Never Truly Alone
It was deadly quiet in the valley of the Druids. Clutching his dark grey travelling cloak closer about his shoulders, Ander felt awful disturbing the silence with his shuffling steps. He could have sworn he felt hundreds of spirits moving round him, like eddies in a black pool. If he dared to reach out and swipe his hand through the air, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that something invisible and ghostly and all too tangible might be disturbed.
Some distance ahead of him, Allanon moved with determination towards the center of it all. He was unshakable and steadfast, never stopping to glance at the wasteland of what had once been an austere and noble community. What had once been his home.
Either the Druid had lived too far beyond his order to care that everything was now a massive graveyard, or through sheer force of will he wasn't allowing himself to take notice, to feel the loss. After all, wasn't the duty of saving the world time after time a heavy enough burden to bear? Why pause to reflect on the end of everything you knew when you could just power through it?
Ander wished he could summon that kind of unfeeling strength.
Their destination was the massive plateau of sheer rock in the center. A living fortress grown out of the ground from the bones of the earth. Hollowed out inside by more chambers than Ander would ever live to see, the massive structure was topped by a vast roof that could easily have hosted a small village or a dragon aerie.
There would have been space on top for a few dozen rituals, open as it was to the sun or stars or whatever celestial sky was required. An entire army could have been summoned on the flat rocky ceiling of Paranor, the Druid Keep, the Stone Tooth. Once the home of the most powerful order to walk the earth, it was nothing more than a hollow rock, surrounded by sand and blasted by hot, dry winds.
It was cooler once they passed the ancient gateway inside. The wooden doors had rotted away long ago, while the secondary stone gates were lodged deep inside the rock walls they'd been hewed from. Ander half-expected a wave of deathly stench to hit him…he could see skeletal figures in various states of repose, even now. He was surrounded by the dead, following a ghost.
Allanon knew exactly where he was going. He made a beeline for one of the many tables, kicking aside skeletons and old books alike before snatching up a thick, ancient tome. He opened it up and put it on the table but didn't stop to examine it, obviously already knowing what was written there. With a quick motion he turned and gestured for Ander to come see.
Now that a safe path had been forged through the dead, Ander came to stand beside the Druid. He looked down at the book as Allanon pointed to the top of the first page. "This is the Ceremony of Undead Binding," the Druid's voice was a deep and rough whisper, like a roaring storm that had been bottled away. "Something like what the Dagda Mor inflicted on Arion. But this is its true purpose. This is how it was intended to be used."
Numbly, Ander's eyes flickered across the text. There was an awkward silence as Allanon waited for the young King to comment. Finally, Ander looked up. "I can't read Runic."
A flicker of surprise in Allanon's eyes. "Arion could…" he understood, before he'd even finished speaking. Disappointment and anger filled his voice. "I thought Evantine had at least made sure his own children could read the magic texts!"
Ander tried not to flinch as the last words escalated into a shout. He understood the Druid's strong feelings completely. He still found it hard to fathom how his father could be so, so stupid in his denial, so eager to pretend the world of demons didn't exist. How Evantine's need to forget left his entire kingdom and his own family naked and ignorant before the threat of the Ellcrys failing.
A wise king, indeed.
He reached out to touch the dusty, faded bordering on the page. Gold and scarlet ink that must have once been quite beautiful. "Of us all, Aine was the only one with his life laid out for him. Crown Prince and Heir to the throne. He knew from birth what his duties were."
Some of the dried ink flaked onto his fingertip and he quickly drew his hand away, hoping Allanon hadn't noticed. "For my childhood, I knew nothing but mischief and bliss. I was going to be a hero and win a beautiful maiden and the people would love me even if I wasn't their king. Arion…" the name hurt to say. It hurt to think of him. "Arion was going to be a wizard at first, I think. The library still held books with references to the Arcane Guild and how to read the Runic Script. I have vague memories of him memorizing spells when we were little."
"He could have been a great one," Allanon ruminated, "the House of Elessedil has had magic in the blood for centuries, and Arion…"
"Magic was gone," Ander said shortly. He didn't want to be rude…but he didn't want to think of what could have been, either. "Father quickly put a stop to that dream."
Retrospectively, it made complete sense now why Arion had responded at first with so much disbelief and then anger when Allanon appeared and the Ellcrys died and the evil horde their father said was a fairytale came to life and threatened everything they'd ever known. It wasn't so much sudden hatred for the Druid (although the young prince did harbor distrust and irritation in spades…Arion had always been excitable) but the middle son had lashed out at the web of lies their father had built around them.
The House of Elessedil…their family had been such a mess, for so long. Fragile relationships held together by duty and habit. The Gnomes' assassination of Aine had fractured them. The Demon Uprising was the hammer in the mirror that shattered them.
Arion, frustrated and impatient, had ruled the kingdom in all but name and ceremony until this crisis erupted. Then Evantine, their father, whose lies had left them vulnerable…the old man suddenly stood up and cast all his faith and trust onto the stranger, Allanon. He sent Amberle, their precious niece, out into the wild with no map and no plan, to follow a vision. A magical vision. Then he demanded they all sit and wait for the niece out in the wild to understand her vision and save them.
A wiser man would have been humbler, would have mollified his protests. But Arion was not often wise, and he had always been desperate to prove himself worthy, to replace Aine in the eyes of their people but, most of all, in the eyes of their father.
And Evantine, in turn, had always subconsciously resented Arion for not being Aine. Arion was a fallback strategy that had never been planned out, a settlement that fate and tragedy had forced upon the throne.
All their young lives, Evantine had spent his days training Aine. In less than a decade, it seemed, the eldest son was commanding men and cracking clever jokes and dispensing wisdom to everyone around him. He had honest grace and poise for every event and was always ready to break up a fight, armed with a sense of placating justice that was flawless.
Crediting Aine's innate perfection more than any tutoring he could possibly give him, Evantine had settled back to admire Aine's skillful handling of the kingdom. Happy and satisfied with the great king that would someday rule over Arborlon, he doted on his dog and…perhaps waited to join his wife.
Then Aine was murdered and Arion…the middle child, the uncharming (Ander, at least, was charming) the unfocused one struggling to find a purpose…THAT was the one Fate saw fit to force upon Evantine for training in his silver years.
Neither of them wanted it and their relationship, which had never been the strongest, began to suffer. While Ander wallowed in depression and guilt Evantine fought feebly to turn Arion into Aine. Although he could no more be Aine than be a majestic stag, Arion tried desperately to fit into the role that was his brother's. Finally, Evantine gave up. Arion did the best he could and, like Ander, they both turned a blind eye to their personal problems and went about the daily business of making it from one morning to the next.
For Arborlon, of course. Everything for Arborlon.
To this day it tormented Ander, how little they'd all done to help Amberle through this time of loss. How alone she'd been. Evantine was muddled in grief but busy shouting at Arion, while Arion was busy shouting back (he'd never been the best at making personal connections). Ander…Ander had a wealth of kind words to offer her, but it was hard to speak straight when you were drunk to the tips of your ears.
"The last moments I spent with your brother…were hardly conducive to friendship." How long had Allanon been waiting? Was Ander drifting again…broken, drunken fool, drowning in sorrow and self-pity. "I threw him into a wall while possessed by the Dagda Mor, and he later stabbed me in the back and the front. Yet because of his rudimentary grasp of magic and ability to read the old texts…somehow we managed to understand each other completely, to perform a dangerous trick as allies that would later allow me to save you and the kingdom."
"When the Dagda Mor stabbed Arion with the Blade of the Warlock Lord, his spirit was loosened but not removed…as I could tell from the account you gave of your meeting in the forest."
Arion's face, covered in cuts and filth. His hair torn and tangled by clawed hands, his teeth blackened from being forced to consume elfin flesh. His eyes, twin pits of unfeeling darkness…until the blackness shimmers away and blue shines forth...glazed with pain and stark bright with desperation. "What are you waiting for?" he's trying so hard not to cry and oh Holy Mountain he's hurting so much and it makes Ander cry…Arion's forehead is lined with agony. "Release me!"
His hands are caged, imprisoned in demonic gauntlets that burn the wearer. Struggling to touch Ander, he paws at him pathetically. A pleading, begging whimper. "Please."
