Even Fall
Chapter Two

Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Undead, self-abuse
Summary: The party is betrayed.

Illustration by Alyx Shw

The door of the smugglers’ hideout was open, and beams of sunlight peeked into the stone chamber inquisitively. Somewhere in the forest a lone bird chirped, and the cool, late autumn breeze smelled faintly of leaves. One could almost believe there was nothing wrong in the world right then; that it was merely another fine fall day. Harvesting and celebrations of a bountiful year would be occurring, and at the end of the day folk would gather together to make merry and exchange tales. Except there would be no Autumnal celebration, and the harvest, like the people who had planted the crop in the spring, was rotting in the fields.

Just outside the door, Whitebird stood alone, his blue-grey cape moving listlessly in the wind. Every line of the Elf’s body showed mourning and loss. Mere days ago he had captained an army, undefeated, his lover beside him. Now he was alone, a homeless wanderer like those he camped with. It was almost more than he could comprehend, and he had taken to spending long hours standing outside the door, his long white hair nearly obscuring his face, awaiting one who would never come.

Aramais watched the Elf, concerned for him. Whitebird was known for his temper; a wrath that could level great cities, and had done so on more than one occasion. He suffered fools and slights not at all, and those who had dared to take his rule and his folk too lightly often found themselves bartering for peace before their homelands vanished under his anger.

The Elf had much to be angry about. For many years, he and Hunter, as well as many others from the distant village where he had been born, had been but refugees, wandering from place to place in search of a new home. The Snow Elves of the high northern plains had been a peaceful folk, until the King of that far land decided to take their fertile forests and lakes from them. Many of them had been slaughtered, and the Elves were chased from their homeland. Whitebird had been very small when it happened, but the memory had scarred him deeply. Even after his people found new lands to call home, his mistrust and intolerance of others who were not Snow Elves was widely known. He had been raised to be a gentle bard, his mother wishing to keep her son as far from war and violence as she could. But she was killed by bandits, and at the age of twenty, when most Elves are little more than children, Whitebird rode them down. He did more than slay them; he left them hanging from the branches of trees by their own entrails, and the legend of Whitebird was born.

Aramais did not know his true name; Snow Elves did not tell their names, save only to their closest confidants. Hunter would have known it, but it was doubtful anyone else did. ‘Whitebird’ was a name he was given because of his habit of wearing garb of blazing blue-white into battle. With his white hair and cloak blowing out behind him, he looked like an eagle of pure ice. Even standing dejected in the doorway of the cave, there was something eagle-like in the slender Elf’s bearing and gaze.

Shendklin seated herself beside Aramais, passing him some hard-tack and jerky. He began eating them listlessly; a few more weeks of rations, he thought, and he would go mad. He thought Shendklin must be thinking the same thing as she picked at her food.

“How is Whitebird?” she asked softly.

“I fear for him,” said Aramais. “He seems defeated, and I do not mean by battle. He moves and acts almost as one who has lost wit and strength to great age. I am worried he may be broken in spirit.”

“That is not to be wondered at. This is hard enough for us, but he has been down this path before.”

“Yet at least last time he had Hunter, and others of his kind. I am not certain there are any Snow Elves left.”

“There must be a few. They are far too stubborn a race to be exterminated. Won’t even stop arguing until an hour after they’re dead.”

Aramais glanced up to see if Whitebird had heard, but the warrior seemed lost in his own thoughts. He looked back at Shendklin.

“Do you want to get us killed?”

“Well maybe he needs a good fight right now!”

“Then let him fight with Randereth! Whitebird can brighten his spirits and we can lose an arrogant coward.”

“Yes Randereth certainly is that, and other things.”

Aramais looked about. “Where is Sir Irritant, anyway?”

“Probably giving orders to the squirrels. How long are we staying here?”

“I am not certain. But I hope Whitebird recovers, and quickly. I do not relish being under the command of Randereth.”

“Why follow commands at all? There is no rule here; we are all in the same position.”

“Shendklin, do you not think morale is low enough without you and me declaring anarchy?”

She scuffed her toe in the sand. “Perhaps you are right. But I will not follow Randereth. He’d lead us over a cliff or in circles or both. He wants to be a knight, but wants none of the responsibilities that go with that title.” She scuffed again, then rose to her feet. “I am going to take a nap and dream of something for supper besides jerky and hard bread.”

