Chapter 56: Battlescars

When she found him, there were bags under his eyes and a grin threatening to split his face in half. He had a sword in hand, clad in a scrimshawed sheath of sung tree-bark. Carved birds migrated across the pale greenish-brown surface, frozen in flight. While the blade was covered, the hilt was not, and it was a magnificent thing indeed. The crossguard was of sharpened silver, curving upwards at the end like rending claws. The handle was expertly cut amethyst, glittering and almost translucent. Visible streams of something fluctuated within. And the pommel...

The pommel...

It was the Aphelion's heart, clasped in six silver talons. It shone with a cold blue fire, as if it were the last remaining ember of a star cruelly ripped straight from the night sky. It was enchanting, deadly - alien.

"You've made your blade," Formora observed, attempting to play off a casual air. Inside she was anything but - she found herself eager to see what his magic had wrought, yet apprehensive as to how she might feel upon seeing what shrine of death rose from Orúm's ashes.

Ikharos saw through it. Saw through her. He could be blind, especially when it came to managing other people, but then, on the odd occasion, he would surprise her with how unusually sharp-eyed he could prove himself. And it was always her who was left grasping for something to say, something to stave off the strange mixture of unease and bafflement and comfort and familiarity.

"I did," he said solemnly, smile dying. "I'm sorry."

He was so very strange. But she found solace in that strangeness. Found something to steady her, to anchor her in the present and look to the future. Formora feigned indifference, even as the pounding of her heart in her ears threatened to blot out all other sounds. "Do not be. I won't falter."

"There's no shame in-"

"I won't," she repeated more firmly. Pride forced her to speak up, to cut him off. They shared an enjoyable openness, shared with each other their strengths and weaknesses - but pride was a beast that could not be shaken off so easily. It had been one of few things she had been able to cling to for the past century. Kialandí and Ilthorvo were gone, but not her pride. Never. Galbatorix couldn't strip that from her, no matter how far he had pushed. Nezarec wouldn't either; she wouldn't let him.

Ikharos's eyes were on her, concern giving life to their faded grey. He studied her and, finding that she spoke the truth, unsheathed his new tool of war. Formora, despite herself, took a step back, for the blade was cloaked in an endless night dotted with shining constellations and the glowing trails of speeding comets. The moment it was free of its woody restraints, it hummed to life with an unthinking eagerness, just waiting to taste blood and fear, to drink in the power of the universe and grow.

It was frightening. Formora was a creature of war, and she had come to terms with that centuries past, but this was something beyond her. It was a grisly sort of art, an ethereal beauty to contrast the terrible might of its wielder. It wasn't just made to kill, or to please the eye, but to console - though whether those consolations were for the victims or Ikharos himself, she could not decide.

His hand moved, rotating the blade. Formora couldn't withhold a sharp draw of breath; the edge was so sharp even her sight couldn't find the point where the brightsteel ended and open air began. It cut into her vision like a streak of anti-light, slicing through the fabric of reality almost effortlessly.

The sheath slid back over it. Ikharos's movements were jittery with excitement and anticipation (he clearly wanted to test it), but forced to slow with deliberate sensitivity. There was a mark of shame hidden within. He was taking after his enemies and further dedicating himself to the dreaded calling of war, and he hated it.

"I call it Néhvaët," he said quietly.

"Nothing," Formora translated pensively. "Why?"

"Because the Void is fair. It's the only fair thing in this universe of howling rage. It doesn't care who or what it eats; it just bites away. It has no favourites. Gods and mortals are all equal before it. All mere constructs of matter and thought, waiting to be erased." Ikharos closed his eyes, pressed his lips taut - here was regret, mixed in with a prickly pride of his own that couldn't bear to see her disapproval.

She had none.

"Mortals are greater than gods," Formora touched his arm, just to return his attention outwards. "Don't forget that."

And he smiled. Softly. Hesitantly. "That sounds nice, but I can't put my faith in it. There's precious little I can."

"You distrust."

"I do."

"But not me."

"No. I don't distrust you."

"Then know that I believe in it. And you, through trusting me, believe in it too."

"... I like that."

For a moment, brief and sweet, Formora exulted in the solidarity between them. They hailed from different worlds and fought separate, even if related, wars, but their goal was the same: peace. Or something approaching it. Something more than mindless violence and needless death. In that regard they were aligned, they were allied, they were unified.

She re-emerged from her reverie with a renewed fondness for life, and stepped away. "Come. Oromis wants to speak with you. Let us join Eragon and Saphira. I want to see how their training progresses."

Ikharos nodded. Arke, who stood nearby and had reverted to her four-eyed dragon form cast in resplendent feathers, stretched her sun-blotting wings and took to the sky without so much as a word of farewell. Formora imagined it wasn't going to be the last time she saw the Ahamkara that day. Arke was ever-present; a parasite upon their lives and cause and every single desire flippant or otherwise.

Forgetting the errant dragonling, they walked on - elf and Risen. Formora felt at ease with Arke gone and Ikharos present. Their discussions were full of freedoms, of open-mindedness and startling honesty. It was reassuring to her, to have someone in which to share her hopes and fears, dreams and troubles. And he did the same, despite his soulbond not being severed as hers was. Where she felt a longing for a second voice, he only sought company beyond what his other half offered. Formora needed that safe haven, but he was still intact, still sheltered. That he reached out and met her halfway bespoke of patience and acceptance - something she would have been hard pressed to find elsewhere.

They arrived at the city's training yard, where others already practiced in the ways of conflict. Such locations were common across the major communities of Du Weldenvarden, favoured for being places where stress and agitation could be expended through raw action, and Ellesméra's had seen an influx of activity as of late. Formora imagined the arrival of the Eliksni and the news brought with them was the cause of it. There were whispers drifting through the trees of war to come, of cities burned and demons laughing, of Shades and Ra'zac freely stalking the land - and it was enough to worry her kin and nudge them onto the path preceding martial action.

Ikharos followed her into the yard and looked around with the practiced eye of a veteran warrior. He took it all in and revealed nothing - though she figured he was left unimpressed. Formora herself couldn't see her people in the same pride-tinted light as she had long before. Not after Ceunon and the valley of the Cabal camp. Not after witnessing how warriors of other worlds plied their bloody trade with ruthless professionalism.

A duel was in progress. Saphira stood off to the side as her Rider sparred with an elf. There was a clang as Eragon crossed blades with his opponent. Zar'roc flashed a bloody red as it arced through the air. It clashed against scoured silver. Sparks flew.

Something was going wrong.

Only a few strikes in and the nameless elf was getting more confident, more... disdainful. He slipped past Eragon's defence four times at least, tapping the Rider with the ward-blunted edge of his sword. On each occasion, he proclaimed Eragon "Dead."

