Aneurin

Prologue.

His sword swung upwards in a shining arc of inevitability, an
unstoppable wave against which no defence was proof. The light elven
steel parted his opponent's armour and flesh with nary a hint of
resistance. The orcish trooper grunted momentarily before dropping
heavily to the ground. Breathing heavily, Elenduil stood, and then spun
at the sound of the sound of grass crushing behind him. A massive orc,
evidently a champion amongst its kin, stood scant yards away, twin
half-moon axes clutched in his gnarled, meaty hands. With a cry of
anger, he leaped forward, axes spread, poised to crush Elenduil.
Moving swiftly, Elenduil backed off, ducked down and braced his blade
on the grassy plain. The surprised orc impaled himself on the point, a
final look of shock imposed on his heavy-browed features. Elenduil
himself was almost flattened under the champion's massive frame. With a
grunt, Elenduil rolled over the corpse, careful not to let his sword
get bent under the weight of the fallen warrior. He stood, coated in
dark orcblood. Wresting his sword free from the cadaver, he inspected
the edge for nicks or imperfections. As usual, the dull grey metal was
untouched. The sword had come from Ulthuan's forges and had been sent
as thanks to Elenduil and his elfkin for their assistance in fighting
their dark brothers of Naggaroth. Truth be told, the spilling of dark
elf blood and the ichor of their vile beast-steeds had been more than
enough payment for Elenduil, yet his 'high' brothers insisted on a gift
of mithril. It had served him well.
Straightening up to his full, formidable height, Elenduil smoothed
down his tough ashwood armour. A quick glance revealed that his efforts
in combat had left him stranded far from the fighting. His steed had
fallen earlier in the battle, cruelly felled by a stray arrow. Now he
was alone, his unit having ridden on without him.
A little distance away, the cause of the entire problem loomed astride
a massive wyvern. He named himself Grungna Morg, the scourge of the
Winter Border, and for years had repeatedly impinged on elven
territory. At last, an army had been raised to drive him back. The
wyvern was an unexpected addition to his forces, and an unwelcome one.
Now it stomped clumsily about the field of battle, leaving strewn
bodies in its wake.
Elenduil could only watch as Morg steered his barely controlled mount
towards a lone outcrop of rocky ground. Upon it, he knew, stood his
brother, alone.

Aneurin stood, feet splayed, at the very pinnacle of the Giant's
Finger. A smirk crossed his face at the base name given to this
incredible magical focus by the stupid bretonnian villagers. Aneurin
knew the true name of the Finger, but the indelicate human language
fitted their thick, meaty frames and he thought it funny to use their
tongue. Elven flowed like nectar from the tongue: light; rapid; poetic.
Human dribbled like molten tar: slow; sticky; basic.
The Finger had stood, untouched by rain or wind, since the ascension
of the King and Queen in the Wood. Ancient seams of amber power ran
through the stone, and congregated on the point that Aneurin stood
above. Using the Wizard's Eye, the vision of magic, he could see these
lines of power, the pinprick magical presences of his elfkin and the
foul orcs. The head of Grungna Morg glistened with raw energy, enraged
at imprisonment. At this distance, Aneurin could just barely make out
the pointed circlet of a crown, a band of magic that bound the wyvern
to its master.
Aneurin blinked slowly and shook his head clear of the dizziness
associated with the Eye. Eyesickness was not something Aneurin needed
to be contending with right now.
It seemed the rampaging monster had spotted him now, and was lumbering
towards him. Dozens of arrowshafts stuck into its thick hide,
apparently with no effect. A couple of lucky shots had found chinks in
that leathery skin, and dark, muddy blood ran freely, pulled into
stained smears where the beast had licked its wounds. The massive,
clubbed tail common to all wyverns swung lazily behind, leaving great
rutted scars of scorched earth behind the green hulk.
Aneurin closed his eyes again, and raised his hands, arms crossed, to
his shoulders. Mumbling words of power and focus, Aneurin lifted his
hands higher, a coruscating aura of bright ribbons weaving their ways
through his fingers. Strands of gold and blue and green coalesced into
a shimmering nimbus of off-white light. An indistinct image of a
bird-head formed, its every motion mimicking that of Aneurin's. Its
features gradually became more defined, recognisable as those of a
hunting-hawk.
Aneurin opened his eyes, and where there had been typical, violet
elf-eyes lay now golden orbs, orbs with elliptical irises like those of
a bird. As this occurred, so to did the nature-avatar open its own
eyes: light purple, as if it were an elf that saw through them.
A great cry issued from both figures on the Finger's tip, a screech
that echoed directly from the primeval past, a hunting-call older than
thought or mind. As Aneurin threw his arms forward, so the avatar flew
outwards on wings of sorcery. It ripped into Grungna Morg, enveloping
him in a cloud of raw energy. Roars of rage emitted from Morg's giant
maw as he fought vainly against implacable fate. Bellows of defiance
turned to screams of agony, and even these faded as the storm
dissipated, its job done. Of the mighty warlord, only the crown
remained. Only the crown, unmarred by anything that had passed, and a
single, brown hawkfeather.
Freed from its magical slavery, the wyvern launched itself upward in a
seeming possible arc of apparently effortless flight.
Exhausted and alone, Aneurin fell to his knees. The last thing he
heard before the cold blackness of unconsciousness overtook him were
shouts. Shouts of victory.

1- Gifts.

