Happy Halloween, Have a WIP

WIP from ‘Take Thy Brother’s Hand’

His hands were chained almost together high above his head, straining the muscles of his back and arms, pulling against his shoulder and elbow joints. His fingers could not touch, no matter how he stretched them. They grew numb, purple and bruised like the raw flesh around his wrists. To amuse himself in the total darkness and convince himself that his hands were still attached to his body, Gadwar took to swinging his chained wrists against the stone of the dungeon wall, reveling in the sharp bite of the metal against his bleeding flesh and the dull clang of stone and iron. He played cacophonies to drown out the echoes of Finrod’s sea shanties. Edrahil screamed for him to stop, also Beren. Petulantly, Gadwar pulled at the chains, until his strength was once more exhausted, leaving him to hang limp. When the wolves came, Gadwar twisted and turned, freshly dislocating his elbows, until he faced the wall and could attempt, as best one could, to hide from the terrible process. Crying, he cursed his brother as Talcholdir was disemboweled, sobbing and jerking at the chains to try and mask the dying sounds of the elf beside him, slamming metal against stone to create a ringing note loud enough to hide the noise of entrails and spine crushed by wolfish teeth. Long after Tacholdir died and the werewolf feasted in his corpse, Gadwar sobbed against the dungeon wall and felt the pull of the chains against his wrists.

Everything started with Lord and once King Orodreth. Faron held onto this fact. Of the many lords who once held a kingly title back in Beleriand, the blame for his current predicament must start with Lord Orodreth. Faron tried to make it a non-malicious thought. Lord Orodreth was only the inception of this disaster, not the sole cause. Lord Orodreth felt a loneliness in his heart for the feeling of high winds against his face as he perched on the bare cliff of a mountain. The former King of Nargothrond expressed this longing for his strenuous childhood hobby of emulating a demented hyrax or overly ambitious goat within hearing range of other former lords of Nargothrond. Those former lords were the aforementioned pack of fools to whom Faron was friends with. Lord Orodreth only spoke of nostalgia, of how he had chased excitement in his youth, as opposed to more rational pursuits like diving into the ocean or equestrian competition. Sadly, it was a well-documented truth that idle words with disastrous consequences were not out of character for a Noldor prince.

“An expedition up the Pelóri Mountains,” Faron’s friends had said. “A fine adventure,” they said. “A chance to explore new locations, allevement of tedium and routine, time to spend with dear companions.” Pretty words. The final stone to the tower of proof that his friends were champions of folly, thought Faron. And he allowed himself to color that particular thought with all the bitter viciousness that his friends deserved. And he a fool for not thinking this at the inception of this disaster.

His personal involvement in this far-ranging folly began in his garden. As where he ended up had little in common with his garden, the least of which that his garden was warm and pleasant and by virtue of its accommodating altitude did not hamper his breathing, this odd fact was also something Faron pondered over.

Annnd I’m back to writing Aglar. I can’t stick to one fic WIP. Also, I am going whole hog on the black-smithing metaphors for this POV. A little preview:

The prisoners knew not if the wolves would devour them in any set order, but the two spaces on the wall besides Aglar were now empty. His body was the only that remained on this side, and soon the wolves would be feasting on his remains. Aglar knew this with a grim certainty. He was trying to make a bet of the wolves’ lottery and received profanities from his companions for that effort. Only the mortal had laughed. Tacholdir and the king might have smiled; the pit was too dark to tell. Uncle Edrahil was too busy trying to soothe the captain to pay any heed to him. In the quest for more responses, Aglar called out to his companions, “Worry not! Perhaps the wolf shall choke on me.” That got another laugh from Beren, a sound made of an alloy weak in true humor. Aglar’s words came from pure viciousness, so the impurity of a response to his jest was fitting. Grim mortal humor. There was nothing not defiled by death in Beleriand; humor grew around it like new growth of a tree, the callus tissue around the wound of a broken branch. Beren was not the first mortal that Aglar befriended who used humor as shield and sword. They needed steel, not merely iron, and so horror was the carbon added to their happiness to make it strong enough to withstand a land where death was present and certain. He knew this before, but now in the darkness it was truth bright as a furnace. When his body was enslaved to misery and darkness, it fell to his mind and spirit to follow. Bright, kind, or noble feelings had abandoned Aglar, leaving as company only those thoughts that reflected the torment of his surroundings. Hatred demanded less effort to nurture in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth than hope. Hatred was warmer than the freezing stone with its rime of ice that could only be melted by slow application of body heat, the only reliable source of drinking water in this pit. Best of all, hatred blocked fear and shielded the mind from pure despair. Hatred did take effort to conjure, but at least it was something to feel.

