"What strong jaws you have, my love. What a majestic coat you have, my beloved. Let us enjoy the night while we can. For tomorrow I shall be eaten by you."
~A Parish's Daughter And Foolish Lass; a satire written by Gebrud Grimm
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The garden is a thing of beauty despite its subterranean location. Glowing fungus made their home on every rock and willow trunk, the entire place illuminated in a radiance of gentle cyan. Utnapishtim has always been a city associated with piety, glory, and beauty. Yet, a garden simple by comparison may well be the most beautiful existence in a place hidden from surface view. Despite its underground environment, bluebirds and orioles are seen making their homes there. In spite of different songs being sung, every singer is nothing less than a member of the most marvellous choir. And it is in the Garden of Elen where two men, one of conflict and the other of faith, first met.
“Confessions to make, Ostiel?”
Before Liegen’s greeting, the Vánagandr extends his hand. Not towards the priest, but the sky somewhere beyond a ceiling of rocks. Very little, if any, has changed since the last time they met. That was seven years ago where the azure eyes of a broken father stayed the same. There was no restitution to be made, the damage already beyond repair. The woman he loved died. The son he promised to watch over, he abandoned. There can only be one ending to the life of Ostiel, the one whom his own kind called the Executioner due the number of the corrupted Vánagandr silenced by his fists. A living fortress is he, both in terms of determination and power. A little wonder that boy resembles his father, muses Liegen as Aeravor’s visage surfaces in his mind.
“I’ve reserved food fit for a king and wine worthy of a prince for you,” smiles Liegen, his tone one of sincere jest, “Sadly, they couldn’t wait.”
“I met a little girl six years ago. Her name was Tanee. She reminded me of my sins. I should have snatched the dead baby away from Roshamahat before she did the unthinkable. Aeravor is better off dead. In this way, no one has to suffer. Most of all, him.”
A jerkin of camel’s hair with dark brown leather pants and matching boots… a belt braided from rope with its buckle of bronze utterly worn… this was the same set of garb since the day a weary Vánagandr stumbled upon this garden. Eyes of azure blue, a broken nose, and elven looks with a scar running diagonally from forehead to his cheek… together with his kind’s stark white hair held in a short ponytail, nothing has changed.
“All of us have sinned, greatly and otherwise,” answers the elderly parish, his visage that of pity, “Let alone yourself. This is why salvation has always been the favourite topic for the clergy to discuss and debate.”
A booming laughter reverberates throughout the surroundings, its echoes as loud as a lion’s roar. The birds flutter in response, Liegen in turn maintains his calm with a faint smile. He knows what his old friend needs the most. Ostiel has no use for salvation. Instead, he seeks redemption. To set right the mistakes he committed in the past, to lay to rest what has always been haunting him like a pack of spectres.
Spectres… huh?
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Damn it. Not him again. And that meadow under a blue full moon where a campfire is burning. Why always this place? He better not lecture me over the fact that I went without disguise at Lindel. The Shroud of Hati is damn useful, I’ll give it that. After all, no sane Vánagandr would want to enter any settlement beyond Ván for the sake of being seen. Then again, no one ever accused me of being normal. They called me a monster, the Monster of Ván. So why should I pull off an illusion just like them? As for those dumb, drunk, and loud idiots, they’re barking up the wrong tree. What a shame to know that I’ve actually wasted moments of my life entertaining them. Ah well, at least I did use the Shroud of Hati afterwards.
“Hail, my dear disciple. I assume you’re fine.”
With a single gesture, I tell Erik Sohren to eat shit. Bastard refuses to leave me alone. Just stay dead and don’t come back again.
“Good. Your reaction assures me that things are going well.”
“Yeah, right. I’ve yet to pay my previous whore for her great service. Why are you here anyway?”
“You mean why I am here again.”
If this isn’t some sort of dream, I’d have strangled that arsehole. Either that or I’d just stab him with the Edge of Answerer. And to think he was the one who gave me that sword. Something about a hero’s weapon. Never a hero and never will be? What kind of bullshit is this? That Jinn el-Gilgam must have been pathetic enough to use such a phrase to impress Claudia von Stormhearth.
“When are you going back to Airgetlám?”
Wonderful. So he’s worried about me after all. Worried about whether or when I’ll get married.
“No, I’m not going back there. No, I’m not going back to Ineis von Stormhearth even though she’s a goddess in bed.”
“Don’t be childish. You know there lies the gateway to your goal. If you believe you can take on Aor on your terms, think again.”