Back inside Elven borders, Elenduil and Aneurin were hailed as
defenders of Athel Loren and heroes. Spring was now just a few months
away, but winter reigned still whilst the King and Queen in the Wood
slept still. The brothers were far from their homeland, in the
neighbouring Meadow Glades. Whilst visiting distant relations, the call
to arms had come. Accepting command in the absence of the Glade's own
lord- away tending a sick aunt- Elenduil had raised a force barely
sufficient from the task and called the banner of their host glade to
his side.
The brother's far cousin was the absent lord, returned now upon
hearing of Morg's fall at last in battle to his own blood. Of greater
standing within Loren even than Elenduil- the Meadow Glades were,
strategically, a key point- Telin was nevertheless willing to shower
praise on outsiders to his realm. He held his house and family in a
formidable tree-fortress, crafted into shape by treesingers centuries
before. The branches of the birch were twisted into an unassailable
platform that supported many secondary residences. The roots had been
coerced into forming the walls of a cavernous underground chamber, and
it was here that the victory banquet was now being held.
Evidently, Telin was feeling generous, as no expense had been spared.
There were elven delicacies by the dozen, fine bretonnian wine, thick
Empire sausages and, for the brave, the weakest available dwarf beer.
The few elves that had drunk from the half-pint servings of the thick
brown ale had retired to their rooms earlier, one only with the aid of
a stretcher. Now the final few plates were being removed, and an air of
expectancy hung thick amongst the thronged mass. Lord Telin stood,
calling for silence. The hubbub and laughter faded slowly.
"Elfkin," he began. "I have called you to celebration as Lord Elenduil
kindly called you to battle in my absence," there was an embryo of
applause, but Telin raised his hand. Silence reigned once more.
"I wish to show now my gratitude, and to remember the fallen," and at
this, the silence seemed to grow deeper, more sorrowful, than
before.
"To Elenduil, I present this," he said, and as he did so, an attendant
stepped forward, a sheathed broadsword in hand. Telin carefully drew
the blade, and the crowd gasped with recognition of the bone-forged
hilt of an ogreblade. A magical weapon of strength amplifying, the
ogreblade was rarer in Loren even than Elenduil's mithril-edged
weapon.
"And to Aneurin, " declared Telin with a flourish. "This!" Another
elf-in-waiting reverentially handed his master a staff of gnarled wood,
apparently normal and unworked. Yet every mage in the hall goggled at
the sight of it.
"By the Oak!" That's heartwood!" cried one. Telin nodded sagely.
"Yes, wood sung free of the Oak itself," he intoned. A reverent
muttering at this holy item rose as the brothers ascended to collect
their gifts. Elenduil hefted the ogreblade in one hand, feeling the
magical might it instilled. Likewise, Aneurin took the staff carefully,
eyes shining with awe. Each in turn turned to Telin, first Elenduil and
then Aneurin, and thanked him. They intoned the ancient ritual of
gratitude, gaelmen-na-torae, binding the agreement of giving; combat
for gifting, from blood to blood, thanks everlasting. As the last words
of ceremony died away and the pair walked away to prepare for their
departure next canopybreak, the chatter in the hall was revived. The
hall slowly emptied in pairs and threes, until only Telin remained, as
tradition held, alone. The he, too, rose and left, and the hall was
empty.

2- Successions.

Grakk was bored. He had had the misfortune to be assigned to sentry
duty on the very night the Big 'Uns battled to take Waaghboss Morg's
place as leader. He slumped lazily on the haft of his stolen Empire
halberd, and adjusted his purloined Bretonnian helmet 'scavenged' Elven
boots. He was a proud owner of many weapons and armour, at least some
of which were originally his.
From the camp behind him came a scream of pain as a contender for the
leadership rapidly lost his claim. Grakk itched to go watch the
fighting, but knew that a Big 'Un or even a black orc would just beat
him up, shout at him and send him back. He knew this with absolute
certainty, because it had happened at least four times tonight
already.
Grakk rotated his stiff arms slowly, passing the halberd from hand to
hand. He ached all over; he needed sleep.
His mountainous stomach rumbled, protesting at the long absence from
food. Grakk finally reached a verdict.
"Ah, screw this," he said, shouldering the halberd, "I'm gonna get
some grub." He turned heavily and took a step before a light yet strong
pressure on his shoulder halted him dead. Grakk spun and stared at the
apparition that had appeared.
"Wrong decision, friend..."

Elsewhere, Globba fingered the edge of his great half-moon axe,
nervously staring across at Dunk. The massive orc was flexing his meaty
hands on the grips of his scimitars, eyeing Globba closely. Globba and
Dunk were the last two contenders in any shape to take Waaghboss Morg's
position now. Globba himself was only a Big 'Un, hardened by a dozen
battles, but Dunk was a black orc. A Black! Tales of black orc ferocity
and might had drilled their way into even Globba's dim skull, and he
was more than just a little worried.
Grungna's pet shaman, Foog, stepped shakily forward, clutching his
head every time one of the audience whooped or cheered. He waddled to
the centre of the arena, preparing to start the time-honoured Orc
Traditional Scrap.
"All right go!" he shouted, darting forwards and making a running leap
out of the circle. Dunk roared and charged, scimitars raised.
Swinging his axe in a semi-circle, Globba deflected one sword and
sidestepped the other. With a deft wrist motion, he knocked one of the
weapons out of Dunk's grasp, neatly eviscerating a spectator. The
throng closed around the corpse, glad of the extra room.
Shifting to a two-handed grip, dunk sliced towards Globba's waist.
There was barely time for Globba to bring his weapon around to block,
and even moving his fastest he still had to rely on his armour to ward
off the very tip of the assault. Dunk followed with an extended series
of slashing strikes in every direction, forcing Globba steadily
backwards. The cheering and jeering from the crowd loudened.
Suddenly, Globba noticed a gap in Dunk's attack, a moment of
vulnerability where an old injury slowed his swing. Without warning, he
pressed a fresh attack, and soon Dunk was the one being jeered.
Ducking a counter-swing from Dunk, Globba dragged his half-moon across
the black orc's knees. The giant staggered back, back to the very limit
of the arena and beyond. The bloodthirsty crowd pushed him back, and he
again met Globba's axe. Dunk danced around Globba, looking for a gap,
but the long hours Globba had spent on the battlefield practising his
backsweep meant that every attempt to enter his reach was met with
failure and steel.
Spurred by this sudden success, Globba pushed the attack again,
scoring long scars of Orcish blood on Dunk's chest, shoulder and
forehead. With a final, guttural cry of anger, Globba worked his axe
round to Dunk's neck and severed a vein. Blood spurting, Dunk's body
collapsed. The crowd erupted into both support and disbelief as wagers
were collected, sometimes by force. Globba revelled in their shouting,
breathing heavily.
Steadily, a spreading silence blossomed from the assembled orc's rear.
Staring disbelievingly, hardened warriors parted in front of the
slight, unarmoured man who walked between them like a god. Globba was a
clear two feet taller than the humie, yet he felt inexplicably
overawed. Nevertheless, he still had to keep face in front of his
mates- no, his subjects, he reminded himself with a grin.
The humie took the grin as being for him, and spoke in clipped Orcish,
somehow managing elegance in orctongue.
"You find something humorous, brute?" he asked softly.
"Wut you lookin' at, humie? How'd you get in 'ere?"
"Your guard was... inattentive; he seemed not to notice me," said the
man, and he laughed delicately. Globba was still tempted to decapitate
the humie where he stood, but he was suspicious now.
"Wut you dun to him?" he said, hefting his axe.
"I killed him," said the man, speaking as if it were beneath his
consideration.
"WUT?!" roared Globba, infuriated. He raised his axe high now, and
swung it downwards in a vertical chop. The humie, obviously terrified,
raised his hand in a vain attempt to protect himself.
There was a leathery thud and a bone-shattering, jarring impact as the
axe stopped dead. Pain seared across Globba's back, and he cried out,
squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. As the agony dulled, Globba
opened his eyes and gaped.
The humie stood, looking down at the massive warrior with a
condescending sneer. He held the head of Globba's axe, blade into his
palm, and single-handed. There seemed to be no effort. He casually
gripped the thick oaken haft with his other hand, and snapped it as if
it were a year-old sapling. Then, he positioned the dark steel axehead
between thumb and forefinger of each hand and, grinning slightly, tore
the blade cleanly in two. Reaching down to Globba, the stranger dragged
him to his knees. Now, the humie was of a height with Globba.
The figure then spun faster than Globba could follow, outstretched leg
blurred. Globba had barely time enough to register the black leather
boot before his skull caved in.

