CHAPTER EIGHT - THE KING'S BLADE

“Your Blade?  What’s a Blade?  And -- and what do you mean you’ll die?” Ciaran’s voice reflected the bewilderment he obviously felt.  There was also a sense of … understanding that Aethaden felt from Ciaran when he said the word “die”. It was as if this young man understood it deeply even though he should not. But perhaps it was simply being mortal that made him have the taste of death on his tongue even though he looked to be in his prime.

Aethaden though did not have the strength to explain his situation to this human or question him on his own life.  Instead, he slumped forward on the bed, his forearms crushing the journals that had brought him such hope.  He wanted to throw them into the fire for raising his expectations to a fever pitch.  Yet he knew it wasn’t the journals, but his own romantic nature that had betrayed him. Ares had warned him again and again about allowing flights of fancy to take over from his rational mind. He’d thought he’d wrestled them into submission.

But the journals!  And not just them ...

His own body felt like it was betraying his good sense, because he felt well.  Almost recovered and that should only happen if his Blade was near.  But Ciaran had crushed his hopes beneath his heel about that being true.  

He must be wrong!  He is not trying to be cruel to me!  But he must simply not know the truth!

Yet Ciaran seemed very straightforward.  

“Aethaden?  Uhm, King Aethaden?” Ciaran began uncertainly.  He felt the human draw closer. Ciaran was standing at the edge of the bed with the Violine tucked almost protectively around his neck. “I know that this might not be a good time, but … we should talk about what happened last night.  About those black riders. Are there more of them coming after you? Could they attack the people in Forest Falls? I’ve faced off with them --”

“You must be lying,” Aethaden found himself saying, cutting off questions that were valid though he did not care to acknowledge them. He did not care if a million Black Knights were attacking these humans when his own people could be wiped out by them if he died.  “There must be Riven here! You have a Violine! These journals are written in our language!  I feel …”

He swallowed those last words. Feelings were subjective. He reminded himself viciously that he had allowed feelings to lead him down a romantic path where his Blade was off hunting in the forest instead of the reality that there was no Blade.

But that’s impossible!  I feel him!

Ciaran tensed as did the Violine at his accusation. The human’s words were firm - not unkind, not yet - but very, very firm as he answered, “I am not lying.  I found Twig in the woods after I was attacked by one of those black rider things when I was fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” Aethaden frowned.  He could not mean when he was fifteen years old. That would be impossible.  A fifteen-year-old face off against a Black Knight and survive?

“Yes, when I was fifteen-years-old.” Ciaran tipped his chin up, clearly proud of this.

“Fifteen cycles of your planet around your sun?” Aethaden clarified.

Ciaran’s forehead furrowed.  “Yeah. Like I said, I was fifteen when I was attacked by one of those things the first time.”

Aethaden didn’t know what to say for a moment.  “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-eight.”  Again, Ciaran sounded almost defiant as if it was a success to have made it so far in life.

How harsh was this human world that surviving twenty-eight years in it was a success?  Elves at twenty-eight years of age were still considered children.  Almost mere infants. He recalled though that humans did not live long even for mortal beings.  But still.

Yet Ciaran appeared fully mature.  At least to look at him.  Aethaden comforted himself that he wouldn’t have been attracted to a child.  And Ciaran acted like an adult as well.  Yet it was impressive that Ciaran had faced off against a Black Knight at fifteen.  More than impressive.  He had killed three last night at only twenty-eight. No Valore or Riven could do such a thing at those ages.   His skill with a blade was extraordinary.

“You do not seem like a child at all,” Aethaden murmured.

“I’m not a child.  I’m an adult!” A strange expression crossed Ciaran’s face as if he felt foolish saying that. “How old are you?”

“One-thousand and seven years. I am young for my position --”

“Young?!” Ciaran goggled. “You’re -- you’re over a millennia old!  That’s -- that’s ancient!”

