Endsong

.three. ~ Acara

         They brought the dark elf to his knees before Palidor Shadowking, seated atop his obsidian throne in the Kingshall of the Hollow Mountain. A great moonstone chandelier shone ethereally pale, casting a glow of beryl blue among the nobles gathered for the trial. Acara Darktalon sat left of the throne, daughter to the king and to his right, her brother, Drakos Ironheart both clad in the deep green garb of their household. Beside them sat the seven great lords of the Grand Halls, each represented by the colors they wore and jewels they braided into their hair. The tribunal had gathered to determine the fate of the dark elf on his knees.
         The orator stepped forward.
         “Andor Stoneborn, you kneel before the regal Palidor Shadowking, King Beneath the Hollow Mountain and His Grand Council, accused of going beyond the mountain and Obsidian Gate to the surface world where our enemy does dwell. How do you plea?”
         Andor, the dark elf on trial, bowed his head and observed a moment of silence, which he was granted. He was not of noble birth, nor was he of any great importance to the shadow realm of the dark elves. A stonemason’s son and not a very good one at that. He had dark hair that held no beads and the blistered hands of a tradesman. Yet he had gone beyond the mountain, through a cracked tunnel in the recesses of the Mason’s Hall, to the surface world. A crime punishable by death in the laws of the Dark Elves.
         Eons ago, the Dark Elves had been Elves, banished for treason to the Hollow Mountain to live the rest of their days in darkness and solitude. Their forefathers had established the Grand Halls, had built a city beneath the mountain and for countless centuries their race had lived and flourished in the darkness. Their skin had grown pale, greyish green in the light of the moonstones instead of the sun. Their eyes had adjusted to the shadows so that even in pitch black, they could see the drab world around them. They made their homes from stone and marble instead of bark and moss. They had thrived here, inside the mountain.
         Yet still, they were Elves at heart and their hearts were with the trees. None grew in the blackness of the city save for cave moss and swamp grass. It was not uncommon for a Dark Elf to one day feel the call of an ancient forest, feel the need for sap beneath their fingers and leaves in their hair and stars above their head. Once a Dark Elf felt the call, they’d never know joy or passion again. They would only mourn some ancient memory for the rest of their days and in their mourning, many a Dark Elf had drown themselves in the Lake of the Cairn to end their suffering.
         Acara thought of that now, while Andor Stoneborn bowed is head. She thought of him going beyond the mountain and wondered at what he saw there. She dare not ask.
At last, he lifted his head and when he spoke, it was with an iron poise. “I plead myself guilty, on all accounts.”
A hushed murmur made its way through the nobles and it wasn’t until the king raised a hand to silence them that it stopped. He did not mean to defend himself? Nothing to say on his own behalf? Acara gawked at him, gaze boring holes into the man’s countenance, but he would not look at her.
         The orator opened his mouth to accept the plea, but it was the King who spoke first.
         “A crime punishable by death.” His voice echoed in the throne room. He was not a soft spoken king, nor had he ever been at home in gowns spun of silk or velvet. Palidor Shadowking was a king of the stone, formidable and mighty. When he spoke, the walls seemed to quake in the presence of his voice. When he spoke, he commanded the people and the nobles stood stock still in their attendance of him. Even Acara, who was born of the king and had been raised by his hand, shifted slightly in her seat to calm her churning belly. “You know this.” It wasn’t a question.
         “Yes, my king,” Andor remained steadfast, though his pallor had grown twofold.
         Palidor contemplated this. “You will say nothing in your defense?”
         A small shake of Andor’s head. “I committed the crime. I will not lie in the presence of the Obsidian Throne.”
         “Yet you lie right now,” Palidor accused.
         To this, Andor’s eyes widened, his brow furrowing and Acara saw truth displayed upon his face, even if his words didn’t bely them. He gave himself away in that moment. “What lie have I given, my king? I admitted to the crime, I will accept my punishment.”
         “You omit the truth,” Palidor boomed, sitting up straight on his throne. “You did not act alone. Someone sent you beyond the mountain.”
         “No, my king,” Andor denied and if nothing else, his eyes stayed on their king. “I acted alone. I swear to this.”
         Acara knew her father well enough to know the fury burning in his chest. She could see it in his eyes, though his face remained as a placid lake. He was ever an elf of doubt and shadows, seeing threats behind every corner and daggers in the dark. It was the way of the dark elves, when left to their own ambitions locked away in the Hollow Mountain without a threat from the outside world, they often found threats among themselves. Trickery and treason. The seven lords of the Grand Halls, while standing united now, each had a flock of spies at their disposal, deception their favorite game of all. It was a vie for power, always. Acara’s own bloodline had not always been upon the Obsidian Throne. They had taken it, many generations before. And they were not the first to do so.
         “Name your master and I will spare your life.”
         Another hushed gasp spread through the audience of nobles and even Acara glanced towards her father. Mercy had never been his aptitude. He seldom stayed his hand and it surprised her now how greatly he wanted the name of the one who would send a spy beyond the mountain.
         “Name your master,” Palidor demanded again.
         Andor did not hesitate, he only steeled his jaw. Resolve unfazed. “I acted alone.”
         “You lie in the eyes of the Throne, name your master.”
         “I cannot, I have none,” Andor insisted.
         She thought he would get angry. Thought he would bang those fists again the throne and demand it of Andor again, demand to know the Master behind the plot, the reason why he had to leave the mountain. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat back in his throne and nodded his head once. “Then die a heretic. Your house is shamed. Mountainscorned they will be named, so that all may know of their heresy.”
         The words were sharp. To die a heretic brought great shame upon one’s house and Andor’s house was already of the commoners. Now, it was all but written in stone that it would forever stay that way. Outcasts and infidels.
