The two of them proceeded through the evacuated city. Ulric was incredibly disappointed that this had to be the first way he would experience this bastion of Aes'r-Iriel’en.
Had it been its usual bustling self, he could well imagine what kind of geek bonanza it would have been. As it was, it was a testament to the commitment of the people here to preserve life above infrastructure.
He recalled the stories of people refusing to evacuate incoming hurricanes. The public reporting would then go on to profess shock that recovery crews were picking bodies from the wreckage. Such incidents occurred with a frequency sufficient to make him question if it was him that was weird for believing those people had it coming. Or, if he might be traipsing around in the twilight zone, sane, and it was all of them that were nuts. Turns out, it was a little of column A and a little of column B.
"Brighteyes, where exactly did everybody go?" Ulric prompted, glancing around at the wide, empty bridges and soaring, but vacant pavilions, "Taipan said they were hidden in the deep wood, but I sort of thought Iriel was the deep wood."
The youth turned those flashing eyes to him, so foreign for their shape and the metallic glitter within their irises. Aliens, these Elves, only tangentially associated with any mythical lore or cross pollinating between Watcher shepherdings of their domains. But human enough that Ulric saw clearly the child’s unease at his return to his people in flight, in the grips of another conflict that threatened their peace.
"When war threatens, we abandon the settlements proper, to hide in prepared fortified positions. These are secret and I cannot tell you their locations or any more about them. It is not that I do not trust you, this is not a Valin thing, the locations are something only the [Lord of the Deep Wood] may reveal, it is simply not my secret to tell." Brighteyes returned.
Ulric wasn't offended in the slightest at this. It was a completely rational thing to preserve the hiding places of your kin. And he told Brighteyes so. The kid's expression did indicate he was glad that Ulric wouldn't be insulted by the exclusion from this knowledge. They were, at the end of the day, different peoples and had only known one another for a few weeks, not quite a month. Comparatively, that was an eye blink for these races of pointy eared, not Humans.
Brighteyes did feel comfortable enough to describe the evacuation process though. Ulric listened raptly while they approached a particularly massive tree that stood far above the rest in this area. A spiraling structure wrapped its truck. The tops of the trees in their neck of the woods blocked the sight of the upper stories. Seems like that was their destination. Brighteyes was concluding his story about Iriel'en war stance.
"About the strongholds, I can say that they are eons old, and all are made of Heartwood. Never has an enemy survived long enough to breach the few strongholds, that I know of. Any enemies that find one are not allowed to leave the woods. These are killed to a man to preserve the secret safety of the Iriel'en." the Princeling described.
Grim faced, the boy continued in a tone brooking no sympathy for those who would bring conflict to the lands of his kin, "There are no prisoners in war for Iriel, Ulric. If an enemy falls wounded in the Deep Wood, they are finished. We do not capture foes or trade prisoners for wergild. We may allow enemies to flee the field of battle, to withdraw, if they can survive pursuit by Hunters. This is way of Iriel’en, some of the other clans are willing to trade prisoners, to ransom survivors. If this is their choice, so be it, every clan has its own ways. Aes’r Iriel’en who decides to become a warrior declares themselves dead when war begins. To commit to the task, until it ends. Their family holds a funeral. Other clans know this, we have no armed conflicts with other tribes of Aes'r, nor the neighboring Svartalfin, the dwarves. Prespang's people forget this, so we must remind them that an enemy's bones belong to the roots beneath the trees of Iriel."
Intense, the Twice-borne man noted.
Things had spiraled pretty wildly out of control then if these guys were on the war path. All because some greedy, ignorant pricks decided to stir shit and kidnap the prince of the hardest asses in all Elvendom. Boy were they in for a rude awakening.
Together, Valin and Aes’r advanced through the heart of the city. They rounded a bend, and Ulric stared covetously at what had to be a cold forge and emptied smithy. How he burned to see metal working from a smith! His attention was diverted, as the pair were confronted with a great lift up to the bottom of that enormous spiraling fortress, church, palace, or whatever the hell it was. And here, Ulric saw the first Elves of the Deep Wood that weren’t immediate kin of Brighteyes.
About fortyish of them.
To a man they were beautiful. And scary, none of them were happy to see, well, anybody. All of them held weapons, were clearly attired as soldiery.
Various shades between a light tan and a near aboriginal ebony were represented, but they trended toward an intermediate cinnamon brown. Occasionally, a pale figure stood out, colored like Brighteyes or some similarly pale bloodline. Hair ranged from the deep black, near blue, of Taipan to an almost reddish brown. Skin color and hair were not connected genetically, some of the darkest faces were bordered by the lightest hair. Eyes were all that slightly slanted almond shape and colors abounded, mostly shades of green, more shades of green than Ulric had ever seen in one place. Intensely staring emerald, lime, olive, celedon, kaitoke, these peered from fine, though furrowed brows. Dotted within the group was a few reddish irises, one or two golden browns, and even a light silver, all flecked with various almost metallic sheened flecks that ranged between glittering crimson and golden yellow.
That they were warriors, could be in no doubt. Not with strung longbows shouldered by all, and with a melee weapon held ready. Those appeared to be personal choice. Spears, long fighting knives almost short saber length being the most common. Here and there he saw hand axes and even a couple with a long, curved sword nearly as long as its wielder, an Odachi or something. To a man, or woman, the warriors came as frequently female as male, they wore light armor reminiscent of samurai but without the flashy colors, plates that fit exactingly to cover without inhibiting their movements. Underneath the efficient but functional armor was some kind of undercoat made up of what appeared to be metallic fish scales, though he couldn't see it well under the more obvious armor. Beneath that, a black silken base layer. This was sheer, form fitting across physiques that were, while not quite as awe, or lust inspiring as that Taipan of a sister to Brighteyes, were nonetheless immaculately healthy. There was no ceremony in their gear, all was grey, brown, and green to vanish into the forest around them. Ulric could well imagine that this lot could stand invisible in the wood below or from the branches above.