Re-writing Galad Damodred to fit the Silm is fun (and not just because of the whole World’s Most Beautiful Man):

When he thought no one could hear him, Gadwar’s father would complain how he missed his chance to cross aboard the stolen Swan-ships, and had that not happened, he and his family would not have had to cross the ice desert. Had he boarded the ships, his first wife would not have had the opportunity to decide to disappear into the darkness to die of despair somewhere in the fathomless cold. Gadwar’s older brother had been even younger than Princess Idril during the crossing and had little memory of his mother. When Heledir, Bân, and other veterans of the Helecaraxë spoke of the endless darkness and cold and of everyone who died during the crossing, Galuven could only offer vague memories of a freezing nose. Thus, Galuven lacked the resentment that plagued their father. Tarlangon had been an opportunist searching for power, latching first to Fëanor’s reactionary party, then switching to Fingolfin because of the far greater number of followers. Any words that would grant him more status at court and more public attention to his studies and publications Gadwar’s father said, with whatever pronunciation he needed to. Tarlangon did not possess the single-minded devotion and loyalty demanded of those allowed to board the stolen Swan-ships.

Anyways, there was no opportunity for him to rejoin the following of Fëanor’s sons once he remarried.

Gadwar’s father married his mother, a noble woman of the Mithrim Sindar, for political stability and power – and to have someone to care for his young son. How much his father loved his mother, Gadwar could not guess, and his mother spoke of Tarlangon in only a fond but distant neutrality. Meluiniel’s own motives for marriage had been equally calculated, she once admitted in private, as a young Gadwar once again listened from corners that he was not meant to. She had no strong desire to be a wife, but she strongly wished to be a mother.

Galuven treated Meluiniel as if she were his birth-mother. He had little memory of his first mother and little reason to cling to her memory. Meluiniel taught him to read and write, to ride a horse, to account his finances, to sing and dance, and to comport himself as a righteous man. The last was a particular sticking point to Gadwar, for if he were to describe his older half-brother with a single phrase, it was that Galuven was concerned that his every action be morally just. Perhaps it was fortuitous that Tanlangen died a year after Gadwar and his twin sister were born, for Galuven disapproved strongly of his status as Exile.

squirrelwrangler:

Last time in Ladros

A new discussion was underway when Baragund re-entered, and the change of topic disoriented Baragund until he found his brother standing with arms crossed in the corner. “Bel,” he hissed, “what are they-”

“Aunt An finally agreed it’s too late in the year to migrate, but she got Uncle Barahir to concede the necessity of sending some of our people away to safety. They’re storing the debate on where would be best, either Estolad or Brethil or over with kin in Dor-lómin, until we get messengers with updates on how those lands fair over the winter. For all we know, the communities were wiped out in the Battle. Minas Tirith on Tol Sirion is holding out, so that’s welcome news. And start a tally of who survived. Nobody expects any more stragglers. Now Aunt Emeldir wants advice on what food stock to supplement us over the winter and what we can do to help.”

“Anything useful?” Baragund asked.

“Well, it turns out that you can eat tree bark, at least the inner part during the spring. So we have that to look forward to.”

Andreth noticed the two brothers standing together and excused herself from the meeting, waving away old Dagnir who held out her cane with a fierce scowl. “Burn it for firewood. We’ll need it once as the charcoal runs out.” The expression on her face as she marched over to the brothers made Baragund and Belegund remember their terror when they were caught misbehaving that summer that Andreth watched over them. “I have a task for the two of you,” she said, and Baragund was half-afraid she was about to reach up and pull them both by the ear. Belegund must have had a similar thought, for he immediately uncrossed his arms and smiled down at their great-aunt.

“Command and it shall be done,” Belegund said.

“I need you to escort me to the ruins of Barathonion.”