The Rider's features tightened in response, keeping in check a growing frustration. Finally, the elf, who was assumedly young, wrenched Zar'roc out of Eragon's grip and sent it skittering across the ground. His sword flashed up to tap Eragon's neck. "Dead."

Eragon shrugged it off and walked over to pick up Zar'roc once more.

"Dead," the elf called after him. "How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected better, even from a weakling human."

Ikharos tensed beside her. Formora grabbed his arm. "Don't," she whispered. "Leave them be."

"Can't let that slide," he muttered coolly, but he didn't shake her off.

Eragon glanced around sharply. "Then why don't you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du Weldenvarden?"

The elf stiffened. "Because," he said, cool and haughty, "I'm not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you."

The muscles of Ikharos's arm shifted as his hand balled into a fist. The elf had unknowingly wandered onto a sore topic and earned the Warlock's ire - not through insulting his Risen people, or the Traveler, or his home, but the humans. Those he lived to protect. Those whose strength was lesser than his own, whose magic was practically nonexistent, and whose lives were far too short.

"Coward, I say," the young elf continued. "Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race's. I think that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix's wiles and made the wrong choice of Rider."

Gasps came from those watching. Formora was sure a line had been crossed, but Ikharos still didn't move. It was obvious he took the barbs to heart, though he was exercising immense restraint. Far more than he had with... practically everyone and everything he'd actively fought against.

"There it is," Ikharos said quietly. He relaxed, albeit only slightly. "The superiority complex."

Formora said nothing. For while Ikharos had a handle on his anger, Eragon did not. The Rider clenched his teeth and whirled around, the tip of Zar'roc whistling through the air. He fought with renewed determination, edged with ferocity, and he drove his opponent into the centre of the yard. He managed, finally, to nick the elf's hip, but then - then - he collapsed with a cry of sudden pain.

His injury.

Ikharos broke away abruptly. With a flash of movement, he was there with Saphira over Eragon, hands glowing with golden power. The seizure grasping at the Rider lessened, and within only a couple of minutes he was up and wiped the sweat from his face. Other elves milled about in helpless dismay, but all kept their distance, including Formora.

All but one. The young elf whom Eragon had dueled stood nearby, wearing a derisive scowl.

"We should have dealt with this when we arrived," Formora heard Ikharos say. "Sorry. We'll do it now. Formora?"

"Yes?" She stepped forth.

"Please get Drotos. Javek too, and anyone else with medicinal expertise. Tell them to prepare a room in Tialdarí Hall for emergency surgery."

Formora nodded and ran.

000

Just as Formora disappeared, Eragon wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand and showed it to Vanir, asking, "Thin enough?"

Vanir did not deign to respond, but rather said to Ikharos, "This hour is allocated to sparring."

"Shut the fuck up," the older man snapped with sudden, unexpected malice. A strange purple essence flickered in his eyes. Even Saphira found herself taken off-guard, if the surprise emanating from her mind was any indication. "Or I'll shut you up."

The light streaming from his hands continued to suffuse a false-strength in Eragon. It almost convinced him that everything was fine.

Everything was decidedly not fine.

"I have to attend my lessons," Eragon said, more subdued. His mouth was dry. Ikharos turned to him. The glow in his irises faded away, leaving them the same grey as before. He almost looked normal, but the mysterious scars of blue light running along the side of his head continued to shine with a low intensity, continued to betray him as something else, something other.

"I'll speak with Oromis," Ikharos promised him in a softer, kindlier voice. "But this can't continue. I won't let it."

Saphira's snout came into view. She touched Ikharos' shoulder and, ignoring how he bristled, said, "Thank you."

The Risen didn't respond. Instead, he helped Eragon to his feet and, when he stumbled with residual pain, took his arm over his shoulder. "C'mon. Someone point us to Tialdarí Hall."

Another elf - not Vanir, fortunately- nodded and walked with them. "This way!"

Tialdarí Hall was effortlessly beautiful, but Eragon didn't think much about that. Most of his attention was squared solely on the professional movements of Eliksni filtering in and out, guided by the crackling voice of their tall Archpriest. Drotos was slender despite his hulking size, thinner than even the lithe Kiphoris. He was taller than the Captain, but nowhere close to the immense stature of the intimidating Scar Baron, Tarrhis. He clutched a steel staff of ceremonial make and waved it aloft to his underlings with inhuman grace and unwaverin authority.

Obleker translated for the Eliksni whenever someone asked a question. As long as those someones weren't Ikharos or Formora, in any case, who spoke the same language as the four-armed foreigners with some measure of skill. The Servitor itself spoke with an empty, cold voice devoid of all emotion and humanity. It rattled Eragon to his core.

Then Kiphoris arrived, and the presence of both he and Ikharos allowed for much smoother conversations past the language barrier.

"What will happen?" Eragon asked suddenly. He couldn't wait any longer. Trepidation of what was to come and fear of the alternatives battled within him. The latter won out, of course. His curse was too much to bear.

"Surgery," Ikharos answered blandly. Then, as if remembering something, his gaze softened and he gestured to the room into which a handful of Eliksni worked. "Right now is the sanitization period. They're purging all harmful microorganisms within to prepare."

"What does that mean?"

"Infections. If your wound is reopened, it could get contaminated. We're working against that."

Eragon understood. Somewhat.

"When they're finished," Ikharos continued, "you'll be moved in and sedated with... well, magic. We're a little short on causal forms of anesthesia at the moment."

"And what-"

"You'll be put to sleep. No pain, no panic, nothing. When you wake up, your wound will be purged of whatever Durza did. I promise."

Saphira pressed her head close to Eragon. He was grateful for it, and placed a hand against her jaw. "What about… about Saphira?"

Ikharos frowned, tilted his head, then looked at her. "Xiān's telling me to tell you to keep your bond closed. Nothing's likely to happen even if you don't, but we don't want to leave anything to chance."

"So be it."

Satisfied, Ikharos turned to Drotos and engaged him in conversation. He spoke Eliksni fluently, despite his lack of clicking mandibles or throaty barks. The words were sharp and succinct, but they wove together splendidly. It was uniquely entrancing as languages went.

The Eliksni cleaning the room exited. There was a flurry of new activity as objects were carried in. An elven maiden accompanied Drotos inside, and then Ikharos (who clutched a knife that looked to be carved of glass) followed them and gestured for Eragon to do the same.

He was in a daze as he shuffled into the room, fearful of another seizure and hopeful - so hopeful - that Durza's curse could be lifted. The elven woman sang in the ancient language a beautiful melody as Javek guided to lie on the bed in the centre of the room. He removed his tunic at a word from Ikharos and then... then...

Eragon closed his eyes and fell into a deep slumber of pure oblivion.