Aramais watched her go to the small matt on the floor where she had been sleeping, then looked once more to Whitebird. He rose to his feet and stepped out of the cave to stand beside him, the Elf not seeming to notice his presence at first. His eerie blue-white eyes were distant and fogged, red-rimmed from crying quietly. Aramais put his hand on Whitebird’s shoulder, half fearing a sudden knife in the gut. Whitebird shivered, as though awakened from a dream, and looked at Aramais. He managed a weak smile.

“I do not suppose I look much like a legend right now.”

Aramais returned the smile. “Perhaps a somewhat burdened one.”

Whitebird gazed steadily into Aramais’ eyes, as though searching for something. “I do not understand you. For many years I have shown you nothing but hate, yet you come to me now and try to offer comfort.”

“Perhaps I accept your right to hate me for what you believed I had done.”

Whitebird sighed. “I do not hate you anymore. The incident is old, and I realize now it was not your doing.”

“But she is no less dead. And I am sorry.”

“As am I. But I am not without fault. She had the mind of a child, Hunter and I should have kept a closer watch over her. And you cannot be everywhere at once.”

“I would have stopped the execution had I been there.”

“I know, I know. As with so many things, I needed a place to lay my anger. I could have stopped it as well had I kept a closer eye on her.”

“Then we are both to blame for our negligence.”

Whitebird lowered his gaze to the earth beneath his feet. “I suppose we are.”

Aramais put an arm around the Elf’s shoulders, thinking of the young woman who had been the cause of Whitebird’s loathing towards him for so long. She had been a mortal woman, Hunter’s half-sister. Her name was Auriannin, and she had been a simple, gentle soul, a child’s mind within the body of a woman. Her one vice was stealing pretty objects with which to play, and then leaving them abandoned when she tired of them.

The last pretty thing she stole was the jewelled heraldic shield from a visiting prince.

Aramais knew Auriannin, as did most of the men under his command. Had one of them been asked to find her and the stolen piece, they would have simply brought her home with a word to Whitebird that she had been naughty again, and the piece would have been returned. Instead the prince’s men found her, and disposed of her as a common thief. When it was learned she was the sister of the lover of the most feared Elven warrior in the land, the prince quickly placed the blame on Aramais. For many years Aramais lived in fear of his life, until the truth came out about who had really killed Auriannin. Even then, neither Hunter nor Whitebird were quick to forgive, although as time went on, Aramais realized it was not him they were angry with so much as themselves.

Whitebird sighed heavily. “Perhaps it is for the best. This is a dark time we are in. She would not have been happy forced away from her home. She would not have understood. And without Hunter, she would have been as lost as I am now.” He wiped at his eyes, then raised his head, mustering some of his old spirit. “I heard you and Shendklin discussing who will lead.” He gave Aramais a sidelong glance, a bit of a glint in his tear-reddened eyes. “I will not abandon you to Randereth’s doubtful care.”

“That I am glad to hear. What shall we do?”

“We have wounded, and but one horse. We will stay until the horse is a little stronger, than I shall go ahead and scout the road. That will give Sarrin some time to heal, and we will better know what awaits us before we set out for the King’s hunting lodge.”

“This sounds right to me.” Aramais smiled. “Then you must have also heard the remark about supper.”

“I was thinking the same thing myself. Why don’t you and I see if we can find a bird or rabbit to improve tonight’s fare? Do you know how to find Winter-root?”

“I do, actually.”

“Good. Get a strong knife. You shall hunt the mighty tuber, whilst I do battle with the dread rabbit.”

***---***

They returned to the cave well before nightfall; Aramais with a basketful of autumn apples and winter-root, and Whitebird with nothing less than a stag. A round of applause greeted them as they stepped into the hiding place. Aramais bowed dramatically, while Whitebird managed a slightly embarrassed smile.

“All hail the providers of the feast!” said Sarrin. “One more day of hard-tack and I would have done myself an injury.”

“The hard-tack is injurious enough,” said Shendklin, mending a stocking.

“That’s what I mean; I would have been forced to eat more of it.”

She whacked him with the stocking. Excited by the fluttering movement, Rui leapt up and caught it, grasping it in her teeth and forepaws, kicking fiercely with her back feet. Shendklin sighed.

“So much for that stocking!”