Allanon's staff hit the ground with a muffled boom. The sound of it jolted Ander out of his nightmarish memory. "What we're about to attempt, Ander, will be impossible without your complete attention." He seemed to hesitate, staring into Ander's very soul as if he were scrutinizing him for a weakness.
Well, there were plenty to choose from. Ander forced himself to straighten up, nodding. "I'm ready."
The Druid's face darkened. "You cannot possibly know that," he scolded darkly. "Though you are a man given to introspection and long journeys into the past…you still run the risk of being lost forever. We are going to create a Life Map…though that is not the word for it, as it will lead you deeper into madness and disorder and offers no way back. You will enter three moments in Arion's life. Hidden in those memories is a Word of Power."
Ander sighed, truly disturbed by how little this all frightened him. Here he was enacting an ancient, unheard-of ritual with the sole purpose of resurrecting his brother from the dead and yet…his heart never skipped a beat. He'd been feeling tired and slow for weeks now. Even the Ellcrys…which was now his niece, how twisted was that?...seemed to feel sorry for him.
And yet, even pity couldn't move him to anger anymore. He was truly that far gone. Maybe it was a mistake to attempt this…like attempting a joust when you were sodden with spirits. Drunk.
Allanon was still speaking. The Druid was doing an admirable job of ignoring all the warning signs that Ander wasn't completely here.
"It will not be clear to you at first. But if all goes well, if your connection and understanding of Arion is strong enough…it will come to you. As soon as you hear it in your mind," he pointed to his skull, just where the ragged scarring was, "I will hear it. And I will use that Word to bind Arion's wandering soul back to a body and to you as well. Your life-force, strong as it is, will pull him back from death."
He spun his staff suddenly. A wind seemed to rise, shuffling and moaning, from the dark corners of Paranor. Lost in his own despair but still not ready to be accidentally swept up by the Druid's terrifying magic, Ander took a step closer. He couldn't help but stare down at the sand, where glowing lines of crimson power began to form.
"It is called the Binding for a reason. You will be bound to each other as the Druids are to the Stones of Paranor. Like the Druids, you will be practically immortal. The only way to end your life is for both of you to be killed at the exact same moment. If one of you is wounded, then both of you must enter the Druid's Sleep to heal."
"Like what you do?"
"Yes. Except death will be even farther beyond your reach." Allanon was busy, spreading his hands in the air and guiding the shimmering lines as they burned a design into the earth beneath them. Twin coffin shapes, with strange designs for the elements and flowers branching outwards into a unifying circle.
Ander moved to stand in one of the coffin shapes. He knew exactly where his position would be…and where Arion would appear next to him, if all went well. "So we'll be Druids."
Allanon seemed to hesitate, casting yet another soul-searching glance at Ander. "Yes. But remember that you chose this. You and Arion will be resurrected as Druids. Each connected to your Element. Many misunderstand…it is not a matter of being born blessed or specially protected. Fire still burns me. But it is your personality that determines which elemental magic you will be most attuned to."
Fire. Warmth. Light. Renewal…but also raging. Universally destructive. Devouring. A light side and a dark side. "What are our elements?"
"Like Arion, magic flows in your blood. You will be a Water Druid. You value peace. You are dependable, emotional. Pleasant to interact with…but unstoppable in your raging flood. Aine may have been Earth, practical, stubborn, stable...I rarely saw him angry or passionate enough to judge. He was very well-behaved as a boy." It had been shortly before Arion's birth that Allanon left. Then their Aunt Pyria ran away, broken hearted. Then their mother died giving birth to Ander…leaving them all alone.
"And Arion?" Ander clenched his fingers. "What will Arion be?"
The design was finished. It sat at their feet like a low fire, flickering. Allanon smiled reluctantly. It was a strange smile, both sad and amused. "Arion is Lightning. Destructive, impulsive, seemingly cast from heaven without gifts or grace. Brief and often off the mark in their rage. But once they strike, when they've truly decided on what they deem right…they do not swerve. White-hot and deadly. A volatile magic will be his…and as a Water Druid, Ander, you will be best positioned to either calm his rage or redirect it into yourself as a Conduit."
"Ah," Ander almost managed a chuckle. "Then nothing will have changed." Now he understood the sad smile. He wore it himself.
Allanon shook his head. "Earth, Water, Fire, Lightning…we could have had almost all of the Elemental Council again. Bremen, my old master…that would please the bastard."
That startled Ander. It revealed something new about Allanon. Something human. Remember that you chose this. "Did you choose to become a Druid?"
Brown eyes glimmered at him. Fire burned in their depths. The scars on Allanon's neck flared, sending an eerie orange glow out into the darkness. "Did you choose to be prince?"
That didn't answer the question. Royalty was an inherited duty but, as far as Ander could tell, the Druids had been an order where free men and women chose to come and study, to use their wisdom and power to protect the innocent.
Allanon pointed his staff at the ground. The ritual pattern was bright and gave off more heat than Ander thought possible. "Lie down."
It's my choice, Ander reminded himself. He gingerly lowered his bottom onto the dirty cobblestones and then stretched back, his head pillowed by dirt and dust. "Is there anything I have to do, or am I just coming along for the ride?" It was difficult to shout at Allanon without craning his head.
Allanon's voice came to him. "You're going to fall. Don't panic. Then you'll be inside Arion's head, watching his memories. You'll have no connection to these...your duty is to try and discover the Word of Power. Don't try to change anything. Do not forget that these are only memories, or instead of binding Arion to you in life, you will be bound to Arion in death, which is the opposite of what we want."
"Is it, though?" Ander sighed.
Ignoring the comment, Allanon began to shout something. It must have been a spell because suddenly Ander felt the earthy ground beneath him give way. He fell with an undignified yelp as the dim light of Paranor disappeared above his head, and Allanon's guttural chanting faded away.
Ander blinked, looking down at his hands. Then he saw they were paler than his own, knobbier at the knuckles. Wiry arms that made him look a tad scrawnier than the standard bruiser…Arion's arms. He…no, Arion…was holding the Rebridan, the King's seal embroidered on a heavy sash of black Sevan Silk. Expensive black silk. Why was he holding...?
Oh. Arion turned around slowly, staring down the great hall full of people. Many of them were openly weeping. Some of them were gazing at him, faces crumpled in sympathy.
At the end of the room in a colorless jumble of shapes stood what was left of his family. And Aine's body.
Aine was dead. Arion hadn't been there at the time…he'd been on a hunting expedition. He'd killed his first Direboar and made some friends amongst the older hunters of his father's men. He realized it was easier for him to make friends when he was away from Arborlon, when nobody knew him and no old baggage got in the way. He'd been at a campfire laughing at their jokes when the messenger sped into camp on a horse that was foaming at the mouth and ready to collapse. Already shouting, "The Crown Prince is dead!"
Immediately, Arion got on a fresh horse and rode back to Arborlon. Didn't pack his things, forgot about the Direboar trophy. The carrion could have it for all he cared. He rode hard through the night, unable to believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. Refusing to believe it until the sight of it forced him to.
He returned home to a traumatized niece, a brother falling apart, and a grieving, silent King. And of course, the wrapped, cleaned, unmoving corpse of his brother Aine. Almost like the Crown Prince had fallen asleep in cold silence.
Arion hadn't cried then. Hadn't cried since. Poor little Amberle hadn't stopped. Ander switched between red-eyed staring and drunken sobbing. To his credit, he tried to stay out of the way. But father…father was the worst. Father just sat there, staring with dry old eyes, watching Arion's mouth as he spoke. Dark, lusterless eyes that stared pathetically at Arion, asking him to fix this. Asking him where Aine was.
Aine was dead. And now the task fell to Arion to bury him, to send him away forever…remove him from his grieving family's eyes so they could move on.
Generally, the King or father-figure would fulfill the part of the ceremony he was about to perform. But there was a clause for the eldest son to do so if the father was overcome by grief. It was considered an honor and a mercy, to allow them to be weak, to grieve. The son was to be strong for them.
Arion had never been very strong. But he wasn't about to let everything fall apart now. Someone had to do this, and quickly.
Wrapping the black silk three times around his arm, he began taking slow, measured steps. The sound was extraordinarily loud in his ears, like a porcelain heartbeat. It echoed through the dimmed halls of white stone. Step. Step. Step.
His family…namely Amberle and Evantine, as Ander was staring at something between his feet…watched him approach with dread, their eyes fixed on the Rebridan on his arm.