“What?” Baragund and Belegund hollered as one voice.

“We should not leave before recovering the bones,” Great-Aunt Andreth said in her new brittle voice. “They should be buried, your father’s bones. And theirs, our lords.” Her breath hitched, and if there had been an emptiness where light once shone in her grey eyes, now there was the gaping darkness that the elves spoke of when describing the great monster Ungoliant. “We cannot leave their bones to be gnawed on by the Enemy’s wolves.”

Last time in Ladros

A new discussion was underway when Baragund re-entered, and the change of topic disoriented Baragund until he found his brother standing with arms crossed in the corner. “Bel,” he hissed, “what are they-”

“Aunt An finally agreed it’s too late in the year to migrate, but she got Uncle Barahir to concede the necessity of sending some of our people away to safety. They’re storing the debate on where would be best, either Estolad or Brethil or over with kin in Dor-lómin, until we get messengers with updates on how those lands fair over the winter. For all we know, the communities were wiped out in the Battle. Minas Tirith on Tol Sirion is holding out, so that’s welcome news. And start a tally of who survived. Nobody expects any more stragglers. Now Aunt Emeldir wants advice on what food stock to supplement us over the winter and what we can do to help.”

“Anything useful?” Baragund asked.

“Well, it turns out that you can eat tree bark, at least the inner part during the spring. So we have that to look forward to.”

WIP Start: Meng Jiang-nu of Dorthonion

Baragund once thought his great-aunt, Andreth, the strongest woman he would ever meet, and he still wished to believe so. The hero worship of a child birthed this admiration, but the maturity of a man who knew wisdom and conviction were the source of true strength had solidified this belief that none could surpass or daunt his great-aunt. Yet the flames that died in the wake of the Battle of Sudden Flame were not just those purely physical, for to look into his great-aunt Andreth’s eyes was to see a flame extinguished. There was a frailness to his great-aunt that not even her immense age had afflicted upon her. Before the Battle of Sudden Flame, Great-Aunt Andreth had been old, but never seemingly conquered by her age. As a child, foolishly, Baragund thought death would be ever too afraid to come for her. Now Andreth stood, still disdaining to lean on the cane that Baragund’s father had gifted her last Midsummer, and argued with Uncle Barahir and Aunt Emeldir over the proper course of action now that most of Dorthonion had been devoured by flames. Her voice was as loud and clear as it had been when Baragund had been a boy, but there was a new brittleness to its timbre and a weariness to the set of her shoulders. A tree, hollowed out by disease and rot, still upright until a high wind would come to topple it, that was Great-Aunt Andreth. Uncle Barahir wished to stay and fight, to try to rebuild. Great-Aunt Andreth, a bony arm splayed out to point to the ash-fields that remained of their homes and the oily black clouds that still billowed from the castle to the west, called that hope foolishness. As Wise-woman and eldest kin, Great-Aunt Andreth had dispensed advice for the chieftains of Bëor, starting with her father, then brother, and lastly her nephew. In some ways, his people said, it was Andreth who ruled the People of Bëor, and they had nodded at the righteousness of that, for she was wise and firm-willed. Uncle Barahir looked pained to be publicly disagreeing with her. When the Great Fever swept through Dorthonion, killing many including Chief Boromir and Baragund’s mother, Great-Aunt Andreth had been the one to take in Baragund and his brother while their father recovered from the illness and buried their mother. She had been the one to lead her brother, Bregor, through that terrible summer of his first days as chief, to give him strength and hope. She promised the plague would pass, lives be rebuilt, and that Bregor would carry his people successfully through the harvest and winter. Now, her words spoke of defeat. In the ashes of the Dagor Bragollach, there was no hope of surviving the coming winter. And that Great-aunt Andreth dared to voice this awful fact felt like a cruel betrayal. The only part more shocking was that Uncle Barahir was obdurately disagreeing with her.

Exhausted with the repetitions of words, of the same arguments on if there was time to rebuild, if there was enough seed stock and livestock to have anything to support themselves in the spring and how soon Morgoth’s forces might return and make any rebuilding futile, Baragund left in search of his cousin. He found Beren with Urthel, and the two young men were carefully melting glue to attach feathers to fresh arrows. A stack of whittled arrow shafts lay at Beren’s feet, and Baragund picked one up and inspected it. “Where were you able to find them?” he asked, referring to the wood.