“Thank you, Rui, that sock shall never harm another,” said Sarrin.

Shendklin continued to amuse the winged cat with the stocking, while Sarrin played upon a lute that had been left in the cave by a previous owner. Elaran began cleaning and preparing the tubers, while Aramais and Whitebird dressed the stag. There was peace in the hideaway, which was nice, yet… disturbing. Something was not right. Finally Elaran straightened from her task and looked around.

“Where is Randereth? He’s not been about all day!”

“We saw no sign of him,” said Aramais. “I hope nothing has befallen him. Not even he deserves to be devoured by monsters.”

“Speaking of monsters,” said Shendklin, “I shall get the horse and pony. The sun will be down soon, we don’t want any harm to befall them.” She passed Sarrin the stocking. “The reigns of your office, good sir!”

“Ah, my first command. I shall endeavour to make it an amusing one.”

Shendklin went outside, traveling down the little path to a concealed enclosure, where the horse and pony had been grazing in the sunlight. She reached it, and stopped, feeling her stomach clench at the sight awaiting her.

“No…” she said softly, “oh, no…”

She turned and ran as fast as she could back to the cave, heading straight for the boxes of treasure within. She opened them and began rummaging. Then she stood up and screamed with pure outrage.

“What is it?” asked Aramais.

“That arrogant coward! Randereth! He stole the horse, killed the pony, and absconded with a large quantity of the treasure.”

Elaran dropped the basket she held. “Not my pony!”

Shendklin nodded. Elaran went running out of the cave down the path to the corral, Aramais close behind her. She stopped at the gate briefly, staring in horror, then went into the corral and knelt beside the hairy little pony, crying over the small form.

“He did this just to be cruel!” she said. “Why hurt my pony?”

Aramais pulled her close. “He did not want us to escape quickly. Come, we must get back to the cave.”

“But…”

“We will bury your pony tomorrow, Elaran. Right now we must take cover.”

They returned to the cave, closing and bolting the door. “We have been betrayed,” said Aramais. “This place is no longer safe.”

Whitebird nodded. “I agree. Shendklin says there were a few small items of magical ability here, all are gone. Doubtless he wishes to barter for his life. It will do him no good; after the King learns what he wants, he will kill him. Without doubt the books will have been moved from the Hunting Lodge. Randereth you gutless bastard! Kill yourself if you wish, but why take us with you?”

“At least he is gone,” said Aramais. “And if I should see him again, I will gut him like a fish!”

“Not before I have the chance,” said Whitebird. He sighed heavily, and then picked up his knife. “There is nothing we can do about him right now. Let us at least have a decent meal and discuss the situation afterwards.”

***---***

They ate, saying nothing, and the only sound within the cave was the rush and hiss of the fire. Outside a cold wind slithered through the branches of the trees, making them creak. Once Aramais had quite liked the sound of the wind at night; he had thought it soothing. Now he could only think of what vile thing was roaming through the darkness, the sound of its passing hidden in the moaning and rustling.

Something banged on the door. Shendklin made small frightened sound, and Sarrin put an arm around her. There was another bang, then a voice.

“Open up!”

Aramais narrowed his eyes. “Randereth! What makes you think we shall let you in?”

“It is dark! For pity’s sake let me in!”

“Where have you been?” demanded Whitebird. “We know you killed the pony! We know also of the items you stole! What mischief have you wrought?”

The quiet laugh they heard from the other side of the locked door made the hair on the back of Aramais’ neck rise. It was cold, and full of malice.

“Mischief?” said the voice in a snide tone. “I wrought no mischief! I did the sensible thing! I pledged my loyalty to our rightful king! Now open the door, Elf! It is night, and I know how the door works! Let me in, and we will not maim you before claiming your body.”

“Can he get in?” asked Aramais.

Shendklin shook her head. “I do not believe so, but that door has never been tried against determined assailants.”

“Build up the fire,” said Elaran. “If he has the plague we must burn anything he touches should he enter.”

“Pass me a crossbow,” said Sarrin. “I can shoot.”

Shendklin gave him a crossbow, then took a bow for herself and wrapped some arrows in oiled rags to ignite in the fire before shooting.

“If they enter, we shall make certain they do not leave,” she said grimly.

There came a great pounding against the door; the sound of a ram striking stone. Aramais pulled his sword and stood next to Whitebird.