He wanted to tear it off and run away. He wanted to lock himself into his own closet and let a maelstrom of grief overcome him. Wanted to cry, wanted to absolve himself of being so cold at this moment. To himself, at least, he wanted to prove that he could care. But his bones felt like ice. His heart was frozen.
Above Aine's bier, the roof had been opened up to the sky, the great shingles lifted by craftsmen to take advantage of the warm summer nights. Now, six black pennants streamed from the opening. A partly cloudy sky that revealed a handful of twinkling stars every other moment. Arion came up the steps. Approaching the throne.
Evantine's hands were clasped together, his body hunched miserably. He stared at Arion, mouth partly open as if he wanted to ask him something.
Amberle was sitting curled up to the side of the throne, crying into her black sleeves, too afraid to glance up at her father's corpse. Maybe she shouldn't be here. Arion felt pity and, for reasons he couldn't quite put into words, guilt.
The respectful quiet of the room suddenly grew heavier, pinning down Arion's shoulders as he turned to face Aine's body. His older brother, the strong, wise one they all relied on so heavily to perform. To be perfect. Had Aine ever had a moment of rest in his life? Most probably not.
Was that to be his fate?
Demonblood…he was Crown Prince now.
Aine's blue eyes were closed, his familiar face slack and lifeless. Arion laid the Rebridan across Aine's middle, careful never to touch a single part of him. He didn't think he could bear it if his skin brushed against his brother's and his brother didn't notice. Didn't react. Because he was gone.
There. His hands weren't shaking. The silk was in place. Turn. Make the speech that you overturned the library for and memorized in less than a few hours. That speech you had no idea you'd be making until this morning. Don't mess this up. Do something right…do it for Aine, for them all.
"People of Arborlon, I stand before you."
His voice jumped. His throat felt dry. He swallowed, a crawling sensation on the back of his neck as he realized just how many eyes were staring at him. Amberle's soft, incessant sobbing peppered his soul and once more he was tempted to bolt. To run.
But Aine wouldn't do that. Aine was better than that.
"Your King has lost his heir, and a father has lost his child. But Crown Prince Aine Elessedil did not belong to his family. He belonged to you, the people of this kingdom. And he has been taken from you."
Now the speech turned from rote to actual events that had happened. He could handle this.
"Our ancient enemies the gnomes crept into our palace," there was shuffling from Ander…Arion knew exactly why and prayed that father could restrain him. "With the intention to murder your good King and Liege Lord Evantine Elessedil. Aine Elessedil, master of the guard, could not let this happen to our kingdom. He could not let this happen to his father. He fought to protect the future of this kingdom and was slain. Perhaps he died not knowing how important he was to the future of this kingdom."
Arion had added that last sentence as a personal tribute to Aine. It sounded awkward now, like it detracted from the carefully plotted beauty of the old words. A single sentence, and he could not stop thinking how crude and crass and unnecessary it was. He felt the tips of his ears grow red.
"It is said that when a warrior dies in battle, he is blessed with riches. And every enemy he takes with him only furthers his glory before the Lightbringers. And if a warrior dies protecting home, hearth, and family, then he is welcomed as a son by the World-Smith Himself."
Why was his voice so quiet? Could the people even hear him? A small cough might clear his throat, but there was no way in the Darkforge that he would dare to.
"Aine Elessedil was a great warrior. He died in the service of Arborlon and the service of his family. He will stand before the Holy Mountain without shame, and the journey to the Sky-Gate will not be one of regret, or suffering, or sorrow." His voice broke on the last word. He cursed internally.
"The King, as is his right, begs leave of you, his people. For one day only, he will be a man. He will mourn as a father would, as any of you would. And tomorrow at the rise of dawn, he will resume the duty of protection and guidance, and we, the Royal Family, will do our best to take up the sword and mantle that Aine Elessedil has left behind."
There should have been more, more about the way forward, of letting Aine go, of how the Royal Family would give everything to make sure the shock of this death did not affect the people or the city. Then the traditional chants and dirges...but Ander swept to his feet. A bottle crashed, and Arion nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard his baby brother's hoarse, wretched cry, "You want to know why? ME! It's my fault!"
He never got to finish. Not knowing what to do, only desperately certain that Ander must not be allowed to condemn himself before the people who trusted him, Arion lifted his arms and shouted.
"SPEED HIM ON TO THE JOURNEY!"
It was an ancient call the people exchanged at every funeral, a primitive yet beloved ceremony that even the children could partake in. But it always came at the very end, right before the procession. Arion could see in their eyes that they knew it. They knew something had been skipped.
Something in Aine's funeral had been skipped. Arion had messed it up. But Ander…Arion had seen no other way, and it was too late now.
The people lifted their arms and responded, "FOLLOW THE SUN, AINE ELESSEDIL, FOR IT LEADS YOU TO THE CLEAR SKIES."
Behind him, above the roaring, Arion dimly heard Evantine snarl at Ander with more vitriol than the King had ever before used with the youngest son. Heard the heavy thud as the King presumably yanked Ander back into his seat. Arion's guts curled inwards. Had he done the right thing? Had he disappointed his father already?
"THE CLEAR SKIES WHERE THE LIGHTBRINGERS DWELL." He shouted again, voice echoing in the chamber. He felt sick. Ander was sobbing now, soft and deep and welling. It didn't seem right, having a heart that soft yet still being required to go through all this pageantry. But surely, other royals had managed it before?
Was this family truly so broken without Aine?
Or maybe…maybe Aine had been a friend to them all, but they'd never been friends to each other. And now Aine was gone, and they realized how alone, how isolated, how weak they were.
A pair of servants materialized around Aine, wrapping him up in the black shroud, tying it shut with silver ribbons. The torches flickered as six of the Elite guards came to pick up the bier by its long ebony handles.
"TO THE HOLY MOUNTAIN, TO THE SKY-GATE!"
The last response echoed violently. Then, just as suddenly, it faded. The torches flickered as the pallbearers moved Aine with infinite care and tenderness, taking him down the aisle.
Sad, mysterious woodwinds began a mournful tune that swept through their hearts like cold water. The Royal family was supposed to process now, to follow the bier. Arion turned around, half-afraid, to examine his family.
Evantine was ready. Wiping his eyes, the King stood up heavily and strode by Arion, pausing to give him a tepid pat on the shoulder. A single touch that didn't really feel authentic or heartfelt. Amberle peeked out at him from between her fingers. Her brown eyes begging him not to come near.
Arion didn't know what to do. He glanced at Ander…his brother was also hiding his face in his hands, but this time from shame. And rightfully so. "Ander," he said gently.
Ander looked up at him, blue eyes painfully bright, spider-thin trails of red bleeding into them from stress and abject grief. He'd thrown a bottle, but he didn't really look drunk. Arion glanced between the two, cowering on either side of his father's throne. Finally, "Stay here together," he said at last, "Go to your rooms when the procession leaves."
He could practically feel Evantine bristle with disapproval. Not over his decision…anyone with half a heart could see that neither of the younger Elessedils were emotionally ready for the internment. But because Arion had made a command decision. A Crown Prince decision without consulting him.
Well, Arion had handled everything else today by himself. It only followed that he should finish it by himself. As leader of the funeral ceremony yet still not the King, he walked side by side with his father as they began to follow the long, dark, sad procession out into the night, where they would cross the courtyard and head down into the ancestral tombs, where Arion would lead them in the Litanies of the Dead.
Arion would…but not Ander. Ander was staying behind with Amberle. Or…was he?
No…Ander was seeing this all for the second time, through Arion's eyes. Ander was performing a ritual with Allanon.
As it all flooded back to him, Ander found himself growing a little frightened of how easily he'd forgotten. He'd become completely immersed in what was going on. There was a dull shame burning in his belly now as he remembered his behavior at Aine's funeral.
But he barely had time to dwell on it before he felt that swift, heady sensation of falling again. Out of darkness, out of his own body, and into another's.
He was in Arion's body once more. He could tell by the swift, business-like steps. The way he was clutching his sword like it was his only source of authority. Striding down the halls, Ander tried to discern what memory this was.
Arion turned the corner into the throne room.
Evantine was at the war table, studying something. He glanced up at Arion's footsteps. "Where's your brother?"
