Once were Princes

[Raen Silver]

The pair followed a path that might once have been over-run, but there was evidence of passage by others, and it all soon became clear.

Cresting a small hill, Raen and Dáire looked down onto a sort of natural bowl, in the middle of which was a large rock jutting out of the earth. Around the edges were the cracked remains of the once proud city; columns and elaborate structures that nature had taken for herself. Vines now twisted around rune-engraved pillars, but what really brought them both up straight was the twenty of so individuals staring right at them.

They varied in age and even race. One might have thought this was a meeting only for the Kerasoka, but there were two, maybe three obviously Lumeacia elves, stood in finery, eyes turned to the two newcomers.

Closest to the rock were three Elves; all Kerasoka and all looking at them with a mixture of emotions across their faces. One even bowed his head in respect, while another seemed to scowl.

Arranged nearby were clusters of others, but for each group, even if there were only two or three, one person stood at the front.

It was an old woman; one who stood near the centre who raised her chin and tapped her cane on the mossy floor with a thudding sound. "All hail Ta-Aryon Dáire Elvalur!"

The scowling man lifted his chin. "That has yet to be decided."

Raen felt his heart flutter in his chest, and he turned to Dáire. "I was sworn to secrecy ... I'm sorry!"

[Soltaevar Velca]

The Turco of House Velca sighed, strolling down the once-pristine streets of Órlbelle. Soltaevar reached back into his memories, to when he was a small child and the city bustled with life, even in the midst of Bhelest’s oppression. Now he had been called back, after so many years, to be witness to the anointing of the heir of the crown.

A pointless exercise, he thought. Órlbelle was gone, and not even the temporary gilding of her bones could bring her back. Even though his family had once been prominent in the city, he and his mother had fought and scraped to make their trade routes profitable; now they had some standing even amongst the humans in their city of Fellsgard. The loss of magic in a city that despised it made the sting bearable. Ajteire had been painful with its Fae residents using magic as easily as breathing - as all elves had once done.

He hadn’t been to that city in many years. Maybe twenty, twenty-one? He thought. Besides the Fae flitting about, there were other memories that made Ajteire stabbingly uncomfortable to remember. Memories that involved a lady - one he had thought dear - and her betrayal. His fist clenched involuntarily. To lie about such a thing, he thought, was unforgivable. Lying about a child - even an unborn one - to manipulate another was the lowest, meanest of tricks.

He joined the circle of elves awaiting the arrival of the Ta-Aryon. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could get back to Fellsgard and his business. Well, and his cats; Claira might have bred when she snuck out some days ago. Naughty girl, he thought with an imperceptible smile. She was his favorite, due to her playful demeanor - and her cut-throat hunting skills that had brought many a present of dead mice to his feet.

Yes, he’d much rather be home with his ledgers and his cats than standing in the ruins of his childhood hometown, for a ritual that was essentially useless. Órlbelle’s glory days were over, and they weren’t coming back. Two men approached and were hailed by the elder woman. From the look on his face, the Ta-Aryon had not been prepared...for any of this.

[Dáire]

“All hail Ta-Aryon Dáire Elvalur” The small, simple sentence bounced around Dáire’s head like a caged bird. All the colour leaked away from his face as they began to sink in. His first instinct was to deny it, he couldn't be the Ta-Aryon - a prince! He was the son of a fisherman, not a very successful one at that! Fine tremors went through his muscles as the surrounding nobilities calculating, judging eyes travelled the length of him, each one leaving an icy trail across his skin and causing the fine hairs on his arms and neck rise in response.


His gaze was flicking around the many faces surrounding them, when Raen’s murmured confession slipped into his mind. "I was sworn to secrecy ... I'm sorry!" All the blank horror that and consumed him a fraction of a moment before, warped into something white hot, his temper taking hold of the situation he had no idea how to handle. He rounded on the young male who had accompanied him there, the extra inches he had on Raen allowing him to perceptively tower over him as he stepped into the man’s personal space, his hot breath stirring the wisps of hair that fell down by rains temples. The feelings of betrayal, anger and panic rolling off him in palpable waves. “You what!” He growled, no small amount of venom in the words. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he tried to find something solid to grasp on to, how to proceed; but one simple fact stood out above the rest. Those he’d considered closest to him- his adopted family, had lied and tricked him into a situation they knew he wouldn't want if he had been given multiple life times to change his mind.

