Page 16 of Wed to the Dark Elf
My own training progresses slowly but steadily. The endless drills and sparring matches begin shaping muscle memory in my limbs, ingraining the fundamental forms into instinct. I still spend more time flat on my back than upright, but Althir grins and hauls me to my feet again each time.
"That bare patch of dirt likes the taste of you, my lady. Perhaps we should sew some padding onto your trousers."
I stick my tongue out, knowing his teasing means approval. My skills might never rival lifelong warriors, but maybe I can at least avoid being a complete liability. Vamen was right to insist I learn more than needlework and household sums. I swear silently to keep practicing until my hands bleed and my clothes turn to rags. Whatever conflicts loom at our borders, I refuse to be a helpless damsel shielded behind the courage of others.
Both Vamen and I walk on brittle glass as winter deepens and patrols report ever bolder incursions. We still share our marriage bed, but most nights he comes late and leaves early, face haggard from ceaseless efforts to contain the volatile tensions. I offer what encouragement I can, but my own helplessness eats at me. Womanly empathy will not win this bloodless war. I must become more than I am.
One night after Vamen has left, I rise silently from our bed. Shivering in only my shift, I creep down to the barracks yard beneath the icy stars. The training ring stands empty, shadows clinging to its corners. Wrapping my arms against the cold, I stride to the racks of practice swords. If sleep evades me, I will put the hours to use. My blistered hands close around familiar leather grips. I slide into the first forms, then the second, bare feet gliding smoothly over sand and straw. No holding back or hesitation, just the clean precision of Althir's teachings engraving themselves into my memory.
When I return to my chambers just before dawn, I feel more prepared for the day ahead, whatever it may require of me. Vamen stirs as I crawl back under the heavy furs. He lifts himself on one elbow, blinking sleepily.
"Where did you go, my lady?"
I brush back his mussed hair, kissing his forehead. "Just catching my breath. All is well."
He accepts my murmured words and pulls me close again. I rest my cheek against his shoulder, breathing deep his familiar scent. Together we have strength enough for what is coming. I must trust and believe that.
CHAPTER11
Vamen
My domain stands poised on the knifepoint brink of war. Skirmishes flare daily along the borderlands, my patrols clashing with unknown raiders wearing no colors or sigils. But we all know whose hands guide them. My southern neighbor and ostensible king has shown his true ambitions at last. These calculated provocations test my reactions, seek the flashpoint to unleash open battle. And still I hold back our swords, strive for steady hands, though it tears my instincts asunder.
The pretense of legitimacy cloaks the king’s actions, even as each new incursion steals further over the line of sovereignty. I cannot prove his intent. Yet each passing week frays my patience, and my domain’s trust, thinner. They crave action, justice, and a leader's resolve. Each night the accusations and doubts cast in whispers behind hands flay me raw.
Only Iris remains steadfast, my anchor in this flood. But even she chafes at standing idle while unseen forces circle ever tighter, probing for weakness. I see it in the set of her shoulders when each day’s dark tidings weigh heavier across our supper table, and in her haunted eyes that stare past walls and borders. Still, her faith does not waver.
“You walk the right path, husband,” she whispers against my chest each night. Her slim arms twine fiercely around me, our bed an ark floating amidst swirling chaos. I cling to her in return, to the sound of her breathing and the moment’s illusion of sanctuary. War is coming, inexorable as the tide. And I fear its first casualty will be all pretense of peace or mercy on either side. Or worse, the loss of her. She’s my heart now, and I can’t fathom it. I will kill the entire enemy army to protect the one I love the most.
The maelstrom breaks on a deceptively tranquil morning. I stand alone on the border watchtower, gazing over rolling foothills carpeted in mist. Scout reports hinted at activity further south through the night. Perhaps another meaningless sortie, or the reaction I have been holding breath for.