“The fires didn’t get up into the pines,” Beren mumbled, “not all of ‘em. We hid there, during the worst of it, when Ma had us evacuate.”

“You did well,” Baragund praised, repeating his own litany of words. For the last few days, ever since his Uncle reunited them with their families and the rest of Dorthonion’s remaining civilians, Baragund had been trying to reassure his cousin that the young man had performed his duties admirably. Beren had helped to protect his people, had done his best to keep them safe. But his cousin was as transparent as the lake on a clear day, and Beren blamed himself for every loss of life and house. “My daughter would not be alive without you,” Baragund stressed.

His cousin looked up from his project. “Great-Aunt Andreth says we should leave.”

“Yes,” Baragund says, “and your father hasn’t convinced her otherwise. I think your mom is half-convinced.”

“What do you think?” Beren asked.

Baragund had no answer for his cousin; he felt only emptiness when he thought of the question and the weighty consequences. The only solid thought that he did have was a chilling relief that he was not chieftain, that his uncle was one to carry the burden of leadership. What was most frightening for Baragund was the dawning realisation that if the day came that it would be his turn to lead his people, as his father, Bregolas, and grandfather, Bregor, had done, that he would not have the wisdom and strength of Great-aunt Andreth to support him.

“Eilinel wants to stay,” Urthel said, speaking of his sister.

“And Gorlim,” Beren added, speaking of his best friend. This made the large and grim-faced Urthel grunt with displeasure, for he had not yet decided if he approved of the young man that was courting Eilinel.

Another sobering thought for Baragund, for his daughter was no longer a young child, and he knew it would only be a few scant years until some callow boy came wishing to court Morwen.

“I think it’s melted now,” Beren said, handing the cup to Urthel. “Call me when they decide,” Baragund’s cousin said as he inspected trimmed pieces of feather. “I’ll try to make at least a good sheaf of arrows for you and Belegund. I can do that. Ma pulled me off fence-building, and Urthel already finished with firewood.”

“We don’t have enough yet,” Beren’s friend grumbled and held out a trimmed arrow shaft for Beren to start gluing on the fletching.

Seeing that they would not be distracted from their task, Baragund turned on his heels and trudged back into the hall to listen to his chieftain and Wise-woman quarrel at each other.

Updates from the Far Side of the End of an Age-

squirrelwrangler:

squirrelwrangler:

The start of the Second Age, in Valinor. The Band of the Red Hand and other survivors and reborn elves from the War of the Jewels now face eternity of peace in Valinor. The transition is smoother for some.

In other words, here’s the start of Bân’s second life:

…

Bân is at a loss for what to do with himself in his second life in Valinor, once the novelty of rebirth has worn off. Well, not entirely so – he knows whom he wishes for as company, and he knows which experiences he shall stringently endeavor to avoid repeating. That particular is easy enough with Morgoth banished to the Timeless Void. But an occupation to fill his time? That Bân lacks.

He was a soldier in Beleriand, a good one. He had been proud of the duties that he fulfilled and the people and lands he protected. His skills with a long blade are still only matched by a rare few – and of that small group, one of which he trained. His knowledge is that of war, and in war and combat Bân is wise. It is his skills outside of the purview of soldier that he lacks.

Bân has no expertise in a peacetime craft, and that should shame him. Even a daubbler’s introduction to hobbies that could form a trade or occupy his time he lacks. He had crafted his interests around those skills necessary for killing orcs and protecting lives via violence, even his simpler hobbies of physical movements were practice to keep muscles and joints limber. The daily exercise routines are useful for other aspects of Bân’s life – his lover certainly appreciates the end results. But Valinor has little need of more men to man the Pelóri Mountains. Bân could join the Vanyar athletes and train for their physical competitions and festivals. But such an endeavor feels hollow to him, and Bân knows he would soon bore of it. Other Returned Noldor face the same problems as Bân- whether to forgo all the martial skills that they had learned or try and preserve them by gentling and controlling the actions of war by transforming them into performance art. The riders already have, placing the mounted katas to music and renaming the battle maneuvers as dance. Bân watched a performance on invitation with the princes. It was moving and beautiful. He could not do it.