His tone was less than cordial. Unsurprising. Arion had apparently done nothing right for days now. "Hopefully halfway to Tyrsis by now. He's gone to petition the Federation. He believes that building a coalition with the humans is key to surviving the Demon siege."
Nice lie. Ander twitched in Arion's head. This was when he left with the Gnome, Slanter. When he went out into the Breakline to find the Demon horde. So, this was how Arion had planned to 'deal with father'? By lying to him?
Perhaps he couldn't think of another way, with father's present bad mood. But surely, he must have known there would be consequences later.
"Your brother is a fool." Both Arion and Ander felt stunned. They stared into their father's face. Evantine would never speak harshly of Ander like that. Not Aine's favorite baby brother. Something had him on edge.
Nervous, Arion gripped his sword tighter. Evantine seemed to regret his words and sighed, "But no matter." Suddenly he was all business, his arm twisting mid air in a sharp gesture to the guards. "We have more pressing concerns."
And just like that, the ever-present Elite guard turned and made their way out the door, shutting them respectfully behind them.
Arion took a moment to process this. Often enough he had planned events, political liaisons, and trade strategies alone at the great table. Sometimes long into the night. Sometimes Evantine would join him, either as a watchful commentator (so full of comments) or by completely taking over (as would any old man having difficulty letting go). But never, in all those times, had his father sent the guard away. Never had they been alone together, with the chance to act as equals in the name of the kingdom.
Evantine flipped the ancient book he'd been reading, turning it so Arion could walk up the side of the long table and see it for himself. "The Druid has been lying to us." Of course. The man was obviously a self-styled messiah, a manipulator who came between disasters to move the pawns on his chessboard for the greater good. Arion was fairly certain he understood what kind of savior the Druid was. But whatever his flaws, Allanon was still his father's old friend. And now Evantine wasn't even referring to him by name anymore…what had he done?
Arion looked down at the pages. First, his eye was drawn towards the picture of a wicked looking blade, curved like a snake and glowing with unholy runes. It was an evil sword he remembered from his childhood bodyguard's tales of the war. He pointed at it. "Is this…?"
"The Blade of the Warlock Lord." Evantine interrupted him. "Forged by the Druid order to overcome dark magic. Strong enough to defeat the Dagda Mor."
Ah yes. Yet another lie. Yet another stupidly senseless erasure of the past. Arion just wanted to hear his father admit it once more. "I thought this was destroyed after the Second War of the Races."
"So did I! But according to the Codex it lies concealed in a vault beneath our city. Now, the Druid must have known that!"
That Codex was written a hundred years before the Second War of the Races. That blade was made by the Warlock Lord himself, certainly not specifically to combat dark magic. Father you know this…are you growing senile? And Allanon…
"Why would he hide such a thing?" Arion said aloud, angry and confused and tired of all the deception from his father. "You said that he could be trusted. You said that he was the only one with the power…"
Evantine wheeled away from the table, frustrated and sounding…sad? "I know what I've said, and I know what I've done."
Arion watched his back, seeing not for the first time how bent it was with age. If he was tired of his father…it sometimes occurred to him his father must certainly be tired of him.
Evantine turned slowly, wine-bled eyes staring intently into Arion's. Searching his soul. The intensity of his connection was suddenly quite overpowering. Arion couldn't remember a time when his father was this involved in whatever he was dictating to his middle son. His problem child. His inadequate replacement heir. "But if my fears are right, then we are vulnerable."
Still speaking, still intent and heartfelt and authentic as he kept his gaze locked with Arion's. "I should have trusted you."
A flood of gracious feeling in his belly. Arion felt warm and tender towards his father, grateful for that single sign of affection, that single notice that his father felt Arion had some worth. He was filled with determination to set Evantine's fears at ease. "I'll find this blade. And if the Druid proves to be our enemy, then we will face him together."
After all, there was still the matter of Allanon. He should be given a chance to explain why he had kept this from them all. Arion didn't like the Druid. He was jealous of him in some ways but despite his terrible first impressions of the man he didn't think he was allied with demons or dark powers.
Then, Evantine did something completely unexpected. Completely out of character. He reached out and did more than just pat Arion's arm. He grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, his face bright with relief and gratitude and affection. "Thank you, son. You're the only one I can trust."
And before he knew it, even as he was confused by those last words, Arion felt himself pulled into a hug. His father's frail, unfamiliar frame wrapped in his arms, pushed up against his chest. Somehow far stronger than he'd imagined.
For a moment, Arion wanted to stay in that hug. It was wonderful. Everything had been so stressful with death and demons invading their lives, and his cold relationship with his father being ever further strained by conflict and disagreement. But still, something was wrong.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd hugged his father. Really, there hadn't been one ever since he'd outgrown his adorable toddler face peering up at the king. Not that they'd ever been that common between them…the King was always more likely to put a hand on the shoulder or give a pat on the head. This strong affection was unusual. And the words…the words surrounding it were wrong, somehow. False. He couldn't quite describe it, but they gave way when his mind pushed at them, like weak fabric sewn over a hole torn out of the universe.
And then Arion felt a presence of pure evil near his head, like a demonic bird had perched itself on his shoulder and was laughing silently.
Shaken, he firmly extracted himself, trying not to push. Was it his imagination, or was there a flash of something in Evantine's eyes? Like molten silver?
Ander knew now what was wrong. This was not his father at all. He felt sick, betrayed. He wanted to brush Arion clean of that embrace, wanted to shout in his ear to warn him that it was all fake and he would only break his heart if he continued to fall for it.
But Arion and his memories were already on the move. Ander felt Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter speed by him, and yet very little time at all seemed to pass as his eyes sped through the palace corridors. In a jumbled blur, he saw Arion in the Library. Reading the Codex for himself…understanding it. He could see worry and discomfort growing in his brother, but also a strange glow of excitement.
And he understood why, when Arion stood in the secret chamber beneath the city and read the runes on the wall and performed the ritual to release the blade. Because Arion was on his own magical adventure. Because his ability to read the ancient script wasn't useless. And when the walls lit up and the evil sword rose from the depths…for a minute, Arion felt like an actual wizard. A hero of old, on an important quest.
It was all nonsense, maybe. Make-believe and pretend when so many terrible threats overshadowed them. But it warmed Ander's heart to see it.
By the time Arion had confronted Allanon and been tossed into the wall…when he saw the same glint fade from Allanon's eyes…a terrible suspicion had blossomed in his heart. Again, terrified he was wasting time but unable to let the matter go, he returned to the library and read as much as he could find of Demonic Possession and the cases thereof.
And that was when he became terribly certain that Evantine, his father, was being possessed. A demon had taken control of his mind, like it had Allanon.
And perhaps the Demon hadn't realized that Arion could read Runic, and now knew the entirety of what the Blade of the Warlock Lord could do. It was a soul-sapper, a sword capable of ripping entities from bodies. There were different stages of power it could reach, each requiring different spells and sacrifices.
If Allanon had been able to cast off the Dagda Mor's influence, then perhaps he could help Arion free Evantine. But Evantine…the Demon…would have summoned Allanon to the courtroom by now and was waiting for Arion to join them. To murder the last person who knew how to get rid of it.
Arion needed two things. A way of communicating alone or silently with Allanon, and a way to make sure that the blade would not harm him if he was forced to use it.
Of course, the latter might not be a problem if Allanon simply decided to kill both Elessedils before resuming his mad jaunt to save the world. He certainly had the power and the temper. Arion wasn't sure if he had the combat skill to kill the Druid even if he'd wanted to.
But as far as talking to him…a simple spell might work.
According to the texts, Demons were powerful but singular in purpose. A Demon that could steal a human's body had to spend most of its time suppressing the host and extracting information from it. It would not have the energy to read the minds of those around it.
Nor, Ander thought morosely, watching his/Arion's hands turn the pages, would a Demon who could mimic elfin shape have the energy to both read minds and sustain its form.
A bursting of images, commonly used more to emote feelings than a cognizant string of words, would escape the Demon's notice. Arion practiced the spell briefly on one of the Librarians, reducing the poor man to tears before he decided he knew it well enough to use it.
He made his way to the throne room and listened to Allanon's defense, trying not to stare at his Father the entire time. Then, when the time was right, he made his move. "What I saw was a man overcome by evil."
Allanon turned on him, looking worse for wear. The Druid was sweating, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. But the fire in him had hardly diminished. "You are not capable of understanding what you saw!" he snapped.