His attention refocussed on the apprehensive Raen before him, his breathing coming in short, ragged breaths as the emotions began to boil over within him. Both palms landed solidly on Raens chest in a punishing thump, shoving the man back hard as he stalked forwards. “You knew! And yet you had me lead you here anyway?! You cant have been so stupid as to not foresee what my reaction would be!” Dáire became oblivious to the many curious eyes that fell upon the duo in that moment, all his ire was honed in on the silver haired elf, who although not the orchestrator, had betrayed him.

[Raen Silver]

Raen felt his skin prickle and his heart almost grow still in his chest. "The Canó, the Quimellë! They swore me to secrecy! I couldn't say a word! I wanted to every step we took but I ..."

"A Prince of the Blood does not treat his subjects so," it was the voice of the old woman, cane in hand, shawl around her. She was a withered thing, but her eyes held a dignity that could not be denied "I am Arato Zaleria of House Súra ... the man you hold in your hand is without doubt the heir of Raelin, Arator of House Telemna. Even princes should show respect to those that made them what they are." She pointed out.

Beside her, the scoffing man turned and barked a laugh. "Any man born in the right path can call himself a 'prince!! He said, addressing all the gathered folk. "But to be recognised as Ta-Aryon? Does a the heir apparent behave in so brash a manner? Have we fallen from our grace? Look how he manhandles the lord of a most high noble house!" He turned to Dáire, inclining his head only slightly. "You have answered the summons. Will you now speak, or will you throw around a child for our amusement?"

There was grumblings at that; it didn't seem to go well that this man had spoken thus, but all eyes then turned to Dáire.

[Fëanáro Larkain]

Time had passed Farro by, and he didn't like when that happened. He followed the two male elves through the shell of a city, coming across what was a truly ancient structure, he darent even guess at the age. He still saw it through the eyes of his youth, the city in all its opulence as he ran had the roofs, the birds eye view seared into his memory, the underbelly of a city no one would admit had such an undercurrent.

He slipped in amongst the few dozen nobles that circled the ageless ceremonial courtyard. The large stone at its centre emitting pulses of power in recognition of the bloodlines present. The ancient looking elf to his amazement, declared the broody looking elf as the Ta-Aron; and Farro felt like kicking himself in the rear end. Outwardly though, he maintained a cool, placid expression of indifference as he watched the supposed prince run through a multitude of emotions before launching at the Arato he’d accompanied. A cool smile crept in as the Elder scolded the young prince for what in courtly eyes, could only be seen as unsightly thuggish behaviour -perfectly normal spectacle to him though. The murmurs following the curt words spoken by pompous idiot a few nobles down from him, gave Farro the perfect opportunity to slip back and out of view.

He had his targets all identified now and he’d have to be swift, he wasn't the only man of his profession here. Silently and unseen, he slipped out of the courtyard and along one of the narrow streets which circled the space, avoiding the debris and tree roots that had begun to reclaim the land. He knew these streets like he knew his own body, locating the old building that he had scouted several days prior, his bow of which was concealed just inside the arched doorway. Scampering up the worn stone stairs, he settled behind a 3rd story window, listening intently to all that was being said beyond in the courtyard.

[Soltaevar Velca]

Soltaevar grimaced when the dark haired man shoved back his shorter, silver-haired companion. From the shorter man - surely the new Arato of Telemna - came a scared explanation of being sworn to secrecy. About the Ta-Aryon’s existence, or the identity? wondered Soltaevar. Possibly both, as the dark haired man appeared angry - and a bit hurt.

The opinionated man next to Arato Zaleria, as she called herself, ridiculed the man as little more than a savage. Soltaevar frowned. Clearly, the dark haired man, Dáire, hadn’t known of his incipient position; how could he be expected to comport himself as nobility if he hadn’t been raised to it, or at least been taught later? Demanding the bearing of high royalty from one who had never known - it was like expecting a small child to read perfectly. An unbidden thought chased through his mind - what would it have been like if he’d had a child with his once-love? He shook his head slightly, dispelling the image of a child with violet eyes.

In this situation, the compassionate response would be to not saddle this man with the burden of being Ta-Aryon. He didn’t need the strain of being the rallying-cry of those who wished to see Órlbelle revived. Not to mention every foolhardy idiot out to make a name for himself would now be stalking him, to say they’d taken down the Ta-Aryon of Órlbelle. Should they call for counsel, Soltaevar thought, I must tell the Arato and the other Turco and Velni why supporting the reinstatement of the royalty was poor judgement. The situation was ludicrously unfair to everyone.