“You shall not have us, Randereth!” he said.

“I do not want all of you. My arrangement was only for the Elf. You fools may wander witless for all time as far as I am concerned. His Majesty is very angry at you for killing Hunter, Aramais. He was counting on having Hunter and Whitebird both. But he will forgive you… if you just give us the Elf.”

“It shall be a while yet ere I share my company with any, let alone a corpse!” said Whitebird.

The door shuddered under a tremendous blow, but it held.

“Humorous as always,” said Randereth dryly. “But I do not think the King wants you for his bed.”

“I do not care if he wants me for a fashion advisor!” said Whitebird.

Elaran scooped up her winged cat and whispered into her ear. The little grey beast flew with owl-like silence up to the high narrow window slits and peered out. The healer closed her eyes and listened.

“Six ghouls with an iron-headed ram, as well as Randereth,” she said softly. “Rui does not think there are any others.” She held her arms out to the cat. “Rui, come!”

The cat sailed down and into her grasp, then turned her large yellow eyes to the door, looking worried. The door shuddered again.

“We will take you, whether willingly or by force!”

“Force it is,” Whitebird said softly, his blue-white eyes narrowed in anger. “Elaran, slip up to the door and release the bolt. Shendklin, Sarrin, have your bows ready. I know not what the King wants with me, but I’ll not be taken or felled by a coward.”

Elaran crept to the door. Carefully and quietly she released the bolt, then hurried to the back of the cave.

There was the crash of the ram hitting the door, which flew open, slamming into the wall behind it, and the momentum of the ram carried the undead creatures wielding the device into the room. Flaming arrows hit the first two, and Aramais and Whitebird quickly and neatly relieved the next two of their heads. The last pair were also slain by flaming arrows. Then Aramais and Whitebird ran into the night to see if they could spy Randereth.

They had barely made it outside when some fetid, disgusting thing was thrown at Whitebird. The Elf managed to swat it away before he threw a knife into the back of a retreating form. The body fell, and the two went to see if it was Randereth. Whitebird nudged the body over with his foot, and saw it was a person unknown to them, and only recently turned by the look of him. Not wishing to tempt fate, they hastily returned to the cave, locking the door. Whitebird then began pulling off his cloak and jacket.

“I’ve been splattered,” he said. “It’s on my hand.” He dropped to his knees and scraped away as much of the plague-carrying slime as he could, shaking. “I will not be claimed by that coward, I will not!”

He stood and walked quickly over to the pot of heated water that Elaran had used for the vegetables. He placed the pot in the coals, watching as it quickly began to bubble while he stripped off his shirt, and then plunged his hand into the boiling water. Elaran cried out and yanked his hand out of the pot, but it was already badly scalded. She sat him down on the clean sand and began tending to the ugly burn, which was already blistering. Whitebird looked up at Aramais.

“Aramais, if I begin to turn…”

He nodded. “Let us hope you have just prevented that.”

“If fire kills the plague victims, then it just may save me. We can but wait.”

Aramais nodded again, then he and Shendklin began cleaning up the cave. He used the pitchfork meant for the stall to drag the bodies outside, while Shendklin shovelled out any mire she could see on the sand, finally scraping it into a pile and shovelling it out the door. Aramais piled the bodies of the ghouls onto it, then they covered them with hay and lamp oil, setting all on fire.

There was nothing left to do now but wait.

***---***

Aramais awoke suddenly. He did not know when he had drifted off to sleep, but the morning was wearing away, and the sun was shining through the high windows. He immediately looked to Whitebird. The Elf was curled on his side, lying on his bed. Aramais could not tell if he was breathing. Quietly and carefully, he crept over to his still form, dreading what he may find. He cautiously used his thumb to gently lift one eyelid and check for the blue film that meant Whitebird had died in the night and been turned into a ghoul.

The eye that peered back at him was clear, and bore a somewhat disgruntled expression.

“Did your mother tell you this was a nice way to wake someone?” muttered Whitebird.

“You’re well! I feared…”

“You creep over to pull my eyes open again, and I will give you a great deal to fear!” Whitebird sat up, cradling his injured hand. He smiled grimly. “I told you I would not be taken by a coward.”

Shendklin yawned and sat up. “Just as I said; you Snow Elves are all too stubborn to die.”

