Disclaimer:
I don't own anything!
Author's Note: A new chapter at last! I had about half of this written for months with only a few sentences being added or changed every now and again. A few days ago, I read what I'd written and boom, flow of writing. It was such a wonderful feeling to have.
I've recently finished Breath of the Wild. That game takes my breath away with how incredibly gorgeous and vast it is, with how expressive the characters are. The bosses disappoint me, sadly, but the game is one of the best I've played in a long while.
I've started getting into digital art-God help me. I both like it and I don't. I like it for the ease of the Undo button and layers for when my mind can't focus on one thing anymore. Also. COLORS. Just, the fact that I no longer have to sit and experiment with mixing colors to get a certain shade is a godsend because skintones are terrible.
Brushes, and blending and loading times-those I would much rather put up with on my canvas.
Also. The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Daniel Handler, who uses the penname Lemony Snicket for his children's books. His adult novels are the same kind of strange, with that dry, morbid humor and I reccomend at least trying one out because they are definitely an experience, if nothing else. I now own two of his novels, We Are Pirates and Adverbs. Adverbs was a trip to read.
"We steal the happiness of others in order to be happy ourselves, and when it is stolen from us we voyage desperately to steal it back. We are pirates. It is the course of the world, and we may think we can travel out of the world's reach, but anyone who thinks that, Gwen always remembers, is a mistake. You can swim as long and as hard as you like, but you will be giving up one life in order to save another."
-Daniel Handler (We Are Pirates)
"Origin's Temple is in Heimdall, isn't it?" Yuan asked quietly. Heimdall was a touchy subject for the Yggdrasill siblings, he knew.
"Strictly speaking, no." Martel wasn't looking at him, her eyes on the landscape. They'd managed to hitch a ride on a caravan travelling out that way in exchange for Yuan repairing one of their wheels, and them offering their services as mercenaries. ("We have to be really crappy mercenaries to work for food," Mithos mutters. Kratos smothers a laugh) "Origin's Altar is in an area just outside of Heimdall's borders."
Kratos shifted a little where his head was resting on Yuan's shoulder as he napped, unconcerned with the uneven movement of the wagon. "Why do they worship Undine more than Origin if Origin lives right next door?"
Martel smiled crookedly. "Because the elves are practical. Origin may be the King of the Spirits and guardian of warriors, etcetera, but Heimdall usually gets flooded at least once a year at the tail end of summer with the rains. Undine will make sure they don't get swept away in it."
"Theoretically," Mithos added.
(The idea of going to Heimdall fills Mithos with trepidation. His only memories of the village are of being run out of it. Stones and spells hurling through the air, Martel's hand in his. "Run, Mithos, c'mon. Don't look back…" The Ymir. He remembers the Ymir. Remembers hiding in the roots, remembers climbing the trees when the coast was clear. Remembers walking along the thick branches, avoiding the elven patrols. He has no good memories of the place, can't even properly remember his parents' faces. Not like Martel. He wonders if she's okay with this, and he knows that even if she isn't, that certainly won't stop her. Mithos can't let it stop him either; there's only three Summon Spirits left. Origin, Ratatosk, and Maxwell. And then on to the human capital, the university)
"Ugh, it's hot." Yuan flopped onto his bedroll, feeling absolutely disgusting with the sweat sticking to him. The sun had set two hours ago and it didn't feel any cooler.
"You've been in a desert," Martel laughed, even if her hair was piled on top of her head to keep it off her neck. "That was much hotter."
"Temperature wise, yeah. But this is just—muggy and gross." Yuan craned his neck to look at Kratos, who was taking off his shirt, wrinkling his nose at how sweaty it was. "Is 'muggy' the right word?"
"Yes. Although I also would've accepted 'second layer of hell'." Kratos hung his shirt up on a low branch to dry it off. Yuan laughed lowly.
"Well, you guys are further south than you've ever been," Martel said reasonably. Yuan wasn't sure how she even had it in her to still be reasonable. "It's worse the further you go."
"That's a horrifying thought," Mithos muttered.
Yuan eyed Mithos. "You should wear a hat, or a hood. You're going pink."
Mithos glared at him, but it only looked petulant with his hair stuck to his face and neck. He looked like a drowned cat. "I don't need you fussing at me too."
"Wouldn't fuss if you took care of yourself."
"Boys." Martel cut off the impending argument—and therefore, the impending headache. "You can't kill each other before we reach Heimdall."
"Oh, fine." But Yuan smiled a little, even as Mithos rolled his eyes at him.
It took two weeks to arrive near the elven borders. Kratos could feel the tension in Mithos and Martel, could see how much tighter Martel gripped her staff and how she needed to keep her little brother in her sight at all times. He and Yuan just tried to play interference, to distract them from the dark thoughts that lingered in their memories.
"How do we get to Heimdall?" Kratos asked Martel quietly. They stood on a dirt road in the early morning, and the very air here was different. Even Kratos could feel it.
"South," Martel replied. "We go south."
"…Are you okay with this? We don't have to go."
Her eyes when she turned to him looked terribly old. (He remembers his father's words, how elves and half-breeds are unnatural beings, living too long and playing with dark forces. It is something that Kratos has never agreed with, but now, at this very moment, he can feel a thrill of instinctual fear in him at the sight of eyes too old for such a young face) "Yes we do," she said.
Kratos could tell where her argument was going to go, and he had a sudden, fierce hatred for the words 'the greater good'. Why should they have to sacrifice everything for the world? What had the world done for them? It had brought them pain and suffering and anger. It had left them scarred and cracked.
But that was a fleeting thought. Kratos remembered good things too: his students at the capital, how excited they'd been to learn. Swimming in the ocean. Taking naps in the sunshine. Climbing a tree to ride out a storm. Comrades to have celebratory drinks with. And friends. It had brought him these wonderful friends who were so much family. These were the things worth fighting for. Worth sacrificing for.
She never voiced the argument, but the smile she gave him said it all. A sorrowful thing that, on someone else, would be a grimace. "Let's wake the others."
How did people breathe in Heimdall? The air was incredibly thick and humid and Yuan found it incredibly disgusting how his shirt stuck to him. They'd all tucked their hair up and away to feel relatively cooler air on the backs of their necks.
