fic - Scavenger, 1-4

[thene]

-I have had some Scary Computer Mishaps lately so, gonna upload what I can of this stuff before something worse happens. Here are 4 chapters out of I think 7. I have a bunch of material for later chapters, so I hope it won't be too long before I share more? but ch 5 is a pile of emotional trainwreck rn so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
-When I say this is h/c what I mean is that it's my two worst snoverse drawerfics stapled together - the Hurt One and the Comfort One. This is set about nine or so months after Ashes To Ashes and leans on that fic quite a lot.
- my pwp Uninvited Guest originally split off from the second chapter, but I had some different ideas about timelines back then...it's now set later than this. (Previously I thought the comfort was going to happen before the hurt. This would not have been good on any level.)
-I would genuinely like to know how the first scene holds up? I have this awful groove for withholding information for no real reason, and suspect this fic does it far too much in spite of being completely transparent & predictable in every way.


Warnings for Van being depressed and thinking abt suicide, self-harm, sexual abuse and bereavement. I'm gonna warn for disordered eating as well. SFW throughout (sorry).


SCAVENGER

1


:Do you see them?:

:Not yet,: Vanyel replied, and he stumbled deeper into the undergrowth with his eyes half closed to the world around him. Farsight wasn't his strongest Gift at the best of times. Out here in the mountains, alone, under fire, it was difficult. He wished they hadn't split up. No help for it. Alone, I can hide. The sun had slipped over the mountain and here, half buried in weeds and mulch with the rain putting its haze over everything, he would be hard to find again.

There goes another set of Whites. If it's not the dirt, it's the dust, or I'm wearing them thin scrambling up hills. He hadn't missed this wild stretch of borderland. His Farsight was near to useless - he scanned down gullies snaked by goat tracks, searching and dismissing every rare inhabitant, everything that breathed or moved. A wandering ibex, a man heading back home with his firewood - or was he? :Almost makes me miss hunting mages out here.: A mage could never hide from his Othersight for long.

:Really?:

:No,: Van admitted. Gods, he had felt tired enough just from the journey and from dealing with the Rethwallenis. If Karse had really suppressed their mages for good, he would be viciously glad. But it had been ten years since he'd last fought across this high border country and his stamina was woefully less than he knew. The skirmish yesterday had left him unreasonably weary. And here he was chasing trouble, a candlemark's hard riding away from the Rethwalleni camp. Not like I have a choice. Sooner me under fire than Prince Favinolieth and his troops.

Under cover, he dropped to the earth and tried to think. Where did they shoot at me from? Van had been still near the valley floor then. He'd gone uphill after they split up - if the Karsites had followed either one of them, Vanyel's hunch was that he hadn't been the one. More likely, they held their position. Why leave a good ambush spot?

His mind worked through each fold of the mountain, each clearing. Think. They know the Rethwallenis are marching east. If they're laying another ambush, they won't have gone far from the pass. He cut out distractions - movements, the sound of the nightbirds - and focused only on the patterns of the land around the thin trail-route that snaked down from the pass.

And he saw them.

Two lookouts crouched with their bows on their backs, in a shadowed spot of hillside below the pass. He swept circles around them, below them, and in a thickly wooded crevice not fifty paces further from the road, he found their troop.

He counted nearly sixty, armed with bows and spears. They camped without fires, and with their weapons close to their sides. Set two to watch, and make the rest ready. We would have walked almost right into them in the morning, if we'd been at all careless.

To set such a small band against Favinolieth's company meant they weren't intending to win - only to cause as much damage as they could and then run. Mostly likely, they'd covered all the borderland roads with these nimble death bands, to slow and sap and demoralise Rethwallen's soldiers until they abandoned Valdemar to her fate, treaty or no treaty. Every soldier Lythiaren granted me is one less to protect Rethwallen's own borders. She signed this pact with us because she trusts me to make the best of the resources of two realms. Diplomacy was another burden, and one he was unused to lugging about on a battlefield.

But right now, Vanyel only needed to decide what to do with the would-be ambushers who had become his personal prey. Do I want them all dead? Or would I rather some of them were alive and frightened?

There was only one of him. If they have any spies inside Rethwallen, they'll know I'm the Herald who's covering their army. They surely knew who they were shooting at. And given Karse's turn against magic, fear might be the best weapon he had.

