. He had fought in the Blodvar for endless years and had apparently been the first voice to call for peace.
Eltoar had spent his youth swinging wooden sticks and pretending he was Lavah?r and that he rode upon the great Vathrixes, blood red wings spreading out beneath him. Oh, he remembered those days. They were far simpler.
He turned and joined the statue in looking out over the lake, closing his eyes and letting his mind drift into Helios’.
The dragon soared over the hills to the north for no other reason than to feel the wind beneath his wings, to feel free.
And for a moment, so too did Eltoar. That was until he heard the sobs.
Opening his eyes, Eltoar followed the soft sound to a copse of trees nestled near the lake’s edge. And it was there, at the base of a tall oak, that Eltoar saw something he’d not expected.
“Salara?”
The sobbing stopped almost immediately.
Eltoar approached slowly. Even with his eyes closed he would know Salara. Know the sound of her voice, know the scent of jasmine from the flowers she kept in her room. But as she lifted her head from her hands, he knew that face, knew those eyes.
He scanned about for signs of Vyrmír. The dragon rarely strayed too far from his soulkin and, despite his vibrant colouring, had a way of vanishing when he had no right to.
“What are you doing here?” Eltoar whispered as he approached, his heart clenching at the sight of the tears in her eyes.
Salara looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. She looked away almost instantly, brushing the tears with the back of her hand, and started to pull herself to her feet. “Nothing, Master.”
“Sit.” Eltoar kept his voice level but brokered no room for objection in his tone. He set himself down beside her, fighting not to sigh in relief as his back rested against the trunk of the tree, the weight of the world seeming to dissipate from his shoulders.
They sat there in comfortable silence, looking out over the water for some time, the sounds of the night growing louder with each passing second.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting here in the middle of the night?”
Salara did not turn from the lake. “This is where you took me the day I bonded with Vyrmír,” she said after a long silence. “You walked me past every statue and told me of their deeds and their actions, told me that one day perhaps I could join them if I was strong enough.”
“I remember.” Eltoar smiled at the thought. That had only been two years past. She’d seen but fourteen summers.
“This is where I come… when… when I don’t know where else to go.”
“May I ask a question of the heart?”
Salara grew a silent again, but eventually she nodded, sniffling.
“When I saw you earlier, you were full of joy. What has cast this sadness over you, young one?”
Before a word could leave her lips, Salara burst into tears once more and wiped at them furiously with her cloak. She swallowed hard. “Gathár.”
“Gathár?” Eltoar scanned his memories. “The young mage? Why would…” The realisation dawned on Eltoar. “Would you like to talk on it?”
Salara shook her head, the tears flowing once again.
“How about we just sit here?”
Salara nodded again, and fell back into silence, listening to the waters of the lake swashing against the rocky shore.
After a while, Salara spoke again. “Is there something wrong with me?”
“Besides your snoring?”
The beginnings of a smile threatened Salara’s lips but vanished almost immediately. “He said that I’m… That I’m… That I’m broken. That I don’t give him enough.” The sounds of the water filled the silence. “He said I’ll never be you and I shouldn’t waste my time in trying.”
“And what did you say?” Eltoar pressed his chin to his upper chest, looking across at Salara, his voice barely a whisper.
Salara shook her head. “I can’t even remember… it’s all fuzzy.”
Eltoar nodded slowly, then lifted his gaze to the lake. “Salara, there are people in this world who do not possess the strength of character that fills you. Today in the yard, you saw Aeson Virandr, saw his skill and his strength, and what did you do?”
“I…” She scrunched her face. “I don’t know.”
“You rose to meet him. You let his strength ignite your own, let his light be your permission to shine. You allowed yourself to become more.” Eltoar leaned back against the tree.
“But there are some people who let fear control them. Fear of their inadequacy, fear of failure – fear of everything. They would rather diminish a person’s light than rise to meet it.
That says more about their character than yours.
You are strong, you are bold, and you are brave.
And what’s more, you are kind and determined.
You will be the light that others look to when fear becomes them.
It is not an expectation I place on your shoulders, but a mere statement of fact.
Gathár is a small boy who fears your heart because he knows he is too meek to hold it. ”
Salara looked over at Eltoar, her eyes glistening from tears. She pulled her lips into a half smile, then leaned over and rested her head on Eltoar’s shoulder.
Eltoar closed his eyes, allowing that moment to fill his heart. And for just a second, he thought he could feel a second head on his opposite shoulder. And as long as his eyes remained closed, he could imagine Maquil sitting beside him.
After a few breaths, Eltoar let out a long sigh and opened his eyes, the dream of Maquil vanishing, swept away by the breeze while the moonlight shimmered on the silver-crested water.
“If a person loves you,” Eltoar whispered, not daring to move lest Salara stir, “they will thrive in the ocean of your strength. They will see you grow, and grow with you in return. Love, Salara, is like water to a tree. The more of it a person gives, the taller you will stand. Nobody who loves you will wish for you to shrink, and any who do have only love for themselves.”