“We are not stubborn, merely firm in our convictions. And it is this Snow Elf’s conviction that we should be away from here.”

“Where shall we go?” asked Aramais.

“I am not yet certain. One thing is clear; we cannot remain here. Shendklin, is there another place such as this, where we may hide?”

“Yes. It is larger, and will be better stocked. I do not know if anyone will be there; it is seldom used save for times of emergency. We try to keep that place better hidden. But it is three days from here, if we had horses and fair weather. We are on foot, and who knows when the rains may fall. And Sarrin…”

“Leave me,” said the bard.

“No!” said Whitebird forcefully.

“I will slow you down!”

“Be that as it may, we will not abandon you to waking death. Enough have died; we will not sacrifice you for the sake of saving a few hours’ worth of time. How hard is the trail, Shendklin?”

“Not hard. If we had a litter Aramais and I could carry him.”

“There,” said Aramais to Sarrin, “You can lay back and amuse us with song.”

“Oh, delightful! And then every noble from near and far shall want a bard in a basket as well. I shall be so in demand I will never walk again!”

They gathered up their belongings, as well as some of the treasure on the chance they would require it. Whitebird found in one of the chests a pair of black, gauntleted gloves, lined with silk and made of a fine, soft leather. He carefully eased one over his bandaged hand to protect it, then had Sarrin put the other on for him. He seemed quite pleased with his find.

“I do believe someone made these just for me!” he said.

Shendklin laughed. “And what makes you say that?”

Whitebird turned his hand and showed her the back of the glove. There, made of some sort of shining white metal, was the emblem of a diving hawk.

***---***

“Sarrin.”

“Yes, Master Whitebird?”

“If you sing that wretched tune about the unicorn one more time I shall shoot you.”

“Shutting up, my Liege.”

“Oh I like the unicorn song!” said Shendklin.

Whitebird stopped on the steep path and exhaled, winded. His long heavy hair was dishevelled, and he pushed it impatiently out of his face.

“I am not opposed to it myself, but not four times in a row!”

“I like it,” insisted Shendklin. “And since Aramais and I have to carry him, we call the tunes.”

“This is the thanks I get for agreeing to lead this party; anarchy and insubordination.”

“Don’t forget veiled insults and abuse,” said Shendklin brightly.

Whitebird gave her a jaundiced look, and then continued walking. He took a few steps, and then the exhausted warrior slipped on the loose shale covering the ground. Aramais dropped the end of the litter he held to catch Whitebird, realizing belatedly the folly of the move. Sarrin yelped in pain.

“Sorry,” said Aramais.

Sarrin glared at the guardsman. “No problem, quite all right. I’m just glad you were not at the head of the litter!”

Aramais gave him a chagrined look, then felt Whitebird move away from him. He watched the Elf continue up the hill, then bent down and picked up the litter once more.

“Have a good firm grip?” asked Sarrin.

“Not firm enough,” teased Shendklin. “The Elf got away.”

“I have the litter, I will not drop you again,” said Aramais. “Shendklin, one more word out of you and I shall give you a spanking.”

Shendklin stuck out her tongue and made a rude noise, showing just how much fear this comment instilled in her heart. Rui flew up and landed on Sarrin, then proceeded to knead him with her paws, purring.

Elaran walked up to the trio, leaning on a heavy walking stick. “How much further, Shendklin? This is no easy trek for an old woman!”

“Then it is a very good thing we have none,” said Sarrin.

“An hour, no more,” Shendklin replied. “Then we can all rest.” She glanced up at the threatening grey sky. “I should not be surprised to see snow this eve.”

Sarrin rubbed the cat’s furry ears as the little group started forward again. “Snow, eh? I should like to see if that tale about Snow Elves is true.”

“What tale?” asked Aramais, glancing towards the cloaked form marching ahead of them.

“That during the first snowfall of every year, the Snow Elves turn back into the snow they are made of, and reform with the sunrise.”

Aramais grinned as Whitebird stopped, then slowly turned around and made his way back to the litter. The Elf stared wearily at the man lying there.

“What?” asked Whitebird, his tone disbelieving, his facial expression indicating he was not quite certain he had heard Sarrin correctly. Sarrin repeated his statement. Whitebird continued staring at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily.

“Sarrin, where do you learn this stuff?”

“Oh the usual places. Pubs. Taverns. Passing village idiots.”

