Seregor’s eyes slowly slid open,
staring groggily up at the ceiling. With
a tired moan he brought a hand up to his forehead, brushing back his damp
hair. His sleep had been one plagued
with nightmares. Beneath the blanket,
his body was burning, cool beads of sweat upon his chest and legs. All he could remember was fire. It had been there during his entire slumber.
Sitting up with a bit of a
struggle, he glanced about the dim room.
He’d made the move to new quarters, a somewhat large and fairly lavish
bedroom. Huge crimson curtains framed
the bay windows, the walls lined with carvings of all sorts. He swung his legs over the side of the bed,
digging his toes into the soft carpet.
The faint orange glow of the sunset bathed the room, the crystals embedded
in the marble columns that supported the room glittering brightly. He rested his elbows upon his knees, burying
his face in his hands as he shut his eyes.
His head was pounding. His eyes
were smoldering with weariness.
A yawn escaped his mouth as it
stretched open, his hand moving up to stifle it as second nature. His dreams grew worse each day since his
meeting with Zefrenilx, Aertha, and Orthynx, the one which he left early due to
sickness. He’d told them that it was
just his wound acting up, and that he simply needed to get some more rest. If the injury did have something to do with
it, he was not aware. The news that
Zefrenilx had delivered to him was far too much for him to handle. Rathernal had ordered all of the non-drow
wounded being cared for in the castle put to death. Seregor had awoken the next evening to catch
glimpse of a pile of bodies stacked in the courtyard which lay in the castle’s
center. All of them were sun elves.
That had been four days ago,
four days which were nearly sleepless due to the reoccurring dreams that
plagued him. Visions of intense flames
and the blood-curdling sounds of people screaming in agony, their anguish
piercing his soul. That was all his time
in the world of dreams had yielded.
Perhaps it might not have been quite so troubling were not for the
notion that lurked in the back of his mind at all times, surfacing fully during
the horrid images. The fires were due to
his order. The people cried out due to
his command to seize their lives. Their
suffering belonged to him, for he had caused every moment of it. As payment, his head was now hell.
At least when he was awake he
had a fighting chance against guilt. It
always lingered, but he was able to push it out of focus when conscious. Other
things would move up to fill the gap; the drow war effort, the current state of
health his dear friend Dauth was in, and Aertha. First and foremost was the war, though he did
not appreciate the fact. For whatever
reason, he believed that through successful end of the war, all his other
problems would evaporate. There would be
only happiness and peace after the destruction and bloodshed. It could be no other way. Why else would soldiers look forward to
finally laying down their arms, forgetting the word enemy, and marching back home to their families? Certainly not because more battles were left
to be fought in their homes.
Peace was guaranteed after the
war. Seregor couldn’t imagine it any
other way. The irony of war had long
before presented itself to him. The goal
of conflict was peace. The very peace
that this war had broken was all along the aim of those that fought in it. There were no exceptions. It was sad that securing peace cost so much
blood. But it was simply the harsh
reality of the matter.
He decided that his mind had
wandered quite enough, and rose with a grunt.
His feet carried him towards the balcony. Watching the sun set in the brilliantly
painted sky would calm his nerves. Stepping
out into the refreshing air, a breeze wrapped around him. It caressed his skin, the soft embrace of the
wind cooling his body. Far over the
golden fields of crops the sun sunk sleepily beneath the horizon, the clouds
high above already black in the spreading twilight. Night slowly crept across the heavens,
curling fingers of darkness about the land. Seregor let a sigh slip between his
lips nonchalantly as he closed his eyes and reared his head back.
The past few weeks had been far
to fast for his tastes. Everything had
shot by, everything had happened with such incredible speed that he wasn’t even
sure if any of it was real. It was only
the pain that let him know. Yes, it did happen. The physical and emotion torment he had
experienced was far too intense to have been a bad dream or a figment of his
imagination. He just wished that he had
time to think things out, time to make decisions for himself. Everything had been forced upon him. He had no choice in any of it. If he was allowed to choose, he’d have died
the night they attacked the village. He
wouldn’t have escaped with Dauth.
Another could have done that.
Seregor would have died that night, the final release of life that he
knew he deserved.
A knock upon the door pulled him
from his thoughts, ripping him out of whatever it was he had been
pondering. Whatever was on his mind
didn’t matter, of that he was certain.
He was a pawn and would always be one.
There was no way to escape his role.
His eyes scanned the dark landscape that was sprawled out before him,
looking for some way out. There was none
to be found. “The only path before me is
the one tread by slaves, and the forest is too thick to cut myself a new one,”
he said softly to himself, his gaze floating once more to the sky. He let out another light sigh, before a
second knock finally returned his attention to the visitor. Slowly, almost gloomily, he walked back
inside and to the door.