Colour cut through the gloom. Nothing vivid, but enough for silhouettes to take shape in the dim emptiness of dream. There was a battlefield full of smoke and muffled screams, and in the centre were three masked figures. One was more than twice the size and height of the other two, but they all cast flickering shadows of similar length - crimson and black, bright green and bone white, violet and deep blue.

One laughed.

One raged.

One hungered.

Weapons were held, readied. Blood dripped from shaking limbs. A sword, an axe, a maul. But there was more. Other weapons. Their very shadows writhed with potency. With life not their own.

They were going to kill each other. Again and again and again, until all but one buckled under the strain.

Something pushed against the bubble around his mind. Eragon groggily opened his eyes. Bright morning sunlight seared his retinas, forcing them closed until he acclimated himself.

"C'mon, you're perfectly fine. Get up."

Eragon groaned and grasped at the edge of the bed. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Ikharos?"

"Yes?"

"How-"

"Long? An hour and a half."

"I thought..."

"It'd be longer? Now, normally we'd keep you sedated for double that at least, and bedridden for up to a week, but Dérlith here informs me that you're perfectly alright."

Eragon's eyes shot open. He instantly regretted it. "I am?"

Ikharos was standing in front of him, as critical and imposing as ever. He still held the clear knife. Something... dark flickered within. "Yep. Spirit fragment extracted. Seems Durza expended a part of his collective consciousness to lay you low. It was quite the curse."

"And it's gone?" Eragon asked in hopeful disbelief.

"Yes. It is." The corners of the older man's lips twitched. "You should be fine. You are fine, right? Does it hurt?"

Eragon reached around the nape of his neck in search of the knot of his scar. He found nothing but unbroken skin. Elation flared up within him. Tears sprang to Eragon's eyes as he slid his hand over the place where Durza had maimed him. He knew that his back would never trouble him again. He reached out to Saphira, and she answered with a flush of support and warmth. "I feel... good. Better than I've felt in a long time."

"That's good." Ikharos frowned and looked to the side. "So... no recovery period?"

"He has recovered," replied someone else. The elven healer.

"Right. Magic. I suppose that means you're kicking us out?"

"I... I would never!" The elven woman said, utterly aghast.

Eragon looked up at Ikharos in surprise. The Risen smiled. "What if it was just me? What if I needed saving?"

"This hall is dedicated to the arts of healing. We would never turn away those in need."

"Not even if Islanzadí barred them?"

Dérlith hesitated. "She would not prohibit someone from seeking aid."

"Not as of yet, maybe." Ikharos turned back to Eragon. "Right then. Up and at 'em. Oromis wants to speak with us at our earliest convenience."

Eragon winced. Even an hour's loss of training was too much. He couldn't imagine Oromis and Glaedr would be pleased. He looked around, located his tunic and pulled it on, then found his footing. Something was different. There was a spring in his step, as if someone had opened up to him a bottomless fount of raw energy. He felt like he could run for a week and never tire.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"... You're welcome." Ikharos dropped a hand on Eragon's shoulder and pointed him towards the doors. "Go. Get Formora and Saphira and get to the crags."

"What about-" Eragon started to ask, but something in the Risen's expression halted that line of questioning.

"I've... got business to attend," Ikharos told him, features severe and apologetic all at once. "I won't be long. Go. Oh, and, uh, don't forget to thank the others. Dérlith here removed the scar, and Drotos and Javek were kind enough to spare some disinfectant. Mind you, it took me far too long to sort through what they offered and find one safe for usage on humans, but it's the gesture that counts."

Eragon did as he was instructed, deeply thanking Dérlith and then those Splicers milling about outside. Drotos was nowhere to be seen, but Javek was at the forefront, and Eragon expressed his gratitude in slow words and halting gestures. The Eliksni mage clicked back, as if happy to have been a help. Then, at last, Eragon met with Saphira before the entrance to Tialdarí Hall. She pressed her head against him, nudging around where Durza had split open his back.

"It is truly done." She trilled in relief. "Perhaps the rude man has some redeeming qualities after all."

"He slew Durza," Eragon retorted with a smile he couldn't shake. "And he relieved me of the Shade's hex. I am indebted to him."

"We both are," Saphira admitted.

Eragon craned his head around. "Where is Formora?"

"She has gone ahead. We should join her. Where is the rude man?"

"There is something he has to do."

"He was summoned just as we were."

"I don't think we could convince him otherwise. But he did tell me he would join us shortly."

Saphira shook herself. "He loves his independence very much."

"As do you."

"Ah, but I am a dragon, born to wings and fire. He is a human."

But Eragon couldn't agree. Not after seeing unspoken magic flicker around the man, wielded as naturally as if it were just another limb. Not after watching him slay the shapeshifting beast on the road to Ellesméra. "I do not think we should dally any further."

Chairs had been set out before Oromis'a hut much in the same way they had when Eragon first arrived. The Riders, Oromis and Formora, watched Saphira land in mutual silence. Eragon, for a brief moment, feared that he was in trouble for coming late, but he quickly shot that idea down. He was healed. His injury would no longer give him trouble, and from now on he was going to be able to tackle whatever tasks Oromis and Glaedr set out before him with all the strength he had at his disposal. What had happened was a good thing.

As soon as he disembarked, Saphira made to fly off again with Glaedr, but the older dragon said, "No. Not on this day."

Saphira reluctantly folded her wings. Eragon frowned; there was a hint of something less than pure from her side of their connection.

"Where is Ikharos?" Oromis asked.

Eragon glanced back the way they'd come. "He said he had something to do, but that he would be with us soon."

"Did he?" Formora questioned. Her eyes flicked over in the direction of Ellesméra. "... He won't answer me. But if he said he would, then I doubt he will leave us waiting long."

"You consider him a man of his word?" Oromis asked thoughtfully.

Formora didn't hesitate. "I do."

Oromis hummed. He looked over to Eragon. "Join us, please. You are recovered?"

Eragon nodded and took seat. He beamed despite trying to keep a collected air. "I am, Master."

A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without complaint; he was growing used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider. Formora too stayed silent, but where Oromis was the picture of serenity, she wore nothing but a cold mask devoid of all feeling. She wore at her hip her sheathed sword as well as something resembling the smaller ranged weapons employed by the Eliksni.

"You're going to war," Glaedr rumbled.

Eragon, thinking for a moment it was he who was being addressed, fumbled for a response.

"I am," Formora muttered, halting his efforts. She gazed out to the horizon. "I cannot stay. Not while those who orchestrated all that befell me remain at large. Not while those... monsters still threaten everything we've ever built."

"These Hive, you mean?"

"Yes. Them. And the Er'kanii. And..." She briefly paused. "And the Grey Folk."

