Chapter Thirty-Five
KILLIAN’S EARS PRICKED at the distant sound of fighting, voices overlapping in shouts and calls, the roars of the beast as it raged. A difficult prey, it seemed. He thought they were best off going in the opposite direction.
Fyar had different plans, pressing his heels into his stallion’s sides, he changed course.
It was a mess by the time they arrived. Four hunters were brandishing spears at the massive form of a wild boar.
A brave but stupid task. The wild boars that roamed the forests were menaces, overgrown pigs the size of small houses with enough aggression pumping through their thick, hairy bodies to run the world into the ground.
They fought until their last breath, determined to take as many down with them as possible.
The smell of blood was acid in Killian’s nose, thick and coiling and heavy. Oppressive in the tense atmosphere, a reminder of what could happen if they dropped their guard.
A few of Killian’s men, along with the lords’ personal guards, watched from a distance.
They perched on low branches of the surrounding trees, climbing being the only escape from the ivory tusks and charging feet of the boar, their own weapons drawn and at the ready.
They wouldn’t step in, but they were prepared to protect themselves, if needed.
A jolt ran down Killian’s spine at the familiar voice now calling out for Hokda. Horrified, he saw Kade, kneeling beyond the fighting, waving an arm to get their attention. Kade’s hands were slick with blood and his expression panicked.
Despite aching to go to Kade, Killian didn’t move when Hokda jumped from his horse and threw his reins into Killian’s lap. He watched as Hokda picked his way through the forest, careful not to draw the attention of the boar.
Spears were thrown and arrows shot, but it was no use, they stuck into the thick armored hide of the boar but did little damage, only succeeding in angering it more.
A spear had broken off in the soft underbelly of the pig, and one of its legs dragged uselessly behind it.
It was wounded and slowing, yet it raged.
A cornered animal was a dangerous animal.
Thrashing wildly, the boar let out an ear shattering squeal.
Its stubby neck swinging every which way, the muscles in its legs bunching as it prepared to charge again.
The hunters in procession scattered, narrowly avoiding being hit by a singular long tusk protruding from the boar’s foaming mouth.
The other nothing more than a jagged, bloody stump.
The hunters were tiring, Killian could see it in the way that they panted, sweat dripping from their brows as they nursed injuries. Who knows how long they had been fighting.
It was clear that Fyar had no intention of joining this battle. He watched from his saddle, eyes tracking every move. His calm demeanor a direct contradiction to the chaos that was ensuing.
The hunters moved together, led by shouted orders from Lyra. His golden hair still shined even as his clothes were torn and dirty. When he spoke, the others listened and obeyed. Killian could see how he believed himself to have the makings of a king.
Under Lyra’s orders, the hunters baited the boar. One creeping close to draw its attentions while the others fronted an attack. Keeping steady behind their shields, they poured their magic into their limbs and their weapons, reinforcing them to strengthen their attacks as they charged in as one.
Together they toppled it, hauling it off its feet. The sharp points of their spears found their targets deep in the pig’s innards.
And with a final harrowing cry, the beast slumped over. Dead.
Victory.
Four colored flags were stuck into the body. The credit split between them at the end.
Killian grunted. Grudgingly impressed.
Lyra beamed at the others, patting them on the back and ruffling their hair, congratulating them on a job well done. Still blissfully unaware.
Until a whispered name changed it all and Lyra spun around, his cheerful grin falling into pure horror.
Killian and Fyar urged their horses forward, to get a better view. They couldn’t speak freely there, but the two shared a knowing glance. This would be good for them, in the long run.
“No. Porthos, no. No.” Lyra sank to his knees. “Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”
By the time that Hokda had arrived, Kade had done everything he could to try and save his patient. Empty bottles lay strewn on the forest floor, and he was exhausted, swaying with effort to keep himself upright. He’d poured so much en into Porthos’ wounds that he was nearly empty.
It hadn’t been enough.
Cradling his brother’s head in his lap, tears welled in Lyra’s eyes. He whispered to Porthos softly, running dirty fingers through blood matted hair.
