Chương 27: Chapter 25

The Greenwood Mallorn the elf He had dried his tears soon enough, scant and furious as they were, and picked himself up again. Dura had forced him to swear oaths, oaths that he would attend the victory-feast that the dwarves were preparing, attend her father's funeral, and attend her wedding.

'As much trouble you've had to bring me back- you are forbidden against absence!' she had ranted at him tearfully. It had been easy enough to promise. He had already lost two friends in short order, he had plenty of time to spend with one of the last. He had wanted to go looking for Rayne, that charming bastard, but his mother quietly pleaded with him to allow one of her knightmaids to retrieve him instead, and he had not the heart to refuse her on this.

So he gave a message to the knightmaid, and requested Rayne meet him at the celebration feast, with promise to track him down and wrangle him if he did not attend. Another promise that he had full intent to uphold, with violence if he needed to. Which left only his temporary return to the Greenwood to address. It was something he dreaded more than confronting the dragon, if he were to compare the two. A handful of knightmaids went first, to secure the area in case of ambush as silly as the thought was.

A handful of them remained behind, to ensure they wouldn't be flanked. He and Mother stepped through between the two. He almost held his breath as he moved under that stone arch, and stepped back into the overwhelmingly familiar scents the Greenwood. The scents of oak and honey and rose, the scents of pine fires and baking bread and caramels, the scents of earth and rain and rich wilderness air. And most irritating of all, the manifold scents of other elves.

There was applause as he returned, the thundering sound of cheers and whistles. Many of those cheers and whistles cut short as he actually came into view. Knowing elves, the reason was split between displeasure at seeing him specifically, or shock at his current lack of any real clothes beyond a pilfered tapestry. His ears folded back as his glaring eyes trailed across the central streets, and the crowds of elves with their flower-crowns and carried wreaths.

Well, he supposed all the blood he was currently drenched in could be a third reason. He blew a stray lock of red-encrusted hair out of his face and hefted his golden axe, too tired to glare as he usually did, glancing over to see if they were moving forwards yet or not. His mother's eyes met his, flat and unreadable as ever. She turned to the crowd of elves.

"Presenting! The Son of Greenwood! Slayer of the Dragon Malamadr!" His scowl deepened with this declaration, even as the cheering caught back up around them. Already he could feel a headache building, from the crowd and their noise, blaring in his ears and pounding behind his eyes. He would've preferred their silence, it would have been more honest and less of a headache. If you had to encourage cheers, they were in no way deserved. All of this sound and aplomb was empty theatrics, coming from the elves.

Wreaths were tossed his way, some falling upon his axe and some upon his shoulders and head, and he made no moves related to them. Neither brushing them aside like a child nor taking them up like someone happy to be here. Pretending to be happy about this would've been a lie. Fortunately, his mother eventually began to move forwards again, which finally meant forwards progress towards… the Greenwood Estate…

He glanced behind himself and considered his chances of leaping through the waygate, only to see that it had long since slammed close behind them. His scowl could get no deeper, so instead he turned forwards once more and braced himself to endure the rest of the night. He turned just in time to see an elf he didn't immediately recognize rushing down from the gates of the Greenwood home and towards him. Long golden-blonde hair, bright teal eyes, and an almost panicked bearing in her run forwards.

He braced himself, glancing around for context clues and seeing one of his sisters not far behind her. Florella, in a garb that reminded him of a particularly high-class prostitute, hands holding up the hems of her silky red dress and running as fast as she could in high heels. He glanced over at the faster of the two, and finally puzzled it out. His eldest sister was back, it seems. No wonder he barely recognized her, the last time he had seen her was nine or ten years ago.

She stopped short before him, hands moving about rapidly as she tried to consider her next move.

"Bro- Ras- I- you've-" Breathless and deeply uncertain, she fumbled for something to say. He braced himself for the red missile that pushed past and smashed into him.

"Rasil!" He staggered back with the weight of the impact, the handle of the heavy golden axe serving as a fine brace to keep him standing, even as his ribs screamed in protest. Unwilling to show weakness, he muffled his pain below a low grunt and long exhale.

"Florella- he is still injured!" Mother barked, making his sister pull back as if he was a snake, eyes wide and ears up.

"Oh! Oh no! Rasil- where does it hurt?! Tell your lovely favorite big sister at once!" How performative of her. If he responded, he'd be implying agreement with her statement of who he favored among his sisters. Asking such in front of the public would leave the word of his preference impossible to squash in the future. Even now, she was playing stupid social games. He turned towards his mother, ignoring Florella completely.

"You should've told her to refrain because of my filthy state," he declared flatly.