“That is young for a Valore,” he answered starchily.  This just showed how sad humans were that 1007 seemed old.  It was ridiculous.  He constantly had to ward off others saying how young and inexperienced he was.  He wondered what Lethe would say to someone only twenty-eight!

Ciaran bit his lip before asking tentatively, “Are -- are Elves immortal?”

The way his voice dipped when he said “immortal” was interesting.  But, of course, a mortal would find that amazing. Aethaden couldn’t imagine only living the hundred years at most that humans were said to expire at. His 1007 years were paltry.  He would have been able to accomplish nothing if he’d perished at 100. And they become infirm and weak, too, as they aged, unlike Elves who became stronger. The two other humans who had come to the house were strangely wrinkled. Their hair was white and thin.  They moved much more slowly than Ciaran as if their bones might shatter if they weren’t careful.  

What a horrible existence!  

“We are immortal,” Aethaden finally answered, unsure how much he wanted to reveal to this human about his kind.  What amount of understanding could a twenty-eight year old have? He seemed intelligent at least at a base level, but his education must be lacking in so many ways!  Besides, despair was picking at him again and he didn’t wish to speak more.

“There’s so much I want to ask you. I mean you’re an Elf!”  Ciaran’s expression brightened as if he was seeing something wonderful. There was no lust or dark emotion in his face.  But his awe was yet one more proof that Elves were not here. His Blade was not here.

“You must know something of us.” Aethaden touched the journals.  His hands trembled. He hadn’t yet had a chance to read them for substance, but only to master the human tongues.  Now, he knew he must comb through them. Maybe the answers he sought were between these covers.

Or maybe it will tell me there is truly no hope left.

With a shrug, Ciaran answered, “Like I said, those are my ancestor’s. I know little to nothing about him. He was dead and gone long ago.”  

Aethaden winced at this. Dead. Gone. Long ago.

“Maybe he was …” Ciaran’s mouth worked, but no words came out. “Maybe he knew one of these Blades and they taught him your language. Or maybe …”  Again Ciaran paused and Aethaden felt he wished to say something, but didn’t dare or couldn’t accept it.

“Maybe he was a Blade,” Aethaden found himself saying even though the idea was strangely disturbing and alluring to him at the same time. For an Elf to give into the basest desire to mate with a mortal should have been unthinkable, but it wasn’t.  After seeing Ciaran ...

“You think … I’m part … part … Elf, too?” Ciaran’s eyebrows rose, but he heard the mixture of shock and longing in his voice.

“You would only be a very little, if so.”

Aethaden turned his head and realized that the human was only a few feet away.  He could smell his scent. It was surprisingly pleasant like amber and cinnamon.  Aethaden’s gaze slid to Ciaran’s face. Was there any Riven blood in him?

Ciaran’s features were masculine, but delicate, too.  He was fine boned. His lips were full and sensual. His eyes were so very green like leaves in the forests surrounding Aethaden’s castle.  His heart ached for home so badly at that moment that he nearly let out a cry of anguish.

If my Blade is not here then I should be there!  I should be protecting my people! But I rode off like a fool in the night and now I cannot get back until my strength returns!

“I don’t look anything like you. I don’t think so anyways.”  Ciaran scrubbed the back of his neck with one hand and pinked slightly.

Aethaden swallowed and absently touched his hair. “Undriels are known for their magic and --”

“And their beauty?” Ciaran asked shyly.

Aethaden swallowed harder.   Why should such a compliment matter to him at all?  It should disgust him.  This felt dangerous to him, too.  If the human thought he was receptive to his advances then maybe some of the bestial nature that humans were said to have would come out.  He looked away from Ciaran quickly.

The human shifted uncomfortably and finally said, “You mentioned something about … about how you might … die without a Blade.  Do you mean really die? Because I don’t understand --”

“Every Undriel must have a Blade or they fall into the Black Sleep. I am the last of my family  and …” Suddenly, he could not continue to speak of this. Every word was like a boulder he was pushing up hill.  