All in all, Ulric was properly anxious. This bunch, they made for an intimidating welcome wagon. As he stood there, a pause from being alone with his fellow traveler to being very not alone and facing the Elves, Ulric was getting some very "The dwarf breathes so loudly" vibes from them. Not that Ulric blamed them or anything, they had every right to be on edge. Still. Having some two score or so hostile glares directed your way, with plenty of sharp metal behind it, was nerve wracking.
Don’t let them see you sweat, old man, Ulric reminded himself. Predators smelled fear, and the Elves, without a doubt, were predators, and all that hippy tree hugging shit be damned. They didn’t hug trees, they guarded them. With extreme prejudice.
Very carefully not making movements that could be construed as an invitation to be riddled with arrows, Ulric turned to Brighteyes.
"Hey, look, Home Sweet Home, eh? They even rolled out the welcome mat. You ah, you wanna say something to let these fine gentlemen, er, gentle-elfs, know it's all good?" He asked the boy who was now probably his only promise of safe travels, or a life expectancy greater than thirty seconds.
The Elven lordling was now as relaxed as he'd ever been. He looked up at Ulric and made a soothing gesture.
"It is ok now Ulric, no reason for fear. We are safe here. My father sends his personal guard to escort us, no enemy will come close." Brighteyes assured him.
Stepping forward towards the extremely Serious Business looking warriors, Brighteyes waved almost casually and called enthusiastically in his native tongue toward the frontmost warrior, a tallish, though still several inches below Ulric’s own crown, man.
"Idra, I am now returned! I and my companion, who is under my Guestright, have already encountered Sister Geyrt. She should have gone ahead to announce us. There is much to tell! I have been told of war and other doings, but we have another situation that is dire for our people, and closer to home than Prespang."
That one relaxed, all of a single hair, and the rest assumed a casual at attention, still holding their implements of war for use. He had the darkest skin tone, an ebony that was jarringly coupled with reddish brown hair and red orange eyes, flecked gold. Scars criss-crossed his otherwise smooth features, one of them dragging up his mouth in a grin that wasn't. They were faded, old, indicating that this warrior had long outlived whoever had managed to touch him. His presence was imposing, he gave off a kind of pressure that Ulric hadn't ever felt from any one thing, except maybe the Forest Lord, though there was nothing savage in this sensation. More like a tornado that was choosing not to spin.
But he returned Brighteyes greeting, in baritone that, while it lacked the joyful enthusiasm of the boy, was distinctly warm.
"Lumyt'seit, the Iriel'en are gladdened beyond words for your safety. Forgiveness, I see the wear of the road on you, but you must follow me, Heir Lumyt’seit, I have been commanded. We go now to your father's hall. All is not well in Orlethrem. You have heard truly, the Otherkin of Prespang have chosen to water the forest. They have shed Aes’r blood on Orlethrem soil, without cause. Beneath your father’s banner Iriel will go to war. You will go to your father now, to learn what has transpired and to receive his judgment. As will your…companion." Announced the scarred warrior who must have been Idra.
Most of Brighteyes' enthusiasm left at that pronouncement. The more normal, serious expression he wore returned, redoubled, and he gestured deferentially for Ulric to follow and Ulric couldn't see anything to do but walk in the shadow of the Elven prince. Coming to visit the Elves was looking like a bad idea, more and more. He could see himself liking them, certainly respecting them, but if they took it into their heads that he was an enemy, he knew, without a single, solitary doubt, that they'd kill him like a rabid dog.
Soon enough, they stood on the platform, built alike the others with the seamless miracle wood underfoot supported by enormous rope latticework. A soldier activated the lift, a simple hook that was removed from the railing, and the lift rose.
Ulric tried to focus on the mechanism that operated it, rather than the encircling warriors. Probably some sort of passively turning engine powered by water wheel, although the water was far, far below, which meant a complex transmission system, that was likely inactivated by a tensioner clutch or flywheel. Whatever the case, the lift rose smoothly, other than the initial press of the acceleration. They rose about fifty meters straight up to the lowest level of the structure. Instead of stopping there though, another set of hooks were swiftly added and removed, and the lift traveled on up, bypassing five more landing areas as the structure spiraled around its great living pillar. On the way they broke through the canopy of surrounding lesser trees, and Ulric was treated to another sight unmatched.
Below them spread out the forest metropolis of Iriel. From above, the true scope of the deep wood home of the Aes'r could be seen, and appreciated. It was as if Peter Jackson and a team of druids got their heads together to magic out the most impressive arboreal city imaginable. If only Ulric wasn't so busy ignoring the gaggle of hostile bodies that could probably murder him in their sleep if they so decided. This close, he noticed that all of them carried scars, some faint, some recent, on hands, arms, and, more rarely, faces. One wore a facemask that held a prosthetic nose where his own had been removed, somehow. Ulric did his best not to insult anybody by staring.
It was slightly difficult. They were prettier than any set of a blockbuster film, scars and all, in history. Bodies ranged from slim lean runners, to curvaceous, to thick shouldered power lifter, but all were clearly athletes. Men and women, it didn't matter, they put to shame any section of humanity he'd ever encountered in his old life. None were as tall as Ulric, most by a head or more, which made him feel even more out of place. He was nearly literally the nail that stood up waiting to get hammered down. Seeing so many of what had to be the elites of Elf military caste, these also made clearer what an absolute specimen Taipan was. Not only in height, at her almost matching elevation, she was easily the most well put together member of her kind he'd seen. A jewel carved perfectly from uranium that one was. Gorgeous and radioactive.
He wasn't absolutely sure but something was off about these folk. Unless they purposefully chose only the rarest, most aesthetic for their soldiers, unlikely, there was some serious genetic fuckery going on here. They can't all be this flawless. Maybe this had something to do with the cultivation of the world the Watcher had spoken of. She'd described his own world as being a sort of victim of some kind of cosmic shenanigans by space demons. The Watcher there was gone and his territory left untended. What had the Impossible called it? Evolution through chaos. As apt a way to describe it as any. This world though was under the protection and guidance of its own deity, planetary gardener, thing. The existence of cores and physical optimization he was noting in its organisms was a clear sign that there was a methodological structure pushing things along in a certain direction. Variance was still in full effect, but the more destructive edge of it seemed to have been ground off. He had no idea how such a thing was possible.