This wasn't Heimdall proper yet, though. At least, according to Martel. This was a place called the Ymir Forest, through which the entrance to Heimdall was hidden.
Yuan took a step back when he saw a dark shape in the murky water. "Um—guys? There's something moving in there."
Martel followed his line of sight. "Those are fish."
"Fish are yea big." Yuan held his hands a few feet apart. "Maximum. Those things are as big as Noishe!"
The protozoan squawked in distaste at being compared to one of those fish, but he waded in a few steps, poking his beak into the water. Martel shrugged. "What do you want me to tell you? They're not going to hurt you."
(He wants to ask how she knows, but then he doesn't think he wants to know why she had ever been in this swamp longer than she strictly had to be)
"This place is like a maze," Kratos said, Mithos on his heels. They'd scouted ahead a bit, trying to find the way through. "You sure there's not some kind of illusion spell on this forest?"
"There didn't used to be."
None of them brought up the fact that it had been over ten years since Mithos and Martel had left their homeland. Relations between the elves and outsiders could only have worsened since then.
"Hang on." Mithos studied the area. He could see mana the way most people saw heat waves coming off of hot stones. Translucent, laid over the world like a threadbare scarf. In places like the Temples, the mana had run cleaner, more obvious, but only in the ranches, with their twisted, artificial magitechnology, had he seen it so suddenly and so vividly. Too vivid to be natural.
He had vague memories of mana being thicker, of it filling the world and shimmering like honey in sunlight. He'd thought it had just been a dream, or the imaginings of a too-bored child. But here, in the Ymir, if he focused, he could see the mana threading through everything. The water, the roots, the leaves. It wasn't quite as clear or as strong as his memories, but—mana had been running thin throughout the world due to the humans' magitechnology consuming it at such a rate.
Mithos climbed one of the trees, the broad, thick branches more than sturdy beneath his feet. The foliage was too thick to keep climbing upwards and anyway, these trees grew out more than they grew up, but from up here, if he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind like Anish had taught him (Listen to the wind. Feel it. Know its movements…)
It was hard to feel mana without seeing it. Martel could do it, he thought. That was how Healers were supposed to work. But surely he could do it too.
He could hear the others calling for him, asking what on earth he was doing, but Mithos ignored them. Mana was a part of everything. Not just living things, but the earth, the stone, the sun—he'd seen the mana in all of it, felt it burning in the little pouch of precious stones that were symbols of the pacts. The elves—in Heimdall, it would logically be more concentrated than out here. If he could just find it—there? Perhaps?
Mana appeared like stars behind his eyelids, with its gentle pulses. Here, beneath the soil, oh yes, it was much stronger than in the human lands—or even the half-elven ones. It made sense that the animals out here would be so much larger; raised with so much mana, of course it would help in their growth and development.
"I think it's that way." Mithos pointed without opening his eyes.
"You moron, you think we can see you all the way up there?" Yuan called.
Mithos rolled his eyes and created a chain of witchlight in the direction he'd pointed. After he'd climbed down, he said, "We follow that and I think we can find Heimdall."
He saw Yuan and Kratos think about asking, but deciding not to. It was spooky sometimes, how in sync they were, but then, Mithos had been told that he and Martel did the same thing. Martel just watched him. He worried her, he knew. She didn't say as much, but seeing mana wasn't exactly a common thing and he'd heard the stores. People going mad from it, never being able to see the world in front of them.
While Mithos had managed to get them a general direction, it still took them quite a while to traverse the bridges half-swallowed by the swamp. Moths and mosquitos hovered close to the witchlight, and some curious boars and other monsters poked their heads close, but they never attacked.
"Something's wrong," Martel said, her entire body tense. "Last time, there were patrols throughout the forest, but we haven't seen anyone else."
"We don't know the situation," Kratos reminded her. "Maybe they don't have the manpower to keep regular guards out here anymore."
"Maybe…"
After another hour, the forest thinned, the swamp drying up. Yuan blinked, his eyes having adjusted to the dimmer light beneath the thick canopy.
There were stories of the elven lands. Of beautiful quartz cities dazzling in the sunlight, of whitewood towers arching towards the skies that the elves came from. Of elegant crystal palaces, ivy dripping from the rafters.
Yuan had no idea if those places really existed, but Heimdall didn't look like any of them.
Long, low wooden buildings built on stilts—stilts. It was such an odd idea, but Yuan remembered Martel mentioning that Heimdall flooded fairly regularly—with slanted straw roofs. It was difficult to see any details, but there was a river running through it, and Yuan could see some kind of marshy field in the distance.
They all froze as a shot of mana flew directly over their heads. They had to fight every instinct in them not to retaliate, instead holding up empty hands.
"We come in peace!" Martel shouted. "We're just travelers."
Tall men appeared from the twisted trees and the underbrush. They wore lightweight armor over short robes, their pale hair tucked and braided out of their long faces. "Outsiders aren't welcome in these parts."
"Look, we're going to Heimdall. Please. We mean no harm." Martel hissed as they wrenched her arm behind her back, shoving her forward so they walked. One of them confiscated her staff, as well as Kratos' sword and Yuan's spear.
"Wonderful. Let us escort you there," one of the guards said, his voice subtly vicious.
They didn't even have to walk far. Perhaps fifteen minutes. Yuan was annoyed with themselves; they were so close to getting to Heimdall on their own! They just had to hit the one patrol that existed in the whole damn Ymir.
"We have a letter of recommendation," Yuan snarled at the guard who held his arms behind his back.
"Convenient story," the guard said, forcing him to walk forward.
"You can verify it," Kratos said. "In my bag, there's a notebook. Inside of it is the letter."
"And why should I believe a human?"
"Hunir, what is all this about?" Another elf stepped out of one of the larger buildings. He wore a robe similar to the ones that Alstan and Myra wore. Deep black, but his were trimmed in shimmery lavender and they fell to his ankles.
Hunir—the leader of the guards—stepped forward. "Trespassers, sir. Three half-breeds and a human found by the Ymir."