:I'm going to kill their priest,: he declared, and Sent the image of the robed figure at the group's centre. :As for the rest - depends how fast they run. Ready?: He Felt assent - the plan was as merciful as they reasonably could be. :Watch me,: he Sent, and rose slowly to his feet. His energy was easier to control when it could run straight up his spine, through his fingers.

He reached, slowly building up the spell in the air above the Karsite camp. Turning the air, scraping it dry. They'd feel a warm wind above them, nothing more. He drew a path down toward its key target.

:Van!:

The warning call felt like a physical thump in his ear and he dropped to the ground in the instant he loosed the spell.

Fire flashed bright down in the valley, and someone screamed - and screamed. Vanyel flattened himself, and he felt the slick warmth of blood run down his neck. That...wasn't a word in my ear, he realised, stupidly, and clasped a hand over torn edges of cartilage. The arrow was embedded in the earth, inches from him. I thought I was done spilling my blood on this border.

Two inches from death. He had no room for carelessness; he never had. He diverted a touch of energy to stem the bleeding. I've no more to spare. Disfigurement's a small price to pay for a mistake like that. He should never have assumed that none of the Karsite archers had taken a watch post away from the group. He belatedly traced the path of the arrow, up to the ridge to his south. :Where are they?: Too late for elegance or mercy. He sent a bolt of raw power up the arrow's path. And another. He rolled behind a tree. He felt another arrow catch in its branches above him, and he brought lightning down onto the archer.

Vanyel sensed the earth repulse around the magical scorching. He scrambled down the ridge, looking back toward the road - he could still hear Karsites fleeing below him.

:You'd best stay out of sight for now.:

Not a bad idea, with the survivors running off through the valley. In his haste, he'd killed more of them than he'd planned to. A plume of fire still swept over their camp - that part of the spell was an illusion, but they had no way of knowing. :Well, that could have been worse.: He ran a finger over his misshapen ear; it seemed to have stopped bleeding. :And my Whites were already ruined.:

:We're alive. I'll head back up the road to meet you.:

:I won't be long. I don't like my lack of energy,: he admitted uneasily, reaching for the nearest node, near the border many miles south of them. Fortunately, it was a node he knew of old, and he tapped it deeply, covering his focus stone with two cupped hands as he filtered the power. :I don't like how I'm using magic at all.: Something wasn't right, not in how he grasped it or in where it went afterwards. That spell had barely stayed under control. Taver knew what that meant just as well as he did. A mage had no margin for error. It was total control or none at all.

:Then come back and rest.: The words were infused with some worry.

:I will. You should try Choosing someone younger and cleverer next time. With better Farsight.: Taver didn't reply, and Van felt the numb edge of his sorrow, and immediately regretted his callousness. He wouldn't take kindly if a friend said something like that to him, would he? :I'm sorry. That was awful of me.:

Taver Sent him a burst of pure affection. :You're forgiven.:



It was pitch dark by the time they returned to Favinolieth's camp, and the nightbirds and grasshoppers sang over Taver's hoofbeats; the camp watchmen were on high alert, but Van had some hope that the Karsites wouldn't make more trouble for them tonight. Not after the fright I gave them. I hope. I hope they still have those stories about me. I'm a demon who never sleeps, remember? He crossed the vast camp with his frustrations chewing in his brain. The whole situation had him out of sorts; he wasn't used to travelling at the slow pace of an army, and every day made him feel more frightened about what lay east of them. He felt a queasy yearning for those younger days, when he'd run swift and alone over the length of the border, and diplomacy was left to other people.

He would have slept on the earth beside his Companion as he was used to, but the Rethwallenis had designated him a low tent that they always set beside the prince's. Taking solitude wasn't an option; a lantern still flickered at the command-post, and Van heard voices as he approached. So I can't even rest yet. Fath raised his dark eyes as Van came near, and gave him an earnest smile. Maybe he's finally getting less nervous of me - no, I guess not, and he deeply regretted extending his receptive Empathy like that. The Rethwallenis were scared of him. And their politeness hardly made up for that.

"You were out a long time," Favinolieth said. "You're wounded."

"An arrow grazed me," he shrugged. He'd hoped it would be too dark for Fath to notice the blood on his Whites. But the prince had a way of noticing things. "I got careless and one of their patrols saw me." He quickly explained what had happened. Nothing new to them after the last few weeks, but Fath shot worried glances across his camp. A well-placed troop of Karsite archers could decimate them; for the last few weeks, Van's role had mostly been to deny them that position, with frightening displays of magic. "I don't like how we're smoking them out one small group at a time. Where's their focus?" If Karse had found a better use for their troops than to halt the march of the Rethwallenis, it must be something dangerous.

