19. The Truth You Believe #2
“Maybe so,” Eltoar admitted. “And maybe I did tell him because my soul was weary from holding the knowledge. But the fact remains that we let those people burn. They died, Alvira. Forty thousand souls. We could have saved them, and we chose not to. It was the very same at Vastillion, but the Alvira I knew then refused to listen to her Archon, refused to listen to me. You were fire incarnate. There was nothing in this world that would have stopped you from mounting Vyldrar and doing everything you could to save the city. What happened to that Alvira? To the Alvira who pushed and challenged and stood when everything around her bid her kneel? Where is that Alvira?”
To Eltoar’s surprise, Alvira didn’t rage against him.
A tear welled in her eye as she spoke. “She was too naive for this world. She is buried with Maquil.” Alvira shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter what you said to the council.
I killed Maquil that day. My actions. My recklessness…
I took him from you, and I am sorry. That version of me was selfish and idiotic.
My head was filled with songs of heroes.
I didn’t listen to you then, and Maquil paid the price. ”
“Then listen to me now.”
“I am listening. If Thalumas was involved in Vastillion, he will be tried. He will be brought to justice along with every damn member of the council. I swear it. But I need something. Please. All Fane wants is chaos. We can fix what is broken, we can heal the wounds. If we do nothing, nothing changes. But we must do it the right way or else everything falls apart. We must bring undisputable evidence to our brothers and sisters, so that nothing can be turned upon us.”
“And what of the council as it is now, Alvira? How will they answer for their crimes? It was not just Loik Hass and the others so long ago… The Lyonin War was a war for gold and for power. And we just… we bent our knees, and we obeyed.”
“We can change it, Eltoar.” Alvira clasped Eltoar’s forearms. “Everything is a balance. But together, we can make this right. We can ensure that things like Lyona do not happen again. I… I have not been strong enough with the council. I will be stronger. We will be stronger.”
“It’s too late, Alvira.”
She looked up at him, those eyes peering into his soul. “It’s never too late. I am sorry for Maquil, and for everything. We can make it right. It will take time, but we can make it right.”
Alvira wrapped her arms around him and he around her. And for a brief moment Eltoar could lie to himself. He could believe Alvira was right, that they could fix things.
But in his heart as he stood there, he finally realised that Fane’s understanding of things was the truth. Alvira would never see the other side. She would never see that the rot had gone too deep, that the council would not yield their power.
And even if she did, she could never do what needed to be done.
She would not sacrifice her honour for the sake of the world.
She would die for it, refusing to see the world for what it was.
And while she did, more innocent souls would burn because she was too afraid to do what was needed.
She was too afraid to make a mistake. There would be more Orinhales, more Vastillions, more Lyonas. Eltoar could not let that happen.
He would not lie to himself as she did. He would see the truth for what it was. For anything that was desired in life, a cost need always be paid. And there were only ever two choices: will you pay the cost yourself or will you allow another to pay it for you?
Eltoar was done letting others pay the cost.
I will be your sacrifice. I will stand for the dead.
Fane found Eltoar precisely where he thought he would: standing before the statue of Varahír once more. Though thankfully this time not in the middle of a storm.
Helios lay behind him, his enormous black head resting on the earth, those crimson eyes open and watching.
Fane stepped up beside his friend, looking over the gargantuan statue. He didn’t speak. There was no point. Eltoar would tell him what had happened with Alvira, and it was better to let him do so in his own time.
The elf drew in a long breath of autumn air.
“You were right. Alvira…” He let a short sigh out from his nostrils.
“Even with the letters before her, even though I truly think that she believed me… even then, she still clung to the idea that everything can simply be fixed by time and perseverance. But time will not breathe life back into Maquil’s lungs.
Time will not let Orinhale rise from the ashes.
And while we wait, while we sit on our hands, more people will suffer.
It has all gone too far. Epheria needs change, or the innocent will continue to die while thanking the gods for what little they have.
And the gods will answer no prayers because they do not listen…
” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They do not listen.”
“I’m sorry, my friend. I know what it would have meant for you to have her at your side.