Oromis turned to her, features coloured with surprise. "The Grey Folk? Eddyrkyn? They still live?"

"Some. Those who follow Nezarec, their Dark god. They wage murder and mayhem in his name."

Oromis's expression fell. "Ah. This... deity who you believe controls Galbatorix."

Formora's jaw tightened. "Älfr ach. Nezarec er könungr ofan Galbatorix un Súndavrkyn."

"That is a bold claim."

"No mere claim. I've seen them with my own eyes; Nezarec in his accursed city, the Shades who attacked the Eliksni in force, and the Grey Folk who clashed with the Hive in the Spine. They are our true foes, for they see us only as cattle at best and troublesome vermin at worst. They seek to hurt and kill us - for they it is pain and death they feed upon."

"Nothing can draw sustenance from death."

"Tell that to the Hive." Another voice cut in.

Eragon turned. Ikharos emerged from the treeline, dressed in purple and black clothes - the same he had worn at the feast in Tronjheim. The Risen trudged over to them, as if hefting an invisible weight. A sword wrapped in a bark-like sheath was in his hand, but the hilt, guard, and pommel were unlike any Eragon had seen. Most of it looked to have been carved from pure crystal. It would have been the envy of every nobleman in the Empire.

"Ikharos," Oromis greeted with a calm that belied his tensed form. "What have you done?"

The other man slowed to a halt and, with a small shrug, took the last remaining stool. "I struck against the Hive and killed their Broodqueen."

"You carried out an assassination."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because the Hive are a star-spanning death cult thirsting for our souls."

"What do they say to that? Who do they see themselves as?"

"Crusaders. On a warpath to relieve all other life of the right to existence."

Oromis leaned forward, a hint of something approaching concern - or was it desperation? - etched into his weary face. "Do they? Do you know this as truth? Or is it something you would like to believe?"

Ikharos laughed. Without humour. Without positivity of any sort. It was little more than a low chuckle, but it was the sound of someone who knew a terrible truth that couldn't be unheard. "It's what they would like to believe. I have studied their movements. I have familiarized myself with their terrible nobility. I have read their great works of philosophy - if it can be called that. On the fourth Understanding of the thirty-fourth Book of Sorrow, sayeth Oryx, 'The only way to make something good is to make something that can't be broken. And the only way to do that is to try to break everything. I'm glad I learned that the universe runs on death. It's more beautiful to know.'"

Eragon blinked. How could anyone dare think like that? It was... It was plain wrong. Disturbingly so.

"Who...?"

"Oryx. Demon-King of the Hive and the First Navigator of the Deep. He birthed the Hive in blood and soulfire, under the watchful gaze of his terrible Worm Gods."

"... When last you were here, Arke named you Kingslayer." Oromis murmured suspiciously.

"She did. I killed him."

"You-"

"I killed him in his Throne World, within the monstrous Dreadnaught he cut out from a segment of Akka's corpse - his patron Worm. I killed him to avenge ten thousand broken worlds and all their lost peoples. I killed the beast of a god who cut the great Eliksni civilization low and sent the survivors scattering to the stars. I killed him because he stood ready to destroy my home and kill everyone I loved. Don't ask me if I regret it, because I don't. I don't. He deserved to die, more than anyone else I've ever met."

The vehemence in Ikharos's voice was intense. He sounded genuinely hateful. And, if he was speaking the truth, then Eragon didn't blame him. Entire worlds? WORLDS?! And the Eliksni! Eragon knew them. He liked them. They were good people. They had saved his life before, from the Ra'zac and Kull and Ahamkara. It was their Splicers who helped heal him, and they asked for nothing in return. They didn't deserve to have their home torn from them. They didn't deserve to be set upon by monsters.

"It's not up to them," Saphira reminded him. "Evil exists. As long as it does, there will be others like Galbatorix and Durza who only seek to cause misery."

Ikharos set his sword across his lap and unsheathed it. It was... Eragon couldn't begin to describe it. Unlike anything he'd ever envisioned. If ever there was a weapon forged for the gods, that was it. The blade was as dark as the deepest night, but lines of blue, white, and purple lanced across it like falling stars. Twinkling dots spread out between the moving astral trajectories. It looked almost alive, yet unlike any living thing there ever was or would be. It was pure magic given corporeal form.

"This is the only law - the only truth - the Hive subject themselves to." Ikharos gingerly lifted it up so it was level with his eyes. Eragon could tell it was as sharp as any Rider sword, even at a mere glance. "The edge of the blade is the only border they'll respect. A true and final death is the only prison capable of holding them. You're so invested in the failings of the human empire, of the misuse of dragon-magic, but those concerns are insignificant compared to the whirlwind of ruin and death the Hive bring. They made the Harmony into the creatures they are now. It was Hive puppeteering that formed Eliksni outcasts into the twisted Scorn. And it was the Hive who gave rise to the Dredgens, beginning with Yor. We have to kill them first. Before they call their gods and damn this world, your world, to oblivion."

A tense silence fell over the cliffside. Then... "You feel strongly about this," Oromis ventured warily.

"And you still hold to doubt."

"Älfr er segja du ilumëo," Formora added, with just as much conviction as the Risen.

Glaedr rumbled behind them. "I want to hear it from him."

"Is Formora's word not good enough?" Ikharos didn't turn around, but it was clear who his intended recipient was. "The ancient language only allows for the truth."

Oromis shifted slightly. "Perhaps. It is your lack of familiarity with the language that we seek out."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean no offense. You have learned at an exponential rate, and I don't doubt that you will master it quickly, but you lack knowledge over the finer workings of oaths."

"Fine. Eka eddyr segja du ilumëo. Du Hive verdur deyja, orono theirr weohnata vergarí hvaëtall."

Ikharos spoke the words clearly, quickly, and well, but it still sounded strange coming from him. His accent was similar to those of High Imperials from Urû'baen and the other inner cities, but it sounded... haughty? No, not quite. Not from Ikharos, in any case. It was certainly of an nearly imperious nature. He balanced it out with a gruff warrior's confidence and the learned air of a well-educated scholar.

But, more than anything else, he had the attitude of a practiced killer. Not as Oromis, Arya, or even Orik were. He was a man who made a profession out of the death of things.

Eragon didn't know what to make of it. Ikharos had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, and others, but the elves were nervous of him. Almost afraid. It was impossible to miss how they always watched the Risen whenever he was nearby, even if only on the periphery. He moved too fast for any human, and if it was true that he couldn't die...

Maybe fearing him was the right thing to do.

But he was helping. Ikharos was helping them. He'd put his life at risk for them. Even for an immortal, surely that meant something.

"Is that enough?" Ikharos pressed, annoyed. "Do you believe us now?"

"I... am willing to listen," Oromis replied cautiously.