"They're spread thin," Fath replied. "Are they trying to encircle us and force us off to the north?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. I'll ride out south tomorrow and find out," Van offered. If the Karsites didn't delay them, they'd be at the pass east of Horn in three days. All his diffuse terror seemed to sharpen when he thought of it. He'd ridden to Rethwallen as soon as they'd got word that Karse's holy army was massing to the south of Horn, and the first incursion had occurred before he'd crossed the border. But between then and now lay a huge unknown. What were they really planning?

Karse had long sought control of the central mountain passes, but Horn's citadel was close to impregnable. Long ago, Van had spent two years in and out of the citadel, returning for shelter and a few hours of sleep before riding out to fight again. Those memories lingered in his mind tonight, and Vanyel knew he'd feel much better once he'd seen the inside of those solid walls again. Just a few more days and he'd be safe in one of Lord Percevar's guest chambers, high above the winding streets of the city; he would breathe the odd scent of the mountain birch wood they burned for kindling. Maybe he'd taste their sharp cider and the stiff bread and goats-cheese that Horn seemed to live on year-round. And Pervecar. Percevar couldn't be avoided. He wouldn't be pleased to entertain the Rethwallenis - discretion was not a quality that Percey had much of to spare - but Van knew he would do his duty.

After a few more questions about the ambushers he'd disturbed, Van retired with a respectful bow to Favinolieth. In the scant privacy of his tent, he lit a magelight no stronger than a candle, and took a sorry stock of himself. His Whites were very ruined. His shirt was spattered with grass stains and blood; the tunic and breeches might be salvageable, but hardly passed for Heraldic in their current state. Wishing he'd brought a handmirror, he doused the loose cuff of his shirt in brandy and tried to clean the wound on his ear. Gods, I want a bath. In Horn, I can have a bath. He slipped half out of the ruined shirt, and did the best he could to scrape the dirt and dried blood off his face and neck. Physically, that's as good as I can get. Magically...?

He reached again for the node to the south. He somehow felt more drained now than he had right after the battle, but sleep would see him right. He hoped. He would make an ugly sight in the morning, next to Prince Favinolieth in the vanguard as they rode east. Fath in his commanders' armour with a thin coronet nestled in his hair, his beard somehow still kept in a neat trim after weeks on the road, and Van beside him, misshapen in filthy Whites. Better to be their outrider, encircle the army at Taver's ground-eating pace and not endure Fath's fearful attention. What a frightening mess of ogre I am, even if they don't know I'm a pervert as well.

Fath was Lythiaren's youngest brother - a few years older than Stefen, and like Stef, his education clearly put Vanyel's to shame. He spoke Valdemaran well, and knew every school of tactics except the one Vanyel had hodgepodged together out of hard battlefield experience. Often, Fath would want to talk in depth about Van's previous battles against Karse. Too many of which relied upon strong magical support, which we don't have. I'm all there is. The troops were fiercely loyal to him, and Van respected his intelligence. Yet for a prince and a highly skilled soldier, Fath was oddly deferent to Van. I'm a foreigner leaning on him for a favour; he should at best be begrudging me...

Van was glad they'd built some kind of a rapport, albeit a guarded one on both sides - he wasn't inclined to reveal many of Valdemar's weaknesses, or his own. Although. :What do you think of him at this point?:

:I couldn't say. I don't read humans the way you can.:

Van tried to hide his frustration. Taver was notably more obtuse about humans that than Yfandes had ever been. Strange, given how many he'd bonded with. I guess when you're unknowably old and wise, you have to draw the line somewhere. When you'd known as many people as deeply as Taver had, maybe it became impossible to speculate about them from the outside at all.

He'd had the autumn and winter in Haven to get used to Taver's habits of mind; at first it had hurt, reaching for a voice he was used to and finding another instead, no less loving, but love all confused and unfamiliar. Taver had been so patient with him even when Van had been cold or lost. He hated thinking about loss - once he started, he couldn't stop. But at least he'd shed that feeling of listlessly picking at his wounds in his own shadow. He thought he'd never, ever forgive himself for losing Yfandes, but it was a relief to know that Taver had, and trusted him to be Monarchs' Own even so.

He hadn't really understood that trust or learned how to lean on it until Sovvan. He slept in Taver's stall that night, and they'd talked about Shavri as the sun set. I never gain anything without losing everything.