The elf studied them. The only full blooded elves that Kratos and Yuan had ever met were Alstan and Myra, and their faces were so familiar that they hardly registered. They could see a lot of the elven blood in Mithos. High cheekbones, thin, long limbs. This elf's hair was silver, though it seemed as though that was a common color, regardless of age. His face had the beginnings of lines about his eyes and mouth.
"How did you make it so far past our borders?" he asked, though his accent was thick and difficult to understand. It made Kratos and Yuan realize how much of the accent Martel had lost.
"We walked," Yuan told him irritably. "We were going to show our travel papers and letter of recommendation at the gate, but your guards are so friendly, they insisted we didn't need them."
(They've been walking in a hot, muggy swamp for almost two days. Yuan's been manhandled and talked down to, and he doesn't like the tension in Martel, a deer poised to run. He has no intention of being civil)
The elf arched a feathery eyebrow. "Yes I can see you were entirely cooperative."
"Your guards are still in one piece, aren't they?"
"Not helping, Yuan," Kratos snapped.
"I will say this—no human has come here in centuries, and never uninvited."
"As we've been trying to tell you—we have our papers in order."
"So you've mentioned. What self-respecting elf would vouch for a human and a trio of half-breeds?"
"Half-elves," Kratos corrected coldly. "And the elves," he stressed the plural. "That vouch for us are Alstan and Myranda."
"Myranda?" the elf repeated. "Vouching for a human?"
"Check the letter if you don't believe us."
The elf made a signal to Hunir, who searched Kratos' pack for the notebook. The letter was pressed safely between its pages.
The elf read the letter over carefully, studying the bottom intently. "That is certainly Myranda's handwriting." He looked back up at them. "But why would she vouch for you?"
"We're students of hers," Mithos said, taking a step forward. Yuan glanced at Martel she hadn't said a word since they'd entered the village. "Alstan's students as well."
His lips thinned at that. Kratos remembered that Alstan hadn't exactly left on the best of terms. "And you are?"
He tilted his chin proudly. "Mithos Yggdrasill. Is that a problem?"
(Yuan wants to crow with pride at the defiance etched in every line of Mithos' body. At his utter refusal to be ashamed of who and what he is)
Instead of answering, the elf looked between Mithos and Martel, studying them, before looking back at the papers. "You want to make a pact with Origin. Why?"
"To help stop the war," Mithos said. "Not that I expect you to understand that concept, since you've got yourselves a great hidey-hole."
Yuan snorted and Kratos ducked his head to hide a smile. It must have been a Yggdrasill trait, to manage such a polite tone that had such bite to it.
"We have had Origin's power on our side for millennia. Why do you think you'll be able to do any different?"
"Because he's not going to use it to hide." Martel's voice rang out, clear as a bell, her eyes flint-sharp and daring anyone to challenge her. (This is the woman they love. Fierce and unwavering. She will only be backed into a corner for so long before she pushes back) "He's not going to use that power to ignore the fact that there's a war on your doorstep."
"So you intend to use it as a weapon?"
"If we have to." There was Martel the survivor, the one who had gotten them out of this village as children, who had made the journey across the world with a little brother and a staff.
"It's worked before on a smaller scale," Mithos added. "The city of Ravenatele was willing to surrender peacefully and there wasn't a single casualty on either side. That proves that it's possible, but for the entire human army to surrender? It'll take quite a bit more."
The elf's lips thinned. "This must be discussed with the Council. You will be kept under guard until then."
Kratos saw Yuan about to protest and he grabbed his wrist, squeezing just enough to be a warning. "We appreciate your time," Kratos said.
"It doesn't annoy you?" Yuan demanded. "That they're discussing our freedom and the entire world's future without even consulting us?"
"Welcome to being a woman," Martel said dryly.
"Of course it bothers me," Kratos answered. "Elves can live up to what, a thousand years?"
"It's rare for one to live that long," Martel told him. "Six hundred tends to be the average."
"Still. They look at time differently than you or I do. To them, human lives are barely anything. Even the oldest human would still be a child by their standards. They play a long game, Yuan, and we have to be careful of how we play it too. They're not as easy to predict as humans. Or even half-elves."
Yuan's mouth twisted, eyes flinty. "I can play a long game too." (They're being treated like criminals, despite their travel papers that are—technically—not strictly legal considering they're not part of the military anymore. And the way the elves look at them, it's worse than the humans. The humans treated them like objects, sure, like they aren't people. The elves do the same thing, but they add a great deal of condescension and false pity into the mix and it pisses Yuan off even more)
Their holding cell—for that was what it was, despite whatever the elves called it—was a small, square room in a building very low to the ground for a village built on stilts. "They wouldn't care if their prisoners drowned," Yuan grumbled. Their heads—minus Mithos'—hit the ceiling if they stood upright.
So they sat against a wall—there was a single, high window, too thin for a person to slip through—and tried to distract themselves. Martel's humming would taper off at points as her thoughts took over, before she came back. Mithos would join her, sometimes, but he eventually dozed off, his head in her lap.
The sun set and rose before someone came for them. An elf in rich green robes that did little to hide his paunch. Yuan wanted to hate him, to hate all the elves, for not having their farmlands ripped from them, for not having their flour mills burned to the ground. The elves were still well-fed, their people weren't starving, and still they hid.
"I understand that you are students of Alstan," the elf said.
Kratos lifted his head, unashamed. "We are. Why does that matter to you?"
"Well, my little brother hasn't written to his family in years, so—"
"Little brother?" Yuan interrupted.
"He mentioned you," Kratos remembered. "You're a priest of some kind."
When the elf's lips curled in an odd smile, Kratos could see a little bit of Alstan in him. "My name is Alaine, third son of Rosnain, and High Priest of Ratatosk."
They introduced themselves, and Mithos asked, "Why are you here?"
"I volunteered as a messenger. The Council came to a decision." The four of them sat up in interest, joints cracking from being in the same position too long. "We cannot contest the legality of your being here, but we can contest to taking the pact from the current pact-holder."
"So—what? You want us to sit and twiddle our thumbs?"
"What you do here is up to you. The Council dislikes the idea of giving a half-breed child the pact to the King."
Mithos stood, bristling. "Your current pact-holder hasn't done a single damn thing with that power. They're a placeholder, and we don't have space or time for that. There's a war going on."