A lone rider crests a far ridge, angling straight for our gates. No colors or armor mark him. An emissary, then. As he draws within hailing distance, I call down for the guards to allow him to approach. He reins up beneath the tower, face inscrutable beneath a drawn hood. Wordlessly he extends a parchment, gazed fixed ahead. Then he wheels his mount and gallops back the way he came without pause.
Dread pools in my gut as I crack the blood-red seal. The contents scrawl but one stark sentence:
You are summoned to kneel before your rightful king.
The paper crumples in my white-knuckled fist. So it begins at last. Feigned courtesy cast off, the naked truth of the king’s ambition stands revealed. He would see me bend knee and neck beneath his boot, forfeit my long-held sovereignty in these lands. Perhaps I should feel some relief that subterfuge gives way to honesty, however brutal. Now we can dispense with dancing around truth and draw swords openly, as warrior kin ought.
Still, grim acceptance does little to cool my fury as I stride the halls that same hour, bellowing for my captains. I find Iris hurrying toward me, face bloodless with worry. I cup her cheek briefly in reassurance before pressing on to the assembly hall where my forces gather, thunderclouds of outrage on their brows. I mount the dais, fists clenched to still their tremor. For long seconds I meet each captain’s eye, seeing my own dread and resolve reflected back. At last I draw breath to speak the words Fate has hounded me toward with inexorable certainty.
“Men of the mountains! Long have we stood vigilant, secured our people’s future with blood and sacrifice. But greed covets what honor has built. The serpent in the south would have us kneel, forsake all for which we have bled. But we will never yield!”
Fists hammer the air with wordless fury. I raise my hand for quiet, though their outrage and thirst for justice burn hot as a forge in my own heart.
“Thus I call upon you now, brothers and sisters, to defend our lands, our clan, and our children’s future! We will go to war, so that we may have peace.”
A roar shakes the rafters. Already my captains turn on their heels, shouting orders. The machinery of war lurches into motion, inexorable now. What was long simmering will soon spill forth fire and blood. Valorous songs and triumphant deeds in the chronicles obscure the ugliness about devouring lives beyond counting. But regret has no place in a ruler’s heart any longer. I made my choice, and unleashed the whirlwind. Now we must see our course through, come what may.
Preparations and muster consume the brief bitter weeks before snow blocks the passes. Patrols withdraw in stages from the borderlands, baiting the enemy to follow. Supply trains and messengers clatter along icy roads day and night bound for allies whose swords I now seek openly. The clangor and chaos of the garrisons swallows all else, drowning thoughts of cost or consequence. We are soldiers with a purpose. All else must wait.
Amidst the tumult, Iris remains my tether to calm. She attends each war council, listens to my raging uncertainties late each night with equal parts empathy and conviction. Her clear gaze pulls me back from the brink when fury threatens to overwhelm reason. And her soft lips give me stolen moments of innocence and trust, even as harsher instincts take root in my heart. I know the coming bloodshed will scar us both. But her light remains true, her course unwavering. Whatever black stains my hands must bear, her love will remind me there is still hope beyond.
The day before we march, Iris comes to me as I brood alone in the map chamber. Wordless, she takes my hands and guides me to the bed we have shared this past year. Our love is tender, achingly aware it may be our last untainted union. No vows or fervent promises pass our lips. We simply give ourselves to each other, bodies and hearts entwined against the bitter winds ahead.
Tonight we still belong only to us; tomorrow we march toward uncertain fates. Tomorrow, all oaths and duties hold sway except this: I will find my way back to her arms, across whatever fields of blood and fire. This I seal upon my soul as we collapse in spent silence. What awaits with the dawn, not even gods can say. But through it all, back to her arms again someday.
Too soon we wake, the world already marching on toward chaos. Messengers pound on the gates, regiments muster in the lower bailey, pikes and armor glinting in the weak sun. All so familiar, yet nothing I have known before this day. Iris dresses me in my war plate piece by piece, checking each strap and buckle. When she lifts my helmet, tears shine in her eyes, though her voice remains steady.
