The Legend of Boräsmor Solson
𝄋 I 𝄋
The weak sun retreated beyond the weathered ridges to the horizon, letting the encroaching darkness seep into the forested valley. Near its top, the dark woods thinned out into the rugged moorland, revealing a small village by the winding river. In the pens and stables, hornless reindeer took shelter from the cold valley wind, while gentle light from wooden houses kept them warm above the thin layer of snow. In the middle of this seemingly unassuming village sat a large, long house, its bright lights and rowdy noises signifying its unusual inhabitants.
Beneath the smooth, arched roof laid rows of tables and benches illuminated by the warm glow emanating from lamps. Mugs, glasses, dishes, and bowls were scattered across the tables, the scents of alcohol, roasted meat, spice, and herbs joining the chorus of joy as their warm content was steadily consumed by the men and women sitting on the benches. With the chilling world isolated from the hall, the people – humans, elves, and palkyries alike – enjoyed their precious respite here, downing cured meat and pickled vegetables alike while carousing with each other. This was further encouraged by the melody echoing between the wooden walls, its impeccable rhythm moderating the hearts and minds of the people.
All of these came from the well-dressed figure sitting at the end of the hall, on the padded chair on top of an elevated platform. Her closed eyes and faint smile gave a calm, almost serene expression to all witnesses, further accentuated by the long legs and pointy ears that signified her nature as an elf. Unlike her resting face and posture, though, her hands never stopped their motions, flowing smoothly while her fingers danced on the stringed neck and bow of her ornate fiddle. Every strike and bounce persuaded the strings to sing to her silent commands, the clear notes melting into the air like waves in a windless lake. Dissipating into the boisterous chorus, the music flowed back into her pointy ears, letting her adjust her performance according to the intricacies between the seeming cacophony of the carousers.
Among them, her sharp senses picked up a faint, unusual noise. Her eyes opened and let her golden eyes look across the dining hall, to the main door of the building that just opened. Some other people cast their gaze towards it as well, likely because of the cold wind coming from the darkening outside. From it came a panting man, a palkyrie clad in thick, reinforced clothes as he walked past the others towards the elf. She tipped her head slightly to acknowledge his presence, but at the same time her hands continued their play. The soothing music was never interrupted, simply slowly transitioning into a different, calmer verse. Just like her fiddle, the noise from the crowd was subtly tuned down for what was to come.
“Lady Boräsmor,” bowed the visitor once he stopped before the elevated platform, only stepping on it once his greeting was affirmed by the player with a smiling nod. As the song continued, the palkyrie approached Boräsmor to her side, before whispering into her ear, “Ptalginëpak sent me to inform you that his force is in position.”
“Very well,” answered Boräsmor, her calm tone mixed into her music as the man’s breathing became steady. As she continued, so did her music as it approached the last verse. Without missing a beat, the fiddle slowed down its pace, the crystal-clear notes melting into a soft, continuous flow, her fingertips dancing on the strings, guiding the flow like polished rocks in a stream.
“We’ll move out soon,” reiterated the lady as she pulled her bow one last time, the harmony from her fiddle gradually dissolving into the air as the men took one final sip from her beverage. Heeding her wordless command, they stood up from their seats and left the longhouse to prepare for the fighting to come. “Would you like to join us in combat? Your skills would be useful for me.”
Gentle snow fell from the darkening sky as the people lined up in the small clearing between the village and the wooded valley. The joyous atmosphere from the feast had been extinguished by the thick coats they now wore. With almost all of them being personal belongings or generous donations from the locals, they were no uniforms as no two coats were identical. However, the presence of belts both keeping the coats somewhat form-fitting, as well as pieces of armor fastened on crucial body parts showed that they were nonetheless being prepared for battle.
In their hands, a myriad of guns, axes, and poles both with and without blades served as their weapons. On their body, in addition to the pieces of armor made of hardened leather, hide, and metal, all of them also carried with them an oil lamp made of dulled silver. Even though all of them were filled, none of them were lit. Beneath them, some of the palkyries were comforting their reindeer mount, while the others stood on their skis, occasionally breaking their stance to swipe the dry snow off their clothes. Although all of them were here of their own volition, their desire to fight for the cause of their homeland, even the warm liquor in their stomach was not able to fully erase the fear clinging to their mind.
They were not alone, however, as the lights from the village had moved to the clearing as well. Armed with little more than thick clothes and snowshoes, they were busy loading their sleds with supplies, and sleights with rough bundles of branches. On the other side of the formation, the first rank of troops was given the honor of witnessing their leader walking before them. Just like other elves, Boräsmor’s body bopped up and down as she walked on her forefoot. While they were well-adapted to their way of walking, the elven lady bore a special elegance hinting at her refined age beyond her appearance, adding a touch of mystery to her unearthly aura. Donning a hat adorned with owl feathers and a soft white fur coat on top of her lavender dress, she carried with herself her embellished fiddle as she approached her sleigh to the side. As her fingers caressed the fragrant, resined strings and bow, it was clear that she was ready for another performance for her men.
Only this time, it would not be a song for carousal. No, it would be a song for war.
After closing her eyes for a brief moment as her aides whispered something into her ears, Boräsmor opened her amber eyes once more. Her lithe thumb slid between the hair and the stick, before the rest of her fingertips gently held onto the bow. Then, with a smooth pull, the men were once again bathed in her music. It was a heavier composition, with her fingertips marching back and forth on the strings like soldiers on patrol. With that command, the soldiers lifted their poles and propelled themselves in unison, letting the skis carry them forward. The sound of tarred boards sliding on the melting snow was joined by the clicking sound of reindeer riders marching on the flank, together serving as accompaniment to her music. As they entered the woods, the performance gradually melted into the dark woods. Soon, the outside world fell into silence once more, with only a hint of the somber music entwined within the valley breeze.
Weaving between the waxy trees, the soldiers soon made their way to the other side of the valley, where another clearing presented itself to them. Before they could flow out of the pale forest, though, the bow in the elven hand slowed down, the rhythm guiding their pace swallowed by the dark woods, and so did their movement. The column was thinned out by the absence of the cavalry, their ranks instead infiltrated by the trees of the forest, the shades concealing their presence as their eyes looked forward at their target.
The dry forest gave way to the clearing at the bottom of the valley, its winding stream leading to a village flanked by a frozen lake and a small ridge, a gentle slope molded by strange powers in the distant past. Its unknowable nature did not stop others from using it, though, as lights from torches and lamps illuminated the wooden fortification enveloping the village and the rolling hills. Beyond the short palisade surrounding the village, shallow trenches carved the end of the valley and the icy shore, with discrete lines of stakes stretching to the hills. Under the flicking lights, the soldiers could see their counterparts stationed along the impromptu defense line, while the hills were home to several manned cannons, their barrels overlooking the plains beyond.
It was not a large garrison, a temporary base erected by the enemies on an abandoned village. They only planned to stay until the long night had passed, then the warm sun would illuminate their way across the frozen lake towards their destination. Even so, they were more numerous than the small unit following Boräsmor, and their defensive position and cannons would devastate them in battle with all things being equal.
However, not all things were equal. To the enemies, this foreboding land was an enemy; but to Boräsmor and her people, who had called this frigid land home for generations, the frigid white land was but a force of nature like fire. Fire could maim and kill them just like it could others, but fire could also be mastered to forge their arms and light their way.
Fire could also cleanse the land of sin.
As the fighters waited anxiously at their next command, the elf lifted her fingertip from the string and led it to her lips. Giving it a gentle lick, she raised her now-moistened finger into the air, giving her already sharp senses an ever better touch of the still air between the trees. With the silvery moon peeking from the blue-gray clouds and needle leaves, she knew the time would come…
Now.
The performing conductor returned her hands to the position and tucked her bow. Hair from the bow pulled against the strings, slowly filling the silent woods like fog in early morning. The droning sound permeated the still air and the men standing among the trees. They could feel the tension in the air, winding them up like puppets being prepared by their puppeteer. As the invisible strings strained against their body, it felt almost as if the air itself had frozen solid, with the warmth filling their stomach being the only thing keeping their bodies upright.