"You are too impulsive and that power cannot go unchecked."
Martel stood with difficulty, her legs having fallen asleep at some point. "I think you're lying."
Alaine looked at her coolly. He had the same pale blue eyes of every full-blooded elf they'd ever met. (Eyes like the sky that they came from, are the whispers) "I assure you, I'm not."
"Not about the facts. I'm sure that those are your legitimate reasons for it, but you're making it sounds like his youth is the reason that you don't want to allow Mithos the pact. The real reason is because elves have this concept that they're superior to everyone else, and if a half-elf can hold the pact, then what does that mean for all of you?"
"Regardless of whatever delusions you may have, Miss Yggdrasill, the reasons are as stated and the boy won't be allowed to try for the pact."
"Y'know, I see why the elves stay in hiding," Yuan began. "Because then the rest of the world doesn't know what cowards you all are. Hiding from the world because you know that you're outmatched."
"Excuse me?" Alaine's eyes flashed red and they felt a press of mana. (There is very little known on the Summon Spirit known as Ratatosk, but that is the first moment they feel his power)
"He's right. Who holds the right of the pact to Origin?" Mithos asked, letting his own mana speak for itself, a low wave of power that had a menace behind it, and the scent of sea salt filled the air. Mithos was a child of Luna and Aska, that was true, but he was a child of Heimdall too, and Heimdall belonged to Undine.
"Our Master of Arms, Natael."
"May we speak with him?" Martel asked, catching onto her brother's plan. "Or is having conversations being prevented too?"
Alaine's brow furrowed, his mouth thin. "Not as long as you hold a civilized tongue."
"I'm not sure you would recognize it if I do," Martel said and the not so subtle venom in her voice made Kratos-and-Yuan hide a smile. Everyone who saw their little family was afraid of the two warriors, was wary of them. They might distrust Mithos, with his elf-pretty face and too-smart eyes. But no one looked at Martel, no one considered her anything more than part of the background. She'd made that her strength, had made it her weapon and it was incredibly satisfying to watch.
The Master of Arms ran a school for swordsmanship, and lived in a portion of the same building. They found it with relative ease, due to some of the students drilling outside.
"Your plan is to duel him for the right of the pact?" Yuan repeated in a harsh whisper. Their weapons had been returned to them upon their leaving of the holding cell.
"Do you have a better idea?" Mithos snapped. "We can't waste time playing their political games." Just before they'd crossed the border, they'd heard words from troupers going north that the half-elves had lost a significant battle the week before. Mithos could feel the time slipping away from them, even as he tried not to feel the guilt. If they were faster, if they were better, the war could have been over already. Or they would have been there for the battle and made the difference.
"He's concerned about your odds," Kratos explained. "Your swordsmanship has improved, but that man has had centuries of fighting experience."
"We have to take the chance."
"Of the four of us, Yuan and Kratos are the best fighters," Martel said slowly. "And more than likely, they'll limit the magic you can use in the duel. If they do limit it, Kratos is our best chance."
"But I can't form a pact! I'm not a summoner."
"No," Mithos said slowly. Kratos felt something in his stomach sink at the look in Mithos' eyes; it was always a sign of an impending leap in logic that left the rest of them fumbling. "But you can hold a pact. Anyone can hold a pact; the thing that makes a summoner is the ability to form them and be able to use summoning magic."
"This is a terrible idea," Yuan muttered.
"I'm open to better ones."
Mithos was merciful enough to give Yuan a full minute to think of a better plan before turning and striding up to an elf who stood on the porch, watching the drilling students. Martel sighed—she wanted to say something about respecting elders, or authority, or something along those lines, as a proper older sister or mother should, but it would be rather hypocritical coming out of her now.
"Excuse me," Mithos began and the three of them were rather grateful that he at least began the conversation with manners. "I'm looking for Natael? The Master at Arms?"
The thing about full blooded elves was that they naturally looked entirely too delicate to seem much of a threat. Kratos had asked Alstan about it once, back in the military school. He had explained that elves didn't build muscle the way that humans did. The muscles developed, but they didn't grow large and fill out their frames like humans.
So when the elf looked at Mithos, it was with a face that didn't match his eyes. Too young and unlined, with the characteristic pale hair and eyes. "And why would you be looking for me?"
"I understand that you hold the pact for Origin."
"I do." There it was. That same flash in his eyes that Kratos associated with Mithos whenever he watched him do his grander spells. "What does that matter?"
"Because I need it."
Natael snorted. "I refuse. No half-breed will ever hold our King's pact."
"Then what about a human?" Kratos said, raising his voice as he strode forward.
"You're fools the lot of you. Humans cannot do magic, and therefore cannot be summoners."
"You didn't say 'summon'. You said 'hold the pact'." Kratos felt something in his gut settle, like a crystal clear lake, like mirror-like water. There was no nervousness in him, no fear. It was the place he'd found when he'd killed his father, a place he'd been afraid to go back to. But there was nothing to fear from it; the only reason he should be afraid of it was because he hadn't been able to control it. But he could now, could relax into that water place with the same ease that he drew his sword, and he could leave the same way. "You don't have to have elven blood in you to hold the pact."
Natael stepped down from the porch, and he was still a good half a head taller than Kratos. "The pact of Origin is based on its holder's life. Humans don't risk their lives for other races."
"Yes, they do." Mithos was half of Natael's height, but he still stood unafraid. It was an admirable sight. "Kratos has risked his life for us before. But you elves don't understand that concept; you guys hide behind your borders like cowards, waiting to see who survives. What the hell do you care, right? You guys will outlive every single person on those battlefields."
"You know not of what you speak, half-breed. You do not know what we have sacrificed."
"Yes, we do." Mithos' calm voice was something jarring when they were so used to his temper. Perhaps he was taking a leaf out of Martel's book. "You've sacrificed brothers, and fathers, and uncles, and sons. You've lost homes, and friends, and families. It's the same that we've lost, except instead of facing the problem, your people chose to hide away from the fighting like a child under the covers, hoping the monster under his bed isn't real.