Foog stood open-mouthed as Globba's hulking frame fell back. Not one
of the orc's bones was in one piece- the figure had made a great point
of snapping every last one- and what was left of his face was
unrecognisable. Not one orc had moved, barely daring even to breathe,
since the humie had caught Globba's axe edge on. Foog finally caught
his senses.
"Oo the 'ell are u?" he asked, trying with long years of practise to
seem unthreatening. The humie- it had to be a humie, Foog thought, as
it wasn't a stunty or a pointy-ear- turned around rather too rapidly
for Foog, and he squeaked in terror. Foog took a step back. His eyes!
For a moment, all that filled those sunken sockets was a film of
mercury, unmoving and unseeing. Yet only for a moment, and then a pair
of normal, humie's eyes replaced them.
"I," he replied in his oddly accented Orcish, "am your leader," and at
this a murmur arose from that part of the crowd behind the man. He spun
again, slightly quicker than Foog would have thought he should have
been able to, and the hubbub vanished. He spoke again, so quietly that
Foog almost didn't hear.
"Any objections?" As one, the orcs shook their heads.
"Good. Now, let's get this place sorted..."

3- Dreams.

Later that same night, Aneurin the long, sung wood stairwell to the
guestroom he had been assigned. The room was small yet nevertheless
comfortable. A bed and table were the greatest part of the room's
contents, and the bed only slightly the larger of these. An elegant
quilt of embroidered cotton was the only covering available. Aneurin
was tired, past the point of caring, and he thought that he would have
slept on a bed of thorns, should there be no option. He quickly
undressed and lay down to sleep, to sleep and to dream.

Aneurin slept uneasily that night despite his exhaustion. His dreams
were unusually vibrant, and often gory. Some were just plain insanity;
a human witch-hunter plunging a stake into his own heart. A giant lake,
spanning horizons, held in the palm of his hand. And Elenduil, slaying
wood elves like they were wheat on a field.
That dream came more than once to Aneurin, something that had rarely
happened to him before. It was never quite the same, but always
similar: Elenduil would appear, sword sheathed. He would greet his son,
C'lar, but then attack him apparently without provocation- Aneurin
could never hear their words they spoke, but they seemed not to be
angry. But the attack still came, and this is where the dreams
diverged. Sometimes Elenduil's stroke was blocked, sometimes not. More
commonly, Elenduil slew his son and proceeded on a path of devastation
that was never the same twice.
The dreams always ended the same as well. Elenduil's mindless
slaughter would end, and the blood-soaked daemon would turn to Aneurin,
lips pulled back into a snarl, and plunge the gore-smeared blade into
Aneurin's chest, laughing raggedly...

Aneurin woke with a start, a bead of icy sweat dribbling between his
shoulder blades. That last dream had been particularly vivid. Just as
he sat up, the door swung open and Elenduil walked in. Aneurin near
enough jumped through the ceiling.
"Sorry, brother," began Elenduil, "I didn't mean to startle you. It's
about time we got our things together, Aneurin. We must be at the Ice
Glade border before long," and at these last words a look of concern
crossed his face. "It's C'lar's Last Dance soon." With a shock, Aneurin
realised he had forgotten totally about the Dance.
Elenduil's son was chosen from a young age, barely twenty, to be a
Wardancer. He had been trained outside of the glade's central
dwellings, barely visiting Elenduil, for a long time now; perhaps as
long as a human lifespan. The Last Dance would be his final test before
his ascension to a full troupe member. Aneurin knew well how much this
meant to Elenduil, and promptly agreed to get ready quickly. He made
small talk whilst he dressed and packed his few possessions, attempting
to drive the night's events out of his mind. In the time it took to
slay a goblin, he was ready.

Elenduil pushed their small party of retainers hard for the first few
hours, but eventually even he had to admit that he could not afford to
kill off the new horses Telin had given them before sundown. The
journey was long, and the scenery unsettling to an elf raised in a
forest. The Meadow Glade was largely open fields, and that was how its
inhabitants had gained their reputations as master horse-breeders and
chariot-builders. They were the custodians of the only group of
true-bred elven steeds outside of Ulthuan- and thus the only real
horses in the 'Old World', as the humans stupidly called it. Human
horses were inbred, stunted, ugly affairs, nothing like their ancestors
the tall, sleek beasts the Meadow elves kept. And not even a Bretonnian
charger had the fighting spirit of an elven steed.

By the sun was hovering just above the distant treeline, the entire
party, even the apparently indefatigable Elenduil, were showing
tiredness. But Elenduil refused to leave the party and its supplies in
the open. Everyone knew the Meadowers were instantly aware of any
foreign bandits crossing the stone-marked border. But Elenduil was
naturally suspicious and drove them on to the forest's border and a
good way in before finding a clearing he was satisfied with. They
unpacked the night shelters while Aneurin set up shielding wards
against wild animals. They bedded down, exhausted.
Alone in his shelter, Aneurin decided to fend off the forces of sleep.
He sat resolutely for half an hour before the bastion of resistance was
overwhelmed by the armies of tiredness.

The dreams cam again that night, thicker even than before. And one
dream came differently, this night. C'lar not only blocked but, after a
short combat, struck down his father, streaming tears mingling with his
Wardancer paint. Something niggling at the back of Aneurin's mind told
him that there was something wrong with this, but he couldn't envisage
what.
Almost as soon as Elenduil's bleeding body hit the ground, it stirred
again. Eyes with the sightless gaze of death stared at the transfixed
C'lar, and the Wardancer staggered away in abject horror. Then he
followed his father's example, and died at the terrible wraith's sword,
a wordless scream of fear touching his lips.
Other than this, the dreams were the same as before, but no less
horrible for it. Once again, Aneurin slept little that night...