The others have options. Some like Aglar, Edrahil, and the princes have their old lives with their families and estates to return to, even if they are finding the old lives no longer exactly fit, like a garment shrunk in the washing or having been re-tailored to fit a new style. Edrahil, oddly enough, is the one most uncomfortable, but the former steward of Nargothrond has an escape plan lined up. Edrahil is nothing if not sensibly prepared, and he has all of eternity to learn how to sail – even if it will only be a placid houseboat and a lover willing to teach him. Edrahil and Maiwë plan to impose on his family’s generous hospitality only until the hull of their new houseboat is caulked. Sooner if Edrahil’s patience expires. And the betting has already begun on how soon Prince Finrod will flee his father’s court to spend a lengthy vacation on Edrahil’s floating house. That is probably why Amarië is assisting to decorate and outfit it, knowing in advance that she will call on Edrahil and Maiwë’s hospitality.

Tacholdir has his writings and Heledir has a collaboration with Princess Findis on something much the same, if more frivolous in subject matter. Bân is no author, unless letters to Aereth count, and he has no need of a pen when his beloved lives with him.

Arodreth has merrily assigned himself as personal steward and gardener for Lady Alphen. She will either throw him out of her house on his ear or finally shove him into her bed. Or perhaps both. Old Mother Swan and Old Father Bull are as constant as tides, even if nowadays it is King Arafinwë to whom Lady Alphen advises, and Arodreth has banished both armor and – rumors says- the very concept of shirts. If the old warrior wishes to putter around a rose garden and organize the running of household tasks without tunic and only the most form-fitting of hose, Bân will not gainsay him. Anyways, he doubts the veracity of that rumor, no matter what Consael swears. Arodreth is handsome for an elf, even if his re-embodiment has not removed the signs of a wear of a long life full of strain and experience from his features, and he was never one for stylish or form-fitting clothes. And the current trend in Tirion is for men to wear very snugly fitting-abbreviated garments, as simplified and loose fitting gowns are trendy for women. Prince Finrod, Faron, and the half-brothers re the closest to popinjays among their cadre, and Tacholdir the only other one to closely monitor current trends. Tacholdir recently dragged a stunned and overwhelmed Faron along to the best tailor in Tirion as a wardrobe consultant after he received his commission for his first published manuscript, then modeled the resulting new wardrobe for everyone. Therefore Bân knows what people are wearing in Tirion, even if he does not currently reside there. Back in Beleriand – before death – Arodreth rarely wore the finery befitting his station, and in this Bân is alike, content to daily wear the loose-fitting and comfortable gambesons that he wore as armor under-padding. Now Bân has no armor, yet he cannot drum up enthusiasm for new clothes.

That his baggy mortal-style trousers are apparently also in-fashion, at least among the daring youths of Valmar and Tirion, according to Consael, does mildly horrify Bân. In his youth, back when the Trees lived, the hip trend was secret swords and emblazoned shields, so this fancy for aping mortal appearance is at least more benign.

Still, the germ of the story, the implication that Arodreth is actively attempting to seduce Lady Alphen, is believable. Heledir is perhaps the only one of Bân’s cohort that has not initiated a courtship or is already betrothed or married. The Valar know this dance between Arodreth and Alphen has been long enough.

Aglar and his wife are expecting twins. Bân’s dearest friend, Fân, has not yet married his love, the shy yet strong Dondwen, but the two are living together in travellers’ inn that she runs, along with a boy named Brandost. The former pugilist now innkeeper had taken in a war orphan during the aftermath of the War of Wrath, and until the boy’s parents are reborn, or by some miracle survived the war and find passage on the ships returning to Valinor, he is theirs to raise. The ring that Fân wears is still silver, and yet he finds himself already in the role of father. Of all the surprises awaiting them upon their rebirth, Fân’s wins for shock value.

Fatherhood Bân has not yet discussed with Aereth. It would certainly occupy his time, but he does not feel ready for the responsibility. He ignores Heledir’s unsubtle prompting. He knows of the secret bet. During his most snide moments, he wishes to shout at everyone, “Beren beat all of us to that accomplishment.”