Ignoring his fears, Arion chanted the Words of Power in his mind, tried to send Allanon an image of silver eyes in Evantine's face, just as he'd seen him after the hug. Allanon made no sign that he'd heard anything. The man's head was probably still in agony from whatever he'd experienced with the Dagda Mor.
"You're not yourself, Allanon." The Demon said from the throne, his voice infuriatingly soft.
"The Dagda Mor used the boy to get inside my mind!" Allanon was roaring again, somehow remaining subvocal at the same time. He had a voice like a bear, deeper than the mountains.
"The Dagda Mor!" Arion hoped his shouting didn't seem too loud or out of the ordinary. "Of course! The evil that everybody fears but only you can see." He tried again with Evantine's eyes, silver with red hearts. Then, struck by an idea, he vividly imagined the Warlock's Blade as it rose from the red well in the secret chamber. "Tell me Druid, do you often commune with demons?"
Allanon turned then, slower this time. Blinking rapidly, as if a little bug in his head was biting him or buzzing at his brain. Hopeful, Arion let his gaze drift as he applied more strength and color to the image. The Warlock's Blade. The Book on the table.
Allanon stumbled to the table like a drunken man. He must have heard him. The Druid examined the page, his fingers shaking. Finally, he growled, "What is the meaning of this?" And Arion knew Allanon was addressing him, not the Demon.
Now he had to convince the Druid that the sword was no threat to his soul. Arion had depowered it…taken a lizard from the garden instead. The soul-sapping ability could be repowered, but the Words had not yet been spoken. Quickly, Arion tried to send an image of the sword, cold and black, while speaking at the same time. "Why conceal a weapon that has the power to protect us?"
"To protect you…" His agitation flaring, Allanon swerved towards the king, holding the book demonstratively. "This SWORD is not a salvation! It is a talisman of evil! A darkness that is a danger to us all!
And Arion stood shocked. He heard words in his head. Allanon's words. If you must kill me…it will be alright. I will meet you again.
"It is you who are the danger, Druid."
At the Demon's unspoken bidding, Arion felt cold dread as he began to pull the wicked blade from his belt. He heard Allanon again. You must burn his body when you are able…sneak up on him and kill him if you can. Wait for me if you can.
No. I'm going to save him. Arion tried to send words back, but he didn't know if it was possible, if he had the ability. He fell back on images of his Father, of Evantine as he remembered him from childhood …kind and strong. Not bent and twisted by this possession.
Almost as if he were impatient with Arion's boyhood nostalgia, Allanon wheeled around and threw the book directly at his head his head. Instincts sparked, realizing they were about to perform a potentially tragic play, Arion dodged the projectile and drew the Warlock's Blade fully out.
Allanon's back was turned to him as he slowly stalked towards the king, hands reaching for his weapon. But he was slow, far too slow for it to be a serious attempt. Arion knew what he was waiting for. The Druid snarled at the possessed King "It was my mistake. I should have killed you the first time, Demon!"
Perhaps Allanon had given up on Evantine. But Arion had not.
I'M GOING TO SAVE HIM. He lunged forward, stabbing the Druid in the back. Shocking amounts of blood spurted out and Arion felt himself pale. Not the first man he'd ever killed…just the first man with a name. Was it possible he'd misunderstood? Panic threatened to engulf him. He could stop this now and call for the healers…
Allanon's voice calmed him. It's alright. The Druid fell to his knees, gasping in pain. Stab me in the chest. Avoid my heart.
Evantine's eyes didn't betray a flicker of emotion. "Finish him."
The deadly tone, the stone-faced evil…it reassured Arion. He was right. His father was possessed, held thrall by the demon.
He felt like a little child, terrified to see the face of the man he'd stabbed. But he came around to stand between the Demon and Allanon, staring down at the prone Druid. He grabbed him by the neck and pulled him up, mind racing.
Druids sleep when they're injured. They can sleep for thousands of years. How will Allanon know where I'm going? What if he doesn't wake up until the Demons have won and the war is over? I have to go find the Dagda Mor. I have to kill him with the Warlock Blade so Father will be free.
The Dagda Mor. The Demon's Henge. Things Arion had read about but never seen. He imagined them, taking as much as he could from the inked paintings in the old texts, throwing them, the sword, and the Demon's silver eyes into the mix. Dagda Mor. Demon Henge. Warlock's Blade. Evantine.
Allanon met his eyes.
I understand.
That was all Arion needed. With a war-cry, he plunged the sword into Allanon's chest. The Druid threw his arms wide theatrically and died without a sound, body dissolving into flame.
Ander gasped, coming back to himself. He knew that kind of spell. He'd been on the receiving end of it. Allanon had sent him pleasant flashes of Arion, Aine, and Evantine, all of them dead, all of them pierced by a blade. Violently taken from him. It was what had somehow persuaded Ander to pull out of his drunken misery and embrace his duty as remaining heir to the throne. And seriously embarrass Councilor Kael while he was at it.
But Arion had known. Arion had known, all that time as they travelled to the Demon's Henge, that father was not himself. He hadn't grasped that father was dead and a shape-shifter had taken his place, but he knew something was wrong. And he hadn't told Ander.
Why?
It was then that Arion's thoughts boomed in his head, as Ander felt himself falling back into darkness once more. The words chased each other round and round, echoing, enlightening him even as they hurt.
I can't tell Ander…he'll confront the Demon immediately, demand it release father…he'll beg father to fight and overthrow the demon from within. I can't let him know…he won't be able to handle it…he'll probably even find a way to blame himself for it.
I must bear the blade. I can do this…I have to do this. I've spoken the Words of Power, prepared it. If I can only pierce the Dagda Mor, it will rip him from his body, and tear the influence of him from father's mind. It will end the war and save father at the same time. And then, maybe…father will know he can trust me. Rely on me. He'll finally understand that I…may not be as great a ruler as Aine, but I can be a good ruler. I can be adequate.
I must kill the Dagda Mor, and if I can't…Allanon will be here. Allanon will save Ander. And if he doesn't make it, Ander will still be safe…after all, a corrupted Binding Spell will put a damper on the Dagda Mor's powers if only…if only it's my soul in the Blade.
Ander felt his boots sink into ashen soil. In a confusing flash, he saw a mirror image of himself, walking beside him. Then he realized he was Arion once more. Arion at the Demon Henge.
And for a moment, he couldn't relax. Couldn't let the memory play out. Because this was where it happened. This was where he lost Arion. Unlike the one before, this was a memory he had already experienced. Vividly. On the way back to Arborlon, Allanon had explained everything. There was no need to see this again.
Digging in his heels, Arion shuffled down the rocky, dusty incline and into the heart of the crater. The brothers approached the dark, ragged figure standing in the middle of it all. Face split open by evil rituals, kept together by iron hooks and pins with foul spell-runes engraved on them…pointed ears. Whatever this thing was now, once, a long time ago, it had been an elf.
"I've been expecting you." The deep, guttural voice didn't seem to be coming from the Dagda Mor. It seemed to come from the ground at their feet, echoing in the thin, dusty air. As if his voice was a spell, and the wave of his magic was hitting their minds, eating away at their defenses, draining their courage.
Arion could feel Ander moving beside him, step by step, mirroring him as they'd been trained to since childhood. He could also feel the uncertainty in his younger brother. If he only knew what Arion was prepared to risk, he would be even more uncertain. He put a hand out gently to touch Ander's arm. "Keep your distance," he warned, "We don't know what he's capable of."
They split, Ander swinging around to the rear, Arion facing him. He kept moving the sword from side to side, hoping to fix the Dagda Mor's attention on him.
"Foolish prince. I tell you to fetch my sword, and you do it." The dark Druid glanced back as Ander moved. Then, as if dismissing a mere fly, he turned his head, fixing his black, empty eyes on Arion. Arion had his plan ready, and two backup plans to save Ander if everything went to hellfire. All the same he couldn't shake his growing, mindless terror, like a little rabbit being hounded by glowing eyes in the woods. He felt like prey, facing down his predator. The Dagda Mor's sharp, stained teeth moved in a torturous ring around his voice. "I command you to kill the Druid, and you run him through."
And then he realized…the Dagda Mor was revealing what had happened to Evantine. He wasn't attacking Arion…he was attacking Ander. The emotional, volatile one. Swallowing, afraid to speak, Arion nevertheless forced out a lie to protect Ander…just like Evantine had done, all these years. "They were the king's commands!"