Aneurin was rudely awakened the next morning by the first intrusive
rays of the sun. Stretching, trying in vain to shake off the ache of
riding, Aneurin wondered out into the glade. A quick magical probe
showed him that no one else was awake, and another reassured him that
his wards still stood. as he was awake now, Aneurin decided it was time
to collapse the magical field. Reaching out lethargically, his
fingertips brushed the stones he had enchanted for the warding. He
carefully sensed the boundaries of power, and then gingerly drew the
walls inwards until they met at a point, a glowing sphere of energy
visible, albeit faintly, even to those without the Eye. Aneurin pressed
his hands together, and the focus vanished. Aneurin felt a surge of
energy returned to him, a flow barely a tenth of what it had taken to
create the field last night. But small returns were better than
none.
A faint rustling, as if from a gently crushed leaf, drew Aneurin's
attention. It seemed to him that the sound had come from within the
boundary of the warding- something that shouldn't have been possible
without him being immediately aware. Moving silently as only a wood elf
raised in Athel Loren can, Aneurin pressed his back gingerly to an aged
yew, painfully aware of the crackle made by the rootmoss he flattened.
Aneurin found himself only a moment's motion away from the intruder,
and he was sure now that it was an intruder; its shadow was
humanoid.
With weaves of magic surrounding his hands, Aneurin span out from his
cover. The startled figure nearly jumped above the canopy in shock, and
dropped his bow. Aneurin untensed, taking what he realised was the
first breath he had drawn since concealing himself. It was only Elvar,
one of Elenduil's favoured archery practise partners and retainers.
Aneurin chided himself for his paranoid reaction; the dreams and lack
of good sleep had evidently had a greater effect on him than he had
realised.
"Sorry about that, Elvar," said Aneurin as the archer recovered his
bow from the leaf-strewn ground. "What are you doing out here, anyhow?"
Elvar grinned nervously, and raised a snared animal. Memories of last
night flooded Aneurin, and he dimly remembered Elvar stalking off last
night. A few empty snares hung from Elvar's belt. Aneurin felt yet more
the fool for letting himself frighten Elvar like that. He apologised
again, but Elvar had no blame for him.
"It's more my fault than yours," he said. "I shouldn't have been out
this early, but I daren't leave the catches time to escape, or be
eaten." They walked back to the camp together, Elvar recounting the
finer points of hunting whilst Aneurin tried to settle his nerves. Upon
reaching their slowly waking companions, they parted. Aneurin left
Elvar to his cooking and went to search for Elenduil to recount his
foolishness.
Running the tale through his mind, Aneurin again into the sense of
wrongness he had felt first in the previous night's dream. Something
didn't make sense, some piece did not fit, yet its identity remained
unclear. Confused, Aneurin thought his way quietly throughout
breakfast- Elvar's catch, no doubt- and remained solemnly silent even
as the steeds were straddled and they set off.

4- Revelations.

The group picked their way swiftly through the forest, horsehooves
guided by both breeding and experience. Yet even this pace was not
enough to reach the Ice Glade border before nightfall, and they bedded
down again as the ruddy light of the sun dipped beneath the canopy.
This close to the inhabited areas of Loren, most of the more dangerous
animals were tamed or at the very least cautious of elfscent. Aneurin
set only a minor ward against scavengers, to shield their rations. The
rest of the party lay about the campfire, dicing for markers or
smallcoin. Elenduil and Elvar were on the rota for weaponcare- Elenduil
refused to let his title exempt him from labours- and so they sat
slightly aside, polishing and oiling whilst chatting idly. Aneurin
glanced up from his dice game occasionally to stare at Elvar. Something
still seemed wrong, even this much later.
For the hundredth time, Aneurin ran through the scenario. He awoke; he
checked for others awake. Elvar hadn't been shown by the probe; he was
outside of its range. Then, Aneurin had collapsed the field
and...
Aneurin sat up, straight as a flagpole, as a shock of icy cold ran up
his spine and drilled into his brain. For a moment he thought that
there must be an attack on the camp, but he soon remembered the
characteristic signs of a magical trigger. He relaxed slightly; the
shock was only his warding telling him of some creature strong-willed
enough to force its way past the repulsion field and into the last line
of defence- the trip line. Trip lines were the first thing set up in a
warding, and the last thing to go after it was collapsed.
And then it hit him. Elvar hadn't set off the trip line when he left
the camp, or when he came back. A magical presence as large as that of
an elf should have woken Aneurin from even the deepest sleep, and
certainly would have alerted Aneurin when he was awake. No amount of
hunters stealth could bypass a trip line. Suddenly, one of Aneurin's
dicing partners woke him from his reverie.
"What is wrong, my lord?" he said, and Aneurin scowled. He hated the
way people bestowed his brothers title on him, but the speaker was
Raelt, a spears champion and a stickler for tradition. Aneurin quickly
fobbed him and the others off, telling them where to find the poor
beast that had forced its way over the camp boundary. Left on his own,
Aneurin turned to stare at where his brother and Elvar sat, chatting,
their work over. Experimentally, Aneurin slipped into the Wizards Eye,
and suppressed a yelp. Elvar slipped neatly out of existence - where he
had sat, there was simply nothing. Not even the barest flicker of an
aura emanated from the area of depressed grass where Elvar squatted.
Aneurin swore subsonically; even the grass had an aura, albeit a weak
one. Ever so carefully, Aneurin conjured up a magical ball of force
that would collide with any magical presence it neared, creating sparks
of blue fire. Aneurin beckoned the seeker, and it floated gently
through where Aneurin protected Elvar's chest was. There was no more
resistance there than through a patch of empty air. Letting both the
Eye and the seeker fade, Aneurin turned back to the discarded dice
cups, trying to think.

Dawn brought no change in Aneurin's fortunes. Another night of
troubled sleep had left him exhausted, and from the look in Elenduil's
eyes, he fully meant to drive the horses to the brink of collapse in
order to reach the Glade. Aneurin knew that the Last Dance always
occurred on midwinter's eve, so that the students would start a new
spring as Wardancers. There would be nothing out of Loren or the Chaos
Realms that would stop Elenduil now. Aneurin groaned as he saddled his
steed and mounted after several runs of collapsing with exhaustion on
the leafy floor. By the Oak he was tired! Lines of aching muscle etched
maps on his unbathed skin, maps marked with landmark freckles or moles
and carved with roads of sunken veins. Half the bones in his body
seemed to not want to obey his will, and the second half only
begrudgedly. Stretching in a vain effort to limber up, Aneurin gently
urged his mount to the back of the line and spurred it to keep
pace.