Nothing changed a single bit since the last time we met. Then again, he died three days later. A sturdy build, fuzzy chin, shoulder length black hair, and dressed in brown and green... I never felt sorry for him. And besides, he never told me much about his life apart from the fourth ruler of Causacea who happened to be a woman. How amusing given that he’s always single and never seen with a whore. What a waste of his elven blood. I pity his disappointed human father. Or should it be his disappointed elven father?
“I don’t mind facing him on his own terms. And by that, I mean the jackass appearing before me in a puff of smoke.”
Well, what do I see here? Erik Sohren frowning like some angry grandfather? Good. The look has never failed to amuse me. He taught me how to be a ranger, but he always enjoyed lecturing me about getting some kind of life beyond killing and whoring. Might as well tell me to go back and shaft Ineis to her heart’s content.
“You idiot. You mean it’s perfectly fine for him to manipulate you? Aor is the closest thing to a god. He observes everything beneath the canopy that is Avalon. Trust me, he doesn’t need thaumaturgy to pull the strings. His mind is that dangerous.”
“I’ve dealt with Edeaux de Serpentwine before. So it’s not a big deal since I know a scheming bastard when I see one.”
Erik places a palm on his face, his head bowed slightly. That’s a priceless sight. Again, I managed to piss him off. Then he gives me that cold hard glare with those hazel eyes of his. I’ve seen that look before. It means he’s going to use his axe and someone’s going to lose his head minus the chopping block. Last time that happened, some poor arsehole got split in two parts in a single stroke after boasting about beating his wife. If you can’t do it from head to balls, do it across the waist instead. But I don’t understand why he’s got a problem with men who beat their wives. Maybe it’s because gods don’t exist in a world where divine justice means pissing on your enemy’s gods in order to glorify your gods. I don’t know Erik’s gods, though.
“Aor is different from the Serpent of Histalonia. One sees things from above, the other perceives circumstances from a straight line. That snake is smart, I’ll give him that. But…”
Getting up, I leave the Bear of Tara to his own business. But not before I give him a parting shot and a smug grin.
“But he’s not a god. No one is. Therefore, I can kill anything that moves. Thanks for the Edge of Answerer by the way.”
“What about your father?”
Shit, I should have known he’s going to pull that off. Annoying arsehole. I choose to walk away. But not before I turned back and gave him my sellsword’s salute.
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Autumn has entered its first day, a carpet of gold and red formed below the trees. This was the day Eirlanna Ulst-Eliaden passed away, the cause of death being an unrepentant child of mischief playing with a tinderbox. No one saw how bad the burns were, not even Alestrial herself was given a glimpse. From the infirmary to the coffin, no one got to see her mother for the final time. Except Louthes Gaius Eliaden. If her father did spend an entire lifetime loving a woman who never reciprocated his feelings, his visage never betrayed bitterness and regret. Till this very day, his face stays the same: That of a man willing to be hurt for the sake of a woman he chose to love.
“Mother, I’ll be getting married next summer. You told me to follow my heart whenever possible. This isn’t one of these moments.”
Before Alestrial’s words, the tombstone remains cold and unyielding. This is where her mother was laid to her final rest eight winters ago. She remembers the swift and brutal manner of her father’s reprisal. Weeks before the fire which claimed the life of Eirlanna Ulst-Eliaden, the mischievous boy was reprimanded in public. Not by his father or mother, but the sole daughter of House Ulst. Despite the nature of his act, the arsonist showed no remorse. He even mocked her mother, his wicked sin igniting a bonfire of wrath within the Cinha daughter of House Eliaden. As a smallborne, however, he forgot one thing: That as part of the nobility, her father has the right to exercise a noble’s writ. By issuing a written order demanding a retrial, Louthes Eliaden effectively rigged the outcome. False witnesses rose up against the accused, a convicted murderer ended up begging for mercy as he was dragged towards the gallows. Her father’s conduct shocked her unto the very core, for how could someone with a high reputation of honour stoop so low? It was then when Alestrial realised how much a man like him could love a woman who never loved him back in the first place.
“Have you ever loved somebody else?”
Again, the tombstone never give a reply.
“Never would I be surprised if your mother did.”
The speaker’s voice is all too familiar, Alestrial turning around sharply in shock. There before her wide-eyed stare is the man whom she calls father, his towering frame marred by the sight of a cane in hand. His sapphire blue eyes remind the Cinha of Gael, but this is the look of a hardened man, not one of a fiery youth. Dressed in finery and sombre colours, Louthes Gaius Eliaden had his hair slicked backwards. Its length reaches the nape of his neck, its raven black lustre blemished by spots of grey.
