Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The Silvergrove was alight with music, tonight.
Fireflies danced in the air, tiny sparks of gold illuminating the perpetual twilight of the quiet settlement. They wove their way around the colorful streamers that swept from one tree branch to the next, seeming to blink and bob in time with the reverent music––the perfect decoration for the immaculacy sculpted pillars of the public pavilion. The flowers woven around each pillar shimmered in response to the gentle glow of the fireflies, beautiful and ethereal, warm and welcoming.
And beneath them, surrounded by their closest friends and family, two elves exchanged a vow to bind their hearts together forever.
Far behind the crowds, hidden in the shadowed nook between two large bushes, Runaan watched with detached interest. Tiadrin and Lain had been sharing dreamy gazes for as long as he had known them. It was no surprise to see them finally sliding their wedding cuffs over each other's horns.
He was happy for them...but the pride he felt on their behalf was shadowed with a bittersweet wistfulness. There had been so many weddings, of late. So many couples walking along the streets with their hands clasped together, so many blissful smiles, gentle touches, lighthearted laughs.
Runaan was growing sick of it.
There was no logic to his annoyance. This was good, after all. The Moonshadow elves were thriving, prospering. Wasn't that what Runaan wanted? To see his people happy?
...It must be nice, having someone to share your heart with.
The two fighters shared a kiss. The music swelled, and the crowd stood to bow in reverence to the holy union of two souls. Runaan inclined his head respectfully and pushed away from the pillar. He had been invited to share in the celebration, but observing from a distance was as far as he was willing to go.
Tiadrin and Lain would understand.
As the music took on a lighter, more festive beat, Runaan left the pavilion behind and started down the stone path that led upwards into the Craftsman's Cradle. The path opened into a wide road lined with simple, elegant structures: a woodcarver's workshop; an enchanter's laboratory; a papermaker's drying racks. Runaan passed them all with barely a glance, his attention fixed upon the chiseled archway built directly into the stone face of the hill Silvergrove had been build around. Already, he could hear the faint tink of metal striking metal, could smell the acrid wisps of smoke wafting out of the vent above the entrance. The blacksmith's forge was a busy one. Runaan rarely found it cold.
The heat of the forge pressed against him as he neared the entrance, and Runaan unhooked his sword from his belt and unfolded the blade from the hilt to lock it into position. "Faleth?" he called out. "Are you busy?"
From the back of the smithy, a broad-shouldered elf craned his neck to peer around a plume of smoke, lifting his goggles to squint at Runaan. Recognition lit his features, and he raised a hand in welcome as he thrust a length of metal into the glowing embers of the forge. "Come for a new blade?" he asked as he set down his tongs. "You're due for one, you know."
"The blade I have is reliable." Runaan set his sword upon the table beside the blacksmith. "But the balance feels off, lately," he continued. "I'd like to have it looked at."
Faleth joined him at the table and picked up the sword. He tilted it, rotated it, balanced it upon his finger to assess the problem. After a moment, he nodded. "Easy enough. I can get it back to you by the month's end."
"The month's end?" The relieved smile that had started to rise at the blacksmith's agreement dropped in shock as Runaan gaped at the older elf. "I can't be without my blade for a month!"
"You have another one, don't you?" Faleth's gaze dropped down meaningfully to the second folded sword hooked to Runaan's belt, and Runaan clapped a hand to it possessively.
"It's no good without its mate," he shot back. "There must be something you can do."
Faleth sighed and set the blade back down. "Sorry, lad," he said. "I have far too much work to set aside just for you." He slid his goggles back over his eyes and jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the other side of the smithy. "Take it to Ethari. He can fix it up just as well as I can."
Runaan looked over to where Faleth was pointing. Seated at another work bench with his back to them, a much younger elf was bent over a sword, carefully etching runes into its fuller. Runaan's eyes narrowed. He turned back to Faleth to level a resentful scowl at him.