It creaked faintly as he swung
it open, revealing the one who had knocked.
One of Rathernal’s generic servants, looking very much like all the
rest. As usual, the young drow’s gaze
was averted, as it was supposedly a sign of respect. Seregor, of course, was the leader of the new
army, superior to all others in the castle save Rathernal himself, and thus all
servants had to treat him respectfully and be humble in their service. More useless formalities that only made
Seregor feel worse off than he was to begin with. He’d always hated upper class life because of
all the etiquette, titles, and pretenses that came along with it. If one was a member of the nobility, that
person was respectable. It was based on
nothing else but birth. If one was born
a noble, they were the best the world had to offer.
Giving himself a mental shake,
Seregor returned his attention to the servant at the door. “Yes? What is it?”
“My lord,” the servant said in a
shaky voice, likely being a bit nervous in the presence of such an important
figure. If only the youth knew that
Seregor was little more than a figurehead.
He glanced down to the servants extended hand, which held a folded
parchment. “A letter for you. I was told to bring it with all haste, I hope
that I did not take too long, my lord.”
Accepting the letter, Seregor
nodded. He had begun to pity the servant
almost as much as he pitied himself. “Thank
you. I will be sure to notify your
master of the excellent job you did in getting this letter to me.”
“No, thank you my lord,” the
servant replied, a satisfied smile upon his face as he dipped into a low
bow. In a moment, he had turned and
begun away, heading down the hall and out of sight. Seregor bit his lip and closed the door,
careful not to create a great deal of noise in doing so. One thing he had learned was that the hallway
magnified every sound tenfold, certainly a disturbance to any nearby.
He flipped the letter over in
his hands, examining it as he made his way to the desk on the far wall. The seal of Zefrenilx was upon it, holding
the letter closed in red wax. For a
brief moment, he was sure it had to be important, especially if Zefrenilx had
to relay the information by letter. Then
the realization dawned on him. Rathernal
controlled every little bit of the castle, especially the scores of servants. To send information by letter, and have it
delivered by one of Rathernal’s own loyal subjects, would be madness. How could one trust the people of a house
when not even the walls could keep a secret?
It was likely a trivial matter that was not even of enough significance
for Zefrenilx to notify Seregor of personally.
Picking up a dagger that rested upon the desk, he broke the seal and
unfolded the letter, his eyes drifting over the neat runes within.
To Master Seregor Itheax,
Several matters have been brought to my attention
that I felt you should be made aware of.
I humbly regret not being able to discuss them with you in person, but I
am afraid that Rathernal has asked me to train young Orthynx in the arts of
war. The lad is, sadly, highly
inexperienced with such things, and requires guidance in such matters. Originally, it was proposed by our Lord that
you school the youth, but I explained that you had not been feeling well as of
late and would not be able to do so to the best of your abilities. I certainly do not want you burdened with this
boy. You need to let your mind settle,
and your thoughts be straightened.
I have received news that Rathernal has scheduled a
meeting for the end of the week. He
wishes to discuss battle plans, and has hopes of mobilizing the soldiers at the
castle within a fortnight. That would
mean combat for all of yet again, and far too soon, I fear. Prepare yourself, for I have an unfortunate
premonition that Rathernal will be focusing his attentions on you. We both are aware of his delight in putting
people under pressure, and this will be his first opportunity to do so to you
in several days. Should I not speak to
you before this meeting, I wish you strength.
Some better news for you, perhaps. I have gotten word from the healers that your
friend, Dauth I believe, awoke around
I must close this letter now, as Orthynx will be
arriving at my door any moment. He is
not the most perceptive youth I’ve known, but we cannot risk him even
suspecting anything. Good luck
Seregor. I certainly hope that you feel
better soon.
Most
sincerely,
Zefrenilx
The news about Dauth cancelled
out every other word in the letter.
Seregor’s heart swelled with joy for the first time in days. His friend was alive and quickly recovering. He would not have to fight alone. Images flashed through his mind of the
memories he and Dauth had shared, of the good times they had together. Without his dear friend, Seregor had felt
incomplete. Something had been
missing. Knowing that Dauth was in
danger of losing his life was too much.
They had shared childhoods, they had known each other since before
either could speak. Recent events had
caused Seregor to forget all this, to forget the person that had always been
there for him.
Moving to the dresser, he began
to change out of his sleeping attire and into normal clothing. His heart raced with anticipation. He would finally have a person he really knew
to talk to. He could finally see his
friend again. Not the bundle of bandages
they had said was Dauth. He swallowed
loudy as he buckled his belt. The
excitement was almost unbearable.
Finally, he was not alone.
Everything else was unimportant.
He was going to see Dauth.