Aethaden shook his head. His long hair fell over his eyes.  The human tenderly brushed it out of his face. It was a gentle act, but Aethaden immediately jerked away from it, his back hitting the headboard, which smashed into the wall with a loud bang.  The human frozen.

“Do not!” Aethaden hissed.

“I’m sorry!  I just … I’m not going to hurt you. I would never …” This time it was the human who shook his head.  “I would never hurt you. God, you’re like … a … a treasure.”

But Aethaden’s heart was hammering within his chest. If there was no Blade here to civilize this human then he could turn feral at any moment. He could attack Aethaden and have his way with him. His magic was at a low ebb.  Nocht was a useless stick at the moment. Arthalash was out of reach and, besides, though he was skilled with a blade, this human had proved himself to be an incredible fighter the night before. With his weakened physical condition, Ciaran could overcome him easily.

I was such a fool to come here.  Why did I do this?

The Violine looked at him with such pity and something else.  Violines could not exactly directly communicate other than convey simple ideas like when it had told him to go upstairs earlier, that it was the safest thing to do. Now it was looking at him and trying to tell him that he was safe here with Ciaran. But he could not believe that. There were simply too many tales of humans’ barbarousness for him to just trust Ciaran.  

It did not matter that Ciaran was -- was beautiful. It did not matter that his eyes were kind.  It did not matter that he had done nothing wrong, because there was always a yet behind that.  When he had thought a Blade was there -- or many Blades for that matter -- to make the humans fear acting on their natural impulses it was one thing to be at ease.  But now he knew he was alone with this human. Alone.  Aethaden shivered.

“Listen, I want to keep you safe. If another one of those black riders is coming, I need to know,” Ciaran emphasized. “There are a million other things I want to know, too. But that I need to know.”

“Black Knights,” Aethaden said with a shiver and drew the bed’s blankets around him. He felt Ciaran want to assist him, but the human stayed back.  Aethaden let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Black Knights,” Ciaran said the name as those it had a bitter taste, but nodded as if that fit him. “The thing is my mother fought one, too, before even more. So they have been here in the past.”

Aethaden wondered how the Black Knight were crossing the Veil. And why they would come to the human realm?  He closed his eyes and sent out his senses.  He looked for darkness. He looked for corruption.  He felt the strain of using his magic though. He was still nearly scraped clean from using Nocht.  He felt living things all around them. There was a burst of life around a nearby town. But nothing shown quite so bright as Ciaran.  It was hard see anything else, but him.  His senses sprang back inside of him like a rubber band. He was exhausted.  

“I sense no Black Knights in this realm at this time.  I would tell you if there were,” Aethaden finally answered.  He had to lay down, but he could not do so with the human in his room.   “Please … please leave me now. I am … am tired.”

Ciaran blinked.  He slowly straightened up and shoved his hand in his pockets.  

“Yeah, I can see that.  Uhm, if you want to talk … or if you need anything, I’ll be outside practicing my katas,” Ciaran told him.  

Aethaden nodded, his head feeling like a heavy blossom on a thin stem of a neck.  Ciaran shuffled his feet for a moment. The Violine chittered softly, but Aethaden waved it away. He needed no company. He truly wanted to be alone at that moment. Finally, both of them left, shutting the door behind them with a quiet click.

Aethaden did not move for long moments. He thought he would sink back into the bed and sleep, but the pages of the journals called him.  Maybe this Blade had not died. Maybe he had merely left the hybrid offspring he had made.  If Ciaran was truly his descendent.  But Aethaden thought of the bright spark that Ciaran was.  It seemed likely he had Elven blood.  What didn’t seem likely was a Riven leaving any children - even hybrid ones - without his protection and counsel.

Perhaps he is nearby … watching over Ciaran … no!  Stop this! No more fancies! Only cold, hard facts.