"But the monster is. The war is real. No hiding will ever change that fact. You guys have the power to change things, to affect the tide of the war, and you're choosing to do nothing. We are striving for peace. Let us earn the right to the pact and use Origin's power to settle this war so that there are no more bombs falling from the sky, and families being separated and slaughtered."
It was a good speech. Yuan was privately impressed at Mithos' eloquence, and vaguely envious of how much attention Mithos could command, of how his voice travelled.
(The half-breed child has seen war. As had Natael, before his sword-arm had been taken from him. He can use it, but it will never be strong enough to hold a sword again. He has trained with his off-arm, but it will never be good enough for the battlefield. For a duel, however, particularly against a human of all people. The courage that the child displays is more than most of his students. For that, Natael is willing to give them a duel)
"Very well. No human can best me in battle, but if you manage, you may hold the pact, assuming, of course, that you are able to earn it from the King as well."
There were murmurs of interest from the students nearby and other nearby onlookers moved to make a large rough circle that would serve as the ring. "Our laws of combat are quite simple. Even you lot should be able to understand them."
Kratos didn't rise to the bait, watching Natael move. He was clearly an experienced fighter, movements perfectly balanced. He would move faster than even a trained half-elf, logically, being fully elven, but Kratos had trained with both Mrya and Alstan, so the speed wouldn't be completely alien to him.
"There will be no use of armor. Each of us will be allowed a sword only."
"Is it to the death?" Kratos asked quietly, removing his travelling cape.
"We are not so barbaric. First blood."
Kratos nodded and stood so he faced Natael, who held his sword in his left hand. Odd, but not unheard of. Kratos glanced at Natael's right arm; in the sunlight, a white scar was visible on the underside of his forearm. An injury then, and not his natural inclination.
He could work with that. And Natael's natural arrogance—something that Kratos was very willing to pin as a trademark of elvish blood—would play against him. He didn't expect anything from a human.
He mimicked Natael's bow, both keeping their eyes on each other.
There was no whistle of start, no ten paces to walk. Just an electric silence.
Kratos jerked to the side as the sword came towards him in a powerful thrust. Powerful, but he caught the way that Natael's feet slid to catch up with his body. Sloppy. He'd been thinking this whole thing would be over with one thrust. After all, humans couldn't move fast enough to keep up with elves, theoretically.
Kratos dodged Natael's strikes, just barely. He exaggerated his movements, moving slower in obvious, wide swings. He blocked some, making it look panicky, like a last-ditch effort.
Mithos tugged at Yuan's hand, a question on his face. Kratos was a much better swordsman than this, so why would he be moving like a novice?
Yuan grinned wolfishly, pride gleaming in his eyes as he watched his best friend. How far he'd come from barely being able to lift a sword. "Trust him, kid. Kratos isn't just a pretty face and a strong arm."
Natael came with a strike around to Kratos' ribs. Seeing his opportunity, Kratos moved to Natael's inside, keeping his sword close to his body as a guard while he used his free hand to grab Natael's shirt. Kratos' leg hooked behind Natael's calf as he shoved him away, sending Natael toppling.
Martel cheered, recognizing the move as something Shadow's monks had taught her that she'd been working with Kratos on. Kratos moved quicker than he had the entire duel to step on Natael's left wrist. Not hard, but with a warning pressure.
"Do you yield?" Kratos asked, his sword pointed at Natael's throat.
Natael bared his teeth. "First blood, human. You've done nothing but run." He made to get up, but Kratos increased the pressure on his wrist until he stilled, hissing in pain.
Slowly, Kratos moved the point of his sword to Natael's shoulder where he drew the smallest of lines in blood. "First blood," he said. "I've earned the right to hold Origin's pact, by honorable combat."
Kratos stepped away, taking his cloak back from Yuan to wipe the drop of blood from his sword before sheathing it.
"You call that honorable, fighting below your true abilities?" Natael asked, getting to his feet.
"We both know that I would have a difficult time beating you all out. I'm not ashamed to admit it. So I chose to take advantage of your arrogance."
Natael's mouth twisted in anger. "You go too far."
Kratos met his temper calmly. "No, I don't. Your arrogance left you blind to the fact that while the matter of my race is a factor in our physical endeavors, it is not the deciding factor."
"…A fair point," Natael conceded. "I do not know that you will be able to create the pact with our King, but I will not fight his decision."
Yuan laughed that night over their supper of honeyed rice and fish. "Brilliant! The look on his face is something I'll never forget."
"That was really clever," Mithos said, ripping his bread roll in half. "Playing his expectations to your advantage. Making him see what you wanted him to see."
"I learned it from watching Martel, actually." Kratos smiled at her. "If people are going to judge you by something like your appearance, make them pay for it."
It was something he'd seen in many women, actually. People thought them weak, or harmless. They had expectations about their actions, their abilities. And Martel liked to spit in people's faces with her strength and her talent.
Mithos barked a laugh. "I told you you were devious, Kratos."
Yuan held up his canteen in a toast. "Kratos Aurion, master of misdirection."
They all bumped canteens, even as they teased Kratos for the redness of his ears.
They'd all agreed it was too hot to sleep in a pile like they often did. They kept the window in their small room at the inn open, a close-knit net nailed to the outside to keep insects out. There was little breeze to be coaxed inside, however. Mithos had made a small Icicle in a bowl in the center of the room in an attempt to combat the heat. Mana was the only thing holding it together, but it worked at least a little.
Martel stepped carefully around Yuan, who slept near her, but not touching, his hair tucked up in a bun to keep it away from him. They were all in the least amount of clothing possible and she dug up her dress from her traveling pack to slip it over her head.
She heard shifting from behind her. Kratos' bleary eyes peered up from behind crusty eyelids. "'vry'hing okay?"
"Yeah," she murmured. "It's just too hot. I'm gonna take a walk. Go back to sleep."
"m'kay."
She stepped carefully around the bowl with the Icicle. Mithos had managed to finally get some sleep. They all had. Martel was only partially lying about the heat; she was the most used to it, but that didn't make it pleasant. It was the memories that were keeping her completely awake.
(She can't stop hearing her neighbors barging in, the firelight flickering on the walls. Her uncle shooing them out the back—"Run, Martel. Don't look back."—before going to the front of the small house. Mithos in her arms as she ran, his sleepy questions slowly turning to panic as he realized what was happening.
