Sparkles, nightflakes, the Faraway Flames: the stars littered the sky like crushed diamond on velvet, and they shone, too.
Spheros had the window unbarred and thrown wide open, the wind slashing inside and biting savagely at his face, swirling the curtains while he clutched a blanket tight around himself.
It was cold, yes. But it was also home.
This was it. This was the last night. He wondered briefly if he would ever come back – ever feel the frost on his cheeks again – ever feel the numbness of his feet. Melekr said it was warm in the Southern Lands, and that they should pack accordingly.
He had a few cloaks bundled in his pack, along with some dried meat, tunics, pants, gloves, rope and another pair of boots. But most importantly, he had the map.
He heard Tes creak the door open and come inside.
"I have to go," he said. "Please don't try to persuade me not to."
She was beside him. "How did you know?"
He smiled at her. "I know you, Tes."
And as she looked at him, her eyes were pearly, gleaming bright.
She sighed. "You're very brave, Spheros. Is that what you want me to say? Do you want to me say you were the bravest, most honorable, most altruistic Aelar ever? That you were the perfect martyr? Well, maybe you are. But Spheros," she said, and as she turned her head up to him, her eyes were pearly and silvery, "I don't care about that."
"What do you care about, then?"
"I care about you, Spheros," she said, and then she cried.
When she was done, when he had held her, and whispered to her ear he loved her, when he held her more after that after the wind came up, hard and cold, he said, "we can't go on like this. We are too many and the animals too few. We've hunted them out, Tes."
He took her hands. "It is said that we have always been nomads. We are the descendents of Anemos, Tesah. He was the first wanderer. We share his blood. We are of the blood of Sol. We are the descendents of Ael, the dissenter, who took again to wandering. We are the descendents of Kurouu.
"We are strong, Tes, but we are wanderers, too. I think the time has come for us to move on."
"But there's nowhere else to go," she whispered to the night.
"Then I will make a place," he promised her. "I swear it, Tesah. By Sol, by Anemos, by Ael, I swear I will save us – save you."
He turned to face the wind and the line of clouds in the distance.
"I have to do this, Tes. I wouldn't trust anyone else."
A glitter of snowflakes fell on the group as their boots imprinted the snowy street. All along the sides of the road, in windows, leaning on fencing, just watching: faces. Eyes. The Aelar.
They were four who set out from Aelarune to save their people.
Spheros, at the front of the group, the youngest at thirty-seven years, had red hair with threads of gold like auric fire. His irises were orange like the very middle of a flame. He wore a broadsword over his cloak, the handle peeking over his right shoulder. His hood was drawn over his head, and his long hair spilled out onto his tunic.
Gelelr came second. He was seventy, a veteran warrior using his spear as a walking stave to help him keep steady in the ankle-deep snow. He was clean-shaven with a thin, bony face and a sharp hooked nose. His hair was yellow.
Flauros came third, her purple hair shimmering in the snowlight, a white cloak pulled tight around her and a longsword and a quiver of arrows at her right hip. She carried a strung bow around her shoulders.
Last came Melekr, white-haired, wizened, olive green cloak flapping wildly. Flauros walked beside him holding his arm, helping him along. He was a Runic, a Rune-Sage.
As they journeyed, rested, journeyed, and Aelarune faded to a glimmer on the white horizon, they all looked to the Southern Lands and to their salvation.
"We save ourselves with the blood of others," Flauros murmured.
"The road to redemption is paved with blood," responded Melekr.
Spheros noticed the Runic didn't say whose blood would be paving it, but said nothing, staying at the forefront of the group, head held high, trudging along. That night, when they spread their cloaks on the still snowy ground and slept, he took first watch.
He sat on a rock near the edge of a cliff overlooking a wide gorge with a frozen river through the center and dark trees on either side. He looked north, and found himself thinking of Tes, her midnight-gold hair, her funny hooked nose and that dimple on her cheek, the way she laughed, the way they talked about having a family some day.
"I don't want to be a martyr," he said to nobody, and bowed his head and did something he hadn't done since he was a boy.
Spheros, the Savior of Aelarune, began to cry.