"I'm soaked in gore." At this, his other sister pulled him into a fierce but careful embrace. Just enough to make his ribs protest again. He grunted, exhaling through his nose as she took a long and deep inhale against his neck and collar.

"... You stink," she declared, still holding onto him. Florella took this as her indication to resume her hug, latching on to the both of them and adding her force to the squeeze. He patted them on the back like he was expected to.

"I just said that, yes," he replied, annoyance already leaking through and into his tone. A common trend with elves, they didn't listen to anything he ever actually said.

"I don't suppose Amaryllis is going to appear as well."

"She is still returned to the capital, and her apprenticeship," his mother explained calmly.

"Thank Amarami for her little miracles," he grumbled, waiting for them to get all this hugging out of their systems. An awkward tension hung in the air for a few moments. His sisters pulled back, ears folded back and looks of concern on their faces. His eldest sister stared up into his eyes for a few long seconds, before trying to speak again with a little blooming smile.

"Ah- I suppose your other two sisters aren't enough- not even a hello from our most barbaric brother." A very subtle indication that he should greet them properly. He rolled his eyes, too weary to return a jab towards a sister he barely remembered.

"Hello." Another awkward quiet lingered. Mother started walking forwards again, towards the estate, and he began to follow at once. His sisters clung to him for a few moments longer, then unlatched themselves and hurriedly followed in his path.

"R-rasil! I've heard you slew the sorceress Mala!" His eldest sister started again, stepping forwards to meet his gaze as they walked with a smile.

"A feat not even I achieved in my skirmishes against her these last few years. Just look at you- I would've never believed you grow so heroic while I was away!" If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. He ignored the insult, ears flicking once as he turned a side-eye towards her.

"... You were skirmishing against her for nine years?" He asked flatly, barely interested, and raising a brow.

"I-I was." Her smile wobbled.

"The crown had called upon house Greenwood, and I answered in mother's stead. A campaign in the darklands, against the sorceress Mala and the demon she had summoned. I suppose you knew nothing about that, though." Her hand raised up to her smile in a coy fashion, clearly trying to tease him.

"Correct," he replied blankly.

"I asked where you were three times, got a non-answer all three times, realized the question was pointless, then stopped asking." He turned from her and focused on the gates he was approaching once again.

"You've told me more about the matter in a handful of breaths than I was told in all the years you were away." This time, the silence lingered until they entered the Greenwood manor once more.

"Maid Teresa has prepared a warm bath for you," Mother declared, turning towards him and gesturing in the direction of the familiar elf-maiden in her white and black dress. She bowed towards him, towels in hand and ears flickering.

"If you'd follow me, Young Master." He pushed aside his irritation and followed her, heavy golden axe thumping on the hard stone tiles as he walked. As annoying as his sisters were, the maid Teresa didn't deserve any of it. —"Young Master, would you like to hear of the news since your departure?" Teresa asked, doing her best to be kind as she gently clawed and scrubbed at the base of his scalp. Her efforts to work soap into his hair was familiar and relaxing, as much as he normally disliked the touch.

Normally, at this point, he would have ordered her to step back and let him wash his hair himself. Currently, he was too tired to do much more than lay in the water and stare at the ceiling.

"... No thank you, Teresa," he eventually worked up the energy to reply.

"I'll go without gossip, as always." The only thing she ever told him was talk of some maid talking to some male or some irrelevant minor scandal in the town or similar. Hundreds of tiny stories that he couldn't care less about. The warm water soaked into his skin, past his flesh, and directly into his bones. As much as he generally preferred the wilds, a warm bath had an irreplaceable appeal. The ceiling was the same ceiling as it ever was.

High vaulted, treated wood framed with smoky glass that let damn near anyone outside know that he was in a bath but not see more than his blurry frame. He had been distinctly concerned with modesty for a few years, but after frequent enough use it became unremarkable.

"Of course, Young Master," the maid replied, continuing her work with his hair, hands expertly removing oceans of caked blood.

"Would you like for me to sing to you, I recall you liking that when you were smaller." His head rolled against the lip of the bath, angling his face and eyes to let the water into his field of vision. Sure enough, the once white and foamy soap-laden water was now reddish brown from his current soaking. He hadn't even started to scrub. It was already this stained, just from his presence. If he had wanted to be exceptionally edgy, he'd compare the waters of the bath to his current relationship with his family.

He exhaled slowly, raising a wet hand up to rub his forehead.

"Teresa."

"Yes, Young Master?"

"How many friends have died on you?" Her gentle scrubbing of his head and hair paused suddenly. After a moment, they started up again.

"Only one, I'd say. I was friendly with a boy some years ago- and he was a warrior." She took a few moments before continuing.

"He fell in a battle some time ago, and there was a lovely funeral- with white roses and a beautiful harp." He let his hand fall, covering his eyes and lying still in the stained water as she explained.