They'd been spotted on the main road. Martel's bare feet slapping the dirt. Mithos is beginning to cry and they'd hurled spells and stones at them, even as some tried to take catch her, to hold her down for a proper execution. Because apparently being a half-elf is a crime now, because of their dirty blood, because they are the problem with the elven lands, poisoning the mana and causing the Kharlan Tree to die)
Mithos was more prone to nightmares than she was. A product of his age, more than likely, and so if he's sleeping so calmly now, Martel could only be grateful that Mithos had been too young to properly remember Heimdall. He deserved happy memories.
Heimdall was a generally quiet village. It wasn't populated enough to have buildings hemming in streets, and people working at all hours of the night and day. After years of living in the half-elven capital, it was a strange adjustment. Martel pushed her hair out of her face and behind her shoulders, looking around at the silent buildings. The lack of people outside made it easier to relax. The only reason Heimdall was counted as one of the more major elven towns was because of its proximity to Origin's Altar. Otherwise, it would just be another village.
A candle blew out in one of the windows, and Martel kept walking. There were no streets of stone here. All dirt roads and wild grass. The more traditional elves would be aghast at cities outside of elven territories; with all of their stone and iron. She began walking in a direction that looked vaguely familiar. There had been a field where her father had liked to take her on some nights, to sit and talk about shooting stars and planets, even as he sat with his notebook and wrote things down.
"The elves came from another planet, you know," she remembered him saying. She remembered his words, but not his voice. Not today. Today his voice was a distant thing. "Perhaps there are other planets with other kinds of people out there."
Martel encountered no one on her walk, though she got a bit lost. No other insomniacs here, no soldiers with missing limbs, smoking with haunted eyes. No nurses throwing out buckets of waste and scrubbing bandages. No people standing watch. What an alien life this was, to not be concerned about a war. To not fear bombs falling from the sky.
She eventually found the field. The grass was damp and squishy beneath her feet and between her toes. The field was blossoming with pale flowers that glowed faintly with the mana they exuded. Lunara blossoms , Martel had heard them called. They had grown near Undine's Temple as well as Luna and Aska's. Martel's father had said that the elven name for them was sylvinia.
"It's where your mother's name comes from," he'd said. "Why don't you pick some for her?"
Martel lay down among the silvinias. Her mother was more difficult to remember. Her hands had always been dry and soft, and she'd made candles and soap from beeswax. Her father used to say that Martel was pretty, just like her mom, but Martel had never been able to see it. Sylvia Velluntin was a lovely woman in Martel's memory; with the characteristic silver hair and blue eyes—eyes that Mithos had inherited. Mithos looked more like her, with the angular face and long nose. To be fair, Martel didn't see much of her father in herself either.
"Planning on taking a nap?" Martel jumped up, a spell circle forming beneath her on instinct. How had she not heard them approach? "Odd place for it, but I won't judge you."
The man stood several feet away, hands in his pockets. A smirk was playing on the edges of his lips. "Well, I won't judge you for that anyway."
"Who are you?"
"Just another insomniac, so relax."
Martel let the spell circle dim and fade, but she didn't drop her guard entirely. It was possible that she'd been so distracted that she hadn't heard him, but even then, he must have been extraordinarily quiet. "Sorry. I'm just a bit jumpy."
The man shrugged. "I heard about all the commotion this morning. You and your friends are the most exciting thing to happen in this town for a few decades. From what I understand, you've earned the right to be jumpy."
He sat near her without asking, moving with an animalistic grace as he folded his long legs under him. Martel still didn't sit down.
"You don't seem concerned that I'm a half-elf," Martel said warily.
The man arched a brow at her. He was handsome, Martel supposed, with brown skin and his eyes a bright enough green that they were visible even in the dimness. They were odd eyes, too old for the fairly young face, but they suited him somehow. They didn't bother Martel like most full blooded elves' eyes did. "Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"Well. I'm not most people. Now either sit down or back up 'cause I don't appreciate people looming."
Martel snorted despite herself, taking a seat beside him. "When you say it like that, how can I refuse?"
The man plucked one of the blossoms and propped his elbows on his knees. He twirled the flower between spindly fingers. "So. What brings a bunch of half-elves and a human out here? It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke."
"You'd probably laugh."
He hummed. "I could probably do with a laugh. Carry on."
Martel rolled her eyes at his falsely imperious tone, earning her a quick-fire smile. ""We're here to make pacts with Origin and—possibly—Ratatosk."
The man's eyes gleamed with private humor. "Let no one say that you dream small. You'll have a tough time with Alaine. He's not a man to give up his power easily."
"He would still be a High Priest even without the pact. And he's not doing anything with the power either."
His smile turned sly and he looked away, out towards the field and the stream that was somewhere out there. Martel had found it by accident and it had taken her fifteen minutes to find a bridge. "You're very perceptive, but he likes his illusion that he's doing something with that power. Likes to fancy that he's part of the reason the war has stayed away from Heimdall."
"Because they're cowards the lot of them."
"No arguments here."
Martel pinched the bridge of her nose. "I was hoping this could all go more diplomatically."
"If what I saw earlier today is your idea of diplomacy, I think this war will never end."
She leaned back on her arms, stretching her legs out. "You talk as if you know Alaine."
His lips curled in a shark's smile; too many teeth and undeniably threatening. "We're well acquainted. Personally, I'd be quite happy to be rid of the bastard."
"Why?"
(Most people flinch from his temper, from the clear animalistic tendencies. This woman doesn't, hasn't. It's rather refreshing)
"Because you're right. He's too timid. Too accustomed to hoarding power and staying comfy on his cushion when there's work to be done."
"Do you think the same of Natael?"
He paused, turning the question over in his mind. "He put in his time. He was a soldier, and he's trained future generations when he wasn't capable of being a soldier anymore. The issue with him Is that he's become accustomed to being the strongest man in the room, and all of Heimdall has become accustomed to a time without war."
"Complacency breeds rebellion."
The man laughed, a warm sound that rolled over Martel like a summer wind. "Exactly. I like that." He repeated her words. "Wonderful."