Yet again he had to chalk this one up in the "Fucking Magic, I guess" column.
His meditation on natural selection and pseudo-mystical eugenics was cut off when their lift reached the highest level of the fortified structure. Smallest in diameter here, matching the tapering of the tallest tree he'd ever seen outside of the Arboreal skyscrapers of the Plateau, easily dwarfing the surrounding forest, was the palace formed from the flesh of the massive trunk, the great crown spreading widely above and around them.
To his eye, it was both built into and grown out of the central tree. The fortress city in general had that same sort of maybe built, maybe grown aesthetic. He'd noticed that each spiral was supported by a separate limb, which flew like a curving buttress beneath its respective level and terminated branching outwards away from the structure and trunk alike. Those branches and leaves largely shielded the structure from view from afar. It was unlikely anyone knew there was a castle in this particular tree unless they also knew exactly where to look.
Where the fortress city’s arching network of foundations and platforms touched the massive bole of the supporting tree they were recessed by a good four meters, anchored. Each level was nested, locked to the frame of the tree so solidly that it might as well have been part of it. Ulric would have thought would be detrimental to the tree, but he figured these people probably knew what they were doing. Everything about this structure screamed We Are One With the Wood to his senses.
From the sprawling expanse of branches around this highest level sprung still green leaves. Great, looping vines, larger than many of the trees of his home world, encircled and draped the spreading branches reaching down into the tree tops below. Ferns, grasses, moss, bushes like small trees themselves grew freely on the surface of this monarch. It wasn't as large as the colossi of the plateau, but it was damned close, and if his budding mana sensitivity wasn't off the mark, the entire place damned near vibrated with arcane potency. The wood beneath his boots hummed with its vital strength, a deeper resonance than the Heartwood platforms.
Ulric knew without being told that he stood upon the potent bark covered hide of one of these revered Heartwood trees Brighteyes had spoken of earlier.
So far as the palatial castle building itself, they were faced with great arching doors, the portal of a massive organic fence that guarded this place, carved to look like intertwined limbs or roots. Some kind of silvery metal had been inlaid along the travel of the meshing wood and the result was, astoundingly, intricately, beautiful. The rest of the design of the Great Hall showed a similar level of improbably blended artisanry combined with natural growth. Tree shaping, inhumanly subtle woodwork, and just the right flare of metallic posh. Whoever was the architect, chef's kiss, they had nailed sylvan royalty.
The not so unsubtle herding of the warriors brought them into the palace, whose majestic doors opened without sound or seeming effort despite their size, into entryway fit to receive a whole materials science conference, then on through tall halls from which offshoots led to rooms, some with doors and some without, inviting free exploration. Through it all was a sort of airy freshness. Light infiltrated through numerous windows, the structure, as seemed common amongst these folk were shot through with skylights and woven roofs, seemingly uncaring for rain. Ulric was again unsure of how the hell they kept this place dry, or heated. The wind had not relented, had even picked up since the warming spell Brighteyes said heralded a seasonal storm, and there was a circulation of air, the mildest of draft within the walls of this fortress-palace, but it was cozy within. And not a spot of mold, or damp, and how did they manage to do that?
It literally had to be magic. He saw daylight through seams of woven limbs that made up many of the exterior walls and ceilings for fuck’s sake!
Naked, polished wooden floors abounded, absent any stonework. These dudes were committed to the theme, Ulric decided. Not even willing to entertain the existence of tile. Nor did they believe in rugs. You got bare wood floors around these parts, and you were going to like it. That there was a gentle warmth emanating from the finished surface below his booted feet that made him think of a spring morning's sun on a back deck made it entirely comfortable to his booted feet, if not his swamped sensibilities.
Finally, Ulric's gawking came to an end when they were presented with the first large scale metal work he'd seen. At a power walk clip, the soft drum of booted feet, his loudest by far, they came upon the entryway to the throne room of the Elven King. It was huge, six meters tall, three wide, a set of arched doors, made entirely of what appeared to be brass. Before them, woven metal threads of polished brass were spun to form a seemingly embroidered mural that was the view of Iriel from the heights of this citadel. This final door, the entryway to the throne of Iriel was most certainly intended to serve as a message, a reminder of what and for whom this place served.
Loud and clear, Ulric intoned in awe.
Of course, the border tapestries around said brass threshold were inscribed with Celtic style emerald abstractions that suggested vines, flowers, flowing in intricate knots. Plain to see, but with a suggestion of being hidden were nasty looking thorns in the depths of verdure. That too was a deliberate message for those who approached the throne. Beautiful. Lethal. Pass through with care.
The doors were swung open weightlessly towards the outside, and Ulric barely had time to appreciate the smoothness of their bearings before he was ushered through to be presented before an audience room complete with a throne carved into the trunk of the living tree. A throne upon which sat Taipan, if she'd been born a male. The similarity was highly disturbing. Piercing emerald eyes were almost striated in deep orange flecks. The man, Elf, who must have been Brighteyes' father and ruler here, beheld the room with a countenance that saw everything and weighed it to the dust under its fingernails. Stern gravitas radiated from this Bald’rt Iriel, [Lord of the Deep Wood]. They'd have gotten on well, this man and Ulric's departed grandmother.
The major difference was that, if the scarred elf warrior earlier had been a tornado, then the King upon his throne was the eye of a hurricane. Both were disasters, the difference was scale. Ulric's hairs stood on end, and the pit of his stomach knotted when that glittering gaze took him in.
He was an ant. A bitey, fierce, and incredibly determined ant. But all it took was a thumb to smash him. He tried hard not to unman himself by shaking. Or blinking. Or running. Hold your ground, old man, he warned himself. They’ll eat you alive if they think you weak. For once, the murmuring rage sitting at the back of his mind that he’d worried himself over was a boon, a dose of something to lean on.
The warriors marched the pair up to a circular relief, upon the floor, some kind of representation of the twinned suns of Varda, three crescent moons, and various astrological symbols before leaving to stand at attention to either side of the throne.