He picked up the first journal and began to read. He quickly lost himself in the story.

First entry ...

Though there were a dozen of us that denied the servitude of bonding with the Undriels, when I arrived in the Human Realm I was alone. Perhaps the others thought better of leaving our beloved home and stayed behind.  Repented.

Looking at this forbidding place, I understand why.  Yet all of them were as defiant as I was. Perhaps we have been punished further by being separated over this world.  The Undriels will not even give us the peace of each other’s company.

Damn the Undriels.  May they, too, learn what it is like to be alone and homeless and cold and afraid …

But no, they are the masters and we are the slaves! They will always have some of us at their beck and call!  Always!

Two-hundred and seventy-fifth entry ...

How will I live here?  That was my main concern when I first came to this realm.  I have not found the others and guess that they are scattered far and wide if they are here at all. There were so few of us who stood up to the Undriels’ tyranny and this realm is truly amazingly vast.

And beautiful.

And haunting.

These forests call to me like I was always meant to wander them. With my bow and my blade, I never feel the want for food.  I have only the sounds of nature and my own heart most days. If only I could be satisfied with those.

I am so alone.  So very … alone.

Five-hundred and thirty-seventh entry ...

I have found the “dread” humans.  I observed this group for a month before I approached their small village.  I intended to stay away longer, but my desire to hear another voice answer mine was too strong.

They seemed primitive, at first, but I quickly learned that was not so. They were not the uncivilized savages as we were taught.  They are a young people to be sure. Their lives are so short that it makes them hasty or seem so. Yet they manage to do so much in so little time.  I fear that my own blood will start to quicken simply being around them.

As to the rumored lasciviousness and desire for Elves for bedmates or meat, I have seen nothing of that sort.  Yes, there are those that show sexual interest in me, but nothing more than I would have gotten back home. And no one wants to eat me.  How absurd that looks now that I write it down!

Home … I wonder what it would have been like if I had stayed and offered to be bound to an Undriel?  I guess I will never know. Though these humans are kind to me, I still feel a distance that perhaps can never be breached and it makes me regret.

To be alone among others is a terrible thing.

Five-hundred and eightieth entry …

Love.

Love.

Love.

Colleen has hair as black as midnight. Her green eyes are a wonder to behold.  Her smile transports me. Her strength makes me realize how weak I am in comparison.  She faces the world, unafraid, even though she is mortal and frail in many ways. Yet with her by my side, I realize I was always meant to come to this place.  This Human Realm.

This … home.

Six hundred and twentieth entry …

Our children die so young.

Colleen tells me that humans do die and die young. Molly had a child of her own before she passed.  Garrett, too. Yet they hardly lived to see their children take their first steps.

From the time Molly and Garrett were born, they seemed to suffer.  They were beautiful and tender and kind and … why were they taken from us?  

I saw the Mark on Molly’s shoulder.  An Undriel Mark, but … but HOW?

I left that world! I was exiled!  There is no going back! I could not get her to an Undriel to be bound!  I could not save her ...

The Undriels know no mercy if they have cursed my children, too!    Then I curse them back! With all that I am! I curse them!

Nine hundredth entry …

I am seeking a way back to the Elven Realm. I will do whatever I must to return there. It was not just Molly and Garrett who bore the Marks or who have died before their time.  I watch my descendants from afar and some of them show an uncompleted bond Mark with an Undriel.

They are not meant for this world though they bring such joy and beauty and goodness into it for the short time they spend here.  But I think about what they could become if they were bonded. They would cease to age in the Elven Realm. Bound to an Undriel, they would gain the powers that I see barely surfacing in them now.  

They are warriors, one and all. They are fierce and proud. They are protectors of the weak and strong alike.  

Those that have the Mark though seem so sad.  They are missing the other half of themselves and they do not know it.