Vanyel Sent his Companion an affectionate goodnight, but his question still lingered. Why had Lythiaren had sent Favinolieth? He had some talent, but she could have chosen one of her other siblings, two of whom had fought through previous border wars. Instead, she'd sent off a bright young man with no real experience of warfare.

I only wish we were headed to Haven so I could set Stefen on him. If I left them together for an evening, Stef would come to me at midnight with all of Fath's secrets wrapped up in his handkerchief. Stef's skills far outstripped his on that front - the Bard was so approachable and charming and easy to trust, and very deft when the needs of Valdemar called him to lean on someone's disposition. Stef kept getting better at that, even without music - Vanyel had enjoyed experimenting with him before he'd left Haven, sharing power, feeling Stef's subtle currents steering his mind.

He brushed aside thoughts of other enjoyable mischief Stef might mete upon him of an evening. It had been too long, and even when they had last been together, Van had scattered gritty shards of broken promises between their sheets.

He crawled into his bedroll and extinguished his little light. In the shelter of night, he lapsed into that confused patter of thoughts that orbited him whenever he was falling asleep in a strange place. Missing the feel of 'Lendel's arms around him. Wanting Stef's hands against his skin. Being desperately glad that no one had to deal with him at all, because he was tired and difficult and alone, couldn't even share a tent without fearing he'd awaken as a murderer. But he wanted 'Lendel's strength so much. He wanted Stef's voice to soothe him to sleep. His ear felt warm - he turned to his other side. He couldn't get comfortable - why was he trying?

I give up. I'll fix it when I've time. I'll never have time. I gave up on visiting the Tayledras because nothing was important after Karse made their move. But that wasn't even the first time he put something else first, was it? I tried, he thought desperately. But there was always something more important. And I told him not to let my burdens weigh him down, and he doesn't listen. But I tried. I tried.



The first promise he'd broken was that they would go to K'Treva Vale after the coronation. It would be hard; Randale was to be buried the day before, and then Shavri, and Van would have to build a Gate, which was something he hadn't done since he'd bonded to Stefen, so Stef couldn't even know how hard. He'd kept his emotions in check all through Randale's memorial in Haven's high temple, but his fear and loss overcame him at the quiet funeral at the Grove chapel where Shavri was laid to rest. Stef had been all that held him together. But he had to go on, to face the night and the morning and see Treven crowned and then face the agony of building a Gate.

He'd held Jisa and then left the chapel with tears drying on his cheeks. A group of Companions had assembled around the belltower to pay their own respects. And his grief and his guilt had sent him near to them, and he'd thought the least he could do was share his condolences with Taver - it was the first time the Monarch's Own Companion had been seen in a week.

Van still shivered to think of the moment when Taver turned those blue granite eyes on him.

He spent the following three candlemarks trying to convince Taver that he was making a great mistake. They'd spoken - if it could be called that, an often wordless tangle of memory and certainties and grief - until long after night fell and everyone had left them in the dark except for Stef, who had curled upon a tree root nearby, only to watch and offer his steady presence. Van found him there after, smiling and damp-eyed and already knowing that none of their plans would come to aught.

In that first moment, Van had wanted so badly to simply accept, to simply embrace all that Taver was offering him, love and purpose and some small measure of absolution, but he couldn't accept only for selfish personal reasons. He knew what it would mean to be Monarch's Own and it wasn't something he could do just to feel better about the past. But nor could he refuse on solely personal grounds either, especially not ones that Taver, an avatar of all Van had ever held meaningful, assured him were false. That's what it came down to. You don't think I'm cursed. You don't think I destroy every good thing that touches me. You have lost more than I will ever know. You have mourned like me, and you promise that we can live on.


2


A hawk circled above the hilltop, scanning for movements in the dry shrubland below. Taver picked his way through bushes of wild heather, and Vanyel looked up and imagined himself with that viewpoint, spying his prey from aloft, like a Tayledras scout with his bondbird.

They'd ridden south to within sight of the border mountains, then back east and up the ridge. No real road reached this stretch of borderland - the nearest trading post was at Haravale, and it would have been difficult for anything larger than a goat to come up this particular ridge. But Taver had climbed tenaciously, ignoring Vanyel's suggestion that he dismount and carry on alone. He stared out over the valley, watching the thin river wind its way past copses of ash and golden aspens. If he waited long enough, the Rethwallenis would come marching from the west.

The silence at this height was eerie. Trouble seemed too far away. He hadn't seen any lurking ambushers today - only a few crofters, a herd of deer, a regular Guard patrol that had saluted his colours, from too far below to know who he was.