Then, the violent mountain wind caught up to them, scattering the powdery snow across the valley into a gale of thick fog, rushing towards the blindsided enemies. The sudden squall would gradually stabilize as the valley was stripped of most of its snow from the day-long buildup. However, for them, the storm had just begun. Taking a deep breath, Boräsmor’s golden eyes narrowed and her bow soared to its zenith. For a brief moment, the world felt the silence, as if even nature was holding its breath in anticipation for the next stanza.
Focusing her mind on her instrument, she let go of her breath. Like a falcon locking on its prey, the bow made a sharp dive, its enchanted hair whet the strings, the swishing sound piercing through the singular mind of the soldiers. The warm sensation inside their body ignited into a burning flame rushing through their vein, exorcising every ounce of fear and hesitation from their mind. The silvery lamps on their body flared up at the same time, illuminating the forest in crimson. She wasted no time at the end of the bow, her hand turning the swift movement upward, pushing the bow lightly against the strings as her index finger tapped on the bow in rhythm. With each tap, the shrieking wind was broken into rhythmic measures, and the soldiers felt the tension anchoring them in place converted into moderated heartbeat as well. Receiving the command by heart, they raised their hands and tail in unison, their ski poles propelling them forward at the same time. Like the dense snowy wind, the army poured out from the woods towards the enemy line.
The red lights on them pierced through the dusty snow, illuminating their specter blood red. Through the snowstorm, panicked enemy cries fell on deaf ears, for their cacophony could not hold a candle to Boräsmor’s performance. Disorganized shots slashed through the terrible wind between the honed soldiers, but only a few met their end in the poor salvo, their blood adding to the red mist descending upon the defensive line. The fiddle urged the soldiers forward, their widening eyes barely turning to their fallen comrades as they raised their guns against the emerging enemy line. The moment they witnessed the whites in their foe’s fearful eyes, their lower limbs turned and halted their movement, spending barely enough time to steady their aim before pulling the trigger.
In such a short distance, the attuned salvo was as deafening as it was deadly. A shower of lead plowed through the quivering garrison, chill blood smearing across screaming faces as those not blessed with fortitude pulled themselves away from the trench back towards the comfort of the village. Most of them would not find solace in their desertion, however, as the halted ranks were overtaken by another rank of scarlet shadows, their barrels trailing on the now-exposed soldiers. Another hail of lead joined in the chorus, as did the cries of those felled by the volley. As the smell of sulfur and iron tainted the gushing wind, the brief verse reached its end, and the attackers lowered or dropped their guns.
It was time for the chorus.
Boräsmor’s fingers paced along the strings, her bow trilling as notes leaped from the tense strings like a flash flood. Like shattering ice, the soldiers drew their blades at the same time. With a tuck against the knots or a press against well-crafted buckles, the warriors released themselves from the skis. Without such hindrance, they raised their gleaming steel and charged, compelling any foe still in their way to flee or stand and meet their honorable end. The clean sounds of the well-tuned fiddle jounced across the killing field, like finches fluttering away from diving owls, pushing through the freezing gust into the dark red sky.
The conductor’s fingers danced on the strings lightly, joining the reindeer as they pulled the sleds and sleighs forward, With the music chasing the falling front line, the villagers, blessed with only their proximity to the graceful music, pushed the bundled wood into the now-deserted trenches and pulled any fallen soldiers onto the sleigh – either to deliver them from harm, or to what would become their funeral dirge. As the sleighs left behind trails of red, the lady could not spare any attention to them lest she led her arcane music astray. Yet, as the wintry wind continued to embrace her, she could not help but blink just a little longer, moistening her golden eyes against the coldness.
Far beyond the blazing lights of the garrison, pale shadows concealed themselves among the trees at the end of the meadows. The eyes of the hunters pierced through the nightly veil, their superior vision under the dimmed heaven allowing them to discern the panicked soldiers at the top of the small hill. Through faint echoes of screams and yells, the garrison hurried to turn the battery towards the commotions from the valley, unknowingly turning their back against the lurking palkyries.
Knowing the assault was well underway, the palkyrie retreated from the indigo bush and towards his mount. A venerable hunter by trade, his hair had since gained the same silvery tint as his goddess, but the steely eyes remained stalwart as ever. His aide was the opposite of him – his hair, not washed by decades of experience, retained a pastel pink tint, and his wide, green eyes were filled with youthful energy yet to be sapped by the sands of time. However, just like age had not diminished Ptalginëpak, lack of it had not deterred Anulÿm either. His young and lithe body was toned, showing the kind of discipline he had been instilled in his life as a fighter.
With Anulÿm’s help, Ptalginëpak rode onto the saddle of his trusted steed and held onto his sword-staff. Its straight blade glinted under the pale moonlight, but the well-stained shaft hinted at his myriad past exploits. The reindeerman turned the reins aside, guiding his mount to turn him towards his subordinates. His unit was small in both numbers and statue, as was common for his kind, but their skills as seasoned hunters, and coordination with his compatriots, were more than enough to compensate for a peculiar hunt like this. Once the gray eyes confirmed that his men were ready, his mount pointed itself towards the distant camp once more. He raised his bannered pole as a silent signal, and the detachment rode out from the concealment of the trees, and into the concealment of the night.
Hinted by only the clicking and clopping of reindeer, and the hushed breaths of their riders, the cavalry trotted across the open fields as fast as they could. By the time the distracted defenders spotted their advances, they were already by the foot of the hill. As the soldiers pointed and cried, a grin emerged on Ptalginëpak’s face – he no longer had to suppress himself for the sake of stealth. With that, the palkyrie leader took a deep breath and lifted his torso up proud. Before him, his enemies were stumbling to load their guns and rotate the cannons around; behind him, the tightly packed wedge had already prepared themselves, their experience requiring no prompts from the elder.
“Ver munim ríða eilifliga!” chanted the elder as his left hand raised the banner, his right hand and tail holding the sword-staff forward against the first rank of foes.
“Frann ok skirr!” answered the rest of the palkyrie riders, their weapons pointing straight and true in unison. Even though not many of them were familiar with the ancient tongue of their fabled ancestors, they nonetheless knew its meaning by heart. Their feet pressed against the stirrup and shifted their balance forward, their hand and tail holding their polearms steady, and their eyes narrowed on their foe as the trot turned into a full gallop, the gentle slope of the hill doing little to curb their momentum.
The few disordered shots were drowned out by the loud thuds as the garrison bore the full force of the cavalry charge. Utterly unprepared for the attack against their rear, the disarrayed soldiers could not hold against the palkyries, with many of them crushed beneath the hooves or impaled by the thundering wall of blades. The few who survived did so by abandoning their positions early, leaving their cannons half-turned and torches dispersed among the thin, dusty snow.
At the top of the hill, Ptalginëpak could now witness the extent of their allies’ advances. The fog of snow had been replaced by that of gunpowder and fire. Corpses and soon-to-be corpses lay scattered along the filled trenches. Chaotic skirmishes erupted between tilted houses and toppled wagons. Sharp slashes and dull shots intertwined with howls and wails into a violent, yet baroque cacophony. Indulging himself for just a moment, the palkyrie quickly resumed his duty. His ironclad tail let go of the drenched spear and onto the flag, marking it with red as it unfurled the wrapped banner. As the reindeer trotted around the hill, pale moonlight pierced through the night veil and illuminated the banner for all to see.
The sight of the four-pointed star of Vinäg brandished on top of the battery chiseled away the resolves of the defenders, but more importantly, it signaled the beginning of a new verse, one that would conclude the crimson performance in the way intended. For a brief moment, the music stopped as if the snowy fog condensed into invisible ice. The eerie silence paused even some of the fights, as the fighters on both sides looked on with unease, gulping in anticipation of what was to come.
The breve rest soon dissipated, the invisible ice cracked and crumbled, as if rays of moonlight condensed into wooden raindrops, spinning and churning in the ominous air above, guided only by faint, ghostly echoes of the previous verses. The clicking noises were quiet, audible only by the abrupt silence created by the rest. However, it soon became louder and louder, its rhythm coalescing into a full gallop as the cavalry detachment answered the elven bard-magician’s summon over the now-filled trenches.