So then, he was to be judged by the heavens was he?
Besides the mystery attitude possibly some form of magic induced crazy, Ulric found himself being mildly angry on his own part at the arrogance in that statement, symbolic as it was. That was good. It helped to further offset the entirely reasonable anxiety. Not to replace it mind, there was no denying the danger before and around him, but it removed the sharper edge from the terror adjacent feeling, enough to think.
So caught up had he been, in the Elf King, he'd missed that Taipan, obviously daughter of the entity on the throne, was up on the dais slightly behind her father. Again, that incredible similarity jarred. Other than a squarer jaw, thinner lips, and a different eye dazzle, to say nothing of the Taipan's incredible bedonk and gabonzas, they were near fucking twins, what in the hell? Same height, same hue, same hair, even the braids were similar, if slightly differently patterned and ornamented with those carved rings at the ends.
Taipan must have noticed Ulric's comparison because she turned sideways to make a different profile. Ulric filed that little tell away, it might point to an insecurity he could abuse later in conversation. You know, if he was alive more than the fifteen or so minutes he currently estimated his life expectancy to be. There is, in fact, a point, where fatalism does surpass terror. A sort of comfort blanket for the doomed. It helped that Brighteyes was being given the same treatment.
The [Lord of the Deep Wood] let the two of them stew under his gaze for a minute before he started talking. By the time he did, Ulric had managed to transition from certain death to aggravated confusion. Why was he still alive? What was the point of all this song and dance, if they were going to kill him? And, if they were going to kill him anyway, what was the difference? Unless they weren't going to kill him, and this was some kind of game. A competition. A game Ulric could play, even if he didn't know all the rules, Brighteyes had prepared him some for what to expect.
Ulric was surprised at how grateful he was for Bald'rt, Chief of Iriel, father of Brighteyes, to have a deep voice and not sound like his daughter, which probably meant he was dissociating slightly because he really ought to be more afraid. The mind is strange under intense stress, his was becoming more so as [Warrior's Instinct] kicked on to further dampen him to an almost even keel. He was also incredibly glad of his lessons in the elf tongue. He didn't get it all one for one, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on as the Lord of Iriel greeted his son.
"Lumyt'seit, my son, you are alive and well. This relieves me of a grief beyond words. It is unfortunate that I could not have learned of your safety before now; events have traveled far in advance of your return. Things are now in motion that cannot be returned to rest, not until many lives are lost. I do not say this to lie blame at your feet, my child, the fault lies in those who invaded the sanctity of my domain and laid harm before my people, who drew blood of my blood, for which the reckoning will be swift. I only say this so you know that, in some ways, my hands are tied and my disposition is set as the roots of Heartwood. We are at war. The Iriel'en are hidden and the Hunters sharpen their knives. It would seem that a Blood Moon must rise again over Prespang." The lord of the wood intoned gravely.
That's where the kid learned to talk like a judge then, Ulric thought. Every word carried the weight of a ruler who was committed to doing great and terrible things in the name of preserving his people's home. Brighteyes, cheeky as he was, did not offer a response and Ulric was pretty sure that he would not until one was asked.
That heavy gaze turned to Ulric and he was proud of himself for not flinching. This being on his wooden throne was easily the scariest thing he'd seen since the Forest Lord. The mind behind those eyes was dissecting the world, sharp as glass-resin.
"And then there is the matter of you, Human.” The Elf addressed him in his own language, smoothly bass voice fluid over the words, without pause or challenge in the Lord’s command of Valin tongue, “You have come here to Elven land under the guest right of my son, but I have not given you leave to enter the Deep Wood, and your presence here is, by my word of old, a death sentence. I will hear from Lumyt'seit the reason for your why he has brought you to my lands. But first: Is it true you struck my daughter, Human?"
That got up Ulric's back alright, and his response was, surprisingly to raise an eyebrow and stare defiance at the thunderstorm that wanted to smite him for…what exactly?
So, he'd ask Brighteyes with Ulric standing right here, would he? As if Ulric’s own thoughts on the matter were of no consequence. Not to mention, High and Mighty over there hadn't bothered to so much as introduce himself, nor make a welcome, nor offer a courtesy of any kind. Hauled straight into an inquisition, and on account of a person who had not once, but twice, tried to kill him, maybe three times if you included not mentioning the godsdamned poison on her arrows and waiting for him to expire. And again, with all this Human stuff, like not having pointy ears was the only thing that mattered. This was rude, is what this was. Ulric Einar could forgive a great many things, but rudeness was not something he’d abide in a man. Or Elf, whatever.
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Fine, he decided. If it's got to be this way, then fine. Sometimes a man has to face the lightning, prepared to go out with his boots on. You only live once. Well, maybe, in his case, twice. But he’d do with a stiff back, not cowering.
"Greetings to you as well, anonymous Elf Lord. The courtesy of your hall warms the hearts of all who visit, I am sure." He began, dripping sarcasm for all the gathered royal guards and pointy ears to hear.
Brighteyes’ head turned violently, orbs startled wide, and began making shushing gestures. Ulric could feel the sharpening of intents from the assembled warriors.
An almost smile appeared on the face of Taipan, mirrored creepily by her father on his throne. Fuck, he wished they'd stop doing that.
"Oh? And who is it that finds the accommodations of Bald'rt Iriel [Lord of the Deep Woods] lacking? And you still have not answered my question, thou of the short-lived races." Lord Father Bald'rt said, a dangerous tone slipping into his voice.
"Some lives are shorter than others, Lordship, birth race be damned. The name of the one responsible for taking custody of your heir, slaying his enemies, caring him back to health, and preserving his safety all the long way from the Plateau of Ancient's is Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. And as to your daughter, I did not so much strike her as I did throw her to the ground and run Ceraun down her until she behaved, a condition that was tragically brief in its duration." Ulric said evenly.
When the smile disappeared from Taipan's face Ulric decided that this was all the reward life could have offered in that moment. Her Sire, of course, did not find this information to be so welcome. Brighteyes was on the verge of an outburst and was only restraining himself by the skin of his teeth.
