Endsong

.one. ~ Faelan

         Mud caked his boots as Faelan Tightbow made his way along the bank of the Twinriver, saddlesore and ready to stretch his legs. The half day’s ride along the River Road had been arduous before he’d veered off, crossing the waters where they thinned and didn’t threaten to swallow a man whole. On the other side, the path became less obvious and more treacherous. No place for horseback. He’d been forced to go on foot the remainder of the way.
         All for an errant Princeling.
         Were he not a member of the Crownsguard and sworn to lay down his life for the King and royal family, he may have gotten lost right there in the Mistwood. As it was, this was not the first time he’d made this trek, but Gods be good, it would be the last.
         He’d grown up in these woods, as many of the Elves of Leís had. Knew that dangers came in many forms, though in these parts, still so close to the walls of the city, danger meant wolves and the occasional direbear. Brigands were known to travel the road on occasion, but only the bold or foolish would come this close to Leís and the harpies beyond the city seldom traveled this far West. If nothing else, Faelan thought the princeling had chosen one of the safest spots in the Mistwood to shanty up in. For that, at least, he was grateful.
         Ahead of him, the ground bore away as an open cliff face looked out into a gulley. Another spoke of the river rushed fervently there, a good hundred feet below, bubbling boisterously as the more challenging of the two waterways. Faelan stopped only briefly to look out over the cliff face, struck by the beauty of the land as Elves often were, before he continued a few paces East along the cliff. There, jutting out from the stone, he found an uneasy path of rock and moss. It descended the cliff a ways like some ancient stairway of their forefathers before ending at a flat landing Faelan knew to conceal a cavemouth.
         Mindful of his step, he began the path, weary of the fall. The things he did for his King.
         “My son has been too long gone,” King Edar had told him that morning, knowing Faelan to not only be a dutiful Crownsguard but a childhood friend of the prince. It had been no surprise he’d come to him, rather than his Lord Commander. Faelan had often watched after the princeling, used to his antics and bouts of melancholy. “I’d have him here for my brother’s arrival. He’ll expect no less of his nephew.”
         “The Prince knows of King Rolar’s visit. I am certain he is already upon the road.” The King had smirked, but not called him upon his lie. “If your Majesty would like me to go out and meet him, see that he makes it home safely…?”
         A curt nod had greeted him and he’d been on his way.
         As he reached the landing, the wind picked up and Faelan reached for the rocky outcrop of the cavemouth to keep his balance. Squinting into the darkness, he could pick up a faint glow of candlelight flickering from around as massive pillar of stone. He passed a small hotspring as he entered, lit with iridescent stone that gave the cave entrance an eerie pale glow. He resisted the urge to wash his windburnt face in the warm, inviting waters, not here to fiddle with this dark paradise the prince had seemed to find. To him, this place was more the home of a Dark Elf and he wondered not for the first time if his childhood companion did not have some wayward blood in his lineage.
         Rounding a sharp pillar of stone, he was not taken aback by the scene before him, already knowing what he was going to find. There, among a bed of furs and blankets, lay two figures. They were a tangle of limbs and body. One with wheat color hair, tousled and splayed as she laid her head on the bare chest of a familiar raven haired princeling. Crown Prince Lendolar. Darkcrown they’d named him at his birth, for the dark head of hair he’d been blessed with from the womb. Destined to become Lendolar Elfking when the time came for his father to retire the crown.
         He watched them in silence. How easy it had been to enter the cave and stand here as they laid bare and exposed. Were he a brigand or assassin, they would not be long for this world. Preparation for a stern talking churned in his gut. To the both of them, for the fair haired maiden in the princelings arm was familiar to him. Josys Whispervale, Faelan’s own sister.
         There was no ill will there. In the beginning, mayhap there’d been some. Faelen had thought it young love, a fool’s romance and attraction. Not sure which he had been more protective of, his blood or a princeling he thought of as a brother. In the end, love had won out, he supposed. Lendolar treated her as a queen and maybe one day she would be, should the two decide to marry. It was not the custom of the Elves to wait until marriage before consummating a vow of love, so Faelan held no qualms for the more carnal aspect of their relationship. At least, not much. As blind of an eye as a brother could turn for a dear sister.