I have cursed the Undriels. I was exiled for not serving them.  But I would do anything to save these young ones from a worse fate than simply an early death.  They are incomplete … like I have been incomplete since my Colleen passed.

I will find a way back for them, but there is a war on. A terrible war and it calls to me to protect those I can in this realm who are good.  But even as I fight, I will seek a way back to the Undriels.

That was the last entry.  

Aethaden spread his fingers over the worn page.  Had the Blade died during that unnamed war? Most likely, yes.  If only he had stayed out of human conflicts, he might have lived! He might have been here to see Ciaran grow and meet Aethaden!  But protecting others was the core of being a Blade.

The Blade’s vain attempt to get back to the Elven Realm saddened Aethaden beyond all measure. There was no chance that the bonding Marks could have appeared on his hybrid children’s skin. The Undriels’ blood was the purest in Valore.  To need to be bonded with even the Riven Elves had caused a scandal. But to be bonded to hybrids … that was inconceivable!  He must have been mistaken!

For a moment though, he thought of Ciaran’s green eyes, but he quickly shook the thought of him away. It did not matter if the hybrids were attractive or kind or brave or skilled. They had human blood and that was enough to make it impossible for them to be bonded to the Undriels.

But there were other Blades than him who were exiled here. Perhaps one is in the area.  I should speak with Ciaran about this world. Learn the world’s ways so that I might start looking for them.  Unlike this dead Blade, my magic will guide me.

He set the journals to the side reverently.  Though he was certain that this Blade was no more, he strangely did not feel as much angst as before.  He should not have allowed himself to give way like he had. Exhaustion had clouded his judgment. He had to persevere. He would find the other Blades and one of them was bound to be his.

With that thought, he padded down the stairs.  He heard Ciaran outside. He caught a bare glimpse of him through the windows. His shirt was off and he held a gleaming blade in both hands. He was making graceful arcs with it through the air.  Something tightened in Aethaden’s chest at the sight of him.

Perhaps he would ask Ciaran to assist him in looking for his Blade. The human’s skills would be useful. It would be helpful to have someone who knew this world assist him.  Aethaden could offer him something in return. He could not think of what. Perhaps his knowledge. Perhaps the Elven tongue. He would think of something.

Set on this course, he pushed open the front door and stepped out onto the porch.  Ciaran spun, his blade cut the air like an arc of silvery light. He was graceful. He was strong.  His muscled chest was … was a work of art.

But these were not the things that struck Aethaden dumb on the spot.

It was a Mark.

No, it is the Mark …

Just like his own.  

His fingers went up to his neck and dug under his high collar to touch his flesh even as he traced that same image on Ciaran’s skin with his eyes.  He saw the sweep of it down Ciaran’s back like it ran down his back.  

Ciaran brought the blade’s hilt down to his waist, letting out a long breath, before sheathing the blade and looking over at him eagerly, if a little shyly.  The Violine was seated on a stump nearby and looked at him as well. But in its eyes was knowledge while in Ciaran’s was concern.

“Aethaden?  Aethaden? What’s wrong?  You look … what’s wrong?” Ciaran took a tentative step towards him, but did not rush to his side as he clearly wanted to.

Because I made it clear he was never to touch me again.  

Aethaden’s legs though gave out on him and, thankfully, Ciaran ignored his past wishes to stay away.  Ciaran caught him before he crumpled to the ground.

“Aethaden, what’s wrong?” Ciaran cried.

Shock. It is only shock.

But he found he could not speak.  Instead, Aethaden reached up with a shaking hand to touch the Mark as if driven to do it.  Ciaran shivered when his fingers barely passed over it.  Aethaden felt his own Mark respond as well. He shut his eyes tightly until tears squeezed out of them.

How can this be?

“My Blade,” Aethaden whispered, not sure if there was hope or horror in his voice.  

Maybe a little of both.  

He only knew that what he spoke was true: Ciaran was the one he had been looking for all his life.  Ciaran was his Blade.

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