“[Lord of the Ancient Glade]? You would have the cheek to lay claim to that sacred wild from its owner and parade such falsehood in front of me? And to have brought pain to my innocent offspring to boot? There will be an accounting for this—"
This fucking guy Ulric thought, and he wasn’t going to take shit off some brownie just because he could kill him.
"Ask her yourself, this blameless child of yours, if she can find time from her slander to be honest." He said, cutting off the owner of the hall, ignoring the sudden quiet in the room.
"If my word means so little to you, ask her who has already used [Scan] for the truth of things. Ask her also how it came to be that I inflicted such punishment on her person. And if you say a single false word, Taipan, I will trust Lumyt'seit to judge my challenge, as he has offered." Ulric growled, his poor but sufficient Elvish reminding the woman of her brother's warning.
He had long ago decided that he would not be held under another's power. Live or die. If someone wanted to think they held him in their grip then he'd leave this world with his teeth in their hand, if needs be. That he would be subjected to this kind of treatment was beyond galling. It was infuriating. That whispering voice of violent intent was singing sweet songs in his mind now. Somebody was going to pay for this. He didn't really mind who anymore.
Bald'rt Iriel was not a man accustomed to being interrupted, nor to have his daughter dressed down in his own throne room. He let the feeling of that swirl around in his mind and was readying a dialogue whose probable outcome should free him of the burden of Guestright, satisfy Iriel’en laws, permit him to claim insult, and the chance to issue a death sentence challenge when his only son also spoke out of turn. Now here was something, Lord Bald’rt reckoned, and he held his peace to hear out his youngest Heir.
"This is unjust father!”, the bandaged Prince, wearing crude leather garments sewed by unpracticed hands exclaimed with complete dignity, “You dishonor me with such treatment. If this man were of a kind with the ones who took me, he would lie dead in the woods already, at my own hands. He has come with me in good faith, to guard my person, to bring weight to my news that the Forest Lord has fallen, as its slayer, and warning that the Forest of the Forgotten now seethes, its captive denizens free to unleash themselves on the Deep Wood.”
Lord Father up there seemed interested in that news, he wasn’t staring at Ulric like a tiger at a rabbit anymore, anyway, and Brighteyes was giving it hell by the sound of it, although Ulric was a few seconds late comprehending with his immature linguistic skills.
“The Sacred Grove’s creatures will move, the Greater Beasts and will soon vie for the space the Forest Lord occupied, for territory in the lands of our harvesters, our artisans. We face danger from inside the wood, and from the plateau, as well as from those Peacebreakers from Prosper. In no way does my guest merit such questioning. If anything, I am to blame for these events, I was foolish enough to be taken. Then I was too weak to return by myself, forcing this man to accompany me, on the brink of Winter, far from his home. I will not have my guest subjected to this charade father. We will hear Geyrt tell her story openly, and then I will tell mine, and then you may judge before all." Proclaimed the Heir of the forest folk, and most within the hall seemed to take heart the impassioned plea.
The boy was clearly livid. It made Ulric a little happy that his little buddy put himself out there like that, even in front of this father about whom he was clearly in awe. For that matter, Ulric was a little in awe of him too. Or, you know, a lot. But he'd go to his grave before he let them know he could sweat and Brighteyes was a champ.
The Elven lord's fingers tapped absently on his chin as he considered murder, mercy, and the possibilities before him. Eventually he spoke, a winter lake's calm in his tone.
"Very well then, Lumyt'seit. You have grown in attitude, if not stature, on your journey. Before I ask for your sister's tale, in full, I would have yours. I have already heard some of what my Geyrt has to say, and I have already learned some of what she has not said from other eyes and ears. Tell me what has transpired to throw all of Iriel into upheaval. It may be that I was too hasty, that I owe both of you an apology. It may also be that I will declare you exiled for ten years to your mother's homeland and your human guest thrown from my borders like a thief, if I do not take the pleasure of killing him myself out-right."
Brighteyes looked relieved, so…okay? He wasn’t being killed, anyway, so Ulric chalked that up as a very temporary win. Apparently, the worst moment was past. Ulric himself was not convinced. He felt like something non obvious was going on here, like there were layers to this meeting beyond what was being said. Brighteyes had spoken of his father like a hero. The kid wasn't an idiot and, if Ulric was any judge of character at all, the Chief of Iriel was a lot more than a pretentious thug. So why this song and dance? Things had gone too fast, too much happening, too much information coming in and him being alternately too scared and pissed to catch on before, but now he was getting some weird vibes as the lizard in his skull started crunching numbers.
There was some definite Elf cultural fuckery about. He been feeling the edges of it ever since Brighteyes had sort of taken custody of him, and he could feel layers of it, like a movement in the corner of his eyes, just out of sight. He didn't understand what was going on around him, but he knew he'd been dragged to the center of something important. Not because he was important, but because other people were, and they had a use for a wild card in their deck.
Looking around the room full of armed to the teeth elder warriors who could carve him to pieces, and the creature upon the throne that could pronounce his death with a word or cause it with his will alone, and Ulric missed his home something fierce.
While he lamented ever leaving the glade or abandoning project bush hermit, Brighteyes started from the beginning, in human language. Ulric didn’t know the significance of that, but surely it did have some, the kid could have far more fluently told his tale in his own people’s tongue, especially there in that hall that marked the seat of their power. Perhaps it was a tacit admission that he was in support of Ulric, an attempt to keep him in the loop. Unknown. All Ulric knew for sure was that the kid was standing up in front of his people, his inscrutable father, and telling them all that had happened to him since he had been taken.
Bravely, the boy spared himself nothing in describing his shame, the fate of his friend, and his capture. He detailed the beatings and delirious, insane flight of the maybe poachers up to the Plateau, their whispered plans, thinking him unconscious, or unable to hear them describing an intended course to circle away from Hunters that would soon converge even though they believed for some reason they would survive the Forest Lord. He told, as Ulric had told before, of the greedy and ill-fated attack on the wounded Greater beasts in the canopy and then Ulric's own ambush.
Ulric noted that some of the warriors ever so slightly expressed approval at the description of that battle. As well they should, it was apparently straight out of the Elven play book, having experienced Taipan's near identical tactics deployed against himself. Ulric stayed silent throughout except to offer the name of the beastkin warrior he'd dueled, Graus, who it would seem was the mercenary leader's, Vars' if he recalled correctly, brother. The owner of the very trident Ulric carried now. At that one’s end, many hushed whispers of approval susurrated through the throne room.
And they said violence never solved anything, Ulric rolled his eyes internally at that outright falsehood of the Before, yeah, go ahead, tell him other one. More and more, he was glad that he'd ended the lives of those men, despite the lifelong instillment of pacifistic tendencies of his old life. They were mercenaries, killers of these woodland folk by their own claims. And they were willing to hurt kids. He hadn't got the root of the problem either, there was still this Vars character out there. Something to keep in mind that, there was at least one dangerous individual out there that would bear him a grudge personally when the events came out.
Brighteyes continued the story, describing his injuries, and his time in the glade recuperating. He then spoke of the reason for which he and the poachers had not been killed as soon as they left the Ancient’s Gate. When he narrated to the room of the final end for the Forest Lord there was a general murmur of shock and more hushed discussion that Ulric couldn’t make out. The Lord of Iriel up on the dais took that bit of information and Ulric could damned near hear the gears turning between those long, pointed ears.
The blond topknotted youth came to their decision to return Brighteyes to Iriel and the journey. The journey back he mostly glossed over, in truth there hadn't been much to tell, it was only Ulric's naivete that had made it at all remarkable. Aside from the Golden Heckler Monkey that is. Brighteyes pulled its bisected pelt from his pack handing it to the warrior he'd called Idra, the scarred maybe Captain of royal hardasses, who looked at it with satisfaction.
Then came the encounter with Taipan.
This Brighteyes didn't gloss over at all. In a voice heavy with regret, he described events in perfect detail, more than Ulric could have managed, on account it was remarkable how you can take in details when you aren't running for your life. He told of their conversation after the Prince stopped the fight between patron and sister; the specifics of which Ulric had not known at the time. He even narrated the heated, eh, “conversation” between the Valin guardian and Iriel’en princess, including Ulric's deliberately profane bamboozle, at which recounting he tried not to visibly show his cringing.
It was pretty rough. He wouldn’t take it back, but he acknowledged that he wasn’t a great person sometimes. That was more than a little awkward, for everybody. Taipan looked ready to jump out of the nearest window. Huh, her ears had turned dark red. So that's how Elves show embarrassment. It was uncomfortable for everyone, really, seeing how he was standing in front of the woman’s dad at the moment, who looked less than pleased about the entire situation, by a stern frown. One of the warriors coughed into her fist, stony gaze holding the rigid struggle of someone trying not to laugh. Several others were trading hurried glances, going stone faced, but lips quivered, and Ulric found himself relieved that at least the soldiers thought it was funny.
Then there was the attempted stabbing. After Guestright. At that, the reserved humor in the warriors vanished. They glanced heavily towards their princess steady stares of unblinking inhuman glittering eyes. Taipan sagged under the weight of her people's stares.
Ah, that's right, she had broken something called Guestright, and they said it with a capital ‘g’ too. Brighteyes had said that like it was law. The others in the room seemed to think it was too. Even Bald'rt turned his head slightly to level a disapproving gaze her way. He might as well have yelled, from the stiff set to his face. Things were going worse for Taipan, when her brother mentioned the poisoned arrow, the intentional delay in delivery of curatives.
Unrelenting, Brighteyes spoke his tale to completion sadness in his clear voice.
No one said a word. The Fae king of this land sat back in his throne to digest what he had heard.
Ulric felt the tension like a physical thing. The death of the Forest Lord was as big a piece of news as anything else to these people. Then all the rest, it was a real layer cake of unfortunate bullshit. He had a feeling like the Warriors wished they were doing something other than standing there. The ire directed his way was gone now. None doubted Brighteyes' recollection of events nor questioned his judgment. It would seem that Ulric wasn't the only one that thought he had a good head on his shoulders. The Taipan standing behind her father’s throne, notably, refused to look at anyone or to speak.
Finally, the Elven lord seemed to reach a decision.
"I have heard enough. Of the Forest Lord, and the steps to preserve our folk from the beasts of the canopy loosed by its death we have time yet to forestall real danger, our kin already have safety.” Bald’rt Iriel decided.
An emotionless pair of glittering eyes laid on the Iriel’en Lord’s daughter.
“Geyrt.” He uttered, and she flinched at her name, “I have listened to your brother and find his words without falsehood or disambiguation. Here is how matters stand before me: You have abandoned your post during war time, a minor offense, considering circumstances, I hold you not in blame for this, blood comes always first, for all but the one what bears the Crown. You were defeated after attempting to slay a friend of your kin in ambush, spared, and still you continued to bring insult, against all propriety. You have only by the barest margin not told me a lie in your recounting, but, clearly, it was your intent to tell me no more than needed to bias my judgement against this benefactor of my son, your brother. In doing so I have treated them unfairly, on your words, in which I placed complete trust. I came within breaths of killing this man out of hand, which I find now would have been an injustice I would have carried to my own end. Do you find that I err in this understanding of events?”
That question, delivered in iron tones of the Lord’s daughter offered no escape.
Taipan held to her courage and answered with bitter shame, “No, Father.”
Bald’rt Iriel nodded, forbidding satisfaction in her admission.
“Good. You have not lost all honor then. All of the rest, I would have held you to task, and heavy the weight of my displeasure lain over years. However,” the Lord of the Deep Wood proclaimed, with a heavy pause, “You have broken the Guestright of the royal house, in denying your brother. You have cast aside the Guestright of Iriel entire, as one who bears my name, with deliberate intent, thrice. Once could be forgiven, with penitence, twice, with a short exile, but a third time in full knowledge, I cannot stand by idle, not and shame the throne further in the eyes of the world." He pronounced, his word the immutable law.
Taipan looked like she'd been ordered to the block. But Bald'rt was not done. Seems this had been a festering wound that the father of this beautiful and hateful creature was determined to see lanced. She had it coming, in his book.
Hang the fuck on, Ulric thought as the Iriel Chief continued, his deep voice filling the hall as he made his judgment. Despite his improved grasp on the language, he couldn’t follow this complexity. The expression on Taipan's face was good enough to know that, whatever was happening, it wasn't good for her.
"Pain has guided, and shielded, your actions for long enough. I did not interfere, I hoped you would not share the failings of your parents, I accept my poor judgment in this regard. Too long have you been allowed to wallow in unreasoned revenge, and, now, to permit grief to rule. It has ruled you to ruin. Your position is not enough, by all rights you have you made your very life forfeit, yet, I, with weakness of mine own, cannot find it in me to take it." The Elf king declared, “I will balance this appropriately and with greater mercy than you deserve, my daughter, first, my dearest.”
Addressing Ulric now, with booming voice that filled the hall, leaving none to doubt the authority of his command within this hall and these lands, Bald’rt Iriel cast two dooms in a single voice, laying his judgement on the two souls of those who were yoked together under it, “Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade], to balance the debt, a life for a life. I place my daughter Geyrt in your service as your Shadow. Without a name other than what you give her, against all harm, she will guard your person for the duration of your mortal life, and your commands are her only will. I expect you will treat her with the dignity my son sees in you. Or else."
Cinnamon-skinned woman went noticeably pale, reddening of ears vanished instantly. She wasn’t mortified, she was shocked nearly to fainting. The rest of the room turned to stone. Not comprehending, Ulric didn’t understand why until a few moments later.
Wide eyed, shocked, Brighteyes had to translate for him. As he did, Ulric couldn’t keep his own face from falling.
Oh gods, no, Ulric begged silently as the Elf King’s translated words made clear what had just happened to him. A curse. Nononononono! You cannot do this to me! He raved inside his head, panicked, he immediately searched for a way out.
Hold your shit together, the shaken man urged, trying to hold onto his composure.
There’s a way out, there’s got to be a way out, his desperate mind chanted, you cannot be serious, please, anything but this, there’s got to be a way out, he spiraled.
It could never be said that the [Lord of the Deep Wood] was not a just man, or one with a strong sense for the ironic. The price for her attempts on his life was to be stripped of her former role in life, assigned to ensure its continuance. That also meant that Ulric would be forced to tolerate her presence, possibly forever. No wonder the both of them wore an expression like they'd been told they'd only be allowed to take scorpion baths forever.
Ulric tried desperately to save himself, hanging onto his dignity by his fingernails.
"Th..that is not necessary Lord Bald'rt! Your daughter erred, but your son has already taken responsibility for these events and I have left it behind out of respect for him. We are, ah, square. Um. As it were.”
They weren’t, but he’d tell any lie under the twinned suns if it got him rid of this awfulness. And that creature had the nerve to look unhappy! He was the one that had to endure what was the single most evil witch he’d ever encountered. Godsdammnit he had his entire second life in front of him over here! The very, utterly last thing he needed was to be saddled with such a menace to his peace.
Seeing no sign that the Elf Lord had seen reason, he continued, “There is no need for such extremes, an apology is good enough. I am well pleased enough to know that the truth of things is known to all and we have no grudge between us."
Brighteyes winced. Ulric hoped he wasn't doing something incredibly rude, however, there was no helping it. Please. Watcher. If you have any love, please don't let this happen he begged in his mind. Taipan, glared balefully at him.
Angrily the Elven ruler retorted in a tone that brooked no discussion.
"Ware your words. I know you do not mean insult, but this treads close to a line I will not have crossed. My son is not responsible for the actions of his Elder kin. It is she who has treated her name as dirt to be trodden on. Since it holds so little value, she will learn its worth when it carries no weight.” He announced to the hall with finality.
“Geyrt, formerly Iriel, will serve as your personal protection, your left hand, and she will do so until the life she unjustly tried to end has, in spite of her very best efforts from this day forward, ended. This is my judgement. As her liege lord you are expected to provide for her life and a modicum of comforts as fits the Shadow of a Lord acknowledged by the All-Knowledge. This I have spoken and this will be done. To speak otherwise is to challenge my rule under my own roof and, even for one to whom I owe a debt, this I will not tolerate." Bald’rt Iriel spoke, and the law was written in this sylvan kingdom.
So, that was it then, he thought with despair.
FFFUUCK! Ulric yelled in his mind.
He'd already gotten away with impertinence bordering outright disrespect. Anything more and the Elf king would be forced to murder him for impinging on his authority. Godsdamnit there had to be a way out of this.
Brighteyes had done his duty to his friend too well; none in that room even remotely questioned the justice of the decision. Ulric swallowed. He tried to keep his face neutral. Not a frown. Not a grimace. He very particularly did not look at the source of his anguish, else he'd be completely unable to carry the deceit. The only path forward was to go along, he plotted. He could evade later. It might mean never returning to Elven land though. There was a difference in refusing to be bullied and just throwing yourself into a woodchipper. One last chance. He'd see if he could walk back the punishment for not just killing Taipan into a reduced sentence, instead of a life of hateful glowering at his back.
"My apologies Lord Bald'rt, I did not mean to imply this. I will, of course, take my responsibilities towards your daughter seriously, and I thank you for offering her service. Such a skilled fighter would always be welcome at my side. I do wonder, is a lifetime bond truly warranted? Please excuse my ignorance, your son has done his best, but I have not lived in this world amongst your kind, and know next to nothing of the Elven traditions, let alone intricacies of Iriel'en culture." He said with utmost deference, internally yammering incoherent curses on all pointy eared kind.
The serious expression turned light, the Elf lord was even faintly amused. Did he read minds? Ulric questioned, did he know how badly the Human before him wished only to be left in peace? Was this punishment for his snark earlier? Shit, he’d gone on talking, Ulric pulled himself together.
"Just so. And, please, from now on, you may use only my name, you have earned recognition as a friend of the Aes’r-Iriel’en for returning my son to me, and taking up his care with such diligence. Call me Bald'rt. Lords of the land should discard formalities outside of high occasions.” And, just like that, the Elf king was speaking to him as if to an old friend, cheerfully ignorant of the destruction he’d just wrought.
“Human lives, are, and I do not mean this in any derogatory way, brief in comparison to the woodland peoples. My daughter has brought this upon herself and, should she survive her service, will be better for the experience. I am gladdened that our disagreements can be left behind without bloodshed. Now. You questioned, rightfully, the courtesy of my hall. I admit I was less than hospitable, forgive me. Especially you, Lumyt'seit, you have clearly been injured. As have you Ulric Glade Chief, I see you favor your left arm. Hopefully my daughter is not also responsible for this injury. Come, let us have nourishment, a feasting of openness and friendships. I will summon a healer to tend wounds while you tell me how it comes to pass that a Human should live in the Forest of the Forgotten."
Just like that, Brighteyes' dad bulldozed everybody in the room into lunch. Dinner. Whatever. Ulric was too busy trying to avoid an anxiety attack to care.
Elves dressed in functional shirts and pants of common dark brown perhaps even black coloration must have been the employees of the household. Food was brought out to the great tables. Unlike regular meals, apparently talking during feasting was normal. Bald'rt insisted Ulric sit to his right while Brighteyes sat to his left. Warriors rotated, alternating eating voraciously at the table and taking up guard duty. Taipan was clearly on the shitlist, she sat at the very end of the table, moving food around a plate and eating little, and her skittishness mirrored what Ulric felt internally.
He wanted to run, full sprint, all the way back to the glade. Instead, he was front and center in Oberon’s mushroom kingdom Underhill and he was certainly trapped. Ulric felt like he was a stake, pounded into the ground to remain there forever. There was booze! Oh, thank all the gods in the heavens and all the demons in every hell that he didn’t have to take this sober.
Accepting a tankard with a mumbled “Many thanks.” In his poor Elvish, he downed it quickly, ignoring the burn that promised potency.
He’d been trapped by this grinning Elf using a chain made of clever obligation. Now he had to find a loophole. Quickly. Only, he came up completely empty. Nada. Nicht.
Now that the tension was gone, the Elf Lord played the part of a loquacious and gracious host. Against all odds, Ulric found him to be, not just pleasant, but even engaging. Like an older Brighteyes. And that one had been correct, they even had a similar sense of humor. As the booze settled into him, he may have indulged in one or three more of those, Ulric lost some of his normal inhibition when being in a crowded room of strangers. Actually, he lost most of his normal inhibitions, as Brighteyes and his father told stories, wove tales of wonder and, occasionally, Ulric could feel when he was being prodded and played the game of finding places to throw needles with this Elven Lord. Both scored points but Ulric would admit defeat. His adversary was too strong, too experienced. In a twist that beggared his imagination he found himself liking this father of Brighteyes and Taipan.
Now the trap closed completely. He was done. The meal came to a close, but nobody left.
What started as a rather sedate celebratory dinner got well out of hand. A stone kicked from an unstable rockface had less precipitous effect. Word had gotten around that Brighteyes had returned safely. While most of the citizens of this land were gone, the fortress, palace, thing that was this place was jam packed. Warriors and Hunters, mostly. But a healthy smattering of important folk, Greater Houses, artisans, leaders of the lands who had wanted to remain active in the defense of their realm, at the behest of their liege, and all the people that made up the infrastructure of the place were still there. So it was that more Elves showed up.
Somehow, the room filled without Ulric noticing.
Extra tables were hauled in and the cooks took this chance to perform miracles. The serving folk scrambled like ants to keep up with the tide, the kitchens went into overdrive. The original set of warriors, Bald'rt's bodyguards, took up their positions when the hall got busy and still more warrior folk joined the festivities. Cheers at their young lord's survival were taken up. Kegs were tapped. Elven liquor was as vicious as their disposition towards prisoners: None would be taken, all must perish.
In the course of trading barbs with the Elven Lord of Iriel, Ulric had been prompted to retell the story of his killing of the Forest Lord. Bald'rt, disbelieving, had demanded a showing of the magic that could slay the ancient terror. Ulric, much drunker than he thought he was, obliged. They got a large melon, the name of which was lost to time, and Ulric overcharged a [Voltaic Grip] that covered half the room in exploded fruit. Lightning dancing between his hands the room roared out cheering at the fall of the old beast that had taken many an Elven Hunter on the borders of the Plateau.
Not to be outdone in his own realm, and, most definitely also inebriated, Bald'rt demonstrated some kind of brilliant red moon fire that completely atomized a brother melon, painting all within arms-reach in fruit, to which the room roared again.
More Drinks were passed around and foods unlike anything Ulric had eaten before were consumed. Elves cheered and danced. And they were all beautiful. Every godsdamned one of them.
Someone tended Ulric's arm. A glowing hand, probably less blurry than it had appeared, washed heat through his forearm and, just a few minutes later, the limb was completely free of pain. For that matter the small cuts, the hole in his hand that had already almost healed, shrapnel wounds, all of it was gone. Ulric was pretty sure he kissed the elf who did it. He actually didn't even remember if it was a man or woman. Didn't matter, he didn't hurt, at all, for the first time in weeks.
Brighteyes told the tale of their fight with the Heckler monkey troop to a rapt crowd, acting out his part of the battle with a roaring hearth behind him casting dancing shadows as he gestured, cut, dodged, and slashed. Lord Bald'rt was so proud he swept his son in an embrace, exclaiming at his "Magnificent golden son" and the two wept tears.
Ulric blacked out after that. He woke in a bed that was soft enough to convince himself of the existence of gods, outside his meeting of one. His tongue was coated with velvet and there was a throbbing tiredness that bespoke a mighty hangover. The room around him was unfamiliar. So was the naked elf beside him. She slept deeply half sprawled over him and Ulric took the opportunity to reflect that, other than almost dying a bunch of times, his life in Varda was the most amazing thing that could have ever happened to him.
Now, if only he could escape this sylvan insane asylum minus one malignantly hostile serpent.