"Your father is dead." The Dagda Mor smiled at the last word, cheeks stretching painfully. The creature knew what it was doing. It was enjoying this.
Behind it, Arion could see Ander's face. His younger brother who cared too much…his face was stricken. "Father," he murmured, as if everything made sense now.
Arion could see the horror and belief there. His heroic, foolish brother, taking the Dark Druid's words at face value, never pausing to consider they might be a lie. Ander was a hair's thread from snapping. Arion stared at him, frantically wondering what he should say to calm him down. He failed to focus on the Dagda Mor's next words. "And you are my puppet."
That was when Ander charged.
"Ander, no!" Arion shouted, even as the Dagda Mor swung around, batting Ander in the face with the iron tip of his staff. Ander's head snapped sideways, blood spurting from his mouth as he fell, stunned by the blow.
Before the Dagda Mor could finish his brother, Arion lunged. If he could only overcome the Dagda Mor's defenses and plunge the sword into his heart…
The Dark Druid turned as if he'd been expecting Arion's attack, his claws outstretched. An evil wind murmured from the air around them. Suddenly, fiery orange rays of magic spun out of his hand and latched onto the Warlock's Blade, ripping it from Arion's grasp.
It all happened so fast. The instant the Dagda Mor had the Warlock Blade, his entire Druid's staff lit up with the same orange magic. More tendrils whipped out, this time straight towards Arion. He felt them pierce his chest, his arms, his neck, like a dozen burning wires wrapped around his torso. Then they yanked.
His legs and arms flailing, he was ripped across the sand until the staff slammed against his heart, hard enough to drive the breath out of him. He fell to his knees. It's over. His mind screamed, I failed.
The Dagda Mor pulled his staff up and lifted Arion's face, forcing the prince to stare up at him. Arion heard Ander cry out somewhere. But he couldn't move his arms. Couldn't resist. The poisonous orange magic had sapped the strength from him.
Sap. Soul-sapped. The Corrupted Binding spell.
His thoughts were slow. Too slow. He felt himself beginning to panic. Please let it work. Please let it work. "I tricked you into delivering me this sword." The Dagda Mor gloated,glancing over his shoulder to make sure Ander was watching. "Now you will test the blade."
The blade entered his body. It tore through flesh and gut and bone and everything in him that could feel was set on fire. He screamed. Ander screamed.
He had misunderstood everything…Ander would have been better off being told the truth. Allanon had not come in time. His father…Evantine was dead. Not just possessed. He'd died. Alone. While his sons betrayed his trust.
Transfixed by the iron spear of dark magic and pain that was inside of him, Arion felt his breath ripped away as the Dagda Mor yanked the blade from his riddled body. He fell. Curled weakly in on himself, face-first in the warm ashes. Ander. Where was Ander.
He lifted his head. It was the all the strength he had left. He looked for his little brother and he saw him, struggling to stand, staring at him. His mouth clotted with blood, his blue eyes so agonizingly bright, just as they were when Arion returned home that fateful day and found Aine dead.
Ander really did have the most beautiful eyes. Like their mother. And they had been full of tears, far too many times. He'd done nothing to deserve it. In the little part of himself that hadn't yet drained away, that was still his own, swimming in the blackness and the pain, Arion was overcome with pity. Ander didn't deserve any of this.
Ander's crushed, despairing cry echoed in his ears. Arion started to feebly push himself up. To go over to his little brother, to pick him up and hold him close and tell him that all the death was a lie, that everything was going to be okay…
But his body swung like some heavy thing, and all he managed was to roll on his back and face the sky, mouth open but no breath passing into his torn body. So this is what it was like, he thought, when Aine died. I'm so, so sorry, Ander. Sorry that I lied to you. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you all alone.
Then, something strange happened. He felt his eyes close, before the light had gone. And that little part of him, swimming in the darkness and the pain…it left. Became so cold, fluttering through secret ways and half-worlds and visions no one could remember…until he settled in another body, suspended torturously over a glowing, molten soup of souls, festering in the riddled black heart of the Dagda Mor.
That's where he should be, he realized. But he wasn't. Whispering a Word of Power, he saw the world wreathed in fire. He was seeing through the Dagda Mor's eyes.
The Corrupted Binding had worked. His soul was in the Dagda Mor, but not empowering him. He was dead, but free.
He heard Allanon screaming war-spells, and ironic grief and yet also joy filled his heart. A little too late to save Arion, but not too late to save Ander. He saw the world of fire flicker with light and blue energy as Allanon flung the Dagda Mor down with a powerful spell.
But the reprieve was brief. Within seconds the Dagda Mor was up again. He had turned, advancing on Ander.
And Ander…foolish, but always brave, Ander…was marching straight up to him, unafraid. Staring him in the eyes. Hair in his face, blood all over the front of his leather jerkin. But his sword was in his hand, and his blue eyes frightened Arion. They promised death. They promised a reckoning.
He saw Ander standing there, empty of everything but outrage and loss. And he saw what a great king, what a great hero Ander could be, if his loved ones were hurt or threatened. Arion had only ever done his duty…but Ander, Ander cared with every fiber of his being. That was what made him special. That was what made everyone love him.
The only thing Arion didn't understand was why Ander couldn't love himself.
Angered by Ander's courage the Dagda Mor lunged at him with one hand, claws outstretched. But something stopped him. A wall of magika, a shield that sprung from the air before him. It wasn't blue like Allanon's. It was orange, as if the Dagda Mor's own evil magic had turned against him.
Arion smiled. It worked. He raised his clenched fists inside the Dagda Mor's head and held them there. You will not touch my brother, fiend. Not as long as I am here.
He felt the muscles in the Dark Druid straining, and it gave him hope. It was wonderful to feel that anything at all could stop the Dagda Mor. Only when Ander had turned away and escaped over the side of the crater to join Allanon did he release his hold.
The Dagda Mor turned, making its way towards Arion's corpse. Arion stared down at himself through the dark Druid's eyes, unable to look away from the eerie sight of his own lifeless face.
"Very clever, little Prince. Little othra gizza drumor." The Dagda Mor pointed the sword at Arion's corpse, softly puncturing the unprotected stomach even as Arion cried out in anger at the desecration of his own body. The Dagda Mor merely smiled. The fiery world began to grow darker. "You spoiled your soul for me…but you are far from useless. I can twist magic too. I am the master of darkness, and of all the spells that spring from it."
The sword burst into orange light. Arion gasped in shock as icy black hands curled around his neck and shoulders, slowly tearing him out of the dark Druid's head. "Now, learn the spell of Binding Souls as it was meant to be." He felt himself pulled through the secret ways and half-worlds and…back to his body. His broken, cold, dead body. He struggled against the Dagda Mor's magic, panicked and screaming.
And then he opened his eyes again, saw the mottled sky above, felt the ashy ground. Felt the blood streaming from his wound. Felt the Dagda Mor's claws rip into the hole in his stomach and clench around his heart. Black claws coming up almost into his throat. He thrashed, silenced and helpless as the creature began to tear him apart from the inside.
The Dagda Mor smiled above him, voice coaxing him like a twisted parent. "Sshh, sshh…to be a demon is to be silent. Obedient. Embrace the pain. I will open you to it, because it amuses me. Your agony will be my entertainment."
Finally, mercifully, the claws withdrew. His heart was still beating, stronger than ever before, but it was beating wrong. A great host of creatures began materializing around them, hissing and screeching as they warped into reality. Demons. The entire horde of them.
The Dagda Mor stood up. Arion realized he had been screaming all this time. His throat felt like a hundred daggers had ripped through it.
And then, in words Arion would never forget, the Dagda Mor smiled. "Embrace the horde. These are your brothers and sisters now. And you, their plaything."
And the demon horde descended on him.
Ander was weeping. Screaming. Sobbing. He had the stupidest idea that if he only stayed in the memory, then the pain would be his, not Arion's. That he could spare his brother that terrible fate. Of being torn to shreds, physically and spiritually, alone in a hell on earth.
He hugged at his own body as the creatures yanked him here and there, cutting him, beating him, kissing him…force-feeding him their own blood. He hugged Arion tightly. Until he could no longer bear it. Until it all faded. Until he blacked out and felt nothing.