They sat in an oddly comfortable silence, considering they were complete strangers. Martel stroked the petals of a nearby blossom. "There used to be so many more of these when I was growing up."
"They're very mana-dependent, even for flowers. The longer this war goes on, the less mana there is to go around." He turned to look at her, and Martel had the vaguely discomfiting sensation of being looked through. "You say you grew up here?"
"Yes. For a short while."
He made a noise of acknowledgment. "I'm sure. Heimdall isn't kind to half-elves."
"They're all blind, arrogant racists," Martel said venomously, the memories of so long ago still burning at the edges of her mind.
"Indeed they are. I don't think I ever got your name."
"Martel Yggdrasill."
"Yggdrasill?" The man perked up. "Was your father a botanist, by chance?"
"I—yes."
He beamed, transforming his whole face into something lovely. "I remember him! He was studying the Kharlan Tree, originally."
"Originally?"
"Yes. He was very dedicated. At some point, he met this girl and he wouldn't stop gushing about how wonderful she was. I wondered what happened to him."
"I never knew he studied the Kharlan Tree."
"It's why he came all the way out here. Heimdall is one of the closest villages to it. He was a good man, your father. Hard-working, curious. Ballsy too, which you seem to have inherited."
Martel's laughter rang out, echoing through the night and startling an owl. "Well. I've certainly been called ballsy before."
A gentle whisper of wings and a soft trill were all that announced Noishe's presence before he landed. He pecked gently at Martel's toes, making her giggle as she drew them back. "Come to corral me back?"
Noishe bobbed his head up and down.
"I figured." Martel sighed, clambering to her feet. "You're worse than a sheepdog, honestly."
Noishe nipped at her arm in retaliation. The man chuckled. "Well, I see that you have an escort home. Enjoy the rest of your night."
By the time Martel turned to thank him and ask for his name, the man was nowhere to be seen. Martel looked at Noishe. "You saw him, right? I'm not hallucinating?"
Noishe shook his head, ruffling his feathers. Martel hoped that that was a response to her second question, not the first.
"And he said that it has to be a trial by combat? No rituals or anything?" Mithos asked. Kratos had gone to Natael after breakfast to learn specifics of what was needed to make the pact.
Kratos shook his head. "No. Apparently, while Origin has some rituals, they're more of a personal thing than for something like making a pact. And it makes sense; he is the Spirit of Warriors, isn't he?"
Martel nodded. "He was more than though. He's also the Spirit of Justice as well. Being the King, his name is usually invoked for any court rulings."
"That doesn't help us though. Great." Mithos huffed a breath, drumming his fingers on the table. "All we have to do is fight the King of Summon Spirits."
"Easy peasy," Yuan said, trying for levity, but he knew that none of the others would believe it.
"Well, I have kind of an important question," Mithos said. "Where do we even find Origin's Altar here? The other Spirits had entire Temples dedicated to them. Why does Origin only get an Altar? You think it would be the reverse, considering he's the King."
Martel smiled at her little brother, resting her chin in her hand. "I remember hearing that—theoretically—since Origin is the Spirit of Matter, the world itself is his Temple."
"That sounds…presumptuous."
"What, the elves? Presumptuous?" Yuan put a mocking hand on his heart. "Say it isn't so!"
Kratos snorted. "Getting back to the original point, I asked Natael that. He said that the Altar is in the Torent Valley, on the other side of the orchards."
(Martel remembers the orchards. It had been the site of many a childish dare. See if you can pick fruit without people noticing. How high up the tree will you climb? How deep in will you go? It had seemed like such a vast place in her memories, endless rows of citrus, and durian, papaya dangling from their lanky trunks, cherries with their pretty blossoms)
"We'll take a day to rest," Martel said. "We've been travelling hard for two months now. Tomorrow we'll fight him."
Yuan's nose wrinkled, but he agreed. He didn't want to spend any more time in this village—hell, in this entire territory, honestly—if he didn't have to. "We need to stock up on supplies and stuff anyway. We're gonna eat real food for a while."
Salted meats and fresh game were all well and good, but they'd run out of rice weeks ago, and hardtack was hardly a substitute for bread. As Yuan had been learning, only very specific things grew well in this kind of climate—"It's the soil, mostly," Martel had corrected him. "It's too wet and sandy."—and none of them knew the vegetation well enough to say for sure what was safe to eat.
"Shopping sounds like a plan," Kratos said, leaning forward. "How much money do we have left?"
Martel grabbed their purse from her pack, upending it so they could count it out. "Not much. A little less than five hundred gald."
"And how much you wanna bet that the elves are gonna put a special half-elf tax on the goods for us?" Yuan crossed his arms, leaning his hip on the table. "Let's see what we can get."
"Called it," Yuan muttered as the shopkeeper told them the price for a sack of rice and some onions. Then, a little louder, he said, "Why's it more expensive? Sign right there says fifty-five gald per pound."
"It's an old sign," the shopkeeper said, as though daring him to argue.
"Oh really? Old enough that you didn't think half-elves could read it?"
"You're just lucky your human master decided he wanted some use out of you besides hard lab—"
The shopkeeper didn't finish the sentence due to Yuan's fist slamming into his face. He dropped the gald on the counter. "Pleasure doing business with you," Yuan said, baring his teeth in an approximation of a polite smile.
Yuan half-expected Kratos to say something about punching the shopkeeper, but Kratos just hauled the sack of rice over his shoulder as Yuan tucked the onions into another, smaller sack that they kept their vegetables in.
Kratos would have protested once, would have said that Yuan was being too reckless and violent. Yuan wasn't sure if he was glad for Kratos' silence, or not.
Martel and Mithos had wanted to go shopping, but Martel had hesitated, taking Mithos' hand so he wouldn't follow them. "I think you should go on your own, Kratos."
It wasn't like Martel to be nervous, and seeing how small this village and these elves made her feel wasn't helping Yuan's mood. So he'd gone with Kratos because he would be damned if he was going to hide in a village where everyone already knew who they were and why they were here. (He can't blame Martel for hiding though. He doesn't know the details of what happened to her and Mithos when they'd been exiled, but he knows that just having the courage to walk into this village is a lot for Martel right now. Mithos, smart kid that he is, hasn't argued as much since they've been here)
"This is probably gonna sound insulting," Kratos began as they walked towards another store, and Yuan stared at him because how often was Kratos actually insulting to him? They used playful insults, but nothing actually offensive that Kratos would feel the need to warn him for. "But…do you ever wish that you could pass? For an elf, I mean. Or human. Either."