"... At what point do you get over it?" he asked blandly, a dull pain behind his eyes. She took a moment to respond.

"... I'm sorry Young Master, it's been twenty years and I'm yet to know." He let his hand fall from his face and back into the water, opening his eyes just enough to stare up at the bright ceiling again. Twenty years? He sighed, pulling himself up to sit in the bath and reaching for a washrag. As weary as his limbs were, sitting back and doing nothing would get him no closer to being clean. Teresa soon moved herself closer, continuing her assault on his hair as he attacked the grime upon his flesh.

Twenty years was entirely too long to wait.

"Thank you, Teresa," he sighed out, scrubbing at his face, feeling the layer of blood coming off in wet flakes. Yet more red added to the waters, growing richer scarlet with everything he cleansed himself of.

"Of course, Young Master." He rubbed himself in silence, removing the gore and the scent of rotten fruit, mind lethargically pulling itself together. A bucket of fresh water was poured over his head, washing away the subs of shampoo and soap. Immediately, the maid got back to work on his hair, adding the second washing to his hair and vigorously working it into a lather.

"... No words on my escape?" he asked with a dry tone. She didn't stop her ministrations of his hair or head.

"No, Master Rasil. It's not my place to offer any."

"And if I ordered you to?" he declared sharply, ears flicking once.

"... Then…" she started slowly, consideringly.

"I would say that you are deeply unhappy among elves, that you do not like the games of word and wit, and that you much prefer unvarnished words. I do not understand why, but I do not need to understand. My only duty is to accept it and do my best to serve you.

"If you feel like you must flee again, then I will keep your chambers clean and myself ready while awaiting your return, Master Rasil." Another rinse washed the lather from his hair.

"... Have I ever told you how much I appreciate that, Teresa?" he replied after a time.

"I cannot recall, Master Rasil." So he hasn't then.

"Then I have been a callous, blind, and quite ingracious fool for quite some time."

"I would not say any of those things, Young Master, merely very unhappy."

"I have half a mind to throw you over my shoulder and take you with me, next time."

"I will have to protest, Master Rasil, I am a housemaid, not a fieldmaid."

"But you'd do it?"

"I would."

"... Thank you." He had more than enough time being a miserable sop already, if he couldn't appreciate that kind of unalloyed support then he had no business being a wandering hero. No matter his troubles and tragedies, that was no excuse for slacking. He'd just have to get over himself. —"Mother."

"Rasil." He greeted her in her meeting-chambers, something akin to an open air office and garden that overlooked the rest of the Greenwood. Windows of stained glass forming a broad diorama of the Goddess Amarami smiling down upon them, filtered through the light of the sun and moons above. The floor was hardwood, the lamps were finely-cut crystals that shone with inner lights, and the pillars were carved with tiny, elegant curls. A beautiful room, that much was undeniable.

His mother was sitting at a table of glass and steel, sipping a cup of tea and looking out to the Greenwood, towards the tree and the statue of the hero in the center, which was erected between and above the waygates. The hero Drasil, holding a long blade and carrying fire, smiling down from his marble perch. It was only the words of the giant Fjolsvior that let him know that was apparently a depiction of his own father. Another thing he had asked about that no one explained to him.

That was fine- he was a child in their eyes, and while frustrating it was ultimately a petty thing on his part. It wasn't worth getting worked up about any more. The axe was warm in his hand as he preemptively cut through the layers of elvishness this conversation was about to have.

"It's best we have this conversation now, rather than later," he declared bluntly, stepping forwards to take the seat opposite of her and leaning his axe against the table, heavy head near the ground. His mother gently set her cup of tea down, turning to him with that same stony expression.

"Now, rather than later? After your venture and the miseries inflicted upon you? Wilt you not dwell in the lambency and warmth for even a moment?" Instinctively, his mind leapt to any number of word-games and social plays the elf before him could be performing with these words. Then he stopped himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. No matter his prior interactions with elvenkind, that wasn't fair to simply assume. Then, he forced himself to evaluate the words objectively.

No evidence of this being a game, so he cannot presume that. This was, for all that he could tell, simply his mother worried for him. What mother wouldn't be concerned for her son going through what he did? He needed to get over himself. If this was but another word-game, then he'd simply add another disappointment to the tally. Airing long-held frustrations with venom helped no one, which was the reason he decided to simply flee in the first place.

The business of elves worked for elves, but not for him, so it was simply for the best that he moved along quietly and professionally.

"I cannot stay here," he opened his eyes and declared, bluntly, calmly.

"I cannot stay among elves, and there are two reasons for this."

"One personal, and one divine." The handle of the golden axe was warm in his hand.