” Fane meant what he said. In his heart, he had hoped that in some strange twist of events, Eltoar would prove him wrong.
That Alvira might see the truth in front of her.
Everything to come would have been easier if that were the case.
Eltoar was right, perhaps it could have avoided bloodshed all together.
Though, that would have been unlikely. Alas, that was not the path.
And once more, what Amatkai had shown him held true.
There was no avoiding what was to come. “Where is your heart now?”
“I am ready. I do not want it, I do not take pleasure in it, but I will do what must be done. Just promise me something?”
“What is it?”
“We must spare as many lives as possible, must bring as many to our side as we can. I…” Eltoar’s mouth hung open. “We… Those who fight for the council are still my kin. They are still Draleid, they still want for the best of things.”
Fane nodded slowly. “On that I can agree wholeheartedly. Not a drop of blood need be spilled where it can be avoided.”
“Thank you.”
Fane dropped his hand to the pocket of his cloak, feeling the outline of the gemstone within. There was always going to come a point at which he would need to do what would happen next. But the choosing of that point would be the difference between life or death.
He looked at Eltoar as the elf stared up at Varahír. A twinge of sadness bloomed in Fane, for he had never seen Eltoar look so devoid of hope, so lost.
“His heart is broken…” A voice whispered in his head.
He knew it. Had heard it before. Efialtír had whispered to him ever since Mar Dorul, ever since Amatkai had set him on this path.
The irony was not lost on Fane. A god whispering to a man who abhorred gods.
“His will is shaken... He is vulnerable.”
Fane shook his head, pushing the voice away. “Eltoar?”
Eltoar turned his head just slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“‘And the gods will answer no prayers because they do not listen’,” Fane repeated Eltoar’s words.
Eltoar closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky. “I have always believed that the gods watched over us. That Varyn was within us, within our hearts. That Achyron would guide us in times of war, and that Elyara would steer our destinies. I… I’ve always believed.”
“But now you falter?” Fane watched Eltoar’s lip twitch at the question.
“There is no fault in it, Eltoar. I am where you are. The gods may have one day cared for this world, but that day is long gone. They leave us now in a world filled with war and disease and death. They watch us tear each other apart and do nothing to stop it.”
“I believe they are there,” Eltoar said, staring off into the distance. “I simply no longer believe they care for our fates.
“I must tell you something, and I need you to listen. Can you do that?”
Eltoar turned to face him now, apprehension in his eyes. “That depends on what you tell me.”
“No.” Fane shook his head. “You must swear to listen. Have I done you wrong at any point?”
Eltoar inclined his head. “Speak.”
“On your honour, Eltoar.”
Eltoar hesitated a moment, then nodded an acknowledgement.
Fane reached his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the gemstone within, feeling it call to him, feeling it probe at his mind. Slowly, he lifted the stone from his pocket, the soft red glow of its light drifting through his fingers.
Eltoar looked curiously at Fane’s hand, staggering backwards when Fane opened his palm to reveal the glowing red gemstone.
“Fane…” Eltoar dropped his hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it to be.”
Fane looked down at the stone. “We have been lied to, Eltoar. Our entire lives, we have been sung a song written by the victors of a war that ended before time itself began.”
“Tell me that is not Blood Magic, Fane. I need to hear the words leave your lips.”
Fane looked down at the gemstone in his palm, a soft smile on his lips. “You swore you would listen, on your honour.”
Eltoar pulled a deep breath through his nostrils, his chest swelling. His hand did not leave the pommel of his sword, nor did his muscles relax. He looked around quickly to see if any other souls had wandered into the yard. “Speak. But take care with every breath you use.”
Fane continued to stare down at the stone.
“With all the lies we have been told in our years, is it too much to think we were told another? ‘Blood Magic.’” Fane gave a soft laugh at that.
“When we go to war, when we charge into battle, when The Order allows the slaughter of forty thousand innocent souls… is no blood spilled?”
“It is not the same, Fane.”
“And why not?” Fane lifted his gaze, challenging Eltoar. “Tell me why? Or do you not know? Because we were not taught to challenge, to question?”
“It’s simply not. Blood Magic is of the traitor god. You know this.”