:Should we stop a moment?: he asked, and Taver sighed gratefully. As Vanyel dismounted, the Companion bent his head to snuffle between the heather; Van spied a few wildflowers between the thinly-spread bushes. Taver didn't age, but he certainly ate. No verdant meadow in this thin and blusterous air, but this was a good spot to rest and breathe. Van's hair whipped around his face, and he reached in his pocket for a length of leather string to tie it back. Never mind my ugly ear. No one's here to see it except the hawk - maybe she'll take me for carrion.

He was glad to be out in open country, glad of the empty quiet. It helped soothe that inexplicable feeling of walls closing in on him.

I've hardly been between walls since we crossed the border. But I've been surrounded by strangers, who I mostly don't understand without resorting to receptive Empathy and then all I feel is how much I put them on edge. It's worse knowing they'd literally castrate me if they knew anything about my personal life. That silent hatred seemed to encircle the Rethwallenis like an invisible wall of spears. He could be bleeding out, and they'd never see why. He felt himself closing off, trying to shutter the feeling out. I'd like to avoid them all and not think about it again - but it's so hard. There's so much riding on this alliance and I can't just brush off Fath and all his generals and not treat them like humans, no matter what they think of me. I don't want to brush off Fath.

There was something hidden in Favinolieth, a knife-cut line beyond which Vanyel would assume nothing.

:Maybe you're just lonely.:

Van ran a hand through Taver's mane thoughtfully. A tiny butterfly settled on one of the stallion's ears, beating its wings for a moment before Taver flicked it aside. :That's an odd thing to say while I'm out chasing solitude.:

:No it isn't.: Van Felt Taver's affection, and his concern. :I know you miss him, Van.:

Van's insides turned at the thought, and he felt oddly lightheaded. :True enough. Like I'm missing a limb.: Discomfiting phantom sensations he didn't know how to make sense of. He never hid his feelings from Taver, though he rarely had the strength to explain them.

He could at least admit the doubled truth to himself. I miss both of them. I never knew I could feel this way. And he knew there was some ontological difference between being in the middle of nowhere and desperately missing Tylendel and being in the middle of nowhere and desperately missing Stefen, but from day to day he wasn't quite sure what it was. Bitter partings he tried not to think of, buried in longing.

The first courier who had intercepted them after Vanyel had crossed back into Valdemar had carried no fewer than four letters from Stef, written at various dates throughout the early spring. The first had seemed ambivalent, and had filled Vanyel with guilt, and there were only so many times he could reread the other three without going mad. There had been nothing since. He was losing time, no longer sure when he'd last seen Stef, and less idea of when he might next. Too much else was in the way. Scrabbling magic and diplomacy, feeling so meagre at both. Little wonder that love feels utterly beyond me.

He reached into his loose shirt and felt for the pocket he wore on a strap about his shoulder - not quite over his heart but close enough. He slipped his hand inside, as gently as he could; the parchment paper was wearing thin, the ink smudged and fading. He withdrew a letter - the most recent - and unfolded it, holding each broken edge of Stef's wax thumbprint seal as if the tiny letter were a proclamation. It was the shortest of them, and quite the strangest.

Dear Vanyel,

Still it seems but little time since you left Haven. The flowers are out in the Queen's Garden, which makes me think of the warm evenings last summer when I walked there with my beloved, though Valdemar had no Queen then.

I hope you can forgive my brevity tonight - I've spent all day with the Healers, again, and now I write this in the last of the light at my window, as the night birds begin their seasonal song and dance outside. I left them the last of my bread on the sill, because I like to watch them. They know little of our troubles.

I will trust others to relate those in better depth; it seems every messenger only spreads more panic and sends another hundred would-be heroes charging south. The role I have taken is to try to move those of good heart to act without fear. I must ask that of myself too. And though you know I've no envy for your position, you remain my inspiration to do what I can for Valdemar. My powers are little compared to yours, but I can only hope that my endeavours may amount to something.

By my hand, which is but all the seal I have, and yours ever in friendship,
-S

Vanyel put the letter away as delicately as he'd drawn it out, resting his thumb for a moment in the hollow of the broken seal, as if to touch his lover's hand. A none too subtle letter - since Vanyel had mentioned that aspect of Tayledras culture, Stef had rarely sent him a letter that did not, however implausibly or surreally, mention a flower or a bird or more often both. Friendship, indeed. But that last paragraph seemed quite out of Stef's usual character. Stef's flights of inspiration were generally more avant-garde than patriotic. Van knew he cared deeply for Jisa and Treven, but as individuals rather than an extension of the realm.