"An apprentice?" he demanded. "You would have me entrust my blade to an apprentice?"
"Journeyman," Faleth corrected. "And nearing the end of his training. He'll be taking over for me, soon enough." Faleth picked up the tongs and pulled the glowing orange length of metal from the forge. "Might be better than me, actually," he added in a bemused tone as he took up his hammer. "He's young, but the boy's an expert in his craft."
The hammer swung down to slam against the heated metal with a spray of sparks. Runaan stepped back, his fists clenching in irritation. His swords were an extension of his body. Every time he went out on a mission, those blades were his only insurance that he would get home safely. Only a master blacksmith was fit to touch them!
Faleth hammered away the metal, ignoring Runaan's attempt to catch his gaze. The matter had apparently been settled, in his mind. Runaan started to speak, then paused to look behind Faleth. Nicked swords waited in a barrel nearby, each with a tiny tag indicating their owners tied around their hilts. Beside them was a table laid out with worn-down daggers, bundles of arrows, and stacks of papers weighted down with stone. Work orders, most likely. Runaan's gaze drifted over the partially completed set of armor laying in the corner and let out a heavy sigh.
By the month's end. Unbelievable.
Runaan looked back towards Ethari––and with a hiss of annoyance, he snatched the blade from the table and stalked over to the other side of the smithy. "Hey," he said sharply. "You, there."
Ethari continued to work, seemingly oblivious to Runaan's voice. Scowl deepening, Runaan closed the distance between them and tossed his blade upon the table. Ethari jerked back in surprise as the metal clanked against his own sword, then snapped a startled look to Runaan. He wasn't quite as young as Runaan had first guessed; the length and smoothness of his horns indicated that he was near to Runaan's own age. Short white hair dusted across his forehead, a striking contrast to his dark skin. Other than that, he wasn't particularly noteworthy. Thick of build, plain features, oblivious to his surroundings...
Runaan's lip curled. "Fix this," he said simply.
A blank look overtook the confusion of Ethari's face. He looked at the sword, then at Runaan. "What's wrong with it?"
"You're the expert. Figure it out."
Runaan spun on his heel and strode back towards the archway. Eyes wide, Ethari pushed his chair back and stood. "Wait!" he called out. "Why––"
"I'll pick it up at dusk."
He crossed the threshold, vanishing around the arches with a flick of his ponytail.
Ethari starred after him, still trying to figure out what had just happened. Brows furrowing, he looked back at the sword that had been flung atop his work. He picked the blade up, and immediately felt its flaw: a barely discernable slant that indicated an imbalanced blade. He turned it over slowly, closing his eyes to feel out the source of the problem.
Ah. There you are.
Ethari opened his eyes, a fond smile ghosting over his lips as he appraised the weapon. It was a good blade. A solid blade. But it was an old blade, one that had been sharpened too many times. The balance between the length of the tang and the blade itself had grown strained.
Weapons like these are works of art, he thought wistfully. It's a shame to see their glory fade over time.
"That boy needs a new blade," Faleth called out over the hiss of hot metal striking water. "I've told him that a dozen times, but he still clings to that one like a child's favorite toy."
With a low chuckle, Ethari gave the blade a few test swings as he walked over to the forge. "He has a child's temperament," he returned lightly. "Is he always like that?"
"Runaan's a stubborn one," Faleth grunted. "I suppose he's used to getting what he wants."
Runaan. The corner of Ethari's lips tugged upwards in a sardonic smile as he thought back to the defiant flash in Runaan's vibrant green eyes. It had been as though he had been challenging Ethari to argue with him. With a shake of his head, Ethari held the blade up. "The pretty ones usually do," he chuckled. Faleth paused to cast him a withering look, and Ethari grinned. "What? I'm allowed to admire him, even if he is an ass."