Elenduil's perseverance, coupled with the occasional beaten track that
sinuous line of horses joined with periodically ensured that it was
barely past suntop when the y trotted over the Ice Glade border.
Aneurin barely spared a glance for the lesser evergreens he had seen
dozens of times before, and rode instead to the Frostleaf copses, eager
to see how they had changed. The others went to find their families,
and Elenduil soon found some of the Court to discuss the matters of
state he had missed. Aneurin forsook company and rode on.
On the outskirts of the Glades central town lay the largest of all
Frostleaf colonies. Even in midwinter, the thick pale brown wood of
their insulating trunks supported wide, dome-shaped expanses of deep
violet leaves. There was a legend that held that the influence of the
Frostleaf had caused Ice Glade elves to have an unusually high
proportion of lilac eyed children, even amongst Athelorn dwellers
amongst whom this was common.
Aneurin's studies had included lengthy tuition on the frostleaf's
ability to prosper in winter. Their dark, evergreen leaves harvested
the winter sunlight almost without competition, and the magically
sensitive plants even gleaned some nutrition off the winds of
magic.
Yet still frostleaves were declining. Only this and a handful of other
copses remained, all within Athel Loren's boundaries and mostly in the
Ice Glade.
Sighing, Aneurin wove his way carefully to a particular, if somewhat
unremarkable plant. Smaller than the bulk of its brothers, and standing
a little way apart, this looked almost the runt of the litter, where
that possible. Yet Aneurin tended this : checking for leafrot;
measuring growth; plucking dead leaves. He channeled small flows of
Amber about the roots; he hoed the soil with a tool borrowed from a
small shed nearby. After an hour or more of this, Aneurin sat back,
satisfied. The tree was his, planted on his nameday and left as his
legacy for his future students. Ra?na?l had found the signs of the Gift
before Aneurin even left the womb, and had earmarked him for a personal
student.
Thinking of Ra?na?l reminded Aneurin that his tutor would want to hear
of how his experience with the Giants Finger and Grungna Morg had been.
Laying his hand on the dewy grass in order to get to his feet Aneurin
gave a start as his outstretched fingertips brushed something cold.
Rolling to a squat, Aneurin examined the thing he had accidented
upon.
It was an amulet of finely wrought silver, a necklace of delicate
chain-links culminating in an uncarved sapphire. The stone seemed to
absorb the thin rays of sundown light that filtered into the copse, and
glowed as if lit from within. Frowning to himself, Aneurin pocketed the
trinket and headed for the Wizards Quarter.

5- Acquaintances.

Aneurin scurried past the town's central glade again, hood raised
against the first few tentative drops of rain that began to fall.
Plodding quickly through the ever-deepening puddles, mind wandering,
Aneurin very nearly fell over when a shaft of almost liquid-seeming
wood extended to block his path. An eerie voice came from Aneurin's
right. It sounded of growing things, of rasping wood, and of
confidence.
"Where are you going, stranger?" it uttered in slow, hissing elvish.
Aneurin stared momentarily at the lithe yet giant figure from which the
barrier emanated. A smell of musty glades and ancient rooms enveloped
it. Aneurin senses returned, and he realised he was still hiding his
face from the strengthening rainfall. He looped his long fingers inside
the rim, and drew it back carefully, ensuring his hair remained
straight. A look of realisation was carefully etched on the things
bestial face. Aneurin grimaced momentarily, and then smiled.
"That's much better, Fylranu," he lied carefully. A moment passed, and
the dryads face twisted cautiously into something between a grin and a
snarl.
"Thank you, Master Aneurin," it replied, and the impassable barrier
sunk slowly into Fylranu's body and formed a twiggy arm. Aneurin ran
onwards. Ra?na?l had bound the dryad as the guardian of the Quarter
nigh on a century before, and it would serve its task unthinkingly
until the old mage died. But recently Fylranu had decided that to best
act as a guard, it needed expressions, and he had started trying
fervently to accomplish them. But a dryad's face was no more meant for
expression than a fish is meant for flight. Aneurin stopped running
abruptly as he neared the Quarter.
A circle of pines, bereft now of their summer needles, lay before him.
There were eight in all, a ring of seven surrounding one central,
towering one. Each of the ring housed a mage, his student and his
possessions. The tallest central tree was unoccupied; it was used as a
focus whenever great feats of magic were desired. Aneurin had his own,
separate dwelling near that of Elenduil, as befitted the gladelord's
brother. Separated entirely from Ra?na?l, now, thought Aneurin sadly.
Ra?na?l had been a constant in Aneurin's life, more so even than his
father, for as long as he remembered. From the first day he could speak
until the Cycle of Acceptance made him a mage in his own right,
Ra?na?l's tutelage had been an everyday routine.
It took Aneurin only a moment to locate Ra?na?l's tree. Ever so
slightly taller than its neighbours, as Ra?na?l thought was appropriate
for he, the most gifted and experienced mage in the glade. This late,
the dappled sunlight made the pine look far older than it really was,
blotches of inky shadow disguising the plant's true state of
magically-augmented health. As Aneurin trotted closer, he made out the
series of indentations that had been sung into the pinebark, leaving
rungs of a sort that were easily scaled by one used to such things.
Aneurin placed his travelling things on the floor, carefully goaded the
staff of heartwood from its resting-place in a saddlebag and thrust it
into his belt. Without the burden, Aneurin ascended lithely, and drew
back the beaded curtain at the summit, ready to enter.
Aneurin immediately realised his mistake as he espied Ra?na?l,
cross-legged, on the floor. Aneurin recognised the meditation position
called the Leaves Rustle in the Wind. He knew also that, should he
assume the Eye, he would see minute eddies of Amber and Jade, those
magicks wrongly called Beasts and Life by humans, twirling around
Ra?na?l's outstretched, splayed fingers. Aneurin knew from his
experience of dishwashing how Ra?na?l felt about being disturbed from
his meditation, and started to back slowly out of the doorway. Before
he was halfway gone, Ra?na?l's ice-blue eyes were boring into him, his
face locked in a mask of expressionless concentration. Then, a wan
smile crept onto the corners of his mouth; it hung then only for a
moment, then vanished.
"Leaving already, Aneurin?" he jested. "But you only just got back!"
He rose swiftly, wobbling slightly at the cramp Aneurin would always
associate with Leaves' leg-squashing postures. Ra?na?l opened his mouth
again to chide Aneurin for his impetuousness, and promptly shut it
again as hid hard stare locked on the staff at Aneurin's side. His eyes
widened, and a startled gasp escaped his throat.
"Oak of Ages!" he swore. "That's... heartwood...?" Aneurin had to
laugh- Ra?na?l had repeated almost exactly what the wizened court
magician had at Telin's hall. Ra?na?l mistook his grin for mischief,
and the elf asked him guardedly:
"Where did you get it from, boy?" he said, and Aneurin raged inside.
Nearly two centuries old, and the elf still called him 'boy'! It was
infuriating, but what made it worse was that Ra?na?l knew this, and
used every opportunity to tease him. But Ra?na?l's assumption burned
more. Aneurin pulled a chair, slumped down into it and recounted the
battle with Grungna Morg, Ra?na?l interrupting occasionally with
carefully targeted, searching questions. Once he had finished, clumsily
missing out the dreams that had plagued him and the revelation about
Elvar, Ra?na?l countered with stories of what had occurred during
Aneurin's time away. They chatted on, long into the night...