He found Taver looking over his shoulder. "Were you reading that?"

:I'm not even sure how you can make sense of his scrawl,: Taver snorted, and Van's eyes narrowed. It was true that Stef's writing was not as neat as his own, but he had a much finer turn of phrase. :Why, is it very obscene?:

Van's teeth grated. :Not likely. Stef would hardly bet the kingdom on the Rethwallenis not reading my letters,: he pointed out. You know, the thing I came up here to not think about. :It's nothing that matters,: he concluded. In a sea of uncertainty, perhaps his thoughts tended to fix to his lifebond like an anchor. When they were together, that had helped his mood rather than disturb it. :It's just that we're riding in the dark here - if I'd heard directly from anyone, I'd feel better -:

He felt the thin, distant contact as if his own desperate thoughts had summoned it to him, which perhaps they had. :Vanyel?:

He gasped aloud. :What are you doing out here?:

:Looking for you,: Tantras replied. Van traced the Mindspeech thread, feeling out where Tantras was. Leagues away, and Van felt the presence of another Herald and two Companions close to him. :It might be a long time since we did courier runs, but Delian's still one of the fastest in the herd.: He heard everything Tantras wasn't saying. We're both too old for this. Vanyel was here as an envoy and as a weapon, but he pictured Tantras riding from Haven just as Stef's letter had said - there were so few others left alive who their monarchs could have sent into this situation with any authority. :What did Lytharien give you?:

:A full battalion of spearmen, led by one of her own brothers. You?:

:I'm with five divisions of infantry. There's more moving south. You're not a moment too late,: Tran continued. :Karse breached the border not long after you reached Rethwallen.:

:That's what the courier told me - but not precisely where.:

:South and a little east of Horn - they've taken control of all three of the passes that lead into Horn valley. No word from the citadel.: That was bad - very bad. In the past, Karse had focused their aggression further east, where the land was more forgiving. :Horn's been effectively under blockade for three months - first they were just raiding caravans, and we sent a light infantry squad as an escort to protect our supply lines, but the Karsites came en masse and drove them off. Their captain and a few of her Guard troops survived to tell us the tale, but the rest are either dead or trapped in the city.:

Out of all the scenarios Vanyel might have imagined, this was one of the worst. Horn was but a small citadel high in the mountains, but it was the only refuge for leagues. Much of their border reach depended on it. :Three months?: Gods, but it was easy to forget how much time he'd wasted in Rethwallen. Events had moved so fast it hadn't felt like so long.

:Yes - worse, the blockade began at the end of winter. They can't have had much left in the pantry to begin with. If they're still holding out, I'm amazed.:

:I wouldn't count them out.: Horn had been built for survival. Sited on a rise at the centre of a valley, it was defensible, solid, and had a few deep wells that Van had suspected were cut with magic long ago. The citadel's outer walls alone were ten feet thick. :Lord Percevar wouldn't give up that city while he still breathed,: Van told Tantras, and Sent a carefully curated image of the Percey that he'd known, more than fifteen years ago - a sturdy, brash man who loved his people, his city, his country, and every simple pleasure that mountain life offered. Van exised any reference to Percey's other pleasures. Well, I learned a lot from him, most of which came down to 'never again'. :What does Karse want? Have they made any ransom demands?:

:None worth discussing.:

Tran drew such a firm line under that thought that Vanyel decided to not to press him until they could speak in person. Wordlessly, he Sent his position and their trajectory, and an image of the hawk diving from the sky above him. He felt its dim animal frustration as it came up without a kill.

:If we make a good pace and you don't mind veering north a little, we could intercept you by tomorrow night in Haravale. I remember there's a good inn at Haravale.:

Van exhaled slowly. He could get through two more days of this knowing there was a friend waiting for him with a mug of ale at the end of it. :Good. Is there a Healer with you?:

:Yes - Roal and three of her journeymen.:

:Thank the gods - I'm not hurt. Not very hurt,: he clarified quickly. He'd prefer not to have a scarred mess of an ear, and he might ask her about his troubles with his energy. Roal had nursed him through backlash a couple of times during the last war, and she knew a thing or two about mage power channels. She was no Moondance K'Treva, but not many of Valdemar's Healers had any of that sort of knowledge at all, so she might at least be able to tell if something was really wrong. :And who's your partner? I don't think I know him.:

:Herald Torrell. Masha's chosen. I'll have to introduce you later - Fetching's his real Gift - he has Mindspeech but it doesn't stretch more than a few miles. You'll love him. He idolises you.:

Van swore at him.



