Chapter Nine
Dumping the contents of his herb satchel onto the old wooden table, he began cutting and stripping various herbs and roots, grinding and mashing them in a small bone bowl he pulled from his pack. Once the mixture became a fine paste, Flintathriël poured in a vial of wolves’ blood and drew his silver tipped dagger across his hand, his own blood mingling with that of the wolves in the mixture. He nestled the bowl in the embers by the fire, allowing the mix to bubble and combine fully. Thick red smoke snaked and swirled before his eyes. The metallic stench of blood and burning herbs assaulting his nostrils as an ancient chant slipped passed his lips.
The druids had long ago refused him any more runes, so he had taken it upon himself to learn the blood ritual, augmenting the strength of the Nuvian.
He removed his tunic. Almost every inch of his back, chest and arms were covered in swirling vines and runes.
One for every time he failed her, a reminder of his broken promise.
He removed the mixture from the embers and produced a sharpened piece of bone. Scanning his body, he decided on a location before dipping the tip into the runic ink, ignoring the sound of his sister’s approach.
“I hardly recognize you anymore, brother.” Faëlwyn came to stand before him.
He avoided her penetrating topaz gaze, bringing the sharpened tip to his skin, clenching his teeth. The first punch of the bone against his flesh always stung the worst.
“She would not have wanted this, you, mutilating yourself.”
“Go away, Faë.” He drew the point across his skin, the rhythmic punch of the bone piercing his flesh, carving the all too familiar design.
“I thought you and Niri…”
“That was a mistake!” Flintathriël hissed. He wished only to forget the drunken kiss with Roggar’s daughter.
Faëlwyn’s gaze softened. “Flint, please. It is time to let her go. It has been two hundred years.”
“Do not chide me. I will love no other.” He snorted derisively, ignoring the way she was now twisting the intricately carved rosewood ring she still wore on her finger. He resumed his task, dabbing away the blood with a square of cloth when it welled too much.
“You were not the only one who lost someone that day.” Faëlwyn’s tone, though barely a whisper, was harsh with long held grief.
“I am sorry I spoke so harshly.” He wiped off the bloodied bone and tossed it on the ground. He cleansed the fresh tattoo on his stomach as to not cause infection. His sister watched in silence while he shoved everything back into the pack. The contents pressing in against the gilded pages of the ancient spell book. In almost two centuries he had found nothing in the tome about a cure other than a vague reference to a dragon queen. And no dragons had been sighted since the day the war ended. The dragons had vanished, millenniums of living and working alongside the elves having come to an end because of one woman’s lust for power. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he rose and pushed past his twin to continue along the worn path.
He knew she still trailed behind him, feet dragging in the dust as he came into the clearing. A stab of guilt tugged at his heart. His sister was one of very few who still tolerated his presence, his mother and brother, had long ago given up on him, yet even Faëlwyn had refused to tattoo him anymore.
The white marble shrine stood alone in the glade, a cascade of water rushing down a rocky outcrop, falling lightly into a clear pool. Wildflowers of varying shades covered the ground and willow trees gently swayed in the breeze.
Flintathriël’s heart lodged in his chest, as it always did when he approached. It had been her favorite place, and their bonding rite would have been performed here, rather than in the halls of his ancestors as was tradition.
He stepped inside, taking a knee before her. Sairalindë lay in a sarcophagus made of crystal, atop a bed of dark green silk, not a single mark marred her porcelain skin. She wore a gown of white, green vines and golden flowers were hand stitched across the bodice, a gold corded belt cinched her waist, and green and gold silk was woven about her feet. Her copper hair was plaited in intricate braids, customarily for formal occasions, and tiny white flowers had been threaded through several strands, frozen in time, much like the woman herself. The druids had helped him when he insisted she could not remain in her blood-soaked battle gear, thawing the ice just enough to keep her alive, healing her torn body as best they could, but not the poison swimming in her veins.
With her hands clasped in front of her, she looked to the entire world to be merely sleeping, but for the fine layer of hoarfrost encasing her body. The ice crystals catching in the light causing a myriad of rainbow lights to dance across the walls.
“Sorry, Faë, but Theron is dead. He died that day on the battlefield. Saira is still in there somewhere, trapped in this frozen husk of a body.” He rose to his feet, placing his hands across her casket.
“I asked, begged her to do this, to save herself. I promised her. I was selfish, I could not let her go. And I have nothing to show except my failure.” He hung his head, his hair falling across his face, hiding his sorrow.
“We should have been forever.”
Faëlwyn stepped forward, laying a hand on her brother’s shoulder.
He shrugged her off. “Just leave Faë.”
“Flint, I know this is not what she would have wanted for you—”
“Falannas! I said get out!” He snarled, shoving her away from him until she tripped and fell, landing hard on the marbled floor. He towered over his twin, baring his teeth. His eyes burned, the familiar sting signaling that his pale silver-blue irises had darkened dangerously to a deep sapphire.
Faëlwyn’s eyes narrowed sharply on her brother as she got to her feet. “I am not afraid of you wolf boy, your intimidation tactics do not work on me.”
An animalistic growl rumbled deep in his throat, and his hand clasped about her neck, shoving her hard against the wall.