Whitebird sighed again. “I am not made of snow. I do not live in snow. I am not from some mystic land of solid ice. I am not even a ‘Snow Elf’. If you must know, I am a ‘Pehrinan’.”

“Then why do we call your kind ‘Snow Elves’?”

Whitebird fluffed up his impressive mane of white hair, then stared at Sarrin with eyes the colour of ice, set in a face with skin as pale as the froth on an ocean wave.

“Guess,” he said.

“Well a decent tan would not hurt you.”

Whitebird stared at him, as if pondering whether to bother continuing this conversation, then walked away, shaking his head. The group proceeded up the forested hill.

“Play the unicorn song,” said Shendklin.

***---***

They reached the hidden stronghold not long before sunset. The snow had begun falling soon after their conversation, and was coming down now fast and hard. Shendklin opened the door and slipped inside, Aramais behind her. Together they inspected the chamber before going back for their companions.

“It’s safe,” she said, smiling as Rui hopped down from the litter and hastened out of the falling snow. Together she and Aramais carried Sarrin into the safety of the hidden stronghold, followed by Elaran and Whitebird.

It was obvious the hidden structure was of great age, and had likely been built to house arms and stores for times of hardship. Long had it been forgotten and left to crumble before the thieves and smugglers found and rebuilt it. The outer camouflage of trees, moss and shrubs made it look like just another outcrop, and it would be easy enough to ignore it. Inside, it was clearly made by hand of bricks and mortar. Comforts such as a fireplace and beds had been added, and, as with the other hideaway, there was a place to stable horses.

Sarrin was placed on a bed, and Elaran began making a fire. Whitebird flung off his long cloak and hung it up to dry, then carefully removed his glove to look at his burned hand. The injury was ugly, but showed no sign of infecting, and was healing rather quickly. Aramais shoved the heavy door close and barred it, then removed his own cloak. He went to a chair; a huge ornate thing carved long ago for nobles, and sat on it. He watched his companions go about their business, but his thoughts were on other things.

The books would be moved by now; doubtless Randereth had told the King all about their plans to put a stop to his filth and death. Granted the plan to get the books from the hunting lodge had been a desperate one, but at least it had been a plan. Now, they were without direction. Aramais had not the faintest idea where to look for the books. Going to the lodge now was of no use; anyone they found there would likely be undead and of no assistance. He did not wish to give up, but had no idea where to go from here.

Whitebird noticed the look on his face, and asked; “What troubles you?”

“Everything,” said Aramais. “Where do we go from here? The books will not be in the Lodge any longer, what direction do we take?” Rui leapt onto his lap and began delicately licking her paws. Aramais rubbed the back of her neck idly.

“We go nowhere for now,” said Whitebird. “I will not risk hiking in the snow, leaving a trail any fool can follow.”

“What of the plague?”

He shook his head, then tied back his thick mane of white hair. “The plague creatures are not bothered by the cold, that much is true. But they are dead, and they rot. And they can travel no further through deep drifts than we. They will freeze solid as they walk, and by spring will be so decomposed they will not be a problem. The King can make more, that is true. But for now I feel this adventure is at a pause for both sides. And, in spring, we set out again. We have eyes in the sky as well as on the ground.”

Whitebird indicated the winged cat, who chose that moment to thrust her leg into the air and wash her backside. He grinned and shook his head.

“We are not defeated, Aramais. Not while we live.”

“Then the next question; how is our store of provisions?”

Shendklin came down from the upper level. “There are stores enough to last if we were fifty rather than five. Even if it is a harsh winter, we will not feel any real hardship if we do not squander food needlessly.” She walked over to Rui and scratched her head. “Squander it on such silly things as flying cats.”

Rui looked up abruptly, and accepted the dried fish she was given. She then took it to eat by the fire.

“Good,” said Aramais. “And we have Sarrin to keep us amused. In the meantime, your hand and his ankle can mend.”

“Play the unicorn song,” said Shendklin.

“NO!” shouted Elaran, Whitebird and Aramais.

***---***

The night was old, and the snow outside lay as a pale cloak over the land. The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear, the moon shining cold and blue when Aramais awoke to find the door opened a small crack, and Whitebird not in his bed. Concerned, Aramais got up and dressed, then pulled on his cloak and stepped outside, searching for the Elven warrior. He did not have to go far to find him.