         As if reading his thoughts, it was Josys who stir first. She shifted against her mate and then those emerald eyes came alive, peering into the candlelit darkness. Her body went rigid as her gaze fell upon him and he could see the moment recognition scoured through them. His own arms crossed his chest. She had not even gone for a weapon.
         “Faelan,” she breathed, relief coloring his name.
         “Had I meant you ill will…” he began, but Josys was having none of the lecture. She sat up and Faelan averted his eyes from her bare body. She heard him jostle the sleeping prince.
         “Wake, my love,” she bade him. “We have company.”
         A groggy groan. “Tightbow.” The disdain was there in the princelings voice and Faelan could only snort at it. He knew Lendolar did not mean it. Knew the prince better than anyone. The two had been friends for as long as Faelan could remember. Some might even say it had been that friendship that had led him to taking the oath of the Crownsguard. Though Faelan would claim otherwise. Claim that while yes, his friendship to Lendolar had some involvement in his taken the oath, it had been the death of Lendolar’s brother, Soras Lightleaf, that had truly gotten him to bend the knee. He’d not lose another friend and brother on his watch, for Soras had been as much a friend as Lendolar.
         It was that solemn memory of the young prince taken before his prime that had Faelan reserving any heated remark. After the death of his brother, Prince Lendolar had grown distant and disdainful of the crown. Not without reason. While missing a brother may be meaning enough for bouts of melancholy, Soras had been Lendolar’s twin. Like king Edar and his brother Rolar. And like the kings before them and the kings before them. It was always supposed to be a pair of twins sitting upon the twin thrones of the Elven kingdoms. This would be the first generation in a long lineage of twin kings that would break tradition and bloodlines. It did not bode well for either king’s reign. It was this knowledge that stayed Faelan’s fury at the contempt for the crown.
         “Yes, it is I, bane of your waking,” Faelan jested sardonically, stepping forward and grabbing a light piece of fabric from the floor of the cave. He recognized it immediately, a silky green riding undershirt, and walked over to the two of them, handing the garb out for Josys to take, so she’d at least have her modesty in front of him.
         “Is it time to return already?” Lendolar asked, stretching his limber arms above his head. He was thin and lithe, as most every Elf was and save for his dark complexion, he was the picture of royalty fairness. Usually. Now, in the buck nude, he looked too free spirited for a son of a king. His modesty was in short supply and Faelan soured his face at him. “We were just getting comfortable.”
         A knowing smile passed across Josys’s face and she, at least, had the decency to stand and begin to dress herself. Lendolar’s arm outstretched towards her, trying to pull her back to bed, but Faelan bent and flung more clothes at the bedridden prince before he could accomplish his goal.
         “Your Uncle is arriving in two days time,” Faelan told him, suddenly serious. “Your father bids you to be there when he arrives.”
         A groan. “Do you know what my Uncle’s arrival means?” Lendolar asked, tucking his arms back beneath his head, showing no sign of rising from the bed.
         “It means that Calé and Leís are still in each other’s good graces.”
         A laugh. “No. It means court,” Lendolar’s face screwed up in dread. “Courts and feasts and tournaments...and cajoling.”
         “That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Faelan told him.
         “Then you’re welcome to be Prince in my stead.” Lendolar threw a shirt back at him, which Faelan caught deftly and tossed straight back the Prince. “I have no taste for it.”
         A sigh escaped the princeling, though, because as petulant as he could be when it came to his duties, he wasn’t insolent. He sat up and ran his hands over his face. Faelan gave him time, glanced at Josys who was buttoning her riding leathers and watching the prince as well. At last, she pulled her golden hair to the side, starting to brush the kinks out of it before she offered her own opinion.
         “Your cousin will be there.”
         Wise beyond her years, Faelan thought. Though the words sent a shudder down his own spine. Aolis Steelsong was the crown prince of Calé. Born without a twin and never destined to be crown prince until the day Soras died. Now, he would sit upon the golden throne of Calé when his father retired the crown and rule the Elven kingdoms alongside his cousin. There were as differing of opinions on the matter as there were people in the kingdoms. While Faelan himself could not rightfully picture the prince on the throne, too wild and too arrogant, Lendolar adored his dear cousin with all his heart.
