Tales of Elarion

Lucar sat upon his bedroll, listening to the rain, his mind lost in the rhythm as it hammered the canvas above. His expression was blank, his eyes unfocused, but locked on the small fire burning at the tent’s entrance. Rain hissed and steamed as it fell across the logs in sheets, yet the flame never faltered.

Wind howled through the forest around them, carrying a cold sharp enough to bite through leather. The day had been mild until the clouds rolled in—but the storm had dragged winter behind it like a cloak.

He had been sitting there for some time now, waiting for morning, hiding from the memories that hunted him whenever he closed his eyes. Sleep came rarely these days, and when it did beckon, he found himself resisting—afraid of what might await him on the other side.

Across the tent, Maris slept soundly, untroubled by the nightmares that plagued him. So peaceful, he thought. Bitterness pricked at him, brief and familiar, before drifting away as quickly as it came.

A soft snore slipped from her—not loud, barely even a sound. She’d faint if she knew I heard that, he thought.

He was surprised to realize he was smiling.

Perched atop her staff, next to her bedroll was Juskar, Maris’s raven familiar. The creature never strayed far from her, and Lucar had stopped trying to understand their connection. Even asleep, the bird looked suspiciously aware, his head tucked under one wing in a way that suggested plotting rather than resting. Lucar didn’t trust him. The bird was terribly jealous of Maris and watched over her like a mad dog. At least where Lucar was concerned, the scratches on the back of his neck tingled, as if they’d been stirred by the thought. In the back of his mind, he could almost feel the bird watching him even now.

Inside, the tent was warm as a summer night. The scent of vanilla and lavender from Maris’s belongings hung thick in the air, almost suffocating. He had argued with her to keep the flap open, and he welcomed the cold air that slipped through and chilled the sweat on his face. Petrichor filled his lungs with each breath. The scent had always brought him clarity—even as a boy. Now, it only reminded him of the exhaustion he’d been holding off all these years.

He rubbed the weariness from his eyes and reached for the satchel resting atop a neat pile of his things beside the bedroll, careful not to let its contents rattle as he settled it into his lap. He unlaced the leather strap that fastened it closed. Inside was a small assortment of items, each chosen for necessity rather than sentiment. He rummaged through the bag quietly until he found what he was looking for—a narrow vial, already half empty. The fluid inside looked like liquid gold, firelight gleaming from it as he held it delicately in his fingers. He forced himself not to grimace as he took a careful sip. It was like pouring fire down his throat—if fire tasted like rot. The effect was almost instantaneous. The heat spread from his center to his limbs, burning away the fatigue and soreness that had been there moments before. It did nothing to ease his mind though.

He stretched his arms wide, his joints popping loudly in the process. When he opened his eyes, Juskar was glaring at him angrily. Lucar shot him a vulgar gesture and felt silly when the bird only stared. “Fool bird,” he muttered under his breath.

The grey of dawn was just starting to light the dark sky, and Lucar thought the rain might be letting up a little. Standing as quietly as he could, he took up his cloak, dark grey except for the emblem of the Seekers embroidered in gold upon the right breast—the metal threads impossibly thin, laid with methodical precision. The exquisitely crafted jacket looked out of place, caked in the dust and mud from their travels.

He pulled it tight around himself and bent to retrieve his sword from where it lay across the saddle on the floor. The smooth handle felt at home in his hand. For just a moment, he heard the screams he hid from echoing in his mind. He forced them away, drew a steady breath, and stepped toward the open flap. Juskar’s eyes never left him.

Outside, the wind was icy, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to him. The rain had slowed, but fell hard enough to still the forest. Silence reigned as far as he could hear—broken only by the fall of rain and the whip of wind through the trees. An impatient knicker drew his attention to the horses, and he turned to face them. Rose and Amaranth, both fine mares of Romani stock, each worth a small fortune, each too smart for their own good. Lucar respected them more than most humans.

“Yes, I see you.”

He made his way over to them, careful to avoid the deepest parts of the mud. Their excitement grew as he neared. Except for their hooves, they were completely dry, standing this close to them, Lucar could see the rain as it gently bent itself around them. Clever little trick, he thought. Reaching into the pocket of his cloak, he found the bag that held the peppermint sticks he carried just for this. The girls already knew what was coming, they stood perfectly still now, entranced by his hands. “Eh, you’ll have to share again.” He snapped one of the last two sticks in half, offering a piece to each of them. They accepted greedily. “I’ll try and find some more when we reach Clearwater.” There was no sign that they understood or agreed, but he knew they wouldn’t object.

Somewhere behind him, somewhere beyond the tent, the snap of a branch cut through the silence of the forest like a scream. Every muscle in his body tensed as he spun to face the noise. There was nothing to see—the forest was just as it had been moments ago. He realized he already had his sword half drawn, but he didn’t let it fall. He held, still as the dead, feeling the forest around him. Sudden fear gripped him, complete and suffocating, before he could think to resist it. His heart hammered, he could feel it pulsing in his eyes. His stomach turned, his throat tightening as though something were choking him, each breath harder to draw than the last. And then he heard it—“help,” soft as fine silk. His racing heart skipped two beats. The air struggling to his lungs slowed to a stop.

Maris.

Her name was his only thought, but before it had left his mind he had already crossed the clearing—one hand gripping the flap, the other his sword—Aether surged within him, he could feel it vibrating through his veins, taste the metallic bitterness on his tongue.

Maris let out a muffled cry when he burst through the flap. She was sitting on the floor, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other holding the pendant that she wore tightly. Tears glistened on her cheeks. Her hair fell in tangles around her face as she shook gently on the ground.

Juskar stood between them, feathers ruffled to make himself look larger than he was. And with his size doubled, he did look rather formidable— he did not stand down when he realized it was Lucar in the tent.

Maris choked back a small cry. “I’m sorry,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “It… it was just a dream. Just a terrible dream.” The last came out almost like a laugh. Almost. A chill ran down Lucar’s spine.

As understanding settled in, the fear bled away from him. In its place, the familiar weight that rested in his bones crept back. With a long, slow breath, he sheathed his sword and let the small amount of aether he had drawn disperse into the earth beneath him. He felt his senses dull for a moment as he adjusted to the shift.

She brushed the hair from her face with a steadiness that seemed forced, and her eyes locked onto his. “I’m fine, Lucar. Really.” He looked away, only then realizing he had been staring. Her image lingered in his mind—everything about her screamed fear, yet her eyes were cool as ice. There was something else… something on her neck. He turned his head to look at her again and met those calm eyes once more, unnervingly out of place. This time it was she who was staring. She looked away under his gaze, but he did not.

There, on her neck just below the jawline, the skin was flared red. Lucar recognized the mark. He had seen men hanged before.

“Your neck.” The words felt empty as they left his mouth. Her hands shot to the mark, betraying the calm she had been trying to hold. “What is it?” Her voice was unsteady as her fingers probed frantically, gently tracing the ring around her throat. Lucar’s eyes never moved, he could almost make out the braid of the invisible rope that had strangled her.

“Lucar, what is it?” This time her voice was steady. It carried more of the snap he was used to. His gaze lifted to meet hers. Shes scared—intuition more than thought. Her cheeks bore the red that colored her pale features when she was frustrated. She’s coming out of it though.

“It looks like someone strangled you with a rope.” He hesitated. “That shouldn’t be possible. What happened?”

Juskar, still puffed up to twice his normal size, never left her defense. She noticed him at last and, for a moment, her own fear was forgotten as she gave him a gentle stroke that slowly smoothed his feathers back to their usual silkiness. He kept eyeing Lucar from her side, as though he were certain Lucar bore some blame for this.

“Maris.” He waited until she looked at him, her gaze like green fire. His eyes flicked back to the mark despite himself. “What happened in your dream?”

Frustration—or perhaps fear, he wasn't sure—lit her features again, but in the same instant she suppressed it. Her response was measured coolness. “I can’t remember. It’s all so blurry.” Her hand darted to the necklace she wore, she caught herself just as her fingers grazed the silver chain and returned her hand to her lap. The bloom of red colored her cheeks again. Lucar held her eyes until she broke away, but he had seen her tell. He watched her for another moment as she stroked Juskar, avoiding his eyes. Then, without another word, he began gathering his things from the floor and set about readying the horses.

He was nearly finished with the saddles when Maris emerged from the tent. Even in riding robes, she looked elegant enough to grace a coronation. It never failed to puzzle Lucar why she dressed so well to ride through the mud, but he never let himself linger on the thought. As she neared Rose, he realized she had covered the mark, though he could still see it well enough. She did not glance his way once—purposefully, he thought. He took down the tent, packed away what remained of their gear, and climbed onto Amaranth. She was ready to go, ready to run, and she danced impatiently beneath him.

“We should reach Clearwater by midday if we don’t stop.”

“Only if you command it." It might have been a joke, but there was no humor to it.

"Maris, I..."

She didn't wait for him to finish the thought.

Without a sound, she urged Rose into a full run. Lucar only watched for a moment as they vanished down the path, Juskar soaring behind them.

With a long sigh, he urged Amaranth forward and set off after them.