Arion's screams faded from the edge of his nightmares. And then Ander was warm. An aura that was distinctly peaceful tugged pleadingly at his senses. He felt something cool and grassy on his neck. The sun was white hot on his skin. He opened his eyes and saw its golden beams laced through the treetops. From somewhere else in the clearing came the smell of elderflowers and running water.
He sat up quickly, gasping. He was tiny and barefoot, wearing breeches and a loose cotton shirt smeared with mud. He could see the shimmering red crown of the Ellcrys, towering over the tops of all the other trees in the forest as they peeked over the great walls. He realized he was a child in the Palace Gardens, and it was Summer.
After the horror of the last memory, the peace and lazy contentment of the idyllic garden floored him. He stumbled to his feet and looked around. Besides the six bodyguards posted along the wall, two for each brother…there was no one else in sight.
He realized, not for the first time, how few friends the royal children had had. Generally a Queen mother or other female relative would watch over the children and ensure they had playmates of their own age invited up to the auspicious castle. But Mother died giving birth to Ander and Aunt Pyria left home soon before Arion was born. Evantine never seemed to think of these things.
"Ander!" a voice called. A beloved, familiar voice. Ander wheeled around and saw Aine walking towards him. Tall and lanky, a teenager who filled out his uniform as easily as if he'd been born in it. Aine was smiling, brimful of a wonderful secret.
Assuming he was inside Arion's form, Ander looked around wildly around for his younger self.
But then he shrieked as Aine's long arms snatched him up. And then he was looking directly into Aine's long-dead, youthful face. Aine grinned at him, pinching one of his ears. "Going deaf, baby brother? Were you ignoring me?"
Widening his eyes at the playful accusation, Ander shook his head. "No!"
"Then answer me next time, or I'll cuff your ears to make them listen better." Aine joked. "Now, guess what father gave me."
The conversation, held so many, many years ago, began to come back to Ander. He realized he wasn't Arion…he was himself, at six years old. Already a bit to heavy to be held, as his crotch was telling him. "A sword?" he wriggled insistently, wanting to be put down.
Aine let him slide down to stand and rolled his eyes. "I have one. Think four legs."
Ander stared in wonder, drinking in the sight of Aine, his patience, his spark of fun. "A HORSE?!"
Aine laughed at how abominably loud Ander was. "Yes, a horse! A beautiful grey gelding. All my own! And guess what? I need to test his ability to take two passengers. Any idea who the second rider could be? They have to be good at holding on."
"Me! Me, of course!" Ander yelped. He found himself bouncing on his feet in excitement. "Can we ride to the market?"
"The market?" Aine pretended to consider it. He shrugged. "I was thinking the market and then the river and then maybe the Golden Peak…but if you just want the market then I guess we'll just do that."
Ander slapped Aine's leg. "Stop teasing me!"
Aine laughed, reaching down to tickle Ander's neck for his insolence. Ander shrieked and swerved away, giggling. Finding him properly punished, Aine resumed speaking. "Then be good. Guess what I named the gelding?"
Ander remembered. Elcaron. He would have said so, but…suddenly he remembered why he was here. Less than a few feet away, by the pond, he saw Arion. Eleven years old, sitting curled up against a willow tree with a book sprawled in his lap.
His hair was long. Nobody cut it this year since Evantine didn't seem offended by it. Arion had asked his bodyguard to braid it back for him. His green eyes flitted as watched the ducks float across the water like fat, feathered boats.
And his face was peaceful. Surrounded by warmth and shade and nature, with a good book in his hands and wonderful dreams lingering in his mind. Not disillusioned and cold and torn apart by demons. Not possessed. Not dead.
"Why are you crying, Ander? You alright?" Aine asked suddenly, kneeling beside Ander and gently pulling his face to look at him.
And Ander felt like his real father was concerned about him, was asking him what was wrong. And he continued to cry…because he loved Evantine, but Aine was his real father, his true role model. He was as wonderful, attentive, and caring as Evantine thought he was. Twice the king Evantine was. Twice the father. Ander's best friend…the man who taught him to hold a sword and flirt and sing and take courage. For as long as Ander could remember, Aine had always been there for him.
But who had ever been there for Arion?
Although he longed to stay in Aine's arms, Ander pulled away. Half-afraid, he came towards Arion and plopped down heavily beside him. His young, clumsy body scaring the ducks away.
Arion's shoulders jumped a fraction and he turned to glare at Ander, with a dark and already formidable glower. Ander gave him a sad smile.
"Arion, I love you." He said simply. There was more, so, so much more, but it felt wrong to say that in this time. The words didn't belong here. But the sentiment did.
Arion wrinkled his nose in childlike disgust. "Don't be a girl," he responded sourly.
Ander gave a guffaw that turned into a sob. It was a much older reaction and it frightened Arion. He stared at Ander.
I wish I could tell you everything that is in my heart. Ander thought.
Suddenly, a much bigger presence sat down on the other side of Arion. Aine was there, throwing his warm arm around Arion's shoulders. The middle-child's shoulders tensed, unused to this much interaction from both brothers at the same time. He seemed to realize with some panic that he was sandwiched between the two.
You should reach out more, Arion. You should make more friends, or you'll be lonely.
"I love you too," Aine replied, his warm blue eyes still glancing at Ander, wondering what this was all about. He would have noogied Arion, but he knew that would only upset the bookish boy.
Arion stared at Aine, green eyes perplexed. "Why?"
The three of them froze. The awful, accidental honesty of that single question.
Ander swept in to save the moment. "Because you love us," he said simply, holding out his hand. "We're brothers!"
Arion met his earnest gaze. None of the confusion was going away. If anything, it was getting worse. But a warm smile softened his features. He couldn't deny that simple fact. The tips of his pointed ears turned red and he shrugged. "Yeah," he admitted sheepishly. Reaching out, he quickly slapped Ander's hand. A childish high-five. But instead of letting the hand pass on, Ander grabbed it and squeezed, holding tight.
The two brothers stared at each other. The world was warm around them, and safe, and secure. Everything was as good as it ever had been in Ander's life, and he didn't want it to change. With Aine still alive, and Arion safely between them. All of them alive, and together, and happy.
"Did you want to come riding with Ander and me?" Aine asked at last, breaking the moment.
Arion's green eyes flickered. Darkened. His neck did a strange, deft twist as his shoulder jumped to his ear and he blinked at Ander. "This isn't the way it was."
Dark, howling oblivion ripped through the green summer world. Aine faded away. Arion's tortured screams from his demonic torment rippled back into the world like cold water under a door. Ander reached out in a panic, latching onto Arion's little cotton smock, clutching his brother tightly, praying he wouldn't disappear.
He didn't, but it wasn't little ten-year-old Arion anymore. It was Arion the Crown Prince, bent over, hands on his knees. He was panting, muttering to himself in confusion and panic. Realizing with regret that this was his fault, uncertain whether he was talking to a shade or if he'd finally reached Arion's spirit at last, Ander put a hand to his shoulder. He squeezed it firmly, willing strength into his brother's heart.
Finally, the sound of Arion's screaming faded away once more, replaced by the heavy, ragged breathing of his other self. His hand latched onto Ander and he straightened up, unwilling to let go. But his green eyes were clear of demonic possession and terror when he met Ander's gaze.
"Ander," he said finally, "What…are you dead?!"
Ander shook his head quickly. "No, not dead. But you are. Allanon is helping me…I'm going to bind your spirit to my life force and bring you back."
Disappointment twisted Arion's handsome features. His fingers dug into Ander and he groaned. "Hasn't my soul been played with enough? Can't I find some peace, can't I…"
His mouth shut with a snap. Ander stared at him, horrified, heartbroken.
Arion quickly reached out and yanked his brother into a tight hug, fingers carding through his hair. "No, no…thank you, Ander. I know why you're doing this. I love you for it. Please, little brother, you've done nothing wrong."
Ander was crying. He was weeping like a baby, face buried in Arion's shoulder. "But I have," he said thickly, feeling how heavy and black his heart was in his chest, "First Mother, then Aine…now you! And little Amberle too…Lightbringers, Arion, it should be me! It should be me! I've done nothing but get everyone killed and I…" he choked. Halted. Fingers digging into Arion's leather jacket.
"I know what the word is." He whispered, stricken, as bits and pieces of the memories began to weave together. To make sense.