“Do something!” Lyra shouted at the healers. “Hold on, little brother. It’ll be alright. You’ll be okay.”
Porthos barely had the strength to keep his eyes open, but he grasped his brother’s hand like a lifeline.
Blood lined his lips and stained his teeth.
The lower half of his right leg had been skewered, the flesh ripped clear off the bone.
A strip of cloth was tied tightly around his upper thigh to stave the bleeding.
A bit of white stuck out from the mess that was the prince’s abdomen. The boar’s other tusk. It was left embedded, the grey lining of his intestines spilling out around it through the gaping hole ripped through his body.
It was a gruesome and painful way to go.
“Captain,” Hokda called over his shoulder. “My other bag.”
Kade jolted.
Killian moved quickly, pulling the healer’s bag from his horse and delivering to his side. Then, he stepped back to join Fyar who had since dismounted.
Hokda’s hands glowed golden as he attempted his healing, attempted to pull Porthos back from the brink of death.
But he’d been stuck in limbo too long. Kade’s magic having prolonged his life, but not enough to really heal.
He’d faded too far, his own en had dimmed, depleted so much it couldn’t be drawn to the surface and aid in his rescue.
It was all on the healer now, and not even Hokda’s magic was enough.
“Give him something for the pain.” Hokda spoke to Kade. He caught Lyra’s eye and shook his head.
Lyra’s expression cracked open. He bent over Porthos, caressing his cheeks, trembling. He whispered of home in the west, and of the time they spent there together. Always together.
Kade leaned back on his haunches, face stricken and pale. He found Killian and he seemed to sag. Then, his eyes shifted and he caught sight of Fyar, and his expression hardened.
Stumbling, Kade moved towards them, a bit crazed.
Bracing himself, Killian stepped forward, blocking Kade’s advance, making himself a wall in front of the king. Kade barely seemed to notice, his eyes on Fyar alone.
“Save him,” Kade said. He spoke directly to Fyar. Bravely. Stupidly. “You can save him.”
“Me?” Fyar arched an eyebrow. “What could I do that you or Hokda could not? I’m no healer.”
“You have magic, and lots of it. He’s not healing because his own en is gone.” Kade was becoming frantic. “It’s all on us—the healer—so it takes double, triple, ten times the amount of magic it normally would. If you lend Hokda your magic, he could save him.”
Fyar blinked. His eyes flickered to the healer’s. “Would that work?”
Hokda scowled. A beat of silence. “It might. There’s no guarantee—”
“He’s not dead yet!” Kade begged. “You have to try.”
Fyar’s eyes flashed and he snarled at Kade as he pushed passed, but he knelt behind Hokda, and put a hand on the healer’s shoulder.
An explosion of gold filled the clearing, and for a moment, hope bloomed. Hokda tried again.
And then, the light faded.
Hokda lowered his head.
Nothing.
“No,” breathed Kade. “No. It should work. It should’ve worked. What did you do? What did you do so it wouldn’t work?”
Was Kade trying to get himself killed? “Stop.”
“You’re punishing him.” It was like Kade couldn’t hear him. “You’re letting him die.” He opened his mouth to continue shouting. “You—”
“Enough!” Killian barked, yanking Kade backwards, his grip on Kade’s arm bruising. “You stop this now, Apprentice.”
Kade looked stricken, a whine escaping his throat.
Lyra, who had been watching silently, made the final decision. Reaching down, he untied the tourniquet from Porthos’ thigh, letting fresh blood run rivers over the old, whispering comforts all the while.
A mercy. Porthos would go quickly.
Choking, sobbing, Kade turned to Killian, burrowing into his arms. Unable to watch his friend’s last moments.
Prince Porthos Yvylr died in his brother’s arms.
Killian thought he was lucky for that. There were worse ways to go.
The clearing was silent, still, not even the birds dared to chirp.
Fyar pushed to his feet, declaring the hunt over. A prince was dead, and all of Netyere would mourn him. Everyone was to return to the palace immediately.
Everyone moved except for Lyra who was still cradling Porthos in his arms, a faraway look in his eyes.