"Then go ahead. Listen. Bug Kiphoris if you want answers, because we haven't got enough time. Hell, we should have left by now anyways. We need eyes on that brood or we're all screwed." Ikharos turned to Formora. "Are you ready?"

"Somewhat," she replied readily. "Nireith will remain with Lifaen and Narí while we are gone. I have some belongings to pack, but they are gathered in my quarters."

"I'll call Raksil and the others; we're to leave before the hour is out." Ikharos stood up, sheathed his blade and slung it over his back, then summoned his... Ghost? It, or rather she, splayed out her fins. Ikharos spoke a line of savagely elegant Eliksni, full of biting sharpness and almost-hisses. A crackling reply emanated from his Ghost, and then her green-and-gold fins reassembled around her silver core.

"Well then," she said in a cheery voice louder than he'd thought anything of that size could manage, "that's that. 'Sup dragons."

Glaedr blinked. "Little spirit-creature."

"This again? I'm a Ghost." The... her name was Xiān if Eragon remembered correctly. Xiān flew to Ikharos' shoulder and perched on it much like a bird, ruffling her fins like feathers and blinking the light on the forefront of her shell like a single burning eye. She was like nothing he'd ever seen - but that had all too quickly become the norm, hadn't it? Not even the unliving Kida could compare, because unlike that strange construct of metal and thought she was well and truly alive. How she managed to fly without any true wings was beyond his understanding, but she did and she did it with a natural fluidity.

Then Eragon's sight drifted over to Ikharos, and he found the Risen was looking right back with a thoughtful expression. "I'll see if I can check up on Carvahall," he said.

Worry and relief ripped through Eragon, stealing his words from him. "Thank you," was all he managed to get out.

Ikharos politely dipped his head. It was in that moment Eragon decided that maybe, just maybe, the elves were wrong for once. Maybe Ikharos wasn't the inattentive brute some wrote him off as. Maybe he wasn't a coldly clever magician who only sought after their secrets and power.

Maybe he was telling the truth - about everything.

Nothing scared Eragon more.

000

"Oromis did raise a valid point."

Ikharos groaned. "Not you too."

"Don't mistake me," Formora quickly alleviated, "they deserve to be destroyed, all of them. The Hive do not belong here. They are monsters, plain and simple."

"Exactly."

"But... is it truly impossible to talk them down? Have you ever spoken with the Hive?"

"Yes." Ikharos quickened his pace, if only to reach their destination faster, but the distance between Ellesméra and the Crags of Tel'naeír was substantial. Long enough for a hefty conversation to be had.

"You have?"

"Of course. We Warlocks tend to get curious."

"From how you speak of them, I didn't think you capable of not killing a Hive morph on sight." There was a pause, but inevitably the question came. Formora cleared her throat. "How did those conversations go?"

"Badly. Their Royal Tongue is clear to all, so it's not difficult to actually communicate with the older morphs, but they're almost all of the same mindset - kill, kill, kill."

"Ah. At least they wear their convictions openly."

"I suppose there's that. Unless, of course, you come across High Coven or the Grasp of Nokris. Those two sects can get... mischievous. Heretical, even."

"But the brood here is not of those, correct? These... Auryuul?"

"Correct. Different gods, different tenets. But that isn't to say they won't be capable of their own sorts of cleverness. The Hive can be wicked smart when they want to be."

"If they propose peace negotiations-"

"They wouldn't."

"But if they did?" Formora pressed.

Ikharos scoffed. "Then it would be a laughably obvious trap."

"To those who know them. If Islanzadí-"

"They won't get the chance. Not if we keep our eyes out. We'll cut them down before they try anything."

Formora quietened. "Ruthless."

"That's this entire war. No rules, no quarter."

A gulf of silence stretched out between them, broken only by the ambient noise of the forest. Birds sang, trees groaned, and twigs cracked underfoot. It was nothing remarkable. Nothing to take his mind off the resurfacing memories of-

"There is one I spoke with," Ikharos muttered. "And she still lives."

Formora's response came a full second later, as if she were weighing the pros and cons of asking further. Ikharos didn't know why he even wanted to explain. Maybe... maybe he just wanted someone to know. In case, whenever it happened again, that if something went awry then those waiting on him would understand.

"How did it go?" She asked.

"I've told you about the Dreaming City and its curse, right?"

"You have."

"At the heart of it, in the place where realspace meets the Ascendant Plane, a daughter of Savathûn waits for those who come to slay her. She dies. As the next cycle arrives, she returns. The curse was custom-built for Guardians - for me. I spent my time in the Reef trying to kill both her and Fikrul for good." Ikharos sighed. "No such luck."

"And... you spoke with her?" Formora inquired. She sounded uncertain as to whether asking was the polite thing to do. Ikharos didn't much care; she wasn't the first to find out.

"That's the weird thing. Not exactly. Certainly not there, in Eleusinia. Not in the material realm. Not in the Sea of Screams. I... speak with her, Dûl Incaru the Eternal Return, in my dreams."

"In your... your dreams?"

"Some sleep-dreams, some death-dreams. Always after she's been killed." Ikharos pursed his lips. "Every three weeks I see a Witch in my dreams. We drink tea. Or rather, she drinks tea. It's poison, Hive poison, so I don't dare try it. No telling what would happen."

Nothing. No reply. No remark. Ikharos didn't dare look at Formora, because he feared... what? Pity? Sympathy? Neither of those helped. Neither of them filled in the hole in his heart. It was an old ache, one he'd shouldered well enough since it first manifested.

When the silence became too much, Ikharos grunted, "Why am I telling you this?"

"No, I..." Formora said quickly, forcing him to a stop. "In dreams? That's..."

"Insane? Don't need to tell me."

"And what do you speak of? When she drinks tea?"

"Me? Nothing. I just wait for when it all ends. But she rambles. About her mother. About Ur, the Ever-Hunger. About Quria, Eris, Riven, Mara, and more. At her core she's a gossiper. Or she's trying to manipulate me with inane chatter. Probably the latter; she is of High Coven after all."

Formora stared at him. "And you didn't tell me? Didn't tell anyone?"

"Xiān knows. As does Shuro Chi - one of Mara's Tech Witches. She even proposed that I contracted the curse from corrupted Glimmer, but… I don't believe it. Has to Riven. Has to be." Ikharos shook his head, offering a smile he didn't feel. "I told others too. Or I tried to. I sent a letter to Osiris to ask for advice, but I doubt he received it - let alone read it. No telling where he is. Or when. He's a wanderer at heart."

"You talk with her... every three weeks?"

"Sol weeks. Which, thanks to Kepler's time-dilation, seems to take about a local year."

"When did you last...?"

"It was my latest death," he quietly admitted.