I had to bury my eldest brother. I had to make the speech, lead the ceremony. Amberle couldn't. Ander couldn't. Father couldn't. I had to do it myself.
I can't tell Ander. I can't tell Allanon. I have to get Allanon out of the city and outsmart the demon possessing father. I have to do this because I am the only one who can.
So this is what it was like, when Aine died. I'm so, so sorry, Ander. Sorry that I lied to you. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you all alone.
"Alone," the Word of Power pierced the air like a quivering arrow, "the word is ALONE."
Ander felt the black, howling void buckle and thrash as Allanon began the Binding. Arion grew warmer in his arms, as if a great energy was building between them.
"Ander…" Arion hissed. He was quiet a moment, waiting for Ander to calm down. To listen to him. "Ander, Ander, Ander! Always carrying more guilt than you know what to do with. Stop! I don't know what you've seen in this ritual…perhaps my worst moments. But there were good ones too…wonderful times where I never felt closer to you and Amberle and Aine…Hallas, Father, Diana."
He pulled back. Cupping Ander's face in his hands, he gave him a little shake. "The journey has been enough. Being able to say goodbye, that I'm sorry, that I love you…that's been enough, little brother. I don't want you bound to my misbegotten hide. You've carried so many ghosts for so long…you don't need another."
With a sinking dread, Ander realized Arion was trying to dissuade him from resurrecting him. He shook his head. "No, no…I need to make this right."
Arion smiled proudly. His eyes were wet. "You freed my spirit from the pain when I asked you to kill me…you are the only man I know strong enough to do it, even as it broke your heart. This ritual will make our life into a sham, a dreary immortal existence of suffering and watching the world pass us by. That's not how people are meant to live."
Briefly, Ander remembered the darkness in Allanon's eyes.
"Did you choose to become a Druid?"
Brown eyes glimmered at him. Fire burned in their depths. "Did you choose to be prince?"
Blueish-white light was crawling up Arion's neck, twisting like wildfire. Strange symbols that glowed. Arion's eyes were distracted by something around Ander's shoulder, and he could only assume the Druid scars were forming there as well.
Arion squeezed his shoulder. "Stop the ritual, Ander. Go back to Arborlon. Be King, find a wife. Live your life to its completion as a man should. And don't worry about me…the pain is gone now, and so is my indecision, my petty worries and struggles and my bitterness. My life is not a regret for me." He pulled forward, pressing his forehead against Ander's. "I was never truly alone."
"Are you certain?" Ander wiped his face with his sleeve, feeling much like a child again. He couldn't believe he had come so far, only to let go now. "Is this absolutely what you want?"
Arion smirked. It was so out of place that Ander gasped at him. His brother merely shrugged his shoulders. "Have you seen the Holy Mountain yet?" He winked conspiratorially. "Do you have any idea how rich our family is?"
At his irreverence, Ander burst out laughing. It was a weak, short laugh…but the first of its kind since before the Demon Rising. Arion chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll wait for you. Aine is there as well…and you won't believe this, but…did I tell you that Mother waited? All this time? She is so proud of you, so excited to meet you. She…she's beautiful, Ander."
It completely unmanned him. Ander began to sob again, overcome that his mother didn't hate him for killing her and, more than that, was waiting for him, waiting at the very Sky-Gate of heaven for him.
Arion laughed again, holding him for a minute. "This is quite a messy reunion," he murmured gently. "But when the three of us and Mother and even Father, that old fart…when you join us, we will journey up the Holy Mountain together, and we will see the wonder of the Heavens, and see if they're anything like our childhood dreams."
"You're a poet, Arion," Ander hiccupped, "And we have to wait for Amberle."
He could feel Arion rolling his eyes. "Seeing as she is now the Ellcrys, let us hope we must wait till the end of time itself."
The Druid tattoos were nearing completion. Ander saw it. Like Arion, he suddenly understood what the right thing to do was. Like Arion, he made a decision. To be alone…but only for a little while.
Reluctantly, he pulled away from Arion, patting his older brother's cheek a moment. "Speed him on the journey," he said.
Arion's eyes flew to his. He understood. Ander would do this honor for him and also honor all the sacrifices Arion had made for their family during those last years. The moments of being unloved, of being alone, harsh, cold, unpopular…of trying his best when no one else would. Of trying to be a good King.
Of trying so hard even when he thought nothing of himself.
Now it was Arion's turn to be overcome. His eyes welled up with tears and he stood there, proud but helpless.
Ander smiled sadly. "Follow the sun, Arion Elessedil, for it leads you to the clear skies."
Arion nodded, green eyes bright. "The clear skies where the Lightbringers dwell, to the Holy Mountain, to the Sky-Gate."
He saluted Ander, giving him his proudest smile. "Goodbye for now, Ander."
And with that, Arion said a Word of Power and extended his palms towards Ander. The black void fled from them both. Light flooded the world, and Anders landed with a bump on the hard ground.
Allanon's face materialized above him, lined with disapproval and exhaustion. "So," he growled, "this was all just a very complicated goodbye?"
Ander sat up quickly, feeling overmatched with the Druid towering above him. Standing didn't help much, but at least he could look him in the eyes. He felt a little dizzy. "It didn't start out that way…but he was happy. He didn't want us to be trapped in an unnaturally long life."
Allanon was quiet a moment. Then he nodded. Ander couldn't tell what his feelings were. "Enjoy your freedom of choice," the Druid turned and waved his hand as the ritual circle faded away with a silent song. "It is a luxury not everyone is granted."
He turned and began to stride out of Paranor. Ander rushed after him, not wanting to be left behind in the dark with the ghosts of the dead. "What do you think lies ahead of me?" he asked.
"A difficult reign with a heavy crown. The same burden every good king faces." Allanon replied.
"Yes, but…do you know what lies beyond this life, no matter…" he hesitated, unsure if his remark would enrage the Druid, "No matter how endless it seems?"
Allanon stopped in his tracks and turned. His face was hidden in shadow. He looked powerful and mysterious…but Ander knew the sorrow lurking there. He'd tasted enough loss himself to understand. "All life does end, eventually. And beyond life, there is a Holy Mountain, where all the people I have ever loved wait for me…it doesn't matter how long. Someday, I will be with them again. And that eternity of bliss will make this world and all its suffering seem like the briefest blink of an eye."
Not quite as afraid as he'd been, Ander moved to stand less than a foot away, eyeing Allanon's scarred face, the fire emblems torn through his skin. The suffering and the silence hidden away there. But he turned his honest blue eyes on the Druid. "Because of your ritual, someone very dear to me made sure that I couldn't help but believe that. I've been told that a glorious afterlife awaits me, and not everyone gets the chance to know that. I did…thanks to you."
He held out his hand.
The fervor of his speech, the honesty of it, the sheer determination to give the Druid hope…Allanon was taken aback. He blinked at Ander. Stared.
Finally, reluctantly, he reached out and took the Prince's hand. He felt some spark from Ander, from the overwhelming hope there, settle in his cold heart like an ember.
Friends long gone, the faces of loved ones that tortured him because couldn't stay, children he had never known…someday, he would meet them as well. Ander had held Arion's soul within his grasp and let him go…because he loved his brother. Because he believed that he would see him again.
And for the first time in centuries, the Druid considered…that maybe, just maybe…there would be an end to his suffering, a way to find forgiveness, and a place where the scattered pieces of his heart would come together in the people who had left this world without him.
Maybe, just maybe, he had never truly been alone.
FINIS
Author's Notes: Arion was an interesting character who, like everyone else in this series, really didn't deserve to die like that. I wanted to explain some holes I saw in his and other character's actions, moments where they were just. too. stupid (looking at you, Allanon) and exploring the sad, broken family that is the Elessedils.
It got away from me a bit, so I do apologize for that. Also, the spell of sending images into someone's head...I really think was used at the end of S1 Ep 8, Utopia...watch when Ander is about to give the crown away. He stops, stares...sees his family dying, then turns to look at Allanon like he suspects something's up. While Allanon is very careful not to make eye contact with him.
Yeah, I know I'm just a desperate fan plugging cannon holes with fannon. But I hope you enjoy this piece! If you like it, please leave a nice comment or review...they feed my plot bunnies and coax my muse out of her post-nuclear war bunker. Seriously, as long as there are canned peaches in there, she will never leave. Thank you very much for reading! :)