Faleth snorted and began to measure the width of the blade he was working on. "Let me give you some advice, lad," he said. "Runaan isn't friendly. He can be civil when he's in a good mood, but he's not one to hold hands and stare lovingly into someone else's eyes while declaring his undying love for them. Don't let yourself get moon-eyed over him." Faleth held the blade to his eye and squinted down its edge. "He's got a hard heart, that one," he added. "If you work hard enough and earn enough of his trust, you might be able to get a smile out of him. Don't expect much more than that."
As Faleth spoke, Ethari's good humor faded steadily into quiet concern. Runaan sounded miserable. Cold, distrustful, unhappy... How could anyone live like that?
Ethari conjured Runaan in his mind again, building up the narrow face, the long white hair braided back into a sweeping tail, the arrogant lift of the chin as he sneered and turned away. Faleth's training me to be his successor, Ethari thought as he studied the sword again. And this is the blade of someone who's obviously an active fighter. I may be seeing him a great deal in the future. Am I to expect to tolerate his unpleasantness all the while? Ugh. I'd rather make a friend out of him. I wouldn't want him to get use to throwing pointy objects at me.
With a soft sigh, Ethari looked back at Faleth. "How do I earn his trust?" he asked.
Faleth thrust the metal back into the forge. "By fixing his sword."
He went back to work. Lips pressed thin, Ethari wandered over to the archway. This close to dawn, the street was quiet. Most of the craftsmen who set up their shops here had already gone home to rest for the day. Soon enough, Faleth would begin closing up as well. Ethari's grip tightened on the sword as he looked towards the thin line of light in the distance that marked the end of another night. He'd need to get up early if he wanted to get the sword finished by sundown. Maybe it was time to head home as well.
He tilted his head in thought, then frowned in concentration. Was that music he heard? He perked his ears, listening closely until he finally made out a faint melody dancing upon the calm breeze. There were spots of color in the distance. Beneath the pre-glow of the coming dawn, Ethari could see the flicker of firelight coming from the pavilion. The music was emanating from its center. What was––
Ethari's mouth dropped open in horror. The wedding!
With a hissed curse, he darted outside––then skidded to a halt and ran back inside to drop the sword on his work station. He started to run outside again––and again swung around to return to his table. With another curse and a frantic scramble, he shoved items aside, looked under papers, opened drawers. Where were they? He'd just finished them that evening! Matching blades, both ornamental and functional, a wedding gift he had worked on for weeks to perfect...
There!
Ethari whisked two gleaming daggers out of the bottom drawer and spun around to run for the archway. "I'm leaving," he called out as he whisked past Faleth. "I'll see you tomorrow!"
"But you haven't cleaned up your––
"Tomorrow!"
Ethari pounded down the road, the daggers clenched tightly in his fists. How had he managed to forget about the wedding? Tiadrin and Lain had been talking about it for months! He'd helped them plan it! Light of the Moon, he had even forged their wedding cuffs for them! They'd never forgive him if he missed the whole ceremony!
Ethari huffed as he ran. His legs were already burning, his lungs already protesting. He was strong, true, but not athletic. Ethari's muscles came from the forge, not from exercise. He was going to be out of breath by the time he reached the pavilion. Probably rumpled and sweaty. Wonderful. He'd look lovely with the addition of the soot and grime still clinging to his clothes from the night's work.
They won't care. They know what I do for a living. They'll just be happy I showed up.
Ethari rounded a corner and slowed slightly as he spotted a figure walking further ahead of him. Long white hair, slender build, a graceful gait both casual and deliberate. Runaan? Damn! Ethari slowed further, rethinking his path to the pavilion. He didn't want Runaan to see him racing towards him and brandishing knives like some kind of lunatic. No telling how that might end. Was there a different path he could take?
There was a curve in the road up ahead. It wound its way down the hill, weaving like a snake to its base. Ethari shot a quick glance to the left, where the edge of the road overlooked the Market Square one level down. A few trees lined that level, their broad branches and lush leaves rising above the road Ethari ran along.