Now that he thinks on the subject, Bân acknowledges that there will be fierce fighting among his friends on who gets to honor Beren by naming their child in reference to the hero.

Even More Self-indulgent Writing, Mosasaurs and Murder

squirrelwrangler:

Continuing off this, again trying to keep the segments shorter (plus immediately after this is a part I might cut or move towards the end of the scene). Where I start to establish the central conceit of “Okay, Amabel worked for Aquaman’s family. But like, if we replaced Orm with Ivan Vorpatril.”

…

Amabel started guffawing. “I promise this is funny,” she wheezed in-between breaths as she struggled to curtail her laughter, the memories already overpowering her.

Gislin already thought the story was mildly silly, and interesting to hear of Amabel’s homeland. But the sometimes mermaid was bent double on the cart bench, laughing at private thoughts. Patiently he waited.

“In the bed in the center of the room I can see a man; the bottom half of his body is covered by bed sheets but the top half is bare. The man in the bed – that a teenage me is discreetly ogling, I’ll admit- is Prince Res, and he groans and shouts at his brother to turn around and close the door behind him. Here I am, innocent girl from the Blue Island, in the presence of my royalty, these infamous princes that I have heard stories of, and they are shouting half-naked at each other. Well, King Isore was completely dressed, if not in formal shell. Prince Res, though the bed sheets covered it, was quite obviously naked. So, half. Without his warhelm and steel mailcoat, Prince Res looks very young and soft. Attractive but slim, positively slight compared to King Isore, who you remember is a bull seal of a man, the sort of muscles that they make for sculptures of Moon Hunter. Stand him next to his half-brother and you begin to see a resemblance in the face. The rumors had confused which of the two brothers had pale blonde coloring. Confused many things about them, or didn’t supply me with the sweeter, outrageous stories.” Amabel mimicked an exaggerated pout of disappointment until she earned a smile from Gislin.

“Prince Res, still bleary-eyed from sleep, asks his brother if Iro is in immediate danger of invasion, and receiving a negative, removes his weight from his elbows and falls back into the bed, ready to return to sleeping. He, Prince Res, was General of Iro’s army, the one to lead our main forces, the fleets of – oh wait, you would not know what they are. Our knights. But not horses – in Iro the creatures we used for battle mounts were…what would you call them? I know humans have names for them. They are like whales, comparable in size with even the great squid-eaters depending on the type, and like whales do not have gills to filter breath through the water but must surface to breathe. The rumors that our armies ride upon sharks is false,” Amabel scoffed. “Sharks are too stupid. Curious creatures, love to be petted, can be bribed with food. But dumb as sheep and twice as skittish, worthless in battle. Our war mounts are the most terrible untainted creatures on this side of the Doors. Pfft, sharks.”

Keep reading

Even More Self-indulgent Writing, Mosasaurs and Murder

Continuing off this, again trying to keep the segments shorter (plus immediately after this is a part I might cut or move towards the end of the scene). Where I start to establish the central conceit of “Okay, Amabel worked for Aquaman’s family. But like, if we replaced Orm with Ivan Vorpatril.”

…

Amabel started guffawing. “I promise this is funny,” she wheezed in-between breaths as she struggled to curtail her laughter, the memories already overpowering her.

Gislin already thought the story was mildly silly, and interesting to hear of Amabel’s homeland. But the sometimes mermaid was bent double on the cart bench, laughing at private thoughts. Patiently he waited.

“In the bed in the center of the room I can see a man; the bottom half of his body is covered by bed sheets but the top half is bare. The man in the bed – that a teenage me is discreetly ogling, I’ll admit- is Prince Res, and he groans and shouts at his brother to turn around and close the door behind him. Here I am, innocent girl from the Blue Island, in the presence of my royalty, these infamous princes that I have heard stories of, and they are shouting half-naked at each other. Well, King Isore was completely dressed, if not in formal shell. Prince Res, though the bed sheets covered it, was quite obviously naked. So, half. Without his warhelm and steel mailcoat, Prince Res looks very young and soft. Attractive but slim, positively slight compared to King Isore, who you remember is a bull seal of a man, the sort of muscles that they make for sculptures of Moon Hunter. Stand him next to his half-brother and you begin to see a resemblance in the face. The rumors had confused which of the two brothers had pale blonde coloring. Confused many things about them, or didn’t supply me with the sweeter, outrageous stories.” Amabel mimicked an exaggerated pout of disappointment until she earned a smile from Gislin.