Huh. Kratos was right. It did sound insulting. Yuan knew full well that he looked like a half-elf. It was obvious, just from his build and his face. Martel, maybe, could pass as an elf—if she ever dyed her hair, she could definitely do it—and Mithos when he was older would certainly be able to, but Yuan had never and would never be able to do it.
Yuan didn't look at Kratos when he answered, choosing instead to look out at all the elves milling about their day. Pale hair, pale eyes, tall and lean. Mama looked like that, on her good days. She hadn't had the coloring for an elf outside of her eyes—which Yuan had inherited, though his were greener—but she'd been built like one. (He can't remember Poppi anymore. The most he gets is a bare snippet of his voice. Yuan isn't sure if he's upset about his fading memory. It's not like he and Poppi were ever even close or anything)
"…Growing up, I wanted to. It would've made things a lot easier for us, y'know? I would've liked to be able to go into hiding and pretend nothing else was going on."
"I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," Yuan scoffed, tossing Kratos a fond look. "It wasn't something I thought about very often. And now? If anyone wants to shame me for how I look than they can screw off. I'm not ashamed of being a half-elf anymore."
Kratos' proud smile surprised him. "Good. I was just, a little curious. I'm not completely human anymore, but I look it, so I just, wanted to know."
"You're such a dork."
(He doesn't know if Kratos had intended for the question to distract him from the bubbling anger at being talked down to like that. Yuan is no slave, and he refuses to let Kratos be insulted either by being called a slave owner. But the anger has cooled a bit, and with a sidelong look at his best friend, Yuan thinks that 'devious' is indeed a good word for him because Kratos knows exactly what he'd been doing)
Natael, as well as several dozen other elves including Alaine, followed them to Origin's Altar. Elegantly carved in stone, it looked to Mithos more like a grave marker than an altar. Which, incidentally, didn't fill him with an overwhelming amount of confidence.
Mithos stepped up to the altar. "I request the presence of Origin, King of Summon Spirits."
A form shimmered to life above the marker. Muscular, with four arms and an imposing stare. A cape sewn from sunsets trailed from his shoulders, and below the waist, he seemed to be little more than starlight.
"How very polite, requesting my presence. Who so does?"
"My name is Mithos Yggdrasill, and I wish for you to annul your pact with Natael to form a new one with me."
"You must prove your worth." Mithos could feel the air popping like his ears underwater as Origin hardened mana itself into four lances. No fear.
They barely got a chance to blink before Origin was on them, a whirlwind of lances and sheer power pressing on them. Kratos and Yuan stayed close, trying to keep him occupied while Mithos worked on a Gravity Well. It was the only dark spell he could have a chance at doing successfully, and it took him an extraordinary amount of effort and concentration.
Yuan and Kratos shot other, smaller spells at Origin, but he hardly seemed to feel the effects, even when a Thunder Blade went through him. Absolute spells freeze their fingers to their weapons, slicking the ground in a layer of ice. Yuan narrowly avoided a Thunder Arrow, feet slipping and sliding as he skidded out of the way.
Martel's Barriers only held up so much against such powerful spells and blows. Even with the Barrier, Kratos' felt his teeth buzz with every block. "Just summon Shadow!" he shouted to Mithos when no Gravity Well came. They couldn't afford to keep this up for long.
He didn't see Yuan get hit. All he knew was that at one point, he was stepping out of the way of a stab and he stumbled over his friend, who was trying to stop the bleeding from a gash in his shoulder.
"C'mon." Kratos helped Yuan stand, Martel layering Barriers as he half-dragged Yuan out of Origin's range. Mithos leapt in with his sword, providing a distraction. Martel dashed over, smelling of soot from an Explosion she'd been too close too.
"I've got him. Go help Mithos."
Between the two of them, Kratos and Mithos managed to do enough damage to at least slow Origin down. They felt a Nurse spell wash over them, with the citrus taste of Martel's mana following. A few moments later, another Thunder Blade boomed through the air, pinning Origin in place. Kratos chanced a glance back at Yuan, whose arm was in a sling, but spell circles were glowing beneath him with a fierce complexity.
Finally, Origin disappeared in a flash of light, reappearing above his altar. "You have fought well."
"Have we earned the right to the pact?" Mithos asked, breathing hard.
Origin blinked slowly at him. "Why do you desire my power?"
"The world has been has been at war for too long. It needs to stop."
"And you think my power would help you achieve this?"
"Yes."
"I have seen empires rise and fall, I have watched the birth of mountains, witnessed the birth and death of stars. There have been a hundred thousand wars to be stopped. Why is yours any different?"
"Are you blind?" Mithos demanded, making Martel sigh. Apparently 'ballsy' was a family trait. "This war isn't like the others. The world is dying. Mana is running short, everyone is suffering, and your pact-holder sits comfortably away from the battles because elves have this insane notion that the war has nothing to do with them."
"War only begets more war."
Mithos spoke a little clearer, having caught his breath. A line of blood dripped down his face from a strike with the butt of one of the lances. "We're trying to find a peaceful way to end it. No one wants a war, ad peace is possible, but only if everyone—and that includes you—is willing to work together."
Origin's chuckle reverberated like an earthquake. "You are a brave one, Mithos Yggdrasill. I will accept your vow. Use my power well."
"Kratos Aurion will be the one to hold the pact though."
Kratos' legs were unsteady enough from exhaustion. Having the full weight of Origin's stare on him didn't help. "And why do you entrust the pact to another?"
The four of them glanced at each other. Finally, Mithos answered with all the pert frankness of smart aleck teenagers, "Well, we were told that no half-elf would ever hold your pact."
(The others don't hear it. The sound is not audible to mortals. But Origin's bark of laughter echoes through the stars themselves. This summoner, this, Mithos Yggdrasill, would at the very least never be boring)
Origin nodded slowly. "Very well."