"... So while we were healing you," Formora surmised.

"Yes."

"Ikharos, this... seems like something you should have told me."

"And I have. Just now."

Formora grimaced. "It should have been earlier. What if this Witch has an impact on what we do? On what happens to you?"

"She won't."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because she doesn't know where I am."

The conversation tapered to a close. Ikharos didn't want to talk about Dûl Incaru and Formora, perhaps sensing his unease, didn't put forth any further questions. At least towards that topic.

"Where were you earlier?"

"Ellesméra," he answered.

"You know what I mean. When Eragon joined us, he said you were doing something."

Ikharos hesitated. "It's... Kiphoris and I went to see Ahlok Vehlk. She's the newest member of Drotos's crew and... she's Riilix's sister."

"Riilix?" Formora repeated. Realization was not long in coming. "Oh. Riilix. She was..."

"With me and Kalaker when the Aphelion struck," IKharos finished. "Kiphoris thought it'd go well if I personally conveyed my condolences. It... didn't quite pan out."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Ahlok didn't want to talk. Or maybe she just didn't want to talk with me. Took her sister's pistol and that was it." Ikharos sighed heavily. "I know how she feels. Grief is a hell of a thing."

When they arrived in the Eliksni-claimed clearing at last, and Formora left to fetch her belongings, Ikharos happily stepped got to work. Four Pikes had been set out and he added his own Sparrow to the mix. Supplies were offered. Weaponry was given. Resources: reallocated. He found Melkris and Raksil tying steel-thread netting to the side of one of the vehicles, using it to fasten an ether converter (that looked to have been salvaged straight from a Servitor) beside the saddle. An elaborate holster had been placed on the other side to balance it out, from which the sharpshooter could draw his wire rifle and other weaponry with relative ease while piloting.

Ikharos helped them out, using Solar to fuse lines of net together when it proved too loose. Melkris cracked a few jokes, he and Raksil withheld pained groans, and they got things sorted. Javek's Pike was almost laden down with books he had no hopes of reading and a couple of choice gems he stood no chance of filling with magical energy. Xiān took most of it into their vault. The Splicer professed his thanks with a bright-eyed chirp and sheepishly gathered some actual essentials to ferry on his Pike instead.

Where Javek thought of his education and Melkris of ensuring their survival in the potentially resource-bare environment of the Spine, Raksil went for weaponry. Pistols, knives, a sword, a shock rifle and shrapnel launcher, even a massive scorch cannon - all were strapped to his hoverbike.

"We're supposed to be mobile," Ikharos muttered, staring at the huge alien cannon. "What the hell is that doing here?"

Raksil glanced around at him. "Harmony," he said, and that was that.

Beraskes was the opposite of the Baron's son. She looked ready to travel light-footed, armed with little more than a rifle and twin shock blades. Ikharos, feeling some pity, begrudgingly handed over a Scipio-supplied handcannon. The Marauder cradled the revolver like it was a Prime's ether permissions. And Melkris, who jealously stared at the human-crafted gun, none-too-subtly asked for something of his own.

"Let's see what you have," Ikharos responded, and he plucked the shockshooter's wire rifle from the Pike. "With this, you'll probably be..." And then, having given the rifle a look over, Ikharos trailed off. "Holy shit."

Melkris snatched it back. "Nama, mine!"

"That thing's modded to hell and back. Is that a... a particle repeater? And the coils..."

"Mine-precious! Do not touch!" From the sound of his voice, Melkris was only half-serious.

"I can't believe you'd beg for something else." Ikharos snarked. "You're doing just fine with what you have.

"One weapon is never enough."

"You have three separate shockarms."

"Three is also never enough."

"Oh, you're hopeless," Ikharos grumbled, though not without some fondness. It felt good to take his mind off... well, everything.

"Nama. I am hopeful."

"Hopeful about what?"

"You giving me a gift."

"Not a chance."

"You gave Beraskes one!"

"Lent. She's going to give it back when we're done."

"I am?" Beraskes twisted around, inner eyes dimmed in a crestfallen manner. "That is... if you decree it so, Kirzen, so be it."

Scavengers, Ikharos thought with a pang of amused irritation. He didn't have much to pack himself. Not physically. Almost everything he owned was squirreled away in his digitized vault. Just for good measure, he placed his bow over the dashboard of his motionless Sparrow and clipped the mechanical quiver to the side, within easy reach. Firing anything, let alone a bow, while flitting across on a hoverbike of any sort was a tedious skill he hadn't quite mastered, but it paid to be safe.

"Ikharos."

He turned around, hand darting to his cannon. Ikharos relaxed upon seeing the speaker. He tapped two fingers against his lips. "Arya Dröttning."

She returned the gesture. "What you did earlier was highly generous."

"Wasn't right to leave the boy as he was."

"No." Arya looked past him. "Are you leaving?"

Ikharos raised an eyebrow. Couldn't she see the Pikes? Did she know what Pikes were? "We are, yes."

"To your war."

"It'll be everyone's war if we don't."

He expected a rebuttal. A scolding. Something veiled. But it never came. Arya was far from pleased, her stormy expression made that clear, but she didn't ridicule everything he said. That was new. "Drotos said much the same."

"I expect he would. You spoke with him?"

Arya nodded, deep in thought. "I did, through Obleker. He had much to say on the matter of the Hive."

"Nothing good, I presume."

"No."

"Not that there's much good to be said about the Hive."

"Is..." Arya hesitated. Ikharos could relate; why the hell was she even talking to him? They'd butted heads too many times to get along. "Is it true they subject themselves to sapient parasites?"

"The Worms? Yes."

"And those parasites... drive them to kill?"

"Yes."

"What if we tried to free them?"

Ah. There it was. The spark of naivete. "The Worms aren't just parasites. To the Hive they are the means by which they can grow, empower themselves, live longer than a few meagre years. To the Hive the Worms are as sacred as the sword. They are a shrine of worship. Asking a Knight to disgorge his Worm is like asking... asking a dragon to give up its wings."

"... Ah." Arya grimaced. "So they would not do so willingly."

"No."

"... Then-"

"I'm not going to take prisoners. Not to redeem them. Worm or no Worm, Hive are unrepentant murderers. They kill because they like it." Ikharos wracked his brain for something, anything, that would carry some weight. He found it. Of course he did; it was there, practically standing right in front of him. But... "If Galbatorix became a Shade, would you try to free him?"

Arya stiffened and glared. That was more like it. "That's not-"

"The Hive have killed more than he ever will," Ikharos bit back. "Don't ever mistake them for civilized people. They are not people. They are an infection that must be cut out."