         As if viewing this news in a new light, Lendolar’s face went mad with some unspoken scheme. Faelan could already tell he would not like whatever the young prince was cooking. Lendolar sat up, pulling on a shirt before he stood and went in search of his pants. “A saving grace,” was all he said of his scheme.
         “Saving grace for whom?” Faelan complained.
         He exchanged a look with his sister, who merely smirked back at him. She held a quiet attitude towards the crown prince of Calé. Neither like nor dislike, as she phrased it. In Josys’s eyes, she had only one king and that was the future king she took to bed most nights.
         “It has been far too long since Aolis’s last visit,” the Prince was saying as he dressed, a listlessness to his voice as he daydreamed. Faelen didn’t like the sound of it.
         Neither did Josys. “He’s your prince,” she whispered to him. “Counsel him.”
         “He’s your lover, you should counsel him,” he spat back.
Lendolar appeared again, pulling on his pants with a sly grin on his face. He came up next to Faelan and unceremoniously threw an arm around his shoulders. Not the act of a prince, Faelan thought, but then when did he ever act the prince around him? “Faelan, are you still sore Aolis beat you in the archery competition last spring?” he asked, as if grinding his heel into a forgotten, festering wound.
         Faelan, aged by his vows to the Crownguard, cast them aside for a moment and couldn’t help the childish anger that rose up in him. He had been named Tightbow at his birth and there were few that could claim to live up to their birth names as severely as Faelan could. He was a master of archery and even helped the armsmen train the newly appointed soldiers and guards. To be beaten by a sniveling, arrogant prince of Calé…
         “I was never sore,” he held his chin up high, a sure sign he meant the words. “He won on a technicality.”
         Lendolar laughed. “Surely,” he clapped Faelan on the back before looking around the cave once more. This was a place he called home when home became too much for him and even in all their jesting, Faelan could see the look of dread hidden in the prince’s eye. He truly did not want to return home. Truly wanted nothing to do with the crown or the courts or the feasts or the cajoling. Faelan thought that if Lendolar had his way, he would live his hermit life until his dying day. Forsake the kingship and the crown and the duty. Though, he knew him better than that. Eventually, Lendolar would take the crown and he would try to be a good king for his people. And if Faelan was still Crownsguard, he would surely help see the man succeed.
         “If we leave now, we will make it home before nightfall,” Faelen told his prince gently.
         “I am ready,” Lendolar said, solemnly.
         It was Faelan’s turn to clap him on the shoulder and he steered the man towards the entrance of the cave, hearing Josys trail behind. They ascended the stone stair and made their way back to Faelan’s horse. He asked where they had hitched their own and as Lendolar started to point in a direction, a sound reached all of their ears. A braying of horses, of hooves on loose stone along the River Road and the squeak of a wheel from a wagon being drawn. Faelan held up a hand, taking command of the situation and signaling for his companions to keep their quiet.
         Not long afterwards, the riders came into view, slightly, barred by the trees. Two dozen of them, maybe more. Traveling in a line behind a horse drawn covered wagon. Faelen’s keen eyes caught sight of no banner and the figures atop their horses wore dark armor, aged and beaten. They were of a house of Men and while they were too finely dressed and armored to be Brigands, they bore no house name. They were not from a Lord’s house. It had been far too long since a band of Men had seen their way into the Mistwood. They were headed in the direction of Leís. Faelan stayed silent, near to his horse who he patted and stroked to keep quiet as the company of Men passed through, unknowingly watched by the three Elves.
         When they were a ways down the road and almost out of sight, he looked towards Lendolar to see if his companion shared the same sense of curiosity. Or was that dread he was feeling? Lendolar’s face was drawn tight, his eyes squinting as he watched the last of them disappear into the forest. As if sensing someone watching, he turned to meet Faelan’s eyes.
         “Why would a company of Men come to Leís?” he asked, seeking Faelan’s soldier wisdom.
         “Are they passing through?” Josys suggested.
         “No,” Faelan said with some certainty. “They would have taken the Long Road. These Men took the River Road, they mean to go to Leís. For what purpose, I say we should find out when we arrive.” He nodded, knowing now that his duty would spur them to follow behind.