Walking towards the block of lifeless marble stone marking the final resting place of Eirlanna Ulst-Eliaden, Louthes kneels down with support from his cane made from ivory. Here rests Eirlanna Ulst. Here rests a woman who never loved him back. Here rests a woman who chose the image of a love unattainable. Here rests the only woman he loved throughout his lifetime. Memories assail Louthes like a relentless beast out to rend its prey, like that bare-handed knave who broke his leg.
“I don’t know who you are and I don’t care about this Eirlanna you’re talking about. There’s only one woman I’ve ever loved. So begone, fool. Before I teach you a lesson.”
“Alas, m’lady Eirlanna. The fracture is unable to heal properly. I fear m’lord Louthes has to cut short an illustrious military career.”
“Why did you face him? Why were you so foolish to challenge a Vánagandr?”
“Because I love you, Eirlanna,” whispers a wounded Louthes, his face mere inches from the tombstone, “Even though you chose to love another man countless times more powerful than me.”
)0(
“Mother, here I am. Standing on the ground which has given you many a sorrow.”
Despite the manner of words uttered, nary an anguish was heard from Ineis' peach pink lips. It was not for the lack of love from a daughter to her mother. Claudea von Stormhearth had taken her own fair share of paramours, but none of them was equal to the two prideful men who broke her heart. The Homm’Nua believed in love, but not marriage. Yet, love was meant to be cherished sincerely, not something obtainable by force. This was why Claudea chose to let go. And by letting go, she allowed herself to be pierced by sorrow and loss. Not once, but twice. Ineis tried convincing herself that it’s because those two didn’t deserve her mother’s love. But her father told her a different story. Desche de Lancebarb recounted the tears his beloved shed, his words eroding the image of an infallible goddess worshipped by an impressionable little girl.
“Your mother cried for two prideful men of lowly status, men who never bent the knee unlike so many others above them. One was a ranger. The other was a traitor’s son. Yet, she never regretted pursuing an unattainable dream even after all things came to an end.”
Only three days passed since the full mourning period for the Crown ended, Ineis' curiosity towards an outside world giving the previous monarch of the Homm’Nua so much hurt finally sated. Despite insistence from both sides of the Sidhe, the daughter of Claudea von Stormhearth and Desche de Lancebarb decided to set foot on the soil which unwittingly shaped the history of her people. From what was previously known as Eastoria to the once unified Causacea, she saw plenty with very little impressing her. The Cinhas amused her with their petty morality, but it was worth nothing more than a play lasting mere moments. The Kalarans fared nowhere better, their self-righteousness a farcical sham. The Slarvs were the only ones worth remembering, their love for freedom a thing in common with her. Then there were those prudish Teutonians.
What a way to end my journey, mused Ineis with a yawn. If only she could visit the south and the mountains separating it from the rest of the world. Then again, Lauranc de Hallstone was there with her, his presence both a source of assurance and hindrance. This was a trustworthy person, one who has never behaved selfishly. The same could not be said about the rest of the Sidhe, be they the Seelie or his fellow Unseelie. Alas for his sense of duty, a stumbling stone to her desire for exploration.
“At least we’re at the most interesting part. This better be good,” huffed the newly crowned queen, her frown revealing undisguised a visitor bored, “No places worth my time apart from Slarvea. And even then…”
“It’s a place of too much grass and too little fun,” smirked Lauranc as he adjusted his monocle, “Even though the Slarvs did brighten your mood considerably, it seems to me that Your Majesty will always judge a place by both the people and buildings.”
“Of course,” answered Ineis with a toss of her brunette hair.
“Welcome to the fief of Gastony. That is had it not been renamed as Ván.”
Before the speaker, Lauranc de Hallstone gave a wry grin. Years have passed since their last meeting. There has always been a streak of wanderlust in him despite his political status, the occasional thirst demanding to be slaked every now and then. He would travel for days in a specific place, for many were the things and people attracting his observant mind. Then he would report back for duty. Claudea von Stormhearth knew a talent when she saw one, mayhap ‘tis the reason why his actions were tolerated, if not accepted.
“Hail, Salandra of Gastony. That is had it not been renamed as Ván,” greeted Lauranc with a bow, his tone of jest not lost on the female Vánagandr.
She was dressed in a simple garb of grey and brown, the end of her tunic reaching the ankles. Her hair of wintry white was cut short, its length reaching just above the shoulders with the fringe covering her eyebrows. Despite the manner of her words, sadness was in her eyes of azure blue. Lauranc knew why such a sorrow existed in the first place, for this was a grieving mother’s visage.
“You better quit giving others that look. That boy is never your responsibility, Sally.”
“It seems you’re no different from the rest, Lauranc. I’m so disappointed,” chuckled Salandra with a shrug, “No one understands me. Not even you.”
“Firstly, I’m not your man. Secondly, that kid belongs to another woman. Thirdly…”
“It’s all Ostiel’s fault for reneging on the vow he gave to Roshamahat. Great way to tell me why I shouldn’t look after a kid who doesn’t belong to me, Lauranc.”
“Wait… who is this kid you two are talking about?”
Her curiosity piqued, Ineis' question was much more than a mere interruption. Lauranc was at a loss for words, for he knew what kind of person his liege was. As for Salandra, she saw something in the brunette elven girl. It was a power which all the Vánagandr were familiar with. Like the dwarves and elves who retained their memories relating to the Age of Renown, they never lost the ability to sense any dormant form of magic. For magic, be it thaumaturgy or metallurgy, was the reason why the Age of Renown existed, prospered, and ultimately ended.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Ineis, her displeasure directed towards Salandra, “I’ve heard about your kind. All sorts of unkind compliments. You’re making me uncomfortable, do you know that?”
“And who may you be?”
Salandra’s stoic reply stung Ineis badly, her anger bursting forth like a conflagration.
“How dare you speak to me in this manner? If not for my mother, you and your brethren would have never existed!”
“So I see,” smiled Salandra, a thumb placed over her lips, “The daughter of Claudea von Stormhearth. Pardon my impudence, Your Royal Highness.”
Ineis could only try reining in her anger. She knew a mocker when one was present before her eyes. This impudent woman happened to be one of them. How dare she? How dare she? How dare she addressed her mother in this tone?
“Stop it, the two of you,” standing between Ineis and Salandra, Lauranc stared at the Vánagandr while shaking his head, “Do not get me into trouble. You know not the politics played by the Sidhe.”
“So those two bickering factions are still at it, huh? Good. Let them fight each other until the world is gone. Either that or until everyone is dead.”
Before Salandra’s answer to Lauranc’s rebuke, Ineis laughed out loud, her peals of mirth amusing Salandra. While she never saw first-hand the ins and outs of elven politics, Claudea von Stormhearth would always mention it to a random Vánagandr during Gandr de Morte’s death anniversary every season. There’s something in her. Like mother like daughter, mused the Vánagandr. And so much more than that, for standing in front of her wasn’t just a queen. She was a witch, but no ordinary witch. She was a Norn, one of the three going by the name of Verðandi.
Then tremors shook the very ground they were standing on as Ineis fell on her buttocks. For a brief moment, Salandra found the sight of a queen in such a position amusing. Then the humour was gone from her eyes. Aeravor was at it again, his boredom acting up in yet another show of whimsical idiocy. Vulgarities spewed under her breath, this was one of those times when Salandra felt like strangling Roshamahat’s brat. Miraculously, such a thought has yet to translate itself into deed.
“So much for dragging me into Tamuria and getting Rosha pregnant, Ostiel.”
As for Ineis, she was sharp enough to detect the very instant of mockery from that impudent jaeger. After all, there was no love lost between the Homm’Nua and those they showered contempt upon even before Gandr de Morte did the unthinkable. At the end of the day, once a half-blood, forever one. With nary a heed given to what might lie ahead, the angry ruler of a people gave pursuit.
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“How could I have forgotten it?” Ineis chuckles aloud as a familiar figure reveals a smirk, “But never did I imagine female jaegers to be so powerful.”
Countless years have passed since Aeravor left Airgetlám, yet another one of his own remained behind. Despite insults and feuds, the Vánagandr recognise the need to maintain a decent semblance of professional relationship when it comes to dealing with demons. An enemy of the enemy, after all, is a friend. Salandra was chosen as the ambassador, she ended up as Lauranc’s paramour. Even up till today, a fact which she still finds ever so refreshing. Nothing changed since their first meeting where Salandra is concerned. Ever the same look, even the same manner of clothes. Detractors be damned, let their words burn to ashes. Such has been her way of dealing with others, for reality is a cruel man’s game and ceding an inch of ground would invite acres lost.
“The males hunt, but the females protect. Behind an army, a fortress must stand. Gleipnir isn’t just something restraining what is otherwise uncontrollable. It is also harnessed to protect the entire Ván, be it through illusions or preventing any of our own destroying it from inside.”