Their words grew in volume and, as a result, had garnered attention. The Eliksni - his to-be scouts and those who were helping them pack - watched without understanding. Ikharos self-consciously lowered his voice. "You want to know if there's a way to avoid waging war on them, right? Well, I'll give you the short answer: no. Never."

"Why not?"

"The same reason you wouldn't strike an armistice with a Shade. Because they're monsters with a taste for blood."

Again, he expected an argument. He didn't receive one. Arya's mask fell away, and for a brief second he caught a glimpse of utter despair. She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, her breathing leveling out. "Thank you for speaking with me."

She turned around and left. Gone.

Ikharos felt like he failed on some level.

"Could have put it more diplomatically."

"Not a diplomat." Mood effectively ruined, he went back to work and tried to move on with limited success. Ikharos might have called Melkris hopeless, but it was Arya who was truly befitting of the word. It stuck with him, even to the moment they were ready to leave, and then he came to the conclusion that... yes. He'd reached her, finally. She understood. At least in part.

But only the Eliksni had any idea how to adapt to all they faced, and even then nothing could be taken for granted.

It sparked a realization in him too. They weren't going to war so much as they were trying to fix a fault in the dam erected by Scipio. If they didn't, then it would all collapse and a dark wave would fall upon them. They would drown in the deep, everyone. And that was just the Hive. Nezarec's cult were already past, already tearing down all they could.

It was a nightmare.

Ikharos leaned against his Sparrow, chin tucked against his chest. He had to hunt down the Hive. He had to kill Nezarec and his assortment of followers - including Elkhon. He had to expel or exterminate the resident Cabal. And, to top it off, he had to win an in-House conflict for the Scars.

"Psekisk," Ikharos breathed, as all his worries and fears fell upon him at once. It was like trying to balance an entire Arcadia-class jumpship on his back. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Could barely think. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep his breathing from spiraling out of control, but it was a losing battle. Fear lanced through him - fear of failure.

He couldn't fail. Couldn't. Couldn't!

If he did, people were going to die. Innocent people. Human people. And he still couldn't see how to stop it. Strategy was all well and good, but strategy had to be adaptable, and he wasn't a strategist. He was barely a tactician. He planned only the battles right in front of him and those plans never survived first contact. But he still had a war ahead of him - a war to be planned out, explored, exploited, burned to the bones, but he couldn't do that, couldn't strategize, because he wasn't a fucking strategist.

A flush of warmth flooded into his mind from Xiān. Still wasn't enough. Her support was appreciated, but it was nothing new - a sweet-tasting medicine that grew less effective over time. Stress was a clever thing, and it evolved just as quickly as any malignant contagion. She couldn't dispel it, he couldn't handle it; there was nothing either of them could do.

Another presence pressed in, familiar enough to warrant not pressing an immediate counter-attack, and he looked up. Formora stared back, saying something, but he couldn't hear, not past the-

"Ikharos?" The shroud was pulled away and her voice cut in, full of colourful concern.

"Yes?" He replied in an exhausted rasp.

"Are you... are you well?"

"R5 Specialist: currently subject to symptoms correlating with common signs of minor panic attack." Kida stood to attention beside her, optic flickering orange. He had a rifle - some Warmind-supplied carbine - clutched tight. "Possible causes: elongated periods of time spent in traumatic environments, hazardous occupation, mental taxation due to work conditions-"

Ikharos gave him, Kida - it, that thing who knew nothing NOT A DAMN THING about him - a dark look. "Shut up."

"Symptoms identified: abnormal breathing pattern, shaking limbs, erratic behav-"

"Shut up," Ikharos growled more deeply. "That's an order."

Kida went silent.

But his hands didn't stop trembling. Ikharos closed his eyes and dipped his fingers into the Void. His mounting anxiety pulled away as if burned, leaving him as an empty shell. The calm of the nullscape rushed in to fill the vacancy. A tap to his shoulder pulled him back to the real world. Formora was visibly worried by then, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes piercing right through him. "Ikharos?"

Her mind was still there, not quite interfacing with his own but there, theretherethere, offering support.

Ikharos made his mind up in that moment. He looked around. Most of the Eliksni were still at work, completely oblivious, but Javek was staring, eyes wide with honest worry and Melkris was trying and failing to look like he hadn't noticed. "Can we talk?"

Her reply, though slow in coming, was accompanied with a soft halting smile full of sickening, beautiful concern. "Of course."

He missed Lennox. So, so, soooo much. For all their years together, he hadn't known how much he needed her until she was gone.

Ikharos wasn't going to make that mistake again.

He marched away, out of the clearing, trying to master his nerves and ignoring everything but the need to get out, to get away, because he just couldn't deal with people pressing him, poking him, bothering him, and he didn't want to snap, didn't want to break, didn't want to do something he shouldn't. He had a reputation to keep, after all. To break would be to fall. And he couldn't fall. There was too much riding on him keeping it together.

"Ikharos?"

He opened his eyes and, deeming it far enough, turned around and clasped his hands behind his back. It seemed the best place to put them. His heart was in his throat and all he could, all he could feasibly see happening was... nope. That line of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere. "I'm fine," he said quickly, anticipating her next question.

Her brow furrowed. Formora assumed a troubled look. "Are you?"

"I will be. It's fine. I'm fine."

She didn't believe him. He could see it clear as day. Ikharos sighed.

"It will pass. I'm sure of it. I fare better under pressure than when I'm not."

"That's not healthy."

Ikharos helplessly shrugged: what can I do? "Honestly, I'm perfectly alright. I have the nullscape in place for a reason. It helps."

"Does it help enough?"

"It gets the job done."

"So no."

"Forget this," he said, with a hint of pleading. "Please."

Formora gave him a stern look that said: I don't want to.

"Let's just... at least put a pin in it. Right now I'm good. No need to tackle it now. There's... I... I have a confession to make," he began slowly, reluctantly, nervously. He would rather have taken the Darkblade head-on than-

"You do?" She crossed her arms, all considerately businesslike, because of course she did, it was the exact kind of attitude he'd been unintentionally encouraging since they'd met. Formora quirked an eyebrow - at once curious, casual, and warm. They had a friendship as it was, and if he messed up so thoroughly that it was lost then he would sorely miss its presence. It was so nice to have someone there to talk to, to travel with, to bemoan the dire state of the broader universe with.

How he loved to complain about the universe... Entire evenings could flash by as he, Lennox and Jaxson grumbled and snarked about the Hive, the Vex, the Taken, the Devils, and whatever other half-chewed monstrosities deep space spat up in their system's vicinity.

Oh, Jaxson...

He breathed through his nose, slowly, deliberately. "I have a confession to make and it wouldn't be fair if I kept it hidden. Formora, I have come to the conclusion that I... admire you."

"Admire?"

His nerves spiked in anticipation of having to outline more clearly, but then - but then - her eyes widened with clear realization. And she said, "Oh."