It was not as numerous or as tightly packed as Ptalginëpak’s unit, the men led by the messenger were able to split quickly between obstacles, like a braided river meandering between tiny islands. Armed with light weapons and short firearms, these fast-moving riders seized the temporary confusion of the enemy and broke the skirmishes in their favor, seeping through that remained of the defensive lines. No longer able to hold their positions even under the cover of houses and barricades, the remaining defenders finally routed, abandoning their arms and fleeing towards the only direction that had not been occupied yet – the frozen lake. Just as they planned.
“Psahisël! Mimirhar! Come help me with this!” shouted Anulÿm, perhaps realizing the same thing. With help from two of the other riders, the dismounted palkyrie moved to commandeer one of the cannons on the hill, turning its loaded barrel towards the lake. His tail took hold of the torch and with a swift turn, its fiery touch caressed the fuse, setting it ablaze as the sparks sank into the well-weathered bronze.
Without warning, the metallic beast spitted out its scorching breath, from which a hail of iron cleaved through the nightly breeze and onto the thin ice in front of the routing garrison. The explosion briefly overwhelmed even the music of war, purging all sounds before its deafening droning was shattered into millions of pieces, accompanied by the sound of heavy objects plunging into the water. By the time the defenders halted before the jagged shores and turned around, the attackers were already upon them, their lifted fingers and tugged reins the only things delaying their fate.
Once the splashing noises ceased, silence dominated the wake of the battlefield once more. Moonlight flickered on the calming waters, the last notes of Boräsmor’s performance dissipating in the quiet night, until its faint echo could not be heard anymore. The elf stood up from her sleigh and looked upon her works, and her golden eyes softened. No longer powered by her magical song, the lights on the fiddle and in the lamps dimmed, signaling her to cradle her instrument and bow with a light smile as the curtain of night fell once more.
Interlude
The gentle winter sun rose from the crooked horizon once more, illuminating the valleys, villages, and lakes of Vinäg again. Pyres and pikes were erected across the grassy fields, where those fallen in battle would leave this world and, with faith, enter the next. Along the icy lakeside, on the other hand, laid the drenched bodies of deserting garrison who had fallen into the lakes during their flight, their final decision barring them from the graves of warriors.
The new, rightful owners of this deserted village did not waste any of the short, precious daytime. Apart from those assigned to guard duties, they had been busy repairing the damage done last night, at the same time gathering all the spoils from their defeated foes. In the village square, multiple sleds and sleighs were being loaded with carts’ worth of supplies and weapons. Those not distracted by the chance of picking up a better weapon focused their attention on the captured cannons, dismounting the bronze barrels while craftsmen took measurements for their new mounts.
Boräsmor strolled along the snowy ground, her elven way of walking lifting her fur coat from the puddles of stained water. As the one who made all these possible, her presence was always acknowledged by others – her followers respected her like an uncrowned queen; her captives feared her like a malevolent force. As for others…
“Boräsmor! You’re alive!”
“Ah, Ptalginëpak,” answered the elf before she turned around to see the palkyrie strolling towards her. It was easy to tell him from his tenor voice, as palkyries who lived a militant life rarely lived old enough to exhibit a toll of time like this.
“I think it goes without saying that our kind often outlives yours,” answered the elf in a matter-of-fact tone, which prompted the elder palkyrie to let out a hearty laugh as the armored man joined her. If not for the faint, lingering scent of sulfur and iron, it would have been a pleasant morning walk. Even then, watching the others work to rebuild the settlement after the ravage last night helped put their mind at ease.
“So…” Boräsmor’s soft voice intertwined with the rhythmic footsteps as she adjusted her breath. “How’s Anulÿm doing?”
“Just his usual bratty self,” murmured Ptalginëpak as his tail wobbled behind him, “I would rather he keeps his wit on his duty instead of whatever fancies him at the moment.”
“He’s his father’s son, after all,” teased the elf. She still remembered the first time they met when they were both young, when Ptalginëpak was every bit as impulsive as the young warrior, if not even more so.
“That he is,” his eyes glanced aside as the edge of his tail carved a faint, winding path across the thin snow, “he might be a brat, but he’s my brat.”
“I just hope you can temper his whim before he got killed by it,” remarked the elder, with the bard-magician turning her gaze aside this time. Her motive steps synchronized with the beating of her heart, and the warm breaths escaping from her lips before condensing into a fleeting fog. This pairing might be politically beneficial, but she could not deny that the youthful palkyrie motivated her as much as her performance motivated her followers. Still, she was nonetheless uncertain if she could handle falling for someone who she was destined to outlive. Then again, maybe this war could solve that conundrum.
“I’ll see you two later. The Dreamwalker should be waiting for me already,” Boräsmor waved her lithe hand to the old warrior, whose tail responded in kind as the two went on their separate ways. Using the short stroll to calm her mind, the elf resumed her duty as she walked towards a steam bathhouse isolated from the nearby buildings. Guards posted around its doors offered their salute to Boräsmor, and were blessed with her warm, smiling nod.
Like the rest of the building, the changing room had been commandeered for their own use. Shelves intended for clothes and towels were filled with containers, each labeled and filled with specific assortments of herbs beyond Boräsmor’s expertise. Taking a casual sniff at the pleasant, calming scents of the herbs, she turned her attention to her companion that had also been prepared here. She extended her hand and took hold of her fiddle and bow sitting on a cushioned portion of the shelf. The moment she rested her fingers on the fine varnished wood, she could feel the faint flow of magic connecting them together, like a gentle, fragrant breeze across a field of blooming flowers. The only interruptions she could feel were the faint marks across the stick of her bow, an unfortunate necessity for her more aggressive performances.
Readying herself for another performance, the elf opened the door before her and entered the bathing chamber. Despite its name, it was not filled with the usual warm water vapor that would soothe her body and mind, but the still, insulated air permeated with the aroma of herbs and embers. Two other individuals were already waiting for her, one casually and one less so.
«I hope your stay has been pleasant so far,» Boräsmor parted her lips and addressed the man sitting on the bench. He was well-dressed but disarmed, with no signs of toil or harm visible on him. Upon hearing his mother tongue, he lifted his head and looked at the elf, seemingly unsure how to respond to her – on one hand, he definitely fared better than many of the slain garrison, and his captors did not seem interested in changing that; on the other hand, it did not change the fact that they were still enemies holding him captive, and he had been told the caprice, even barbarity, of the natives against his people. «My name is Borasmor. How should I address you?»
«… Mun-ho Yi will do,» still, he decided maintaining the usual courtesy would be more beneficial to his situation and answered accordingly.
«I assume I’m not invited here for a bath,» the Mujigae gentleman eyed the long-haired lady sitting on the opposite bench, who had been busy preparing some kind of mixture. He did not know if she spoke his language, but if she did, she was not showing it, instead opting to maintain a polite smile as she worked on something that was obviously intended for him.
«That could be arranged if you wish so, but before that, we want to know more about you.»
«Is that what your kind calls interrogation?» asked Mun-ho bluntly. He knew he was being kept well-fed but isolated from the rest of the survivors for a reason.
«Oh, no, we’re not as indulgent in senseless violence,» commented Boräsmor as she raised to position the instrument that had commanded the bloody battle last night. Her eyes turned aside towards the Dreamwalker, who nodded in response as she loaded the mixture into her lamp.
«In fact, we don’t need you to do anything…» the bow rested on the well-tuned strings of the fiddle as the bard-magician let out a smile. With a silent caress across the strands, the flickering lights inside the room were extinguished. Darkness seeped into the room for a brief moment, before it was warded off once more, this time by a singular, ghostly light pouring from the Dreamwalker’s lamp. It was a gentle, lavender-tinted glow, its wavering tongue instructing the shadows to dance to an inaudible tune. One that would be made audible by the bard-magician.
«Just take a deep breath and sleep.»
𝄋 II 𝄋
The evening glow poured through the open window, painting the wooden staves and parchment scrolls vermilion. This sliver of late dusk informed Boräsmor of the passage of time, but she paid little attention to it as her brush continued to sit across the pale hide, each light step giving another stroke to the curvy letters of her language. As the ink slowly infused itself into the red-tinted leather, her lithe fingers lifted the drying brush and guided its tip towards the bottle of ink to the side. Her amber eyes glanced at the oil lamp to the side and took a deep breath. Her eyelids parted for her golden eyes, and her lips parted for her clear voice. With a brief hum, her gentle voice persuaded the magic within the oil to wake up, and a faint sizzling was followed by the flame of the wick, its calm light warding off the dimming glow from the outside.
Her ink brush, now soaked in new ink, glided towards the half-finished parchment, but before she could form any new stroke, something paused her movement, and the brush was silently returned to its seat. It was a faint noise, one that almost melted completely into the burning oil of the lamp, and the whispers of birds carried by the gentle twilight wind. However, her sharp, pointed ears reassured her that the uninvited guest came from somewhere close, somewhere behind her.
“Who might that be?” asked the elf calmly, her fingers reaching for the handle of her oil lamp while her legs retreated from beneath the table, readying her to stand up from the cushioned seat. Her question was not answered with words, but another brief sound almost dissolving immediately into the warm air. Still, the bard-magician was calm, almost relaxed as the tip of her feet helped her from her seat. While she had no doubts that she had her fair share of enemies, she felt no hostility from whoever was lurking in the reddened shadows of this house – in fact, she had a fairly good idea about who that person was.
And a less diligent part of her was yearning for rest anyway.
“Hello~ anyone here?” she asked slowly, almost invitingly as the light from her oil lamp slowly illuminated the dim corners of the room, her amber eyes wandering left and right for the smallest movement. Her silent steps moved across the planks of the floor, leading her towards the wardrobe at the corner of her room. Even though the doors remained shut, the undone latch betrayed the presence of the intruder. With a satisfied grin, the elf suddenly turned towards the wardrobe and held onto the handles. Despite the lack of resistance from the other side, she opened the doors wide open, revealing… nothing but her tools and changing clothes.
It was a trap.
Just as her eyes began to widen, her smooth, copper-toned skin felt the caress of the long tail along her hand, its thin tip snaking around her fingers and onto the handle of the flickering lamp. At the same time, a pair of short, yet strong hands wrapped around her waist, holding onto her as she felt the body of the culprit pressed against her lower body from behind. The sudden weight and force unbalanced her, and the hands and tail guided her onto the planked ground, softening the blow somewhat. The surprise also loosened her hold on the oil lamp, letting the tail hold onto it before resting it on the table nearby, its swiveling fire shining upon the pastel hair and the smug grin emerging from beneath.
“I’m here~ miss me?” giggled Anulÿm, his soft hair brushing against Boräsmor’s back, savoring her warmer body as the elf could not help but chuckle at his tease. In hindsight, as childish as the young palkyrie might be, he would still know better than to leave a hint that obvious for her to find. Not that she minded getting jumped by him every now and then.
“No, not particularly,” joked Boräsmor, her tender hands touching the ones holding her. “Just kidding. What brings you here?”
“Who else but you? I heard you weren’t going to the dining hall tonight, so I decided to grab your portion for you,” the palkyrie’s hands lingered on the elf a bit longer, before finally releasing her. As he helped her stand up, her tail gestured towards the plates resting by the open door frame. A combination of their elevated stations and respect from their followers resulted in the duo having a slightly more luxurious meal than the average soldier. Cured meat was minced and molded with thin tissues into something easy to pick up and eat alongside sliced cheese, balanced by an assortment of fresh berries, fruits, and mushrooms procured by foragers. These extra efforts helped promote the ration into something more pleasant to the senses.
“You still working?” Boräsmor’s nod compelled Anulÿm to her desk, his green eyes skimming the pile of papers, many written but many more still waiting for the touch of ink, “You should take some rest! Y’know, spend some time with your future husband!”
“I can see why you would want that,” laughed the bard-magician as she shook her head, “I just… want to get the messages and intelligence out sooner rather than later.”
“That’s why I’m here to help!” proclaimed Anulÿm proudly, his tail waggling in his unfounded excitement, prompting a chuckle from Boräsmor.
“Are you?”
“W-well…” the elf’s question caused the palkyrie to look around quickly. Upon spotting the plates of food behind, he wasted no time in grabbing the tray beneath with his tail and delivered them to the one empty spot on her table. “I can feed you while you eat! That way you can continue your work without starving yourself!”
“Aw… how can I resist such a generous offer?” teased the bard-magician as she returned to her seat, “and how would you do that?”
“On your lap, of course!” their laughter echoed between the wooden walls, followed by Boräsmor’s hand patting her thighs for him. He spent no time considering the invitation, taking his seat before her as fast as possible, his light weight posing little stress to her. While many palkyries had thick limbs for their size due to their more robust muscles, elves had even more significant thighs in that regard due to their unusual leg structure. As he carefully adjusted his weight upon the cushioned limbs, the soft and gentle touch caused his tail to shiver slightly as it snaked under the table along their stretched legs. In exchange, the bard-magician’s lithe fingers rested on his pink hair, combing it playfully between the large ears. Her sharp senses soon picked up something as she took a small sniff at his fine, if ungroomed hair.
“You smelled nice today.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” pouted the blushing palkyrie at the implication, even though he had no honest way to refute it.
“You know, you usually don’t smell like a flowerbed. It’s more like…” she paused for a moment, “… blood and gore. Maybe with a touch of oil.”
“Maybe I would smell better if someone grooms me well!”
“I’m pretty sure you can take care of yourself,” her comment caused Anulÿm to shuffle in his seat, letting out indecipherable mumbles in the process. Unlike an actual tantrum, though, his movement was quickly followed by his tail emerging from beneath the table and before Boräsmor’s face. Its tip coiled around the stem of a bundle of small, blue flowers. It had a fresh, clean scent, with a faint hint of honey not unlike that of the palkyrie.
“A-anyway. I got a gift for you!” said Anulÿm as he looked aside to guide the tail to Boräsmor’s hand.
“Oh, my, you shouldn’t have,” she nonetheless received it and gave it a closer sniff. “It’s… hortensia, right? I don’t think I’ve seen that around here before.”
“Yeah! Psahisël and I found some flowers while on patrol. I won the fight so I got the colored ones!” the palkyrie could not help but show his pride over a small victory like this. It was answered with a giggle and a hand rubbing against his hair, causing him to grumble, “I’m sure he likes white flowers more anyway!”
“Now, now, you shouldn’t push people around just because you’re stronger,”
“But that’s how we do things around here!” stated Anulÿm as he adjusted his seat before Boräsmor while she picked up her ink brush once more. Resting her head gently between his possum ears, the bard-magician resumed her work. His tail weaved through their legs to the tray of food next to them, cutting and piercing a mouthful of vegetables with a fork before delivering it to the elf. Once his scalp felt the slight pressure of her mouth opening, he gently sent the food into her mouth, feeding her while her ink brush danced on the parchment, leaving graceful strokes behind. Every now and then, another mouthful of food was delivered to her from the palkyrie, who also took the liberty of sampling her food.
“So… are all of these intel from that guy?” asked Anulÿm as his green eyes rolled left and right, watching her fill the papers with patterns beyond his comprehension.
“More or less. He proved quite pliable and his gentry connections gave us access to more people who’re sympathetic to our cause,” explained Boräsmor as she started writing on another parchment. Once delivered, each of the scrolls would lead her followers and allies to further expand their influence across their homeland, one ally at a time. Still, violence remained necessary every now and then, where the bard-magician’s war songs proved vital against the larger enemy forces.
“Sounds like you’re getting quite friendly with him,” pouted the palkyrie, “I bet I can beat him in a fight.”
“Are you feeling jealous?” teased the elf, her spare hand moving onto him to hug his waist playfully. “Do you prefer your future wife to be more submissive to you?”
“I-I mean…” her sudden question prompted him to blush profusely, shaking his head despite how obvious the kind of thought he had at the moment. Still, his rushing blood convinced him to voice his thought despite his more rational mind warning against it. “It’s not like I want to own you or anything, but…”
“You know what they say about being submissive and b-” his words were cut short by a sharp pain from beneath, his body now enveloped by her legs and freed arms as she chuckled.
“Finish that sentence and I’ll make that impossible,” said Boräsmor half-jokingly. As much as Anulÿm trusted her in not causing him any actual harm, he knew better than to tempt her – as an elf who was well-trained in playing musical instruments, she would have better fine control over her digits than most.
“I-I yield!” cried the palkyrie as he symbolically raised his hands to tap against the arms around him. It was only now that he noticed she had stopped her work in favor of giving him this embrace. Her floral scent slowly wrapped around him, stimulating his body and mind as he felt her body tightening around him, almost like a snake around its prey.
“What’s the matter? I thought you wanted me to spend more time with you?” whispered the elf as her hands shuffled around his torso, easily rendering his symbolic struggle meaningless – if anything, her soft, calculated touches quickly made his body realize the benefits of not resisting her advances.
“Maybe you have a point… I should take a short break for some quality time with you,” as Boräsmor’s fingers tighten, her other hand moved onto Anulÿm’s mouth, muffling his voice as he felt her playful bite against his ear. The quickened breathing only made her scent fill his mind even more, melting any resistance he had and letting her bring him down onto the floor as the two laid down, their intertwined body bathing in the cinnabar light, a brief respite from the crimson world outside.
“Now, be a darling and don’t make my break too short, would you?”
𝄋 V 𝄋
Anulÿm’s tail wagged left and right as he strolled past the war-worn corridor, the faint strokes of moonlight pouring into the old building through the small, discrete holes made by bullets and the occasional grapeshots for the past few days. The cries of war had ceased for them for the moment, and the crackling noises from the weathered roof did not bother the bandaged Palkyrie one bit. Instead, his large, possum-like ears were more focused on the quiet whispers coming from the lit room at the end of the corridor. As he walked closer and closer to the candlelight pouring through the door frame, the words from the feminine voices became clearer as well, even if their meaning continued to allude him.
“ - it should be well-rosined now. Now, why don’t you give it a try?”
“Yes, ma’am!” the enthusiastic voice was followed by the sound of a string instrument. Unlike the one Anulÿm was most familiar with, the note played was both longer and less stable – almost as if it was shriveling, trying to caught its breath. Still, it was enough of a sign for him to pause his steps before the leaking light, letting only his emerald eye and black ear to spy on the two. The room was as clean and neatly organized as possible given the circumstances, with the central table surrounded by emptied shelves. Before the desk sat a palkyrie cradling her instrument. It was an odd device that looked like a fiddle, but with a crank attached to its rear. As the unstable hand continued to turn the crank, the note continued to play as the wheel rubbed against the strings, its note changing by the buttons pressed by the other hand. On the other side of the table sat the elf Anulÿm was looking for.
Clad in a fine, lavender robe, Boräsmor was watching over the palkyrie musician with interest as she practiced her craft, occasionally giving advice as the music changed accordingly. Soon enough, the palkyrie let out an excited cry, her eyes staring at the pewter lamp on the table as the wick inside burst into flame, its pale glow joining the warm light from the oil lamp outside.
“It’ll do,” the amber eyes from the elf glanced briefly towards the door as she talked to the aspiring musician with a gentle smile. Her lithe fingers moved to return the assortment of small tools and parts into a wooden box, before moving it back to the hands of the palkyrie. “Practice might be important, but so is rest. Try not to exhaust yourself too much before sunrise.”
“Understood. Thank you, ma’am!” the grateful palkyrie stood up and bowed to the elf, her light steps turning herself around before making her leave from the room. It was obvious that she did not notice Anulÿm’s presence until she almost ran into him, causing the young man to quickly move himself aside as the timid girl sprinted away with her instruments in clutch, her speed rivaled only by her embarrassed mumbling.
“You should listen to some of your own advice,” said the palkyrie once the novice disappeared at the end of the corridor.
“Hush,” answered the bard-magician half-jokingly as she gestured to the now-empty seat before her. Nodding to her invitation, Anulÿm took the seat and made himself comfortable, his head resting on his palm as the green eyes looked at the busy elf. Under the wavering light, the quill in her hand danced on the paper, leaving behind a trail of dark ink between the lines like tiny tadpoles swimming in streams. Even though the palkyries did not understand the meaning behind this, the smooth, curved lines nonetheless appealed to his sense of aesthetics. With the final line filled, the elven hand returned her drained quill into the bottle, and her steady hands moved her work to join the piles upon piles of drying and rolled up parchments filled with similar drawings already laid on the edges of the table.
“Anything I can help?” the palkyrie broke the silence as he saw her leaning to take another clean parchment He knew that without his intervention, she would continue until her supply or strength ran dry.
“Can you understand what I’m writing?”
“… no,” he shook his head, “but I can still copy them!”
“Can you?” the sharp eyes glanced at his uncertainty, before being quickly soothed by the fleeting smile beneath. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t drag everyone down.”
“No, it’s not about that…” Anulÿm was not sure what to do, his idled hand moving the pewter lamp aside in an attempt to prove its usefulness. “I just want to help, especially now that we’ve – ”
“Don’t worry about it, ” his words were cut short by her unusually blunt words, summoning the silence back for a brief moment until she dispelled it once more. “… you’re already helping by being here. Plus, you should get some rest yourself for the injuries before dawn.”
“But this is how I rest!” exclaimed the palkyrie while his hand moved onto his bandaged forehead. The darkened red spot on it had dried and stopped spreading. “Can’t I at least ask for some cuddling? I’m injured after all!”
“And here I thought that concussion would’ve done you some good,” Boräsmor could not help but chuckle at his words, and her hand flowed just slightly faster. However, her smile soon dissolved into the dim light once more as she turned her gaze aside, her quill continuing its predetermined movement. “I’m trying to have all the sheets made and distributed as soon as possible, so that they could have some time practicing… it’s the least I can do for them – ”
The quill was stopped by Anulÿm as he took hold of her wrist. Despite the difference in size, the palkyrie had little trouble pulling the elf up from her seat. The legs resting beneath the table knocked on the wood from beneath, letting out a small knock as the warrior paused his movement, letting his mate adjust her posture to stand up properly. Despite the shaking head, the smile on Boräsmor’s dismissed any disapproval of his rashness there might be, causing Anulÿm to grin mischievous as well. Once he let go of her hand, the elf turned aside and picked up the fiddle and bow, before returning to his side as he strolled out of the room.
“Come with me! I found a nice, dry spot not too far away!” said Anulÿm proudly as he led her through the corridor and out of the house. The barricade surrounding the village had since been dismantled, with its palisade converted into small sheets of log, tied together with ropes and rolled into bundles almost light enough to be carried – not that there were any alternatives. Awkwardly waving to the men and women making their preparations under torchlight, the couple jogged on the dissolving road away from them and into the surrounding fields. Beyond the shelter, the drenched, rugged wetland extended deep into the darkness, divided only by the remnants of log roads that once led to the outside world. Here, only twisted dwarf trees remained, their growth stunted by the barren wasteland. The mossy soil had been plowed by cannons and blades alike, the holes and unmarked graves concealed by misshapen ponds of dark red water. At the horizon of this foreboding scenery, faint dots of light wavered under the night sky, as a constant reminder of their predicament.
But they could wait for their turn.
“Here! Be careful, the rock’s a bit slippery,” with a gesture, Anulÿm let go of Boräsmor’s hand for a brief moment to rush towards a boulder not too far from the road. Swiftly bending his knees and tail before releasing the tension at the end of his run, the palkyrie propelled himself into the damp summer air, his hands holding onto the rocky surface and climbed onto its flat top. Turning his proud smile around, he reached towards Boräsmor with his hand. Responding with a composed smile of her own, the elf took his hand and let his strength helped her up onto the stony platform. It was not a tall rock, but it was enough to keep the two from the misty, desolate landscape to give them a brief respite. Above them, numerous stars looked upon them from the cloudless sky, seemingly without a care for the strife across the mortal realm.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked the palkyrie with a grin, his emerald eyes looking at the elf as she turned her gaze upward. It was not an unfamiliar sight for either of them – the long, dark winter of this land had accustomed her people to the serene darkness embracing the world. It was like a familiar face, one that offered a sense of reassurance despite the inevitability of fearful changes plaguing her mind.