Kade had looked betrayed when Killian stepped away and mounted his horse alongside Fyar.
This was life, this was duty, it didn’t stop for anyone.
Killian would deal with Kade once they had a moment alone.
Fyar’s whispered voice carried. “Captain, I suggest you keep better control of your brother. The next time he speaks to me that way, he will live to regret it.”
A clear warning.
Kade lowered his head, face burning.
Kade felt like he was moving through water, everything slow and unfocused. He didn’t remember the journey back to the palace. He barely remembered trailing after the guards as they carried Porthos’ lifeless body to the infirmary, laying him down in one of the empty rooms.
Hokda ordered everyone out.
Kade didn’t go.
Surprisingly, Hokda didn’t force him to.
Instead, they worked together, cutting the blood soaked fabrics from Porthos’ body and washing him with soft cloth as if afraid to hurt him more.
Using his en like a needle and thread, Hokda sewed the gaping hole in Porthos’ body back together. It was crude and jagged and grey. So unlike Porthos who had always been so bright. So full of life.
There was a stiffness in the way that Hokda worked on preparing Porthos’ body that gave away his pain. How much losing an apprentice affected him. How much not being able to save him hurt.
They dressed Porthos in simple robes. They braided his hair and crossed his arms over his stomach. He looked like he could be sleeping.
Before leaving, Hokda stopped at Kade’s shoulder. He said, “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything right.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Kade didn’t look away from Porthos’ still face. “Did it really not work, or did he hold back?”
Hokda was silent for too long. “Stop being an idiot.” The door shut loudly behind the healer, and Kade was alone.
He was still angry at Porthos—furious, even—but he wished he could be mad at a Porthos that was still alive, who could yell back at him when they fought.
“I hate you,” Kade whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
But Porthos couldn’t hear him.
Porthos would never hear him again.
A sea of black stood at the edge of the riverbank, the starry sky a blanket covering them in a serene sort of stillness.
It was a fine night for a funeral, for a vigil, the skies clear and warm.
Kade hated funerals. He wanted to run and hide. He wanted to burrow into the safety of Killi’s bed and never resurface. He couldn’t face another death, so soon after his mother’s.
There was no river on the palace estate, so they had paraded through Ingara’s streets to the river that cut through the city. It was the same river that King Numar had floated after his death, as did his ancestors, and his ancestor’s ancestors.
Porthos would be honored alongside his family.
Lyra knelt next to the funerary boat, with sunken eyes and a grim expression.
He wore simple a black tunic and trousers.
The king stood a few paces behind Lyra as if he were watching over them, his head bowed.
Even Fyar had given up his signature white robes for the night, dressed in the same black garb as everyone else.
His hair free of its usual braids. A show of respect and solidarity.
How performative.
Kade glared at the back of Fyar’s head.
A lantern was held in every elf’s hand, to light the fallen prince’s way to the afterlife.
The archers took their place at Fyar’s mark and the crowd shuffled forward, giving Lyra and the boat a wide berth as they began to release the lanterns into the river one by one. Bobbing along in the current, the lanterns looked like fireflies dancing on the inky water.
When it was his turn, Kade knelt, put his lantern in the water, but didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
A warm hand, a familiar hand, closed over his, and it was only with their strength that Kade found it in himself to finally let go. Killi didn’t let go of his hand, only tightened his grip and led Kade back through the crowd.
Fyar didn’t even attempt to help Lyra push the boat into the river. Only after it had been released, did the king step into the water and join Lyra for the vigil.
Two silent figures, knee deep in the water, where they would stay until the sun was at her fullest the following morning.
Lyra didn’t even look at Fyar. His eyes trained only on Porthos. The last he would see of his brother was in the orange flames that consumed his body as the boat floated out of sight.
Killi was Kade’s anchor through it all, the only thing that felt real.
“You don’t have to stay,” Killi whispered to him. “You should go back to the palace. Rest.”
“You’re staying?” Kade asked. Killi nodded. “Hokda’s staying, too. I’m staying.”
Killi knew better than to argue.
They would stand the vigil, along with Fyar and Lyra, but they would stand it on dry land.