'Oh' was not very encouraging. He feared a worst-case scenario, as he was wont to do, so Ikharos jumped to stem the loss and salvage something from his latest mishap. "But more than anything, I respect your wishes and cherish what we already have too much to lose because of any fault on my part, so above all... yes, again, I'll respect your decision on the matter. Whatever you choose, I will happily go along wi- No, not happy, that's too presumptuous, I mean to say-"

"I understand." Formora's features fell into a well-schooled and completely unreadable façade - her classic reaction to anything even remotely tumultuous, turbulent, or otherwise unexpected. "I... appreciate you giving me a choice. And a chance to say my piece."

No one said anything. Not for a couple of moments that felt like hours. Ikharos averted his eyes, wincing. "Pseksisk. I... fucking hell."

"No," Formora said quickly, and he heard a shadow of amusement and cordiality. "I mean it."

He didn't say 'you're welcome', because it just didn't feel right. Ikharos wished he wasn't wearing gloves, if only to feel the bite of his fingernails in his palm. The situation called for a touch of masochism to stave off the burning sense of embarrassment and shame.

"Why now?"

Ikharos almost gave a start. "Because..." he began, combing for an answer, "we are actually, genuinely, marching to war. And maybe even death."

"It's a scouting trip."

"Scouting where the Hive are concerned can so easily turn into a fight for our very lives. It's not just a scouting trip either. If we encounter Hive, I have to strike. And... better to say now, in case-"

"In case I were to change my mind and stay?" Formora shook her head. "This is my fight too. No, not even. This is my war. My personal war. Against everything and everyone who humiliated me, who hurt me, who tormented me."

Ikharos frowned, genuinely baffled. "But this is the Hive. They weren't here until a few months ago."

"But the Harmony might be there. Nezarec's servants are as invested in wiping out the Hive as we are. This is my chance to finally hurt them back."

It was far from what he wanted to hear, but, as his brain irrationally clinged to, she hadn't outright scorned him. Which was... good? Certainly not as painful as he envisioned it being.

"My stance is the same," Formora insisted, "regardless of your feelings towards me."

Ikharos swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I have to know... are these feelings of mine unrequited?"

"I don't know." She stepped close and reached to his upper arm, his shoulder, his- Her fingers brushed against the side of his neck, feather-light and cool. "You are important to me, and I hope you feel the same, but I haven't yet given any thought to... that."

"It's fine if you don't, I'm willing to put it be-"

"No." Formora said firmly.

"No?" He was left bewildered. "What do you mean no?"

"I haven't given it any thought, yes, but neither am I... Ikharos, please give me time to think."

"Of course," he replied, no hesitation, and he fully meant it. A part of him ached for an answer, but a huge part, much larger, kept him focused on letting her make her own decision no matter how long it took because above all else he cared, cared too much. Attraction or not, he didn't want to ruin anything between them. Ikharos sighed, even more exhausted than before, and suddenly felt the weight of three days spent without rest on top of everything else.

But he was glad.

Glad that it was said and done, that he didn't have to wrestle with that fearful suspicion that he stood on the precipice of ruining everything. Instead, now, he had a new foe to challenge. Regret. Regret for having told her. Regret for having even allowed his emotions and desires to get to him in the first place.

But regret was a circumstantial thing that kept to the realms of hindsight and retrospect. It wouldn't bother him if he only ever looked to the present and future.

He could deal with regret.

A small group (tiny, really) had gathered to see them off. The usual suspects were present - Kiphoris, Obleker, and Arke. Even Tarrhis was there, talking in a hushed voice with his son. The unusuals to counteract them were the elves Lifaen, Celdin, and Narí, with little Nireith snoozing away in the former's arms.

Ikharos went for his Sparrow. Kiphoris stepped in front of him, cutting him off. The Wolf had his Scar cloak pulled around himself, making him appear smaller and less dangerous than he was. It might've worked on the elves, but not on him.

"Do not let them die," Kiphoris growled.

"I won't," Ikharos vowed.

"If any fall, it is your duty to avenge them and to see their remains returned." And then, to his surprise, the Wolf gave him a single pat on the shoulder. "Good hunting, Kirzen." And he moved on to see to his scouts.

"Eia." Tarrhis stood up to his full height, his conversation with Raksil effectively over. "May your Pikes fly like the wind and your prey fall like broken reeds to your blades, Ikha Riis pak Kirzen."

Ikharos dipped his head out of earnest appreciation and respect. "Thank you. I hope you get your magic."

"Islanzadí is a courteous, if reluctant, negotiator. I am sure we will come to a decision that will benefit both of our peoples." With a final miurlis salute, Tarrhis stalked off, apparently satisfied he'd filled his quota of farewells.

Formora and, to his surprise, Narí filled on the sudden vacancy to speak with him. The latter looked conflicted with a touch of nervousness (relatable), but he stepped forth all the same. "I would like to accompany you."

Ikharos stiffened. "You what?"

"To accompany you. This is only a scouting mission, yes?"

"In part. It's still a wartime maneuver."

"And... can I?"

Ikharos looked to Formora for help. "He is a gifted tracker and guide," she supplied neutrally.

"Then welcome aboard." Ikharos glanced around. "We've more people than vehicles."

"I can call a steed," Narí offered. He was... so earnest. Innocent. Entirely unsuited to their coming venture.

Ikharos shook his head. "You'll fall behind by a weeks' worth. It's fine, Pikes can carry three at least." He mulled it over: Melkris? No. Beraskes? Too new. Raksil? Maybe. But what about... "Go convince Javek to make room. We're leaving in five minutes, so say your goodbyes."

Narí nodded and went back to Lifaen. The two shared a meaningful embrace and tender kiss. The former shouldered a light pack sung into shape from plucked leaves and hefted a spear in his other hand. Ikharos watched it all with a detached sort of dismay.

"Not all of my people are quite as... opposed to you as Islanzadí is. I believe some are giving our words proper consideration," Formora murmured. "Humour him."

"If he dies, Islanzadí has a reason to take action against me."

"Then we will make certain none under our command falls. When Narí returns, he will relay news of what he has seen, and that will only work in our favour."

"Our command?" Ikharos echoed. "This is my plan."

"Hardly. You've only pointed us in a direction. I intend to build upon this... strategam."

That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He sucked in blessedly cool air, feeling the weight on his shoulders lessen. There was still so much to do, but if there were others to share the burden... then it didn't feel so suffocating. "Good," he breathed, delirious with traitorous hope.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editz!

This one was a slog to get through. My brain decided that no, I wasn't allowed to weave words together, but here, have a depleted vocabulary for your troubles. And I'm still not quite sure if I'm satisfied with the end result. Meh.