Elenduil awoke a few minutes before dawn; his nerve-frayed sleep having
been light and unrestful. The Dance was to go ahead today, as it always
had. Not even a call to arms would stop the prospective wardancers from
their mock combat once they began. C'lar was a promising student, or so
the elder wardancers told him. No outsider from the dancers was
permitted to observe training, barring the Last Dance. But Elenduil's
wife had been closely related to Wychwethel, the famed leader of the
troupe that awoke the King and Queen in the Wood each Wakingday. C'lar
undoubtedly had some part of Wychwethel's blood.
Elenduil dressed quickly in a light blue jerkin and darker breeches,
and descended the sung ladder to the glade floor. Only a scant handful
of people were abroad at this hour, and those that were walked heavily
under veils of tiredness. Some of them were lazily gathering fallen
branches- never living ones- for the bonfire. Others were talking, with
dazed apprehension, of the Dance and the feast for Wintersdeath Night
that would follow next canopybreak. Each greeted Elenduil, slurred, on
his approach, some more formally than others. Their bows, their "my
Lords", annoyed Elenduil; regardless of his attempts to dispense of
formality, some elves insisted on it. Elves like Elvar, or Raelt, or
Ra?na?l. But he was in no mood to upset these sticklers, and replied
curtly before continuing on his way. Weaving his way between groups of
his kin, Elenduil headed slowly towards the glade's indefinite edge.
Though no marker stood here, every elf in the glade where the communal
glade ended and the Dancer's Quarter began. Though no guardian stood
here, only those with very good reason entered. Wardancers were outside
the hierarchy, and not even Elenduil's lordship could save him from a
scolding from Reyana, the troupe's leader. Reyana had a sharp tongue
and a short temper on her, and knew all too well her elevated position
within the glade.
But Elenduil refused to let Reyana's forceful opinions stop him from
seeing C'lar. Not today. His mind was set. He strode purposefully into
Reyana's dwelling, formed within the root buttresses of a giant oak,
and nearly jumped back out again. Reyana sat at a table of sung wood,
an amused grin twisting her plain, barely pretty features. Across from
her stood another, apparently younger elf, dark hair almost long enough
to be sat on. Her delicate face was indeed beautiful and ran back to a
pair of pointed ears emerging from her dark tresses. Her flowing body
was elegantly balanced on her feet, with little excess weight on her to
be found. She was Furiah Treesinger, and she was completely
naked.
Elenduil goggled for a moment, and then span quickly, eyes screwed
shut. By now, Reyana was laughing openly. Apologies ran awkwardly from
Elenduil's mouth, and he backed clumsily out of the door. Reyana
slammed it behind him, trying to appear angry behind her laughing
smile. Out in the corridor, Elenduil shook himself, trying to shake
images of Furiah out of his mind. She was pretty, to be sure, but was
once married, and she was Treesinger! Kilrai-e-yata never bore child,
nor married. Most never even courted; the pain of knowing the barrier
was there was too great. But still&;#8230;
Elenduil's line of thought stopped there as Furiah gingerly opened the
door. She was dressed now in a nondescript brown dress with a high
neckline that nevertheless was low enough was low enough to show
clearly her amber necklet in the form of an oak; in fact the Oak of
Ages itself. The message was clear; Elenduil had no doubt that Reyana
had been the one to suggest that. The Oak was worn by treesingers only,
but usually only for ceremonial occasions. Or when one wanted to
embarrass someone, thought Elenduil bitterly.
Biting her lip nervously, Furiah asked him of his business and lead
him in. Reyana was seated again, hands rested on her lap. She was
muscular, and lithe even for an elf. Her hair showed the telltale
discolouration left behind by a wardancer's resin-based hair fixer. Now
she really was angry, and obviously planned to make sure that Elenduil
knew it.
"You have no right to&;#8230;" she began, but Elenduil hadn't the
time to let her continue with her tirade.
"I'm sorry, Reyana," he interrupted. "But this is urgent." Reyana
glared, but begrudgedly let him continue. Elenduil expressed his wish
to see C'lar again, and Reyana's eyes widened.
"What?" she exclaimed. "This close, and you want to interrupt his
practise?" she asked exasperatedly, shaking her head. "You're more of a
fool than I thought, Elenduil," she said, leaning forwards to study his
face closely. Then she leaned back, folding her arms defiantly.
"You may see him if you wish," she said slowly. Elenduil made to thank
her, but she overrode him.
"Be swift though, Elenduil. C'lar needs his practise to be long and
his mind to be clear before tonight." With this warning, she dismissed
him.

As Elenduil was leaving, Furiah scurried to catch him, dress lifted
slightly to allow faster movement. She drew level with him just as he
was turning down a tree-lined path that wound its way inexorably
towards the student's quarters. He nearly knocked her down, and she
yelped as she leapt away. Again Elenduil tried to apologise, but Furiah
would have none of it.
"I&;#8230; I wanted to say sorry for my&;#8230; appearance
earlier," she began, colouring slightly as she did so. "Reyana and I
were planning our clothing for Wintersdeath, and&;#8230;" so she
went on, describing how Reyana had been helping with Furiah's outfit.
Elenduil nodded sagely; he knew well that Furiah and Reyana were good
friends. They both held the same status in the Ice Glade, of a detached
observer, uninvolved in glade business, and so found it difficult to
find others for idle chat. But even Furiah's well of small talk was
drowned as the pair came across a field of battle&;#8230;

6- Battles.