It was just past sunset on the second day when they rounded the hill above Haravale. The Valdemaran troops were already encamped below, a scattering of blue and glinting silver in the fields outside the village, with two Heralds mounted on their Companions in the long grass outside the village. Thank the gods. Now we better get settled while there's still some ale left.

There was no keep in Haravale, just a trodden-dirt market square, pocked with spring weeds and ringed with buildings in that familiar local style of whitewashed walls and steeply pitched terracotta rooves. The inn was at least twice the size of the chapel that faced it in judgement from across the square; judging from the signs hanging above each door, Haravale also had a blacksmith and farrier, a weaver, a herbalist. Except the smith and the innkeeper, all had closed their shutters and gone. Taver strode through grass grown overlong from lack of grazing. It's easy to see what happened. People headed north when they heard the Karsites were coming, and they drove every pig and ploughbeast with them. It'll be a poor harvest come summer. Even the thought of it made him feel sore with hunger again. How much more war can this land bear?

It was such a peculiar relief to see Tran again, graceful atop Delian's back - he'd become all the more majestic and authoritative with age. Tran would not thank me if I told him that. But it's the truth. Vanyel had once accused his friend of letting Haven make him soft - but if it had, he didn't let it show. They shared an amicable mental greeting while Rethwallen's buglers sounded their greeting to the Valdemaran troops, and he rode beside Favinolieth to the front of the lines.

"Herald Tantras," he said, and Taver stepped close to Delian as Van extended his arms; the touch of Tran's hands was almost jarring, a warmth he didn't remember what to do with, as if he'd forgotten that there was anyone in the world who knew him well or would reach for him as a friend. "And Herald Torrell," he continued politely, putting his feelings aside. "I must introduce you to His Highness Favinolieth, Prince of Ranessevretirien and Commander of the Spears of the East." He glanced back at Fath, hoping he'd said that awful mouthful correctly, and found the prince staring at him as if he had made some great jest. It was so long since they'd last been that formal.

"Call me Fath," said the prince immediately.

"Then greetings, Fath." Tran bowed as gracefully in the saddle as one could, and the young man whose Companion lingered a pace behind Delian quickly mimicked the gesture. Vanyel tried to observe Torrall from the corner of his eye; a lanky figure with a throw of dark curls tied behind his neck. Van didn't recognise him at all, and he looked younger than Stefen - couldn't have had his Whites for more than a year or so. "I trust the Monarchs' Own Herald has impressed our gratitude upon you? It's at such dangerous times that true friends become known." This flowery stuff came so naturally to Tantras! "Tomorrow, we must plan our march east, but tonight I would have you sup with us as a friend." Very smooth. Van could see that Tantras had the hospitality well in hand; he had a rare knack with publicans, and it helped that he could promise the aged lady who kept the inn almost anything in return for emptying her cellars - literally - Guardsmen hauled barrels out in pairs. They'd built a great bonfire of old deadfall in the square, as yet unlit; Tantras had a good sense of the moment. "Let your men make camp, and then we'll light the fires."



After Van had Taver brushed down, he tried to find some comfort in the warmth and the camaraderie of the two allied armies around him, but the ghostly feel of the village seemed to cut all the closer. We're wringing the town dry. Then likely the last of the villagers will go, and they'll never return, unless we can push Karse out hard and soon. He wasn't in much mood for company - he would have preferred to spend the night quietly drinking with Tantras, or alone - but his inclinations were hardly of import.

Close to the old red-roofed inn, Tantras had commandeered a trestle table and a few rickety benches for them to dine with Fath and his commanders. Torrall was set to jump up to his feet as Van approached. :Now's not the time to break protocol. We're equals,: he told the young Herald firmly, and slid into the place beside him, at the end of a bench.

:Thank you,: Torrall replied, so stiffly that Van could feel all the fearful fluttering nonsense he held back.

He greeted Tantras and Fath, who sat together at the center of the table, seemingly becoming fast friends. The innkeeper had produced her finest silver for the occasion; the Rethwalleni quartermaster had treated Vanyel better than he should, but it was some time since Van had last seen a fork with metal tines. He'd grown used to finishing his patrols late at night then eating whatever scraps were left, sat on the earth wherever they had camped. The trencher of bread and roasted meat in front of him smelt so rich that he felt slightly nauseous. Probably an ibex. He would have preferred something a little less bloody.