Faëlwyn wasted no time in bringing her knee into alignment with her brother’s groin. He staggered back, grunting in pain. Her tiny fist hit his face, blood spraying from his nose with a crack as he fell to the floor.
Faëlwyn stood over him. “She would have hated this and you know it!”
“Falannas ena!”
“I wish she had died that day, it would have been easier on all of us!” Her shout echoed through the shrine, her voice cracking with emotion.
“I lost my lover and my friend that day. But I never knew until this moment I lost my brother too.”
He noticeably winced at her sharp words, but remained silent. The sting behind his eyes subsiding as they returned to their natural shade.
She turned on her heel and stalked toward the entrance. “You had better see about that nose brother, it might be broken,” she threw over her shoulder without stopping. “If there is anyone left who wants to help you that is.” Disgust evident in her tone.
Flintathriël stared after his sister. Guilt and shame washing over him, settling deep into his bones. Had he finally lost her too? He sighed. It was no more than he deserved.
He got to his feet and moved slowly to the crystal casket, placing both hands, open palmed on the top. His head bowed low between his shoulders. Whispering words to ghosts, Flintathriël switched between High Elven and the common tongue. Words he had spoken on that long ago day.
“Ir ra’mara, I am so sorry, na’vahla, I failed you again.” Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks as he reiterated long ago promises. Promises that remained unfulfilled. “Ir vahla ena na’vahleth, Ir ra vashti seranna’ma, I will find a way, this I swear. Even if it takes me until the end of my days.”
****
He sat alone in the shrine room, the cold of the floor seeping into his bones, legs drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. His chin rested on his knees, and his mop of hair fell across his face. He had wasted the better part of a decade drunk after the war. Blaming his father for Sairalindë’s death—blaming everyone for what Mnuvae had taken from him.
Those wasted years plagued him, and guilt was his constant companion, gnawing away in the back of his mind and with each failure his heart grew harder.
As if the ancestors had heard his tortured musings, he heard the approaching footfalls, unmistakably his father’s.
King Ehrendil let out a long sigh, joining his son on the icy floor, reaching an arm around Flintathriël’s shoulders, comforting him like he did when he was but an ema’asha.
He released his breath, raising his head and wiping away the salty streaks from his face.
“I have need of you, Flintathriël, and I believe it would do you good to get away from this place for a time, from yourself. You will be king one day, but not as you are now.”
His gaze snapped to that of his father’s.
“You think I still want that, without her?” He got to his feet, “Give it to Faëlwyn, or Thalion,” he said stalking back and forth.
“You are my first born.”
“By mere minutes.”
“Flintathriël, you will do this thing for me. I am not asking—”
“Why? In hope that time passing will make me forget? How could I? I made a promise that day, and I have done naught but fail her. Tell me how I am supposed to just let that go? After everything I have done?” He gestured to the hundreds of tattooed runes marking his skin.
“I am not asking you to give up anything.”
He faltered in his tirade at Ehrendil’s words, spoken softly from where he still sat on the floor. “I know what it is to love someone beyond all reason. I am just asking that you do this one thing for me, and then you can resume your search for a cure.”
His eyes widened, he expected his father to demand he give up his fruitless quest as he had been known to call it. He did not expect understanding. His father was not a sentimental man. He frowned.
“I hear whispers of a rebellion in Nildör.”
“How is that our concern? The elves were exiled from those lands centuries ago.”
“It is led by your uncle.”
His stomach dropped, and his heart clenched tightly in his chest. Sairalindë had warned him long ago about his uncle. He had not listened and had brushed her concerns away.
Cëladyn had wasted no time is establishing himself as new High Druid after the war ended, but Flintathriël had been too deep in his grief to care. Slowly, over time, Cëladyn’s true nature had emerged. His thirst for power becoming obvious to all.
He had been laughed out of the king's court several years ago when he had tried to insinuate himself onto the High Council. Druids had no place meddling in politics. Eventually Cëladyn had been stripped of his title and banished for attempting to stir up a rebellion against the crown. Ehrendil had no recourse but to banish his brother from his homeland.
“It seems Cëladyn has managed to raise an army. I need you to travel to Nildör, assess the situation and report back. I would go myself, but your mother would never allow it.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of Flintathriël’s lips. His mother was a formidable woman. He released a heavy breath. “Fine. I do this, then, when I return, I am free to resume my search, correct?”
“Correct.”
He stared down at his father, frowning in deep thought, aware of a dull itch where the newly inked rune was etched into his flesh. Perhaps there could be answers to be found in the lands of his ancestors.
“Very well,” he granted, helping his father up from his position on the floor.
His father released his hand. “Be ready two days hence. I have arranged passage for you and three others. The Stonefist brothers have volunteered.”
“Of course they have.” Flintathriël nodded, swung his pack over his shoulder, and stepped past his father laying a hand on Sairalindë’s crystal casket. He stared down, taking one last, longing look at her beautiful pale face.
“I love you, na’vahleth. I will never forget you…ever.”
His gaze met that of his father’s. “I will not fail you.”
“I know.”
Flintathriël strode with purpose from the room, readying himself for his journey across the sea.