The narrow path opened into a grass-covered clearing. Springboards,
poles, fences and other obstacles littered the edge of the glade,
haphazardly arranged as if quickly moved aside. A pair of blurred
figures threw strange shadows from the small bonfire that burned gently
at the centre. Each wore grassy-green trousers and was bare-chested. A
small strip of untrimmed hair flew slightly behind each's motion,
jerking suddenly as each ducked, dodged and leapt. Each held a practise
sword of sticks bound with twine- not lethal, but painful and loud.
Every moment of time seemed filled with the clack-clack of blows turned
aside and of blocked assaults. The figures moved such that it was
difficult to see either's face, yet Elenduil was still just able to
make out that one of the combatants was indeed C'lar. The other seemed
not to be doing well; the better part of the blocking was being done by
him, and C'lar was steadily forcing him back. Furiah was staring
blankly at the pair, Elenduil noticed.
"What are they doing?" she asked, confused. Elenduil leant down to her
ear and spoke quietly, trying not to distract his son.
"Practising," he said, and she frowned.
"But they're so&;#8230; so fast!" she exclaimed.
"Not fast enough to beat the full wardancers yet," replied Elenduil,
grinning at Furiah's astonishment. A loud noise drew their attention
back to the battle- C'lar's opponent had finally begun to crack, and
was almost collapsing with the constant effort of defence. With an
ululating cry, C'lar caught his opponent's hand with his blade,
knocking their practise sword away. C'lar stood, swordtip to his
partner's throat. Furiah clapped, and Elenduil, belatedly, joined in.
The pair looked at them, seeing them for the first time. Recognition
dawned on C'lar's face and he walked over, brimming with the confidence
of youth.

Elsewhere, Aneurin had crossed the glade, yawning still. His night
spent talking with Ra?na?l had exhausted him almost as much as the
journey, but he was willing to do anything to stave off more of the
nightmares. At first light, he had been woken by one of Elenduil's
courtiers, a panicked-looking elf swaying uncertainly under the weight
of a stack of bedsheets. He had bumblingly explained that Elenduil's
presence was needed for some of the Dance's pre-ceremonies, but he was
currently in the Dancer's Quarter and so inaccessible. The courtier
thought that he- he! - had the authority to commandeer Aneurin as a
messenger. However, that early he had been in no mood to argue, and so
here he was, at the border. Half-expecting Reyana to leap from a tree
in a blazing fury, Aneurin crept slowly forwards. Aneurin nearly
started slinking in shadows before he realised what he was doing, and
straightened up. Ridiculous! He had full right to be here, he thought,
picking up his pace; he was doing nothing wrong. Nothing wrong, he
thought fervently. Nothing&;#8230;
Aneurin stopped with a jolt as he rounded the bend in the track. Ahead
of him was a cleared glade, marked with the scars of combat.
Equidistant from the centre stood Elenduil and C'lar, unmoving. Aneurin
opened his mouth to shout greetings, but froze in the shock of
recognition as Elenduil's swordarm drew a blade, its edge silhouetted
against the canopybreak sunlight. Aneurin's eyes widened still further
as Elenduil's powerful arms dragged the heavy weapon in a parabola,
setting up a slashing strike against C'lar's defenceless chest.
Without thought, Aneurin brought up his arm, a crackling lance of
electric-wrought power extending from his palm. But faster still, C'lar
twisted away, launching himself into a backwards dive before the
blade-edge reached him. C'lar sprung upright, eyes full of confidence.
Twin underhand daggers of a dull grey metal had appeared in his hands,
and he gripped them with the appearance that he knew their use. But he
had barely a moment to stand before Elenduil was upon him again, sword
blurring.
A practise sword, Aneurin realised, letting the lance disappear. But
still&;#8230;
Aneurin jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw Furiah
behind him, worry on her features. Behind her, a battered-looking elf
lay sprawled on the ground, a large bruise marring his otherwise
handsome face. An amused grin split his mouth. Aneurin dragged his
attention back to Furiah as she spoke.
"Are you alright, Aneurin?" she asked. "I wouldn't want anything to be
wrong with you&;#8230;" she said, with undertones that made Aneurin
blush. The Kilrai-e-yata showed an interest in him that was quite
unsuited to her position; she was one of Ra?na?l's favourite subjects
with which to embarrass Aneurin.
"I'm fine, thanks, Furiah. Just a little&;#8230; shaken." A
questioning look dawned on her face, but a shout drew Aneurin back to
the fight behind him. Aneurin shivered; it had been so like his dream.
C'lar's earlier confidence had drained to concentration now as both
elves alternated defence forms and attack stances with blinding speed.
Aneurin noted that the daggers C'lar held were real enough; he
remembered Elenduil telling him that there was no such thing as a
practise dagger. Something to do with weighting, he recalled. Both
fighters looked set to continue all day if need be; Aneurin was certain
Reyana would catch him before then.
"Elenduil!" he cried despite a scolding look from the young elf, who
had now uncertainly stood in order to observe the combat. "You're
needed back at the glade!" Aneurin hollered. For the slightest moment,
Elenduil turned his head to face his brother, a slight, knowing smile
creasing his lips. C'lar took the opportunity, and pressed a fresh
assault- a long, sweeping, upwards stroke. Elenduil had no chance to
block, and a gasp from Furiah revealed that she knew it too.
Yet contact was never made. Somehow, Elenduil twisted away from the
blade-edge and spun in a tight circle, forming an offensive with
blinding speed. Furiah was agape, and even Aneurin gasped as Elenduil
visibly moved up a gear. His sword seemed to spread into a nimbus of
dark wood, a net of strikes that C'lar could never hope to block. He
fell with a loud clack to the glade floor, the cold metal of the
practise sword's tip pressed to his throatflesh. Elenduil spoke
quietly. Aneurin quietly noted that he was barely breathing faster than
normal.
"Let this be a lesson to you, C'lar," he began. "No matter how fast
you are, how skilled you become, over-confidence can be your downfall.
Believe that you are unbeatable, and it will be the last mistake you
make. It is a hard lesson to learn, but one that you must." At this, a
wan smile crept onto the warrior's lips. "But until the day when you
learn the lesson of Humility, your impressive skill will keep you
alive." C'lar frowned momentarily, unsure as to whether this was a
compliment or no. But his father's expression assured him, and he
laughed. Laughing with him, Elenduil tossed his weapon aside and pulled
his son to his feet. They talked briefly as the pair walked to where
Aneurin still stood.
"You said you had need of me, brother?" Elenduil asked.
"Some official has need of you back at the glade, Elenduil," Aneurin
began. "Some kind of ceremonial nonsense, no doubt. His brother sighed
deeply.
"No doubt,"
"Then you'll be on your way?"
"Yes," and he turned to C'lar. "Isha's boon be on you for the Dance,
son, and Kurnous' strength," he intoned. C'lar smiled weakly.
"Thank you, father." He turned, and spoke now in a stronger tone to
the injured stranger at Aneurin's side. "Coming, Anotil?" They strode
back to the clearing's heart, and began again to practise their
swordsmanship. The brothers walked back to the glade they knew
together, and Furiah returned to her preparations with Reyana. Soon,
all was quiet again in the Dancer's Quarter, barring the gentle and
distant sounds of wooden blades meeting.

