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Sethrevas is quiet as she and Darhim stare down at the settlement below them. It is one of the few durgen’len refuges left in the world, thanks, in no small part, to their alliance. Yet, any time they return, it seems they are always having to win back the same ground, reforge old trust.
It is not quite the hindrance it should be, though.
“Things move so quickly for them,” Darhim twirls her body around, arms wide to take it all in. She is reminded, abruptly, of Fret throwing stones into that sand garden too fast for Worry to keep up. Here the stones throw themselves, ripples instant and ever carrying away the old markings.
The durgen’len have no ancient scars left raw and untended.
200 years and the haunted eyes are gone. Of course, so are the faces. Darhim feels a pang at that, but... There is magic here, deep in the rock, in the blood, moving in ways she can’t understand. It is not like death. Not even Uthenera. The stone is alive, humming with the minds of the dead, streaked with veins of magic and something like blood. Something like life.
They are so very alien. Giving up hurt so easily, but also giving up form and individuality. They are like Varlathu, in a way. A much grander way. Living, for them, is waiting to become part of something greater. They have no equivalent for Darhim to compare them.
They have beards.
Darhim likes that part less. She turns back to Sethrevas who is watching her with a slight smile and sad eyes. Streaks of pain and regret flash out from her, though she is trying to hold them in. Darhim’s happiness fades in an instant.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, stepping forward.
“I was thinking of Alasvar,” Sethrevas admits. “...and the others. That we’ve lost.” She looks down, mountains of hair shifting to hide her face. Darhim takes her hand, squeezing it, but Sethrevas’ distress expands outward. “Ghilan’nain will move against them again, against us again.”
“She has before. We will be ready,” Darhim promises. “With the Nameless and the other enanuvis, she and Andruil can not afford to weaken themselves too badly sending people to find our bases. Sooner or later she will see that the truce you offered her is in her own best interest.”
Sethrevas starts to shake. She does not look back up, but she is crying hard enough that Darhim can see the tears behind the shielding curls of Sethrevas’ hair. “I don’t know that she will,” Sethrevas is barely understandable. Her hand squeezes Darhim’s back and her misery rolls over them, but there is anger in it too, now. “Why can’t she just-!” Sethrevas cuts herself off. “Why can’t she?” she repeats softly, more distress leaking out into the air.
Darhim knows her. Has stood at her side for centuries. Determination has set her mind to something and she will follow though. No matter how painful. But, for now, Darhim steps forward to hold her as Sethrevas weeps over the choice she has just made.
They.
Darhim’s hands clutch Sethrevas tightly, pressing closer.
The choice they have just made.
Malamahvir sneers at Andruil’s hunters as she takes her place among them. The dragon hasn’t returned to elvhen form since Ghilan’nain’s murder and terror runs rampant among her followers. Some of them wonder if she even can, anymore, or if she has gone feral like the Keepers of old. Malamahvir doesn’t care. As long she is committed to digging out and destroying the rebels, that is enough reason to take her markings.
They do not replace Ghilan’nain’s vasallin.
Nothing ever could.