Mayar is of Age.

Elden was dreading the war. He would be leaving at first light and he'd spent most of the day making sure his warriors were prepared. But now, as he sat down in front of the fire, he was filled with dread. The wall was done. War was imminent. Would he see his family again? He hoped so. He'd promised his mate he would not go until the Gods were ready for both of them. And he knew he still needed time with his daughter. Time to watch her reach whatever calling was waiting for her. She was of age, a matured female now, but he still wanted to check she would be alright. He worried about her more than anything else these days.

Alba was in the kitchen when Mayar walked into the living room. She knelt before her father.

"I want to come and fight Hybern with you," She said.

He sighed, "Mayar, my moonbeam, you are not ready."

"You've trained my since I could walk, father."

"And yet, I've not trained you well enough. Not yet. One day, you'll be ready, but what I need you to do now is stay and help your mother. Look after the women and the children. They need someone to look up to." He kissed her forehead and she frowned.

"But I can be ready."

"When I return, we'll have all the time in the world to train." He smiled, "I'm not going anywhere."

Tears then from Mayar because she was truly afraid. Afraid she would lose one of the only people in the world that she truly trusted to keep her safe.

"You'd better not," She said to her father, "Because if you do, I'm going to come after you and kick your ass."

Elden laughed softly and shook his head, "Don't let your mother hear you with that mouth of yours."

The goodbyes at first light had been gut wrenching. Females and children had stood on the thresholds of their cabins and cried as brothers, sons and fathers had said their goodbyes. And some would never return, Mayar realized… because what was a war without bloodshed?

The days were long and so were the nights. Mayar distracted herself with training and then helping with chores around the camp. Sometimes she looked after children just so the females could have time to themselves to think. War was horrific. How had they coped with a war that had lasted so long before?

A hospital was soon set up within the camp, many tents joined together, ready for the sick, injured and dying. And just like that, the wounded started to appear. Some had shredded wings, others had been sliced or had broken bones. Some were easier fixes than others.

"I'll help," Mayar said as she walked into the hospital when the first wounded warriors came in. She prayed that none of the faces she saw belonged to her father.

"Thank you, Mayar," One of the healers bowed her head. "Could you sort some stitches?"

"Of course."

She didn't hesitate and she didn't stop, even when she was exhausted. Mayar helped as many as she could, because it was better than just waiting. Anything was better than just waiting. Even the sounds of those yelling and screaming in pain. She'd rush to them as quick as she could, giving the remedies and medicines to take the pain away or to put them to sleep.

"Mayar?" She turned in the direction of a croaky voice. Elric. No longer the strong warrior he was. Blood-covered bandages around his waist. The smell of the iron and flesh filled her nose and she resisted gagging.

"Can I do anything to help with the pain?"

"Just kill me," He pleaded. "It… it hurts so much."

"I can't do that," She said, "I won't."

"I've been awful to you."

"That doesn't matter, not now." She bent over to look at the bandages. Blood was still coming through them. "Drink this." She said, forcing the medicine into his mouth. He coughed and spluttered but swallowed it nonetheless. Then she got to work. She pulled back the bandages. The wound was deep. He hissed as she looked at it and she held her breath. He would be very lucky to survive, she realized.

"How bad… is it?"

"Bad," She told him truthfully. "But I'll do what I can."

Her hands worked quickly, cleaning the wound and stitching the skin back together. It might not be enough. She knew he could still die from an infection. She applied the balms and herbs to the wound and wrapped it with fresh bandages. But as she looked down at Elric, he was already asleep.

Mayar was dosing in a corner when the news came that the war was over and the survivors were heading home.

She was pacing, wearing a hole in the floor, as was her mother. Would Elden make it home? She'd prayed to every single God she could think of that he would. And then, she saw him. Splattered in mud and blood, filthy and reeking. But still her father.

Mayar and her mother had ran to him and into his embrace without hesitation. But as the family held each other, they knew others were less lucky. And many had been lost.

She let her mother and father have some time together over the next couple of days whilst she continued to work in the hospital and it wasn't long before her mother returned to help. And then there were the visitors who came by.

The General was visiting on behalf of the High Lord to thank the warriors and their families for their service. And sacrifice. He'd brought money, food, clothing… things to look after the widowed wives and the children who had lost parents.

Mayar checked over Elric's bandages carefully- no infection. Yet. She cleaned the wound again carefully and he hissed as she applied the healing balm and wrapped him back up. She moved onto the next patient and sat at his side, checking his stitches on his wing, but she paused at the sight of the General.

He stood tall and powerful, possibly one of the largest Illyrians she'd seen. Red siphons glowed. Seven, she noted, which was unusual. She couldn't see his face but his dark hair was pulled back into a half-bun and he was talking to her father.

"We're sorry for your losses," The General said.

"Mayar, can I borrow you over here?" Alba called and she rushed over. His leg was infected, damaged beyond repair. It was going to need to be removed. "I need your strength." To hold him down, Mayar thought, so that she could remove the leg.

She pushed down with all of her strength as he tried to thrash about and ignored her churning stomach. And as she looked up she spotted the Illyrian male with the General. Bigger, more muscular than the General, if at all possible. He'd been sculpted for war. Shorter hair and blue siphons. Seven blue siphons. It was unusual for an Illyrian to wear so many, she realised. And as she spotted the shadows around him she recognised him as the man she had dreamt about.

The male caught her eye and nodded at her before continuing on his way.

And for some reason something about that acknowledgement made Mayar feel warm inside.