7- Ceremonies.

A transformed glade met Elenduil's eyes upon his return. The majority
of the inhabitants were abroad now, and the clearing bustled with
activity. The half-hearted bonfire of before had grown monstrously, and
loomed now above even the substantial piles of dried leaves that had
been gathered months before and stored as firestarters. Preparations
for Wintersdeath Night were infamously hectic, and this year was no
different, especially with the added strain of the once-in-a-decade
Last Dance. A gladekeeper was slowly marking out the perimeter of the
arena with ankle-high rocks of granite. No one inside would leave once
the Dance began, and none outside could enter, as much for safety as
for tradition. The same courtier who had woken Aneurin mumbled a few
words of thanks before spiriting a bored-looking Elenduil away.
Left on his own, Aneurin ambled purposelessly around, seeking some
distraction. He spoke with many elves. He helped woodgatherers, or used
small magicks to goad spread leaves into neat piles. He sat and
contemplated. It was hours later, whilst thrusting his hands in his
pockets against a sudden cold wind, that Aneurin's fingers chanced upon
something colder even than the outside air. Frowning, Aneurin drew out
the sapphire amulet he had found earlier. The gem at its hub glowed now
brighter than before, and infirm lines of a lighter hue played across
its surface like canopybreak sunlight breaking on rippled water. And it
felt colder than ice, a cold primeval and deep. Aneurin began to assume
the Eye, but before he could relax himself properly, a pressure on his
shoulder startled him into alertness. It was Ra?na?l.
"What's that, boy?" Aneurin repocketted the trinket rapidly.
"Just&;#8230; just something I found somewhere,"
"Really? You should be cautious of things found lying around, Aneurin.
You never know who they might belong to,"
"I wanted to speak with you, Ra?na?l. I wanted to speak
about&;#8230; dreams." There, he thought. He had asked. Even if the
elder elf laughed him down, at least he would know. But if anything,
Ra?na?l looked not amused but concerned.
"Dreams? What of them?" he asked, and Aneurin related to him the
visions that had plagued him every night since that time at Telin's
hall. As usual, Ra?na?l listened quietly, seeming surprised only when
Aneurin mentioned the incident in the Dancer's Quarter earlier that
day. When he had finished, Ra?na?l shifted uncertainly in his seat on
the log that he had found whilst his pupil spoke.
"Portentous indeed, Aneurin, that such dreams as these should come on
a night such as this, so far from Wakingday. The King and Queen in the
Wood are at their weakest now, before the Wintersdeath. Yet even now,
in their hour of weakness, they may be trying to seed warnings in our
minds. Ariel has been known to do it before, to visit a follower with
dreams in order to forewarn them of danger. But daemons practise
dreamwalking just as frequently, and the incautious would be ill
advised to take dreams lightly. But whether a revelation that Elenduil
is dangerous, or a daemon-driven nonsense, I warn you the same of these
dreams, Aneurin." He rose as if to leave, but Aneurin caught him by the
arm.
"There is another matter, mentor," he said. "Whilst on the return
journey from Telin's hold, I noticed something&;#8230; odd about
Elvar." Ra?na?l sat down again. "It seems he has&;#8230; no aura.
With the Eye, he is no more visible than air! Than sound!" Aneurin had
begun to panic at the thought of that empty depression in the grass,
that invisible elf with no soul, and Ra?na?l held him with a reassuring
grip.
"Do not worry yourself so, Aneurin. It is little more than a freak
occurrence; some are born so. They are almost non-existent amongst
elves, but the emptiness still arises, once in a century. You need not
worry yourself. But don't tell the other mages, Aneurin," he whispered
conspiratorially. "They would see it as an opportunity to subject the
poor elf to endless testing and study, and he'd never be free of them.
So keep this between us, and let him be." Aneurin nodded, relieved, and
Ra?na?l smiled. "Good." With that, Ra?na?l stood and walked, leaving
Aneurin alone.

As the last rays of sundown light were soaked up by the black eddies
of night, the bonfire was lit. Ruddy flames licked, then roared at the
star-strewn sky. The waiting crowd parted silently around the
procession that snaked its way out of the Dancer's Quarter, allowing it
to pass without comment. Reyana strode boldly at its head, ceremonial
dress resplendent and spotless. Behind her trailed twenty full
wardancers, outfitted not for ceremony but for combat. These were the
testers. And at their heels walked the students, fifty or more dressed
in identical green breaches and brown, frontless jackets. Of all of
them, perhaps only a dozen would ever make the rank of wardancer
proper, and only half that number would do so this year. Aneurin
spotted C'lar and Anotil towards the back of the throng, walking side
by side and gazing at the sea of silent faces that surrounded them. The
entire line stopped abruptly as a figure stepped out in front of
Reyana. It was Elenduil, in full dress robes, prepared for the
traditional Entrance of the Dancers.
"Who enters?" he intoned. Reyana replied:
"The Dancers! Who stands?"
"The Lord! Why do you enter?"
"With apprentices, for testing! Why do you stand?"
"To lead, to battle, to serve!" Reyana echoed him:
"To follow, to aid, to judge!" With the Duties of the Lords and
Dancers spoken, Elenduil stood aside and gestured for Reyana to pass
him.
"My glade is yours. My sword serves." Reyana passed, and her entourage
followed. Quiet applause rose; the ceremonies had been fulfilled as
they were meant to be. Reyana cast aside her cloak, revealing a light
outfit of flexible silk and a leafwoven arm-guard. She launched into a
double somersault, drawing more applause.
"And now," she shouted once the clapping ebbed away, "the Last Dance
begins!"

*TO BE CONTINUED*