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Elyan ag Mórgwnystrad
Male / Twenty Five / Human
"Each man is a hero and an oracle to somebody."
The foreigner nodded, slowly. It was enough to hear what he had heard. He did not wish the children to suffer through the memories that he had brought to the forefront. Elyan cleared his throat, removing what was left of the witch-words from the edges of his trachea. He stared at the young knight, and the dark lady, his golden eyes sticky and soft in his sockets. The young knight’s face was contorted with surprise. He did not expect this, and yet, it was happening. There was the uncertainty of his movements, a jerkiness that conveyed his inexperience. But his words were different. Soft words, words that had been spoken before. Elyan understood that the words were not meant for this girl, this boy, this room, or this place. Those words belonged to somebody else. A girl. She was gone now, dead or lost. Maybe he would dream it, alongside all of the other dreams he had. He would dream of Samuel and the girl who was no longer here, but who still worked her way into all of his words. The foreigner’s fist curled at his side, his fingertips pressing against the cut on the inside of his palm. It ached, as if there were slivers of wood inside of it, something splintered and broken. But Elyan knew that there was nothing.
The girl sobbed loudly, and her sobbed echoed through the bloody chamber. They bounced off of the walls, only somewhat muffled by the blanket that the dark woman had provided. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, a wrinkling in her nose, a sigh in her throat. The sigh was drowned out by the crying, but Elyan could hear it. He watched as the dark woman took a step back from the girl, as if she was about to explode. He watched her eyes shimmer in the dim light of the room, shimmering with the moistness that comes with true pity. Elyan gave her a small nod, and a thin-lipped smile. It was meant to be encouraging, and while his eyes glinted with the truth of the smile, there was something about it that seemed terribly out of place. Maybe it was the blood in the room, or maybe it was the way that the foreigner’s fingers curled at his sides, but there was something ever so slightly off.
Elyan looked at the doctor, and then, towards the boy. He listened as the emotionless words tumbled from his mouth. He wondered if the boy had ever been enchanted before. He did not think so - he ahd put up no resistance at all. Perhaps that was simply because he was weak and tired, and it was so much harder to resist just giving in. Elyan had given in too, once. But that was then, and this was now, and the boy was telling him about what had happened. Arnkerrfell. He knew of it, from studying the old maps. It was nestled in the midst of the mountains, in a hot, arid region of the world. It had a long history, the troubled city. The foreigner had heard stories of it in his travels, and many of the stories concerned the frequent raids upon the town by nomadic mountain peoples that lived in the area. There was a trick to earning their friendship; a gift of horse, a gift of spice, and a gift of gold. That was the bounty that you needed to to pay for safety from these people; but Arnkerrfell had been poor a long time. Most of the desert mountains were only ruins, now. Ruins and sand and blood.
From Arnkerrfell the slavers took them North, to Askal’s Deep. Elyan’s nose wrinked, and he nodded. There must be a fairly large operation there. Askal Hoppskyr had guards of his own, guards for the mines, and slave masters. More than a mine, Elyan suspected, it would be a light fort, liekly made from the same old stones that Pól had walked along so many years ago. Pól had run through the mountains, fleeing the enemies of the Feaseia ; enemies who sought to stick a sword through all that still held the Messiah in their hearts. Many of the others had stayed behind, ready to share in the same fate of their Feaseia. Elyan’s own people had run, and so had Pól ; survival was far more important than sacrifice. But the story went that as Pól was running, he stopped to drink from a mountain stream. He saw his reflection in the water, all horrible and monstrous from malnutrition and fear. A horrible idea crept into Pól’s heard. He knew where the gwerin had gone. He could spare himself the terror, and return to Skarisfall. He could fall on his knees, and tell the enemies of the Messiah where the faithful had gone, and they would reward him for this. Pól would never have to live in fear.
Elyan’s eyes snapped towards the children. His eyes were clear and bright, but his tone remained soft, and gentle ; honeyed words. “Thank you. I don’t need to know more; but anything else you can tell us will be welcome.” The foreigner’s eyes returned to the corpse of their mother, laying flat and still upon the ground. The flies were buzzing loudly, the clatter of their wings was almost deafening. The foreigner approached the corpse of the woman, taking a deep breath. He held that breath in, so that he would not smell what he was smelling. Elyan’s touch, though, was tender. He reached down a hand to touch the mother’s cheek. Her flesh cracked beneath his touch, but the brush of his finger tips was the same as a lovers. Not lusty, but truly in love. The foreigner gently reached down to press against the holes of her eyes, as if brushing down eyelids that were no longer there. His hand moved down the woman’s face, towards her mouth. His fingers delicately plucked the tongue that lolled from rotting gums, and slid it back into her mouth. He pushed her mouth closed.
The mother was dead, but she looked like a person, not a hideous parody of death. Not what long-lived elves or ancient dwarves thought of, when they thought of the short lived human. Elyan’s eyes lifted from the woman’s corpse, and they were running. It was like amber, or warm candlewax running down his face, thicker than tears, softer than tears. The dampness mad his eyes shine like candles, and what light there was caught on his cheeks. The foreigner’s voice, however, came out sharper than more, and it was as if the contrast between light and shadow in the room increased as he spoke - the darks becoming darker, the bright becoming brighter. His voice was controlled, and clear ; the words spoken slowly but deliberately. The witch-words had returned, and this time, the words were meant for both the girl and the boy. “Come with the good doctor and I, and we’ll tend to your injuries in a better place. Everything will be alright.” He meant it. Even if he didn’t — it didn’t matter. The witch-words made it true, whether or not it was. It was true for the girl, for the boy, and for anyone who heard it.
Without another word, the foreigner unhooked the scarlet cloak from his back. It was thick - woven of good gwerin wool, with white-threaded embroidery in stylized patterns of birds in flight. Scarlet dye was expensive - and Elyan had sold the Uyrr’s ship to buy it. He had needed it for the long journey up through the mountains, to the holy city. Elyan put aside the twin golden brooches that had held the cloak to him, the eagles with the turquoise pins. He set those down, next to the woman on the slab. His funerary gift, to her. The cloak, he pulled across her body, so the mutilated torso was now a silhouette that looked almost human. She would need it for the longest journey. The foreigner looked expectantly towards the doctor. He nodded once towards him, and gestured at him for him to lead the way. The wetness on his face, the tears, had gone. It was the same face he had when he walked into the room. A tightness, a hardening to the soft parts of his features. It was a look that was both kind and resolute. It was the face that Pól saw, on the road through the mountains. It was the face of the Feaseia, telling him that he must do what he was told to do. A bright light, with a strong voice, and an immutability that no man or horror could change.