“Prince Res, still bleary-eyed from sleep, asks his brother if Iro is in immediate danger of invasion, and receiving a negative, removes his weight from his elbows and falls back into the bed, ready to return to sleeping. He, Prince Res, was General of Iro’s army, the one to lead our main forces, the fleets of – oh wait, you would not know what they are. Our knights. But not horses – in Iro the creatures we used for battle mounts were…what would you call them? I know humans have names for them. They are like whales, comparable in size with even the great squid-eaters depending on the type, and like whales do not have gills to filter breath through the water but must surface to breathe. The rumors that our armies ride upon sharks is false,” Amabel scoffed. “Sharks are too stupid. Curious creatures, love to be petted, can be bribed with food. But dumb as sheep and twice as skittish, worthless in battle. Our war mounts are the most terrible untainted creatures on this side of the Doors. Pfft, sharks.”

Amabel paused and pondered. “How far north was your village, Gislin? The one that you and Tenny came from? Did you have to worry about the river lizards?”

Gislin’s complexion was too dark for his face to noticeably pale in fear, but the widening of his eyes conveyed the shock. “No, but I know of them. That monster was what your people rode into battle?”

The mermaid tapped her fingers against her lap. “Yes and no. What creatures would best describe it? As a badger is to a bear. General Res and the forces of Iro held a reputation built not on unfounded fear. One would not face a war beast in open water unless similarly mounted. Or able to control the waves themselves.

“Now King Isore demands that his brother look at me, to check one more time that he does not recognize me. I think that the king was still disappointed that I was not one of the scouts. He was worried about Gawne and Claren. I forget what the Prince says in response, or if he just groans at his older brother the king. And then King Isore changes tack and asks me, “So how are you with children?” Well, I am completely flabbergasted, thinking to myself that question is irrelevant.” Amabel smirked. “It was not.

“King Isore turns back to his brother. “We have a new girl to go to training with my wife, but I think she’ll be a better fit with Sis. Gut feeling says she’ll do better at the smaller scale works, unlike Gara or Gawne. And if she has mettle, she might survive a few days as nursemaid.” Now I am incredibly confused. There is a quality of adolescence to the half-brothers in how they are treating another which I did not expect, but that is only the tip of my shock this morning.

“From the side door of the room side enters a woman, and only for her extreme similarity to Queen Garabel do I recognize her as the twin sister of the Queen. Hira of the Seal Rock Islands is an infamous figure still in the Navel of the World. Sea witch, your ballads would label her, and be accurate.” Amabel sighed. “I must backtrack in my story and explain some secrets about Queen Gara and the women of the Seal Rock Islands.” Amabel pursed her lips. Cowing her reluctance and distaste, she explained, “There is a magic in controlling water, pulling it or repelling it away, granting it a great viscosity so it forms shapes or draws into itself away from people. A rare talent, one I thought was our version of the taint-gifts until I came to Iro and learned that it could be taught at great difficulty. I still cannot do it, except for two related tricks, and both are dangerous for outsiders to know of.” Amabel paused. “One is an assassination technique. It is an ugly way to kill someone, and takes more effort than a knife to the gut or a strangulation cord. And it is too distinctive to be mistaken for any other method.” The second pause was longer, and the breaths that Amabel drew rattled with uneven sound. “It is to pull water from a living body, and I have done it before. I swear I never will again.”

Gislin squeezed Amabel’s hand in comfort and support. “They taught you how to assassinate people?”

“They were taught how,” Amabel explained. “Garabel and Hirabel. All royal women of the Seal Rocks. And when Rosser betrothed his daughter to the heir of Iro, he was sending her to kill their king on their wedding night. Like the story of the three daughters of the Weeping King, married off to three sons of a rival king, and the elder two sisters cursed after death for going through with the plan. And like that story with the youngest daughter, Garabel could not.”

“I thought the Weeping King had fifteen daughters?” Rohese asked.