[Dáire]

Dáire’s head swivelled to the sound of the pompous sneering voice behind him, giving the noble elf a murderous glare, Raens stuttering’s falling somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness. He rarely let his temper loose, it was lethal when he did. He took several menacing strides towards the older elf, who wisely lost some of his cocky air as he locked eyes with the cold molten silver of Dáire’s. “I am no prince!” He all but spat at the man, “I am a ranger, son of a fisherman and-”

“Father was no fisherman, Toror (brother)” A female announced from his right. The soft, patient voice still haunted his nightmares and now stopped his tirade of short before it had barely begun, cutting like an icy dagger through his rage. His body stiffened, limbs locking as his eyes went unfocused. He could feel the staccato beat of his heart echoing in his ears, when he finally managed to turn his head in the direction of the haunting female voice it all but stopped beating.
“And neither was mother.”

Long ebony hair drifted around the woman in the cool autumn breeze, a traditional white elven dress floated off the body that was no longer that of a wild teenage girl, the same silver eyes and their flecks of green met his own. His heart jolted back into action as his mind tried, and failed to comprehend what was before him. He’d cracked. There was no other explanation for it! Only half aware, his knees cracked into the ground as he crumpled to the paved earth below him, curling over on himself, hands clasping his now throbbing head.

Segments of the nightmare he’d spent nearly two centuries trying to forget, played in vivid detail behind his lids. The forest he’d known, loved and cherished. The curiosity he’d been driven by, that led him to them, that caused those he’d cherished to pay for his foolishness with their lives. Farryns laboured breaths as she fought the merciless infection, that was sweeping such a destructive path through their small village, Dessielle looking as though she were mere hours from the same fate that was circling Farryn, certain of its success.

Someone was saying his name, the well-used syllables slipping through the maelstrom of self-loathing and recrimination that swamped him anytime he allowed himself to remember. More snide sounding words were being fired around above his head, from people he knew he was not one of - he couldn't possibly be one of. Nushala and Felaern couldn't have been of royal descent, they had been so … normal; or had he simply been too naive to notice the difference. Doubt, for all that he had believed true, swept in like a thick fog, muddling the thoughts further.

Delicate, long fingers wrapped around his upper arm, pulling him back into the here and now. Keeping his head bowed, he allowed the gentle by firm grip to guide him back to his feet, the mumbling around them had escalated into a constant hum of noise. Cool hands framed his face, lifting his gaze to her own, “You are the Ta-Aryon, Toror. Tari Nushala Elvalur, may the idols look after her soul; swore it to me Dáire, and had me promise to ensure you stepped up to your birth right.”

His head swam, he was looking to the eyes of someone he had believed gone, he half expected her to disappear, a figment of his imagination for having returned to a once elven stronghold,that practically breathed residual magic.

When he thought his head was about to implode, he lurched out of her grasp and a lancing pain pulsated out from his shoulder. He looked down, unseeing as the sharp end of an obsidian tipped arrow protruded out of his pectoral, the scarlet red stain spreading slowly across the travel dirty fabric of his tunic. Someone near him barked out a stern order, but he just stood there, struck dumb as he watched the blood seep from the wound.

[Vanessa LaNore]

Vanessa felt a twinge of terror in her gut as the arrow struck what was apparently an Elven prince. She ordered Kip’s view to rapidly twist to face the direction the shot had come from and spotted what was probably an elf lowering his bow and preparing to run. She made a snap decision and pushed deep into herself. What she was about to do was going to give her headaches for a week, but if it gave them even a sliver of a chance to catch the bastard it’d be worth it.

She grasped the threads of magic in her center and forced them along her connection to Kip. They resisted, trying to fray and come apart but she poured ever more of her will into doing what she could. There was a pop, like someone breaking the seal on a fine wine, and Vanessa’s vision went grey as she started to lose consciousness. Her spell, the only one she’d be able to cast without significant rest, burst into being with brilliant golden light. A sphere of scintillating glitter exploded around the bowman, blinding him and coating him in indestructible magic glitter for nearly half a minute. Her last thought before blackness claimed her was the hope that this would help the defenders because it was all that she could do.

[Raen Silver]

"To the prince! To the princess!"

Calls came all around as blades were unsheathed and bows drawn. A protective circle was formed around the four nobles and their wounded prince, while people zipped off to find the would be assassin.

Raen knelt by Dáire's side, having no clue what to do. ""Healer!" He cried. It was echoed by many.

The older woman who had been vocal before was lent on her walking cane, but with eyes vivid and sharp. "Treason! Catch them and show them what we do to those that stand in the way of our most sacred traditions!"

The man who had been the most flippant had his sword drawn. "It seems our traditions have lost some of their gravity, Arato." He said. "The prince is wounded, maybe dead. We should secure the area and ..."