To an outsider, Salandra’s words would have invoked scorn and disbelief. After all, who would believe any one of them to be unrestrainable by their own kind? Yet, there is a reason why there are those in the pack who must be culled before things spiral beyond control. Gleipnir is a self-restraining power akin to part of the body, hence it can also be used freely like how blood comes out from the heart. Magic done through chaos is thaumaturgy, every usage requiring two mental images: The desired outcome and two runes making the said result possible. By receiving one tenth of every Vánagandr’s Gleipnir, the fief of Ván became a place rife with ever-changing illusions and chains of raw power binding any wayward member within its borders should that individual’s power threaten its stability. Gjöll is both the source of power and downfall for the Vánagandr. For it is commonly said that absolute power corrupts absolutely and no power can be as absolute as Gjöll.
Aeravor was different from the rest since the day he was born. He was meant to be dead before birth, his mother’s womb was to be his tomb instead. But little did anyone know Roshamahat al-Akkhad was a witch, a woman bound to any one of the Nine Circles. And with this very power, Aeravor became a homunculus instead of a normal living being. Hence, what fetters the latter may not be that which binds the former. The Vánagandr pride themselves in steel and magic. The former depends on ruthless technique, the latter a case of controlling and using raw power. Aeravor was unable to excel in the former. Yet, he displayed a startling level of command for the latter. This invited brutal taunts and cruel blows from his peers, for this was an anomaly. No one stood up for him, for sympathy apart from those related by blood was frowned upon. Everyone was against him, for retaliation from one brethren against another was forbidden. Harsh competition was what made any pack of wolves a destructive force against demons, outnumbered or otherwise.
Then it happened. That obnoxious boy was an idiot to push him beyond the edge. A single remark likening him to pus flowing from between his mother’s legs was all it took for Aeravor to perform a reprehensible act called kinslaying. Salandra remembered the scene too well, for she was there. Fast enough to register trouble was near, but not swift enough to prevent it from happening.
His eye turned crimson red for a moment, an iron grip strangling the fool who dared to corner him. It was also the moment where fire ascended from the ground. The flames consumed the screaming victim, the conflagration forming a fiery wall. Aeravor’s laughter was both maniacal and chilling. It resembled the howling of a wolf, his head thrown back laughing in malicious mirth. He dropped a set of charred remains on the ground, a foot crushing the blackened skull with callous force.
As for Ineis, the image of a boy around her age chained and surrounded by standing stones remains ever so haunting. His azure eyes showed no regard to his predicament, his grin mocked whatever awaiting him. This was a look which brought out the envy in her. This was the kind of look she always desired, yet can never hope to have. Many are those desiring freedom, but very few are the ones truly obtaining it. And he’s one of them. This was why she chose to let him go. There can be no place in the world able to tie him down, no person capable of being his real Gleipnir. Alas, how can she forget the words Aeravor daringly spoke? How can she throw aside memories involving a deal uttered in the name of temerity and insanity?
“You interest me with those daring eyes of yours, Norn. Let’s make a deal, shall we? Come back after a hundred years. If I’m still here by then, I’ll be yours. But only for seventy years.”
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Glossary
Noble's writ: The power to lodge an appeal after the verdict of any settled case. It is an exclusive right for the nobility both minor and greater, for the smallborne do not have such a privilege.Jaeger: The actual definition refers to either a hunter or a type of bird species. Here in this work, it's a racial insult for Vánagandr. Ironically, this is also an accurate indication of how good they are at hunting demons. Maybe the elves are jealous, who knows?
Additional notes:
1. Ostiel is originally named Rowein. But that's because I wasn't creative enough to think up of other names. Neverwinter Online, however, changed the situation due to the various giants' names in Storm King's Thunder.2. Roshamahat as a name is inspired by Shamhat from Epic of Gilgamesh. Al means "daughter of" while the masculine variation would be El. Hence, Akkhad was the name of Roshamahat's father. Although it came from the name Akkad, the capital city of the Akkadian Empire.
3. Verðandi is a real name in mythology. More specifically, Norse mythology.
4. I did a brief check on the Norns to double confirm whether there's only three of them. Apparently, there were more than just the three most famous ones. Either way, Norns in this work would stop at three.
5. Gleipnir and Gjöll are real mythological terms related to Fenrir. Gleipnir was the cord restraining the wolf while Gjöll was the Norse version of the river Styx.
6. Gebrud Grimm is a nod to Die Gebrüder Grimm. In case you don't understand German (actually, I don't as well), it's them.
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