“Fif-What preposterous story is that? No, it was only three. And if Gael told you otherwise, then that is the worst of their inaccuracies. How thus did a story mutate, to come to fifteen? Next you shall tell me there were fifty daughters.

“Enough of false stories; I tell you truth. Gawne was the one to tell me some of the details, to cover what the king and queen did not tell me themselves. That the queen escaped Iro to search the seas for the children of Isopa, that she found them on the coast, standing knee-deep in water red with blood of men sent by others who wished that neither young man step again into the ocean, this was all well-known in Iro. That Garabel entreated Isore to come with her back to Iro and fight for his rightful claim, lest he live the remainder of his life dodging attacks like these. That she rose out of the bloody water with her red hair loose around her shoulders, hands outreached in supplication. She was the one to lead Isore to see the charnel nets where enemies of the nobles and undesirables were purged. Those I will give you no details, Gislin, only that I am grateful that the war never reached my island, and that brutality is no isolated trait. Garabel, heir of the ancient enemy of Iro, sent in false faith, now she earnestly pleaded for its salvation. After nearly a decade of war in Iro because there was no one firmly in control, Garabel rejected the schemes of power-grasping men. Even before she loved Isore, she no longer plotted his death. She would aid him in claiming his birthright, see him rule in peace and stability, if only he came with her.

“Prince Res, who spent his childhood watching his mother wither under an abusive marriage and a cabal of council members and nobles channel authority into their hands, wanted nothing more with Iro. Garabel’s tales of the horrors happening in his home did not surprise him or outwardly move his heart. He did not love the human lands more than the home islands, or think them with all their still-strange customs much safer, but until he was twelve, Prince Res had lived in pampered, lonely misery. Friendless, confined to the palace, as much a prisoner of it as Garabel. It was then that he learned to idolize the idea of his brother, as much as his mother Isopa clung to a perfect hope of the child and lover that she had been forced to abandon. He was unwilling to offer up his remaining family to the altar that was,” Amabel paused for a phrase to convey, “Iro’s bloody crab pot. This was during the period of the Pure One Revolts, so peace anywhere was rare to find. The rebellions had nothing in common, but I wonder if they did not somehow feed each other.

“I have not tasted his liver, so I do not know if Res would have sought the throne if Isore had not, if the kingship was framed as the only way to keep his elder half-brother safe. He was raised as Iro’s heir, expecting the kingship, while Isore did not until his mother reunited with him. Not that Res, after he found a new life as a commoner’s stepson and reveled in freedom from expectations, was eager to assert his claim for any reason but that chain of obligation. But Isore’s heart was noble and compassionate. For the common people of Iro, and for love of his brother and vengeance for his father and mother, he followed Gara. And because Isore did, Prince Res did.

“In battle the brothers were terrible foes, and Garabel no less a force. One should not bring lightning into the sea. The war was not swift, nor clean, but by the end their enemies drowned.”

“Still I find it strange that mermaids can drown.”

“We are not fish,” Amabel said. “No more than the dolphin or sea turtle. It just takes longer than a human. And a harpoon or blade to the gut, or a cyclone upon the waves, does expedite a death.

“Now when Isore was enthroned on the Pillar of Iro, he expected Garabel to remain at his side as queen, and she too desired this. But she could not wed him without confessing the original intention of why she was sent. Even if this caused Isore to reject her, she would not return to Nivel, and she would continue to dedicate her life to protecting him from harm. The words that Isore said in response to her confession were very romantic, I think. “Cannot the lie be truth?” Isore asked, and Garabel replied with, “My love for you is not and never has been a lie.”

“Now Prince Res, learning of Seal Rock Islands’ duplicity and Garabel’s training, was not pleased with her continued presence. But he could not deny how mutually besotted his brother and Garabel were, and that her extreme devotion to Isore was equal to if not surpassing his. But the leader of the Seal Rock Islands, copper-tailed Nivel, and his conniving advisors, chief among them Garabel and Hirabel’s own grandmother, coveted not in the slightest that Gara marry Isore. Wroth they were that she had fought beside him and displayed the sheer size and scope of the power that she wielded during the war on his behalf, and that Iro’s ascendancy to once more dominate the ocean was all but assured with their union. So Hira-”

“Her sister was sent to remind Gara to finish the job, or do it herself?” Gislin surmised.