That'll do, Ethari thought. He veered off the road to vault onto a tree branch, intending to pick his way down to the Market Square below. He had seen warriors do things like this before, hopping from one branch to the next when they were in a hurry. They always made it seem effortless.
It was not.
As Ethari's weight struck the branch, it dipped and shuddered. With a startled yelp, Ethari lurched sideways, then sprang recklessly to a different branch in an effort to catch his balance. One foot caught the edge––and the other kicked against empty air. Ethari pitched forward, his arms flailing as he plummeted through the leaves. One branch knocked against his forehead; another caught him right in the gut, slowing his descent just enough to prevent him from cracking his skull as he slammed face first upon the dirt road beneath the tree.
For several seconds, Ethari laid still, too stunned to even think of moving. Slowly, he let out a low groan and rolled to his side. That had definitely not gone the way he had planned...
There was a touch against his elbow. Wincing, Ethari looked up to see Runaan bowing over him.
Aw, hell...
"Are you hurt?"
It took a moment for Ethari to register that Runaan was talking to him. When the question pierced the fuzz of his mind, Ethari nodded, and winced again as his head throbbed at the movement. Runaan's fingers closed more firmly around his elbow.
"Be more careful," he admonished sternly. "One should not run with daggers unsheathed unless he intends to sink them into a target––nor should he use braches as stepping stones when he's obviously never trained to do so." He lifted Ethari's arm, forcing him to rise. Head pounding and face flushing hot, Ethari eased his way to his feet. Of course this would happen to him. And of course Runaan would be the one to witness it.
Runaan released his arm and stooped to retrieve the two fallen daggers. As he handed them back silently, Ethari hung his head in shame and began to clean the blades with the corner of his tunic.
"Am I to expect this level of care with my own weapon?"
Ethari looked up to find Runaan glowering at him in reproach. "I––no," he stammered. "These aren't––"
"And what would you have done if you had fallen upon one of those?" Runaan flicked his hand to gesture at the daggers. "Did you think about that at all? This early in the morning, when every sane person is looking towards bed and not a single soul would have been around to aid you?"
Ethari hung his head again, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "No," he mumbled. "I was just––"
"You are a fool." The long tail of Runaan's hair whipped against Ethari's arm as he turned sharply to walk away. "I expect my sword to be finished by sunset," Runaan said over his shoulder. "I won't be made to wait."
Ethari couldn't even look up. Ears burning in humiliation, he listened to Runaan's footsteps grow distant–– thankfully in the opposite direction Ethari had been headed. When he couldn't hear Runaan's footfalls anymore, he shoved the two daggers into his belt and turned away, trying his best to ignore the aches in his limbs.
No more jumping through trees, he thought ruefully. He was right to admonish me. I could have fallen upon one of the daggers. Gutted myself. Bled out, assuming the fall itself didn't outright kill me. I'm glad Faleth didn't see that moment of idiocy; he'd never let me live it down!
Taking a breath to steady himself, Ethari started down the road again. As he limped his way to his friends' wedding, one hand stole back to his arm, where he could still feel Runaan's touch tingling beneath his skin.
A hard heart, huh?
Ethari chanced a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Runaan round the curve of the road. From the way Faleth had spoken of him, Ethari wouldn't have expected Runaan to be so quick to help him stand. Maybe Faleth had been wrong about him. Maybe––
Ugh. Maybe I hit my head too hard falling out of that tree.
Ethari grimaced and turned his attention forward. He could nurse his battered body and bruised ego later. The most important thing was to get to his friends' wedding, give them the matching daggers as a gift, and celebrate with them until the sun rose high enough to pierce through the veil of twilight that kept Silvergrove shrouded in shadows. By then, he'd be stuffed full of good food and better wine, and would be ready to sleep it all off well into the evening. It would put him behind on his work, but how often did he have a chance to attend a wedding between two of his dearest friends? Work would just have to wait.
And so would Runaan.