Raelin felt a rage build up in him at the simple dismissal of one of the people he k=had known almost all of his life. "He isn't dead! He's wounded! Why is there no damned healer amongst you all!"

The man shook his head. "I am Arato Vulma, of House Isil, and I claim this is an am omen! This ranger shall not be our prince!"

The older woman shook her head. "You forget yourself, Vulma is is a price, and this is a sacred ..." She said, using the man's name.

The man held his hand up. "This is a facade! It is Elven kind holding onto a tradition that has long died, and should have been dead with the last king! There are no 'heirs to the crown here." He drew himself up. "House Isil recognises no heir to the crown! He declared, grandly.

Ran was furious. ""Who cares who you do or do not recognise? This man has an arrow in his chest! he's a prince or a noble ... whatever he is I am pretty sure he outranks you. We need a healer!" He turned to look at Dáire as a women hurried over. Her pale face and silver hair showed she was most definitely not Kerasoka.

"Stand back, little one." She said, holding her hands above the arrow. A warm light spew forth from her hands, and then she looked up. "Pull it out!"

Raen blanched when she realised she was talking to him! "Me?!" His face drained of colour.

She turned and regarded him with a steady eye. "An Arato serves the Crown; so serve your master and do as I bid."

With a deep sigh of worry, Raem grasped the stem of the arrow and pulled/ "I'm so sorry!" He said, as he did what he was bade.

With the arrow free, the elf used her magics to heal Dáire's wound. When she had done all she could, she stood back. "May the crown never forget House Núra saved their prince." She then stepped back amidst the others.

Raen was distraught. This was the worse thing that had happened to him in ... well, forever. Something inside of him shifted, he knew not what it was, but he turned to the others: "Find the man or woman who would dare hurt the heir to the crown! Find them!"" He glanced back at Dáire; this man who had been the most quietly competent man he had ever known, and now was his prince, lay wounded while the person who had let the arrow fly was being hunted by the very best of Elven kind

Among them, a burst of glitter and glint of sunshine burst into sight, with a few gasps to accompany it. "Foreign magics!" One of the Lumeacia elves called out, but it changed all people to that direction.

Whomever it was that had cast the spell, had maybe saved a prince from death, but might also had revealed themselves as imposters to an ancient tite

[Soltaevar Velca]

As the circle that had formed scattered, Soltaevar knelt on the unoccupied side of the wounded man. “I am no healer, but mayhaps I can make him more comfortable,” Soltaevar said. The wounded would-be prince shivered on the ground. Soltaevar unclasped his cloak and slung it over the prone form. “May I have your cloak, Arato? He’s going into shock,” he said extending a hand.

He took the offered cloak and adjusted the two garments to cover the man as much as possible. The dazed look in the dark-haired man’s eyes concerned him. Soltaevar reached down and took the man’s hand; it lay cold against his palm. “Stay with us, Ta- er, Dáire,” he said, remembering the man’s name halfway through speaking. He crouched next to his side. “You look like a man who has many stories to tell. Perhaps some day we will meet under better circumstances and you might tell me one.”

Dáire’s hand twitched slightly. Soltaevar would take whatever signs of life presented themselves. “I’m afraid most of my best stories involve my cats. I’ve four of them, and not a day goes by that they aren’t making me laugh at their antics.” He thought for a moment. “Once my little grey cat, Myahel, was being chased by my black cat who likes to think he’s a hunter. Terrible at it, but he tries hard.” Soltaevar paused, watching Dáire’s face for any sign of focus.

“I’d separated the two of them; Myahel had found a sunny spot in my study. The black cat, Mairyl, comes streaking down the hallway to catch her, but he’d forgotten there was no rug on the wood floor. I saw him from across the hall, and I stepped forward to scold him. Mairyl saw me, and tried to turn away, but the floor gave his claws no purchase and he ended up spinning on the floor before bouncing off a wall to make an undignified escape.” He remembered the incident; he’d nearly laughed himself to tears watching Mairyl’s clumsy attack. Dáire’s eyes weren’t looking at him, and he cleared his throat softly.

“I’m no adventurer with tales of derring-do. I’m a spice merchant who lives alone in Fellsgard. I was born here in Órlbelle, but the city I knew as a child is gone.” He sat back on his heels. “I know you’ve been brought here at the pleasure of others to be their crown, but it is your choice to accept or deny their wishes. Watching you, it looked like this -” Soltaevar gestured vaguely around himself - “was the last thing you ever wanted.” He sighed and clasped the man’s hand in both of his. “Regardless of what you choose, I’ll do what I can to keep you safe.”