He passed Torrall a wooden cup he'd retrieved from his packs. "I would appreciate a drink, though," and Torrall graciously served him from a pitcher that Tantras had placed tactically close to his elbow. "Thank you," he murmured, and downed half his cup immediately. There was a dangerous lull in the conversation to the left of him. Van felt adrift, with little energy for friendliness and no idea how best to fill a silence.

Torrall had no such difficulty. "Tantras said you play music?"

He tried not to flinch from the youngster's curiosity. "When I've time," he replied, trying not to sound bitter. I miss music so much. I miss being home.

"Last month we heard new songs from Haven in the inn at Torch Cross," Torrall said. "A couple of roads-minstrels had come south to play the last season's ballads. Bit funny, hearing the winter-songs so late in the spring." It would soon be midsummer, and the midday heat was already creeping past bearable. I want to be home before the end of summer. While there's still a flower or two out in the gardens. It wouldn't happen.

"I would have liked to hear that," he replied.

"It was quite a show," Torrall grinned. "New songs from Bard Laynor and Bard Stefen, who all say are the best in Haven -" Now Van couldn't hide his interest. His jealousy, pulling tight at his ribs. I spent weeks scrabbling for resources in Rethwallen while Herald Torrall heard his new songs. Before I did. Torrall continued his story obliviously. "And the two minstrels argued among each other on which was greatest - one saying Laynor, the other Stefen, and taking it in turns to play this or that - I am quite sure it was an act to win coin from the crowd - but as a musician yourself, who would you judge as the finer?"

Tantras let out a laugh, and Torrall turned to him in consternation. "He means I've a dog in that fight," Van explained, before he could take offence. :You're tipsy,: he accused in a Mindspeech hiss.

:So are you,: Tran replied with a wink.

:Am not.: The moment he said it they both knew it for a lie.

"Ah - yes - I forgot Laynor wrote The Vanquishing of Night. Of course you must favour him."

"Oh, gods no," Van said, more harshly than he should, and he absently downed the other half of his drink. "You'll understand when they start writing songs about you." Flustered as he was, flattery was a good cover. "Tantras meant that Bard Stefen and I are good friends. I'd have trouble judging any balladeer to be his better."

Torrall's face creased. "Oh. Wouldn't have guessed he was to your taste." Van sighed under his breath. Stef might be barely older, but at least his pretensions to sophistication were more convincing. "He sings of - soft things."

"With the lives we lead, I can appreciate lovesongs much more easily than I can some dressed-up tale of great deeds and noble deaths." Chew on that. Confounding his adulators was always satisfying.

"But what of, uh, his reputation?"

"His reputation for what?" Van asked with cruel innocence.

The air between them chilled. Torrall fidgeted at his sleeves. "Well, uh," and much as Vanyel would love to know how he'd explain such a comment to the Monarchs' Own Herald - that notorious immaculate who never whored and never gossiped - he daren't find out. :Tantras, tell him to shut up immediately, before the Rethwallenis realise what he means.:

Vanyel let a moment pass in silence as he watched Torrall's face change, and then he continued quite conversationally, "I first met Bard Stefen at Randale's court, more than two years ago." His voice was feather-light, steady as stone. "He was assigned there due to his unique Gift for singing pain away, but I found he had many other talents." Tantras, mercifully, kept his face straight this time. "Stefen turned out to be a good complement to me at Court, and as we came to know each other better, our differences only made us better friends." I could have said it under Truth Spell. Gods, he missed their complementary appetites.

"You know the theory that the Gifts appear in Valdemar at the time when they're needed? I think it goes for Bards as well," said Tantras. "I'd say we've a use for epics and for lovesongs both right now."

:Thank you,: he told Tantras sincerely, and he tried to lean back into the shadows, sipping the dregs of his ale and hoping no one would look at his face too closely. Torrall didn't reply to Tran - he looked chastened - and Tran asked Favinolieth some question about Rethwallen's best known epic song. :Very diplomatic. Never mind that Laynor can't hold a candle to Stef.:

:You proud mother duck,: Tran teased him, nodding his head sagely at whatever Fath was saying. :Well, the youngster's red between the ears now. What's so special about the Rethwallenis, anyway?:

:Don't you know what they do to people like me?: It wasn't until Tantras recoiled from his anger that Van realised he didn't know. Hells, