Chapter 18

In the darkest of his days, when his mind was muddled in shadow so dense, light seemed only a distant memory, or when the world had turned flat and gray and the very air seemed filled with an endless haze; when he could not see where to place his steps, Aduil took to the trees.

Deep in the forested heart of the greater bower grew a massive and ancient Mellian tree, whose smooth, silvery trunk emitted a sweet, grassy scent even in the icy depths of winter when the bright verdant leaves withered and fell away.

It was to that tree his mother would take him as an elfling, when he woke from terrifying dreams and neither her gentle hand stroking his hair back from his face, nor his father's soft soothing-song could guide him to rest.

Together they would climb the Mellian to such a height, he had almost felt he could reach the moon, and his mother would nestle herself into a dip on a thick, sturdy branch, and pull him into her lap, and there they would watch the stars.

Some nights, they would count them, as many as they could, or recite their names. Others, she would share the tale of how they came to be, of the memories they gathered and held safe, given freely by those willing to share, and of the promise they shared in return; that even in the darkest hours, there was still light to be found, and beauty and hope, which no perils, no heartache, no shadow can ever overcome.

"You carry that light with you, Aduil my heart," she would say, "wherever you go, however far you may roam, it is always there within you. If ever you should forget that, if you find your heart heavy with fear and shadow, you need only look to the stars, and allow them to guide you."

Aduil had never felt her absence so keenly as he did that night, climbing the Mellian alone. How he longed to speak with her, to seek her council, for she could always make sense from chaos, and he could sorely use that talent now.

Yet, all he had were the stars.

He settled back into the dip in the branch, which was not nearly so comfortable as his mother has always made it seem, and turned his gaze skyward.

"What am I to do?" he whispered into the night.

The stars, of course, made no reply, for truly, how could they? Stars did not speak, and even if they did, they would hold no answers for him. This was no nightmare he feared, no monster in the dark, this was... Well, there lay the trouble, at least in part. He did not know what this was.

Never had he felt such joy, such wonder, and mingled so strangely with such confusion and doubt. Never had he felt so at odds with himself, nor found himself at such loose ends.

Two diverging paths seemed to stretch before him. One, of duty and honor, long and straight, but bright and clear and safe. A path he had tread for one hundred thirty-five years, he knew precisely where it led. The other was hazy at best, filled with twists and turns and who knew what else besides, where he could not see past tomorrow and still… It was that path he wished to follow.

But therein lay the remainder of the trouble, for he had only just sworn to walk the other. Yet how could he? How could he lead Kate to the outer reaches of the realm and simply leave her there, to make her way alone, with only a horse, a few provisions, and a sword to see her safe to Cirbaninn? He had been able to secure that much for her, at the least, though he was to keep the weapon in his holding until they parted. Still, it was not enough.

He told himself it was only a concern for her well-being which compelled him to break his word and see her to Cirbaninn himself, whatever the consequences, but he knew it for a lie. In truth, he was not certain he could bring himself to watch her go, with the knowledge that it would be the last he would see of her.

A slight rustle of leaves just below Aduil's perch heralded Lindolir's arrival moments before his head popped into view. He quietly pulled himself the rest of the way up and seated himself on a branch near Aduil's own, with one knee hugged to his chest while the other leg was left to dangle. He cast a single glance to Aduil before resting his chin on his knee and turning his attention to the stars above without a word. It was, perhaps, one of Lindolir's best traits; for all that he enjoyed chatter, he understood the value of a simple quiet presence, and could hold his tongue with surprising ease when it was needful.

It was some time before either of them spoke.

"What do the stars say?" Lindolir asked.

Aduil sighed. "No more than the grass, the soil, or the river stones. They share their light but hoard their wisdom."

"And what wisdom do you seek?"

"Wisdom of the heart," Aduil murmured, "for mine seems to have lost all reason."

"Ah. Kate." He nodded. "Do you wish to speak of it?"

"No…or perhaps, yes."

"Indeed, those are your choices," Lindolir agreed sagely.

Aduil groaned. "I do not know, Lindolir." He scrubbed his hands over his face, before dropping them to his sides. "I know little, it seems."

"Then it is well I am here, for I know a great many things."

"Oh?" Aduil raised a brow, but Lindolir only smiled. "Such as?"

"You care for Kate. A great deal."

Aduil rolled his eyes. "Of course I care for her, she has become a dear friend. What more wisdom have you to offer? That the sky is blue? Water is wet?"

"You love her."

"I…What? I—she—why, why would you say such a thing?" he sputtered, heat rushing through his limbs and all the way up to the very points of his ears, as though he had been caught in the midst of a deception.

Understanding seemed to dawn in Lindolir then, and he let out a low laugh. "You truly do not see, do you? Oh, but then, how could you, when you have never before enjoyed so much as an infatuation? Still, it is as clear as the sky on a cloudless spring morn, Aduil, you love her. The markers are all there; You spend every moment you may with her, and yes, I know, she was tasked to you, but it is more than that. Even when you leave her, your heart does not, for you speak of little else, and you smile at the merest mention of her name."

Aduil scoffed. "I do not."

"Kate."

The smile came unbidden.

"Do you see now? I know of whence I speak. You, my dear brother, are in love."

In love...? Could it...truly...

Oh.

In an instant, every moment he had spent with Kate, every sardonic comment and patient explanation, each smile, each laugh—as well as each night he had spent alone as she slept when all he could think of was her and how to draw out yet another smile, they all rushed through his mind and came together like the brightly painted tiles of a grand mosaic of greater beauty than any he had ever seen. His heart soared. It was all there, clear and strong and radiant as the stars in the sky. How had he been so blind? It was true! It was Kate! She was—

Oh.

Oh, but. No.

And just as swiftly as it had taken flight, his heart sank back into his chest, and deeper than ever before, as his hand moved to his wrist. "No, Lindolir, you are wrong. I cannot love her," he whispered. "She does not bear my Mark."

That gave Lindolir pause. "Truly? Are you certain?"

"I am. Her arms are bare. You must have seen it when first you found her, with that strange clothing she wore."

"Oh. Well, that is no matter." Lindolir shrugged. "So your One and your love are not the same person. It has happened before."

"Twice. In all the ages of Taleria, it has happened twice, Lindolir."

"To our knowledge, yes," Lindolir rejoined. "Though perhaps it is not so strange an occurrence, only the tales do not reach our ears."

Aduil quirked a brow at that. "Even you cannot believe that." He shook his head. "No, it is too rare. What are the chances I would be so blessed?" And so cursed.

"Aduil…" Lindolir hesitated, a perplexed expression stealing across his features. "Aduil, do you not wish to love her?"

Aduil opened his mouth to respond, yet nothing came out. Not right then, at the least. It took a few more attempts before he could form his thoughts into words. "I always thought…when I found my love, it would be simple. I would know, in a moment, even without sight of her mark, I would simply know; it is her for me and I for her until the end of our days. And perhaps…perhaps that is true, even if I was too foolhardy and stiff-necked to see it, but there is nothing simple about this, Lindolir."

Lindolir turned a thoughtful gaze to the sky. "I do not think it is meant to be," he said at length. "Of course, I cannot say for certain, as I have not yet found my true beloved—"

"Then Denedir is not for you?" Aduil interjected.

A slow, pensive smile crept across Lindolir's face. "Perhaps…" He shook it away. "Yet my point, Aduil, is that love is rarely simple. Consider mother and father; they were Ones, and even they walked an arduous path to reach one another's arms."

That much was true. Indeed, had they not borne each other's marks, they might never have joined, for all the political machinations barring their way. Still…

"Is it meant to be so terrifying?" Aduil asked, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Is it meant to hurt so?"

"Hurt? No, Aduil, why should it hurt?" A soft concern hardened into something sharp and stern such as Aduil had rarely heard from his lighthearted brother. "What has she done?"

"Peace, Lindolir, she has not harmed me," Aduil said with a small smile. The very idea was absurd, though the solicitude was heartening.

"Then what troubles you?"

"It is not what she has done, but what she will do. She—" he faltered. She will die, he tried to say, but could not seem to put voice to it, as though speaking the words would bring them into being, would strike her down that instant. Dropping his head back against the bole of the tree, he forwent the attempt and instead concluded, "She will leave."

When Lindolir was slow to reply, he went on, weaving for his brother much the same tale he had for his father; that Kate hailed from a land far to the west, across the distant sea, that she had little knowledge of the force which brought her to the Meadowood, only that which she had felt when held within its cold grasp, and that all she wished was to return home.

"Father has decreed she be expelled from the realm come morning, lest whatever foul force left her here returns to claim her."

"And so, you would fold?" Lindolir shook his head. "That is not the brother I know. Never have I known you to surrender so easily."

"Yet what more am I to do? What more can possibly be done? Father has made his ruling. Whatever brought Kate here remains a threat, thus she cannot linger here, and nor can she return."

"So walk slowly," Lindolir said after a moment's thought. Before Aduil could ask, he went on, "When you see her home, walk slowly. All we need do is discover the nature of this force, whatever it is, and either slay it, or prove it no danger to the Meadowood, and you may return with Kate in arms. It sounds a long journey, so there should be time. While you see to her safety, I will begin the search. Or join it, rather, for like as not, father has already set the archivists to the task. If fortune favors, the work may be near complete as we speak!"

It was all Aduil could do to stare at his brother. His bright optimism that all might be solved, and so simply, was infectious.

For a moment he dared hope.

But only a moment.

"She wishes to return home, Lindolir."

"Perhaps she does, in part at the least. Yet there is a greater part, I think, which wishes to remain. With you. Granted, I only spoke with her a short time, still it was enough. Her heart shines as plainly for you as yours does for her. Only a fool would not see it."

"Do you name me a fool?"

Lindolir quirked a brow. "Do you deny it?"

Aduil shook his head with a small, rueful chuckle. "She asked to view my craft." He had gladly agreed, and still he had not seen. He had been a fool indeed. He shifted, reaching into his pouch with a sudden grin and carefully retrieved the paper blossom. He held it out for his brother to see. "As well, she crafted this, and gifted it to me."

"She gifted you a craft from her hand? And you accepted? Then you have already begun courting, and ere you knew your heart!" Lindolir's merry laugh rang out into the night. "Of course. You have ever followed your own path, why should you bow to tradition now?"

"We are not courting." Aduil spoke softly, watching the moonlight play on the flower's curves as the petals fluttered slightly in the gentle breeze. "I thought, for a moment… But her ways are not our own. It is but a token of friendship, I think."

Still, there may yet be hope. Even should Lindolir's words prove wrong, and friendship was all Kate felt for him, friendship could grow, could it not? The crossing to Cirbaninn would not take much time, but time enough, perhaps, to find the truth of Kate's heart for himself. Time enough to reveal his own.

And what then, a small, irritatingly pragmatic voice whispered, what then, for even should she have you, you cannot keep her. As much as he wished to deny those words—and he did, with all that he was and every drop of strength he possessed he wished to deny them, until his throat was hoarse and he could make no sound… yet he could not. It would change nothing.

Lowering the bloom in his hand, Aduil's eyes drifted closed, a heavy sigh deflating his chest.

"Aduil?"

"She is of the race of men, Lindolir. Mortal. Even should she choose to remain, to return to the Meadowood, to live out the remainder of her days with me… those days will end, and all too soon." He shook his head. "I will lose her. Wherever I turn, I will only lose her."

Lindolir made no response, nor did Aduil expect one, for what more was there to say? His brother had a sharp mind and a clever tongue, and indeed, it was a rare trouble he crafted for himself which he could neither think nor talk his way out of, yet for all his plans and schemes, even he could have no answer for this.

"I see…" he said at last, his voice quiet, solemn. "Oh, my brother, would that I could spare you this pain. Alas, the time for that has long since past. Though, perhaps, I can shorten its hold upon you… Yes. It is decided. I will see Kate home; you need not spend another moment in her company. I will seek out father this instant and see it done."

"Lind—No!" Aduil's hand shot out to grasp Lindolir's arm, only to meet with the barest brush of fabric as he dropped from the tree and out of reach. Without thought, Aduil leapt from his own branch, instinctually catching others on his way down to slow his fall to a less perilous rate. His heart thundered in his chest. He had to stop Lindolir before he reached their father. Ignoring the truth that father knew nothing of this—and would wholeheartedly disapprove—if any was to escort Kate to Cirbaninn, it would be Aduil. He would lose her, yes, there was no averting it, but he would not do so a second sooner than he must. Each moment of her time was precious, only more so for their scarcity; he would not part with a single one.

He dropped in a crouch, rising swiftly to race after his brother—only to find him leaning against another tree, arms crossed, with a lopsided grin on his face. Relief and confusion crashed over Aduil as opposing waves in a storm-battered sea.

"What are you playing at?" he cried. "Was it your aim to stop my heart ere it could break?"

"Why should it stop? Whether you walk with Kate, or another goes in your stead, you will lose her just the same." He reached out and plucked something from the air above Aduil's head. It was Kate's blossom. It must have fallen in his haste to reach his brother. Lindolir examined the small craft, slowly twirling it between his fingers as he asked, "Why should the when make any difference?"

"It makes every difference." Aduil snatched his flower back from his brother and looked it over for damage. Finding none, he slipped it securely back into his pouch. "Be it an entire lifetime or a single day, I will take what time I am granted with her and be ever grateful for the gift."

"At last!" Lindolir laughed, and it was only then that Aduil, great fool that he was, discerned the truth of his brother's actions.

"You had no intention of seeking father, did you?" he asked.

"Of course not. Never have I seen you happier than you are with her, and I will do all in my power to safeguard that joy, even from your own foolishness." His levity faded as he added, "One hundred fourteen years you have watched over me, Aduil, guarding and guiding me to safe paths where ignorance would have led me only to woe. Now, when at long last I may do the same for you, how could I do any less?"

Awash in a warm glow of pride, and no small amount of wonder, words failed Aduil as he looked upon his little brother with new eyes.

Gone, it seemed, was the gullible elfling who had walked always with a wary eye toward the shadows, fearing monsters hiding within, and gone was the thoughtless youth who would dive into any peril, and council others to join him, only for the slightest prospect of a laugh. In their place a warrior stood, judicious and wise, a prince of the realm in more than name, an elf well suited to one day rule, with a kind and fair hand.

Perhaps far more suited than Aduil himself would ever be.

Aduil clapped his hands upon Lindolir's shoulders and pressed their brows together in a warrior's embrace. "Thank you. I allowed fear and doubt to close my eyes, but you have forced them open once more," he murmured. "When did you find such wisdom?"

"This morning. I found it in the larder. Always in the last place you look." Lindolir gave a rueful shake of his head as Aduil stepped back with a chuckle. "Now come. You have quite the journey ahead of you. Best you get some rest."