The orator, at last, stepped forward again. “We shall call a vote,” he announced.
Immediately, the great lords began to cast their votes. “Guilty,” they parroted, one after another until the vote finally came to Drakos, her brother.
         “Guilty,” he said, not a hint of emotion in his voice. This was but another trial for him, no stakes in the game at all.
         It was her turn now and her heart ached as she said the word. “Guilty.”
         Finally, it fell upon the king, who stood from his throne and looked down upon the face of Andor Stoneborn and declared him, “Guilty.”
         The guards came then to pull Andor to his feet and as they marched him from the Kingshall, all the tribunal and nobles followed. Acara rose from her seat, pulled up the skirts of his gown and made her way with the procession to the great balcony above the city. A massive rise above the great halls, it stood a beacon of their survival. A colossal brazier burned with azure oil fire, lighting the city the way the moon lit the surface world and moonstone glittered on the cavern ceiling like stars in the sky. From here, Acara could see the whole of the city, the archways to all the Grand Halls, the marketplace and common lands and the Lake of the Cairn crashing peacefully among rocky beaches.
         They gathered at the back of the balcony, none ventured too close to it’s open edge, where a good six hundred foot drop separated them from the city roofs. Andor was brought to stand along the edge, a guard on each arm and still, his chin held high.
         “Do you have any last words?” the orator thought to ask.
         “My king,” Andor called to Palidor. “May you let live in the light of the stars.”
         Palidor’s face soured, for a Dark Elf knew no stars and the words of insult. He nodded to the guards on either side and Andor was faced away from the crowd, towards the edge of the balcony as a large gong was rung, it’s tingy drum thrumming through the city. From somewhere off the in the distance, a cry answered the call and before long, two black figures in the sky melted in from the shadows. They were scaled beasts on wings of wicked leather. Wyrms. Not dragons, by not as skinny as the wyverns. Cave wyrms, a distant cousin of the grander lizards. They floated out there, above the lake, like two darting shadows flitting in a breeze unseen.
         Andor’s breath became paltry. “An honorable way to die.”
         Palidor growled low in his throat. “Mountainscorned,” he reminded him.
         With that the guards shoved Andor from the edge of the balcony. He neither screamed not yelled. He simply fell. Out above the water, the lightly flittering dark shadows changed their courses in an instant. They came screeching towards the falling elf and in a matter of moments, before he had even hit the ground, they had closed in on him. One wyrm caught him between its jaws middair above the shoulder. The other swooped in and caught a leg and together, they rend him asunder. The nobles gasped and guffawed, some clapped and others cheered.
         Acara stood quiet.
         When it was over and the wyrms had disappeared with their spoils, the crowd began to disperse. Acara spent the rest of her day amidst nobles who coddled her and asked her her thoughts on the matter. She answered all of them the same, that the heretic had gotten what he’d deserved. When the hour grew late and there were less nobles to be entertained, she excused herself from those that remained and ventured the city, making her way from one hall to another before she finally climbed out onto the stones of the beach and stood before the massive Lake of the Cairn.
It’s waters were black, moonstone reflected in its surface. She stood there for a long time, listening to the breaking of waves upon rock. What she wouldn’t give to strip herself of her clothes and climb into that frigid water, feel the icyness of it on her skin. The urge became too great and she removed her slippers from her feet, pulling up the edge of her gown as she stuck one foot and then the other into the water, watching her pale skin slip beneath its onyx surface.
         She started to move deeper.
         “Acara.” The voice had her gasping, eyes opening and she hadn’t remembered slipping them closed. She knew the voice well.
         “Drakos.”
         Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw her brother standing at the edge of the water. He shared the dark hair of their father and chiseled face of their departed mother. He was heir to the crown and but Drakos had always insisted he was better commanded than commander. He had no loved for the throne nor want for the crown.
         Though they bickered and spat at each other in the eyes of the world, the truth was far more dangerous. There was no one she trusted more in this world than her dearest brother and his sentiment was returned tenfold. Where he had been an emotionless pawn sitting on the tribunal, now he had a worried look etched upon his face. She graced him with a smile to try and ease it. Turning, she made her way carefully back to where he stood.
         “You feel the call today,” Drakos commented, quietly, though he needn’t fear. There were no hidden ears in the shadows out here. This was often where they came to talk.
         “Stronger than most days,” she gave him gently, knowing how much he worried for her. His hand held out, helping her out of the water and over to where her slippers sat on slippery rocks. She fastened them back on and looked over at him. “I am not here to drown myself, Drakos,” she assured him.
         A skeptical look crossed his face. “But you are wracked with guilt.”
         The words cut, sharpened by truth.
         “They sealed the tunnel,” she told him.
         “We will dig others,” Drakos countered.
         “They will be wary now.”
         “And we will be more careful.”
         She closed her eyes. “He was good and he was loyal and now he is dead. His house shamed, he will never…-”
Drakos moved forward, placing his hands on either of her shoulders, cutting off the words. A kiss was grazed across her forehead and she looked up at her brother with wide, dark eyes. “No one chooses this path without also choosing the risk it involves. Andor knew this, when he chose to follow you.”
         Acara’s heart ached. She had done her best to stay quiet during the trial and execution. Done her best to look none the more bothered for the death of a commoner. But Andor Stoneborn had been hers. Her spy, her confidant, her sectary. He’d never named her as master, never cast his gaze to her to seek absolution or saving, and had gone to his grave with her secret. He’d believed in what he was fighting for. Believed in their apostasy. One day, the Dark Elves would not be forced to live in the darkness anymore. One day, they would emerge from the Hollow Mountain and reclaim their position among the free peoples of Isolace. And they had already chosen their ruler.
         Acara Darktalon, queen beyond the mountain.