Whitebird was seated under a red Arbutus tree, barkless in the winter cold, his legs drawn up, elbows resting on his knees, his head lowered so that his chin was resting on his folded hands. Aramais stopped, uncomfortable. It was clear Whitebird had come out seeking solitude, and he had intruded. He did not wish to spy, but he also did not wish to leave the Elf alone, possibly to the mercy of any passing monsters. Aramais retreated a few paces, then seated himself on a rock to keep vigil.

After a time, Whitebird raised his head and dried his eyes. He stood, and turned to face the cold white of the full moon. He stared at it as it hung in the black winter sky, surrounded by the diamond-white stars.

“Happy birthday, Hunter,” he said quietly. “I miss you.”

Aramais rose to his feet, feeling ashamed at having witnessed something he was quite clearly not meant to. He grit his teeth as a frozen twig snapped loudly beneath his boot, and Whitebird spun to face him, sword drawn.

“’Tis only me,” said Aramais.

Whitebird was clearly not amused at the intrusion, and regaled Aramais with angry Elven phrases before recalling the man did not speak the language. Not bothering to repeat himself, he simply switched in mid-sentence.

“… a being to grieve in peace! Our situation may be grave but there are some things I do not wish to share with the entire party!”

“I know, I am very sorry. I awoke to find the door open and your bed empty. I was concerned.”

Whitebird fixed him with a glare Aramais had seen many times in the past. Then he lowered his head and sighed.

“All right, I understand,” said Whitebird. “I am sorry for becoming angry.”

Aramais stepped forward. “I am sorry as well, for intruding.”

He moved closer to the tall Elf, noticing how small he seemed to be at times like this. It was as though his grief so overwhelmed him that it shrank him into someone small and frail and afraid. Aramais put an arm around him, then tensed with discomfort as the Elf collapsed against him, resting his face against the side of his neck. He felt Whitebird’s arms link around his shoulders, and Aramais’ first instinct was to pull away. He was uncomfortable with the intimacy of the embrace, but stood quietly, not wanting to push away one who clearly needed the touch of another living being. He clumsily put his arms around him, wondering when it would be acceptable to push the Elf off.

Whitebird seemed to pick up on the discomfort, and raised his head. His eyes were still wet with tears, but his mood perhaps seemed a little lighter. He grinned. He then said something that made Aramais cold with fear in a way nothing else ever had.

“You would have a fit if I kissed you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Whitebird seemed to consider this for a moment, then darted his head forward in an attempt to kiss him. Aramais jerked back and fell over, Whitebird landing on top of him. He pinned Aramais in the snow, his knees keeping Aramais’ arms firmly to the ground while he planted a wet noisy kiss on his lips. Aramais heard himself screech like an irate child.

“For crying out… YUCK! Off, varlet! STOPITALREADY!”

Whitebird laughed; truly laughed for the first time in what felt like many ages of the earth.
“Oh Aramais, stop fighting, you have had your eye on me for a good while now, admit it!”

“I admit I’ve been keeping an eye on you, but not for the reasons you seem to think!”

Whitebird was clearly enjoying gently bullying Aramais. “Tell me you love me.”

“I… do not entirely dislike you.”

“And I am the fairest Elf you have ever seen.”

“Fine, leaving out that you are the only Elf I have ever seen.”

“And you want to make mad passionate love to me in the snow.”

“Not in the snow, and by no means with you.”

“Then I shall content myself with having embarrassed you.” Whitebird stood up, reaching his good hand down to help Aramais up. “Come along my friend. Let us have some mulled wine to chase away the cold and sad thoughts.”

“Aye, now that seems to me a better way to…” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with what he said next. “To mark your lover’s birthday.”

Whitebird blinked, as if suddenly realizing he was not actually alone for the first time. He had companions. He did not have to dwell in pain without solace.

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Whitebird. He smiled. “Come. I shall tell you of the time he and I poached the King’s deer and blamed it on you.”

Aramais stopped dead, astonished at what he had just heard. Whitebird began walking a little more quickly, while Aramais narrowed his eyes and growled.

“That cost me a month’s wage for venison I did not even get to taste!”

“I would not worry. It was an old stag, quite tough.”

Aramais stalked after him, irate. “Have thy laugh, Master Elf, but do not be surprised if one day you awaken bald!”

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw