A small garden sat behind Castle Raynes, bathed in the light of a full moon. Vines lined the three walls, the side opposite the entrance opened into a sort of balcony that overlooked the vast plains that faded into dark mountains far in the distance. The glistening waters of a river cut through the expanses of green, the darkness of night being pierced by Seregor’s sharp drow eyes. He leaned slightly upon the railing, breathing deeply and taking in the sight. It had helped him to calm down somewhat, though his stomach was still uneasy, and his head pounded ever so slightly. He felt significantly better.

He had been standing at the balcony, overlooking the land, for several minutes when finally he turned about to study the garden more carefully. A small tree was planted in each corner, their leaves a wonderful forest green. The small path that led to the balcony from the door was lined with various flowers in colors of white, yellow, red and violet, their fragrance drifting up into the heavy night air and floating into his nostrils, causing his muscles to relax. The path wrapped around a pool before it reached the railing, the water dark. A large fountain stood in its center, in shape of a drow priestess draped in robes, a jug held loosely in her hand pouring water into the pool at a gentle rate. Only slightly disturbed by the soft ripples was the clear image of the pale faced moon and stars that hung high in the sky.

He approached the pool slowly. A strange foreboding hung in the back of his mind as the images of the sky and the plants behind him gradually swung into view on the surface of the dark water. He reduced his pace, taking smaller steps towards it. His stomach tightened, telling him to stop. Now his hair peeked over the water’s edge. His face followed behind it. He’d not seen himself since before the war. When he was young and more carefree, and did not have to worry about dying or killing. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward, sliding down the staff in his hand so he was kneeling beside the water. He took a long look at himself.

His hair, which he remembered as once having been silver, was now white as snow. It hung down to his shoulders on either side of his face, getting shorter as it reached his back. He had never noticed it had gotten so long. His face was thinner, his dull gray skin seemed to be pulled on tighter, contrasting what he’d remembered of his looks. He had always known himself to somewhat round of face, at least for a drow, his jaw slightly squared and well-defined, his cheeks smooth. Now his face looked thinner. His crimson eyes were dull and almond beneath slender black eyebrows, a faded twinkle deep within them. A scar ran across his forehead from his left temple to the bridge of his nose, the color of a storm cloud. This was not the Seregor he had remembered. He looked tired, drained.

He looked old.

What had he become? War, he knew, had profound effects upon people. But other than injuries, he hadn’t dreamed that one could be so physically different due to warfare. He searched his reflection a while longer. His lip curled slightly as he shook his head, a sudden realization coming to him. “I have not been fighting a war,” he said aloud to himself, his eyes darting about as he continued to stare at himself.

His right hand reached out slowly for the water, his hand loosely balled into a fist at first. But he opened it a bit as it came closer to the surface, right above the reflection of his cheek. He wanted to touch the image, to make sure it was real. His fingers dipped into the water, sending a soft ripple through it and disrupting his reflection. Pulling his hand back slowly, he narrowed his eyes as he watched carefully. He returned to the water, staring back at himself once again. He looked exactly the same as he did when first he gazed upon himself. A tired man. A drained man. An old man.

His stomach began to churn again. Once more he sent ripples through the water with his hand, this time pulling himself to his feet with help of the staff. He did not know what he had become, but he did not like it.



The room was dark, torches flickering upon the stone walls and casting a faint orange glow all around. Shadows danced everywhere; on the floor, the beds, and on the walls. But it was also quiet. Save for the thick, raspy breathing of some of those that lay in the beds. Each breath haunting, hanging in the air for longer than it should. The echo of wood hitting the cold stone floor soon drifted down from the hallway as Seregor approached, walking with the aid of the staff. He paused as he came to the doorway, looking in and biting his lip. He went to take a step in. Stopping halfway, he silently cursed himself before finally pressing on, taking care to be quiet and allow the injured their rest.

He slowed as he came to his bed, his gaze focused upon the one just beyond it. There lay one of the sources of noise in the room. Breath escaped with a hiss through the openings near his nostrils, the rest of his face bound in linen. A bit of black hair poked out here and there. Seregor frowned deeply as he made his way towards Dauth, coming to a stop beside the bed and leaning upon his staff.

Seregor felt a burning in his nose as he looked upon his friend, a tear pushing up into his eye. “Look what I have done to you. Because of me, you must suffer…”

Dauth did not stir. As Seregor had been told, his friend was thought to be completely oblivious to occurrences outside his own mind. At least that is what the healers thought. They had called it the Slumber of the Gods. Leave it to them to make everything tie in to religion. It was explained to him that Dauth’s mind was shut to the rest of the world because the Gods themselves were speaking to him, testing him. Their purpose was to see if Dauth deserved another chance and would survive, or if he would die and be cast into the pits of hell. Apparently, they said the same of all that were in similar states, walking a thin line between life and death.

The tear rolled slowly down Seregor’s cheek, catching the orange light and cutting it into a tiny sparkle of a rainbow. He bowed his head, the tear falling from his face and hitting the icy floor with a dull splat. All was dreadfully silent as Seregor shut his eyes. “My mother used to tell me to look out for you,” his voice was shaky and low, nearly a whisper. “You had lost your father…and I was older than you. She said you’d need a person to look up to, a big brother. I guess…I guess that is how I wanted you to see me. And…you were family to me. Do you remember how we’d always play by the pond, catching frogs and grasshoppers?”

The drow fell silent as he opened his eyes, his gaze floating up. He took in a deep breath. Swallowing hard, he raised his hand to his mouth and rubbed his cheek. Colorful memories floated about his head. Of their childhood, their carefree life before they were old enough to see all the problems in the world. Too naïve then, too innocent to understand what was happening around them. The relationship between their people and the high elves was decaying rapidly as they grew up. Seregor had begun to realize it during his adolescence, as a fledgling swordsman. The disparity in their society concerning race. He could still remember his father telling him about it. Every evening he would hear more of it. About how the high elves were taking advantage of the drow. The high elves were discriminating against the drow. Every evening.

Seregor froze, his thoughts interrupted by sounds. Faint footsteps approaching from the hallway. Soon, they were amplified in his ears, pounding his head. The sound of three thousand feet slamming against the cobblestone road in unison as the newly formed Drow Liberation Army marched out of Denmas to rendezvous with other factions from across the country. The earth quaked in a display of raw power and risky defiance. The moon hanging yellow in the night sky, behind a thin layer of clouds. He snapped his head from side to side in a quick motion, shaking off the noises, the sudden swelling of pride and fear. What if their glorious victory would never come, and they would be subservient to the high elves forever? But their cause was worthy, their cause was righteous.

No. Only one person was approaching. Shaking ever so slightly, Seregor looked up to the doorway of the dim room as a figure stepped into view, turning and entering quietly. His vision became foggy for a moment and he squinted to see who it was. “Milord Seregor, here ye are,” said a soft and gentle voice, caressing his ears. “I was worried. Looked like ye weren’t feeling very well in the dining hall.”

The figure approached in the haze that was cast over his eyes. He knew the voice. A voice that found its way deep down into his soul. “Lady Anylia,” he said with a slight smile, his head heavy for a moment and causing him to lean forward before he prevent it. He saw her hurrying towards him, though she did not come into focus as she neared. Her gentle touch was felt upon his shoulders as she steadied him.

“Please milord, rest a moment. Ye look close to fainting,” her voice swelled with concern. He was guided softly backwards, easing down onto the bed he had rested upon since he arrived at the castle. The bed that she had been caring for him upon. He breathed slowly and shut his eyes, his hand sliding upwards and rubbing his temples slowly.

“I thank you Anylia,” he said weakly. His voice was suddenly raspy. Sighing lightly, he opened his eyes once again, squinting and blinking in what was all at once bright torchlight. Giving his head a few sharp shakes to clear his vision, Seregor looked up to Anylia, who wore a faint smile upon her face as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one of her pointed ears. Her other hand still rested upon his shoulder. His skin tingled, delighting in her touch. He could feel a cloud of warmth spreading throughout his body, emanating from his heart and drifting down to his fingers and toes. It gave him enough strength to smile as their eyes met, locking onto each other. “Are ye all right now?”

He nodded slightly. As he looked into her eyes, he saw everything that he wanted. Everything that wasn’t the war. Kindness, gentleness, a genuine concern for life. Soldiers can possess none of these if they want to succeed. The moment a warrior shows compassion towards his enemy, be that enemy in the best of health or nearly dead; that is the moment in which the warrior has been defeated. At least that is what they had been taught.

He could feel his head slowly moving towards her, his lips guiding themselves to hers. Her hand slowly slid up his neck, coming to rest upon his cheek, her skin like silk. And her lips began towards his own. As they came closer and closer, Seregor was sure he had finally found what he’d been looking for the entire war. Another inch and their lips would touch.

“Ahem.”

Both Seregor and Anylia jumped slightly as their eyes swung to the noise at the door. There stood the woman he had noticed earlier at the dinner, the archer. Her arms folded beneath her breasts, she was leaning against the frame of the door. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at the site of Seregor and Anylia.

“Lady Aertha,” Anylia said with an awkward curtsey.

The woman sighed. “I hope I am not interrupting anything, Anylia,” her voice with a trace of contempt and impatience, “but Lord Rathernal sent me to find the two of you. We feared you might have fallen into the well and drowned.” She snickered.

“My apologies Lady Aertha.” Anylia held the curtsey, her head bowed and gaze upon the gray stone of the floor.

Seregor kept silent, studying the woman in the doorway. Now that he had heard her name, he was a bit disappointed that he had not been able to figure it out on his own. Aertha was a well-known archer, her skill surpassing that of any man in the army. She was near the status of legend amongst the drow, and stories of the young archer had said her attitude could match the bite of her bow. He noticed Aertha’s eyes upon him. She arched a thin brow and smirked. “I certainly hope you did nothing that you will regret, Anylia,” she said, sounding somewhat amused, keeping her eyes locked on Seregor.

Seregor could feel words sliding up his throat, backed by a small burst of anger. Harsh words, the sort of words that only led to more conflict. He shut his eyes for a moment and swallowed, sending them back down to their source. “Forgive me for disturbing the dinner so much,” he apologized, managing to keep calm. “But I am afraid that the wounds I sustained from combat are affecting my mind. Anylia simply helped me through it, and I am grateful to her.”

Aertha chuckled dryly. “But of course Lord Itheax. I have heard of your epic battle in that village, and you have my sympathy. But Lord Rathernal wishes you return to the dining hall so he can move on to more important discussions. He insists that you are key to the talks he would like to hold tonight.”

Seregor felt the sickness returning in his stomach, the nausea absorbing the warmth. Biting his lower lip, he rose to his feet, using the staff to pull himself up. Anylia finally broke her curtsey to assist him, as another snicker slid over from the door. His dull red eyes glanced over to Aertha, who shook her head once more. With that, she pushed herself up and walked back into the hallway, vanishing behind the wall. He then turned his attention to Anylia. She wore a frown on her dark lips.

“I am sorry, milord. I won’t let it happen again.”

Seregor was now frowning as well. They began for the dining hall. He would rather not think of what it was Rathernal needed him for. He would rather just crawl into that bed he was just sitting on and drift to eternal slumber.