“… it’s not bad,” answered the bard-magician, although the true feeling hidden beneath her stoic mask was not lost on her mate. Instead of pointing that out, however, he suppressed his urges and simply shared the moment of silence with her, sitting side and side and looking at the heavens above. Freed from the foggy grasp of the wetland, they could feel the gentle breeze from the distant hills and shores, bringing a faint scent of fresh, lively leaves and flowers to them, and offering to carry away from them the smell of blood and iron.
“Want to play a song?” he finally broke the silence after a while, his warm shoulder nudging her playfully. Her lavender robe felt smooth.
“Why?” she seemed almost bewildered by his sudden prompt, “I didn’t know you’re such a romantic.”
“Why else would you bring your fiddle?”
“Oh,” Boräsmor paused for a brief moment, before she could no longer keep herself from chuckling at it. As much as the bard-magician enjoyed romance, there was something about that smug, bratty grin that she would not trade for the world. “Well… it’s for in case I have to defend myself out here.”
“You don’t have to worry about that! It’s my duty to protect you after all!” he proclaimed proudly, gesturing to the sheathed blade to his side.
“I know,” she fingertips caressed the well-lacquered stick of the bow. It was almost enough to cover all the marks of the wood underneath, “but it could come in handy in case you got overwhelmed.”
“It’ll take more than a few men to beat me, not to mention…” Anulÿm stopped and, for a brief moment, retracted his usual smile as the green eyes looked into the yellow ones, “… I don’t want you to play your songs like that.”
“It can’t be helped,” the yellow eyes tried to evade the gaze, but a hand and a tail turned their owner back, causing the shaky words to stop for a moment, “but… I do prefer to play something more peaceful.”
“For me?”
“For you,” she smiled. Her fingers caressed the handle of her fiddle, persuading it to move to its proper position while her bow rested on the well-tuned strings.
“Usually I don’t like showing my work in progress, but…” she paused for a moment, the yellow eyes narrowing towards the horizon, “I would like you to be my first audience.”
“I’d be honored,” with that, Boräsmor took a deep breath, and her bow began flowing across the strings. It began as a simple, slow score, with ample rooms inbetween that would eventually be filled in. Nonetheless, the smooth music poured into the mist beneath and into the marshland, catching the attention of something invisible around the two, slowly waking them up as faint glows melted the darkness. Then, she parted her lips.
“For my precious sweetheart, the one best thing that I can do for you…”
“What would it be? I’m always, always, always wondering.”
“I’m… working on the lyrics,” she could not help but blush, causing him to giggle before her stare convinced him otherwise. The bow did not stop, however, and the music took the place of the song to continue its spread across the foggy night. The gentle notes ascended from the mud and shrubs dotting the land, every droplet falling upward to the bard-magician’s command until they landed on the strings, becoming another ring of the wave as it washed the damp air around clean.
“On the swing after a light spell, along the path where hydrangeas bloom…”
“Among the raindrops, sparkling on the stony roads…”
“Jumping from puddle to puddle, bathing in sunlight shimmering through the leaves…”
“These gentle memories of ours – ”
Holding her hands as steady as possible, her song condensed into intangible dew and returned to the land, the faint reflection of starlight dancing as his fingers caressed her cheek and preserved her beauty. “Let’s… stick with instrumental for now,” taking another deep breath, her lithe fingers turned the bow once more, guiding the echoes of the droplets into the moonless night, until the last of it dissolved into the distant lights, letting the all-encompassing void to take hold once again.
“… I hope you like what I have,” the elf’s demure voice broke the silence right before her mate could do so. “I know it isn’t the most presentable – ”
“I love it. I assume it’s meant for me?” Anulÿm’s hand moved from her face to her body, his tail quietly tucking her into his embrace as her hands move the fiddle aside.
“You already know the answer…” their body rested against each other, sharing their heartbeat and then breath. His warmth melted her stiffness away, letting her rest her head against his shoulder and cheek.
“In that case, why don’t we work on it together?” she could feel his playful nibbling against her pointed ear, a tickling sensation that tried to make her smile. “I happen to know quite a bit about us.”
“It was meant to be a surprise,” complained Boräsmor, her hands holding his body tighter, not taking any chance of him slipping away, “and we probably shouldn’t spend too many times that far out.”
“Maybe… in that case,” the two intertwined with each other, and the warrior whispered into the bard’s ear, “we’ll finish it once this is all over.”
𝄆 VIII 𝄇
Cold rain fell from the darkening sky like arrows, piercing though the stale air and landing on the shallow sea of sludge stretching as far as the eyes could see. With every droplet, the damp earth became slightly damper, its integrity weakened and its edge slumped into the trenches weaved into the broken land. Enduring the chilling bombardment, workers and even soldiers clutched their rusting shovels tightly and pushed the dulled spade into the muddy ground, sending the mixture of dirt, water, and ice back into the field, just in time for another pile of mud to slide down.
The hard work was futile, something that would fit well in a fable. Still, they knew it was necessary, or at the very least, preferable to the alternative. The trenches might be a miserable place to be in, but they also tore apart the land and made it difficult to charge through. Even with the enemies’ mastery over their mounts and sleds, they would be forced to drench themselves in the muddy ground if they wanted to reach the roads behind the lines. These roads of pebbles and packed soil, in turns, delivered what little supply the soldiers could have, keeping them alive for another day of gruel and grueling work.
An army man trudged through one of the ditches, the stained plume fixated upon his helmet signifying his position above the common soldiers. His rank did little to lift his situation, however, as the coat covering his weathered armor had long since been drenched in the freezing rain and melting snow, sapping any warmth it could provide. This section of the defensive line, including the soldiers stationed here, was his responsibility, and he was supposed to inspect the trench to ensure it was sufficient to stop the foe from breaking through. It was an easy job when he first arrived during the warm season – the ground was solid, the sky was clear, and he was told that the rebels would soon collapse after their earlier defeat, and the daily assaults were but their death throe.
Instead, as days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, the attacks only seemed to become fiercer and bloodier. As temperature dropped, so did their morale as the situation continued to deteriorate. The chilling wind conspired to keep soldiers from their shelter, the lengthening nights and stale fog covered the enemy approaches, and the cold rain turned the dark soil into a sea of mud, melting even the most well-dug ditch – daytime rain flooded the troughs with muddy water, and night freeze hardened them against the spades, forcing the soldiers and even civilian workers to paddle the sea from their sinking stations.
“Captain,” at the end of the dissolving line, a tired soldier offered his salute to the man, who responded in kind before ascending the crooked slope and into the blockhouse. It was little more than a glorified wooden shacks, with its narrow, slit windows allowing the residents to defend themselves in the relative comfort within the building. Originally built on what looked like solid ground alongside the road, it had been slowing sinking into the ground, connecting it to the snaking ditches. Still, the mere existence of a fireplace and solid walls made it a place almost livable for the soldiers. The body of slumbering men tugged against the hammock strung between pillars, and the flickering flame at the middle offered small comfort to the waking soldiers. A pair of them were wrapping their callused legs with dry cloth, and another one was wiping the flash pan of his musket, cleaning the gunpowder dampened by his stay in the rain. At the opposite side of the fireplace, a young man was grinding some unknown plants with his worn pestle, loose strips of cloth dangling from the legs hugging the mortar.
Upon seeing the captain’s arrival, the men tried to stand from his seat to salute, only to be dismissed by a wave of the hand. “I got something for you,” said the captain as he took off the coat and helmet. Joining his subordinates around the fire, he took out a bottle and uncorked it before them, allowing the volatile scent from its content to slowly spread across the blockhouse. The fragrance of alcohol was intertwined with the scent of grain, heightened by trace touches of spice hastily thrown in. The rough, strong scent was obviously one from a cheap booze, meant to make people drunk quickly instead of providing a rich, calibrated experience. Still, it was what the common soldiers wanted and all that they could get – good wine rarely escape the prying eyes of the bureaucrats and generals, and the supply convoys were too sporadic to be spared any room for luxuries like that.
“Shipment from Yeonghon?” asked the soldier as the captain poured him a drink. The cheap alcohol quickly drained down his parched throat and converted into a satisfied sigh.
“Yeah, I know someone in the convoy and he passed a few bottles to me,” answered the captain as he poured the drink for the other soldiers.
“A few? You only got one on you!”
“Need to save it for later. Winter’s coming early and no one knows when the next supply train’s coming for us,” the captain could not help but chuckle at his own statement – the whole point of them being stationed in this desolate place was to keep the supply route behind them free from raids. It was indeed free – but instead of food and drinks, gunpowder and bullets, the carriages were more often than not filled with bars of metal and bundles of logs heading towards the ports, in hopes that they could be shipped back to Mujigae before the winter sea became too hazardous.
“As if we can wait until spring,” grumbled another soldier, his large physique dwarfing the small cup of beverage.
“I heard the other squad down the road got wiped last night,” added another soldier with a shivering voice, “they were stuck in the blockhouse. The rebels burned it down with them inside.”
“Damn! I would’ve made a run for it,” the large man helped himself with another cup of the booze. The fake warmth of the alcohol helped to thaw his joints. “If nothing else it’s at least faster and less painful.”
“Do you really believe it? They’re going to skewer you and leave you to die a slow death.”
“What a bunch of savages,” grunted the man as he tried to purge the thought with the strong alcohol. “Can’t believe we’re losing to a bunch of rabid rodents and crooked legs–”
“Hey, watch it,” the captain raised his voice, his eyes glancing over the young man with the pestle. He seemed to have retreated behind his mortar, his eyes darting left and right around the soldiers.
“Alright, alright. No offense to you, kid,” the offending soldier passed his cup to the nervous man. Pausing for a moment, he ultimately declined it as politely as his racing mind could, his gaze returning to the mushed herbs before him. His lean hands picked up the clean pieces of cloth and started smearing the ground herb and juice on them. The scent was odd, but not overly offensive. It soon melted into the creaking flame, its touch spreading across the room alongside the faint smell of burning wood.
“It’s fine… it’s not really obvious,” murmured the young soldier. The captain could not help but glanced at his retracted legs. The relatively tight pants made his thick thighs obvious, but otherwise he could pass as a human with strange posture rather than someone with elven blood, probably for the better. With the center of the white cloth stained with a viridian green, he passed it to the man with a weak, uncertain smile.
“It stinks… you sure it’s going to help?” asked the soldier as he pressed the herbal cloth against his mouth and nose before taking a deep breath. Still unused to its smell, he quickly let go of it and coughed a few times, purging the foulness from his lung.
“C’mon, it can’t be worse than our usual food!” the joke elicited a few laughs between the soldiers, and the night continued to pass as the alcohol was slowly emptied. As firewood crumbled into embers, the armed soldier stood up with his cleaned gun, and his companion quickly picked up a dewy musket laid against the wall to follow. As much as they preferred the lingering warmth of the blockhouse, they still pushed open the door and braved the cold air outside. Without the gentle touch of the sun, the land fell into frost once more, and faint fog condensed just on top of the slowly hardening ground, disrupted only by the rain plunging from the lightly clouded sky.
Once he gave them a casual salute for their duty, the captain pulled himself up from the floor as well. Many of his men seized the brief respite to nap, while the next shift forced themselves away from the embrace of the hammock. Perhaps because of the dour atmosphere, their dreams had been light and sour. Even if their body caught enough rest, their mind received little comfort.
“Go get yourself cl–“ the captain cut his words short as his ears picked up something. He turned his head towards the wall and stared into the fields beyond the loophole. It was impossible to see through the veil of night and fog, but he could not shake the feeling of being watched. Every now and then, he could even hear the muted sound of cracking and smoldering, ones that differed slightly from the restocked fireplace.
“Captain!” his thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the soldier bursting through the wooden door, its hinges wailing against the violence. Putting his pondering aside, the captain donned his plumed helmet and followed the soldier outside. The softened trenches down the stairs was, as usual, clouded by the nightly fog. Worn shovels littered the icy walls and ground, and the workers and soldiers he saw before nightfall had disappeared. His widening eyes dashed left and right, finding nothing else within the limited line of sight. Still, he had survived this foreign land long enough to know what to expect.
“Ready yourself!” shouted the captain before he rushed into the blockhouse, his clenched fist banging against the wall. The loud thuds and shaking stakes purged the slumber from the rest of his men, many still unaware of the situation despite his order. “Wake up! We might have unwanted guests!”
“You, go alert the other posts. The rest, get your guns and gears and fall in line!” the following command was nonetheless enough to propel the soldiers into action. With varying degree of vigor, the garrison reached for their guns and belts of pouches containing their munition. The large man was the first to leave to deliver the captain’s message, followed by the elf-legged boy, but not before he handed the herb-drenched towels to the captain and some other soldiers. The commander soon turned and led his half-prepared subordinates to the cold night outside. Several of his men were already in position, either within the solidifying ditches or behind the small pile of mud that was meant to provide some degree of cover for them.
“Fall in line! Prepare to fire by file!” even with the encroaching dread, the army man was not sure what exactly to expect. He was not enough of a lightweight to be confused by the alcohol, but it nonetheless dulled his senses somewhat. The smell of wet mud and burned herbs permeate the surroundings, and the hurried steps of his men obscured any other noises from beyond the trenches. He feared that at any moment, the barrage of rain bombarding them would be replaced by a barrage of lead, or cannonballs would tear apart their flimsy entrenchment. They might even be lurking within said entrenchment already, hiding behind their small form and waiting for the perfect moment to plunge their cold steel into any unsuspecting, tired soldiers…
And yet, nothing came. The mix of rain and snow continued to fall upon the gasping garrison, their shivering hands dare not to part with the triggers except to wipe the moisture from the steel. The rushed steps were replaced by the slight creaking noises between and beyond the torches, beckoning the unseen enemies with no avail.
“… captain?” eventually, a soldier pulled down the herbal towel and asked, his voice almost a whimper. They were not sure if all of these was just a false alarm, or if that was what they wanted them to think. Neither would be unusual.
“Damn it…” the herbal scent through the stained cloth felt almost overwhelming, but the gut feeling persuaded the captain from taking it off in favor of the relatively fresh air – even if said gut feeling might have just failed him. Still, he raised his voice once more, “first rank, follow me and… advance!”
A few grumbles could be heard echoing the cloudy trough, but the line of infantry nonetheless followed his lead and pulled themselves from the cold, wet trench. Forming a somewhat straight line, their eyes glanced slightly to their side, eventually leading back to the captain and his plumed helmet. He took his steps forward into the dreary front, the men followed, their hands holding the cold, wet muskets tight. Even with the freezing soil, their boots dragged against the clingy earth, conspiring to slow their advances. The viscous sensation was sometimes broken by the creaking and cracking of something just beneath the thin layer of mud, the army’s weight buffered by solid chunks, from rocks and bones to broken pottery and crumbled planks.
“Where are they…” the captain murmured with every other steps.
“Sir, are you alright? Maybe you should stop–”
“There!” shouted the commander as he drew his blade and gestured forward. Squinting their eyes, some of the sharper men could see a few blurry shadows deep within the tinted fog. Rotund and short, they did not appear to be anything human-like, but their sudden movement nonetheless betrayed them being some kind of sentient beings. The dreamy revelation forced the unit to give chase, but the ghosts soon vanished beyond their pursuit. In their place, the captain could only see smoking holes scattered across the land, melting mud swallowing the shattered pots and smoldering plants before their eyes.
“Open rank! Fire by file!” yelled the captain the moment it dawned on him what had transpired, spurring the soldiers into action as they spread the line thin and pointed their muskets into the fog, half of them waiting uneasily for the command to fire into the unknown. Still, nothing but the hollow echoes of his words lingered in the stiff air, fanning the doubts within their mind.
“Fire!” before the air could freeze completely, though, the captain completed his command, and the fingers instinctively squeezed against the trigger. Pale sparks danced around the gray steel, and a loud volley pierced through the ground cloud. They could not hear any response from the deafening discharge – perhaps the bullets failed to find their way into whatever lurking beyond the sight… or they were hardened enough to not make a noise even when their flesh were torn apart. The other half of the unit readied their gun as commanded, covering their comrades as they refilled their darkened, soggy pan and refill the barrel with powder and lead.
The thundering echoes of the discharge gradually faded into the night, but instead of silence, it dissolved into a faint, creeping crescendo. The air quavered as it was touched by trilling strings, smearing its tension on the shaking body and mind of the soldiers isolated in the strange fog. Dissonant notes slithered in the coagulating smoke, weaving themselves into intricate patterns and fading away before anyone could decipher them.
“G-get out of my dreams! Be gone, witch!” a soldier’s scream broke the tension, the panicked man thrusting the cold barrel into the air as his gloved fingers slipped against the curved trigger. “F-fire! You piece of–”
“Calm his nerves before he shoot anyone!” commanded the captain, and the men besides the screaming men moved towards him, wrestling the loaded gun away from his clutch. Despite the screams and shouts, the ambiance continued to haunt the anxious soldiers. Inch by inch, raindrops knocking on their armor corralled the dissonance towards them, almost like a predator was ready to lurch at its clueless prey. Yet, every time they felt something lurching from the corners of their eyes, their eyes darted to nothing but the formless fog, as if the hunter leaped elsewhere at the final moment, waiting for another chance to strike.
“Captain! We should leave now!” pleaded another man, his armor coated in mud during the struggle with the wailing soldier. By all means, it was the logical option. Swallowing the loitering herbal fragrance, the captain prepared to raise his voice for the retreat, but the first syllable barely escaped his mouth before it was cut down by a sharp screech. For a brief moment, even the most steeled nerves were unbalanced, and the captain barely had enough time to breathe before the cloudy veil unfurled to reveal a charging shadow. His trained mind pushed aside the surging emotions within him just in time to pull his body away from the thrusting blade, its gleaming path guided by the stings of a fiddle.
“Enemy!” yelled the mud-clad soldier right before another sting led a different blade from the fog across his torso. The curved edge of the ax sliced through the gaps of his armor, blending the brown with red and pink. However, before the blade could turn towards its next prey, embers erupting from the musket spelled doom for the attacker. The sound of hot lead cracking and shattering bones became the first figure of the surging cacophony. Trebles of screams and slashed were joined by basses of grunts and explosions, straining of strings were accompanied by creaking of hinges. It felt almost like a surreal play.
With his perception tenuously anchored to the putrid smell filtered into his lung, the captain lunged himself forward, driving his blade into his assailant. The dripping warmth thawed his freezing hands, giving him enough strength to push the silent body aside and let it sink into the mud. He tried to scream another command, but his throat could barely muster a scant few noises – the taste of iron and ash overwhelmed the herb, and he felt like the very air curdled around him, numbing his limbs and forcing him to stumble from the deadly chorus that had taken over most of his unit. With his body struggling to breathe, his survival instinct overtook his mind, and the reddened hand tore the cloth from his mouth, letting the iron-scented air into him. As he gasped uncontrollably, his head turned up and saw… something.
In the thinning mist stood a silhouette, towering over its equally illusive companions. Most of its form was obscured by the shape of a loose robe, but the captain could see its hands reaching out and holding onto… some kind of instrument, perhaps. The angled hand moved with a rhythm, slicing the bow up and down, back and forth. Despite that, the captain could not hear the pleasant music of a fiddle, but the violent thrashing of arms, screams, and throes from all sides. Then, he saw the faint light of the night condensed around the figure, weaving and braiding themselves into strange, glowing patterns piercing through the darkness. As darkness seemingly concealed the battlefield, the discordant noises were sapped away as well, exposing the alien whispers beneath. Oddly enough, even though he did not speak their tongue, his mind could not help but comprehend its meaning.
The voice whispered to the iron, of the gray steel and of the red blood.
The voice spoke of its birth, in the furnace and in the womb.
The voice extolled its virtue, to take life and to give life.
The voice beckoned its spirit, to soften in enemy’s hands and harden in enemy’s body.
With his last ounce of strength, the captain raised an abandoned gun towards the whisperer, his finger struggling against an unseen shackle. As his mind sharpened, so did the silhouette, and he could almost see its edges glowing in a serene, cold blue. Spastic lights danced around it, their glow brighter than the bluest summer skies. As it perceived the captain’s existence, a pair of golden orbs emerged from the shadow beneath the robe, their glare carving searing paths through his body and mind. Even though his body pulled the trigger, his mind failed to register it – and so did the weapon itself. The hammer bent against its axle, its flint shied away from the steel, and the faint blue sparks sank into the wet gunpowder. The bullet would continue its blissful slumber deep within the barrel.
And then, the clouds above began to depart. A sliver of gentle silver light spilled down into the clouded battlefield, and onto the silhouette. Under the pale moonlight, he could see the ashen robe, ethereal glitters of lingering splendor along the splendid embroidery dissipating into the looming fog. The two hands reached out from the robes, a leather glove carried the ornate fiddle, and a steel gauntlet held its bow tight. Beneath the hood, the golden orbs revealed themselves as the eyes, and the scorching stare as one fueled by an intense, indescribable emotion. The moment their eyes met, the dots of light connected into lines, illuminating the true extent of the terrifying aria to him. To him, it was like every drop of blood within him had frozen, leaving him powerless against the companion approaching him, his crimson blade dripping onto the brown soil.
Suddenly, a deafening salvo shattered the trance. The hail of lead did not land on the cloaked figure, but it was enough to ward off the coda. As the strange light slowly faded, darkness shrouded the enemy once more, and their silhouette soon disappeared within the depths of the fog. With the strings melting into thin air, the captain’s drained body collapsed onto the ground. His vision, still clouded by dread, looked at the reinforcement marching deeper into the mist, while another commander pulled him out from the dirt. He tried to warn them, but only groans and wails escaped his cracking throat, and he could only watch the soldiers disappear beyond the veil as he was carried back to the now-empty blockhouse.
The palkyries strolled through the mist, their large, possum-like ears picking up the fading notes still ringing in the stale air. Soon, they found their way to the cloaked conductor and offered their bow. Her hands held onto the fiddle and bow, her figure standing tall around the carnage unleashed this night. The sea of mud was littered with soldiers who had died tonight – just that some of them did not accept that yet. Even though their body was coated in brown and red, their warmth seeping into the earth they were destined to return to, many still spent their last breath twisting in the filth, weakening lips murmuring something incomprehensible – or what they preferred not to comprehend.
“Milady…” one of the palkyries approached the performer carefully, while his companion walked to the other side. Their voice and the outstretched leather gloves reached her ears, and the hand holding the fiddle relented. Her fingers slid across its handle, delivering it from her stilled body and into the hold of the palkyrie. As the gold dimmed in her eyes, she glanced at the other palkyrie, before tugging her glove onto the gauntlet still armed with the bow. Pausing briefly, her finger soon resumed its move and rested on the cold steel, its tip pressing against a button well-shielded in her palm. No matter how subtle it sounded, their ears still picked up the hollow echoes of the spring lock releasing itself perfectly. The gauntlet’s clutch on the bow soon relaxed, and the bow slid from its hold and fell into the hands of the palkyrie, who then rested it in a dedicated sheath. The green eyes glanced across the field of flesh and bones, and the quavering hands took out a piece of flint and glazed it against the steel, releasing a flurry of sparks into the stiff air. As they danced before his gaze, they slowly shredded their blue coat, turning back into dimming gold moments before they dissolved completely into the night. “It’s almost run out. We should leave soon.”
“Mimirha’s right, ma’am. You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,” concurred the other palkyrie, who was cradling the fiddle gently, his curious eyes scanning the ornate, but not spotless instrument. He could still smell the faint scent still emanating from the worn strings. He waited for her response, but was met with only silence, as the lady’s eyes still lingered at the slain enemies.
“Lady Boräsmor…” for a moment, Mimirha lifted his free hand towards her, but ultimately stopped himself before a physical contact was made. Still, his stirring of the air was followed by her turning aside, and then moving herself at their guidance.
“Don’t worry about them, ma’am!” the other palkyrie, perhaps noticing her expression, offered something akin to an encouraging smile. “It might not be my place to say that, but many of us would’ve joined them if not for your power! I’m very glad to serve under you!”
Boräsmor wanted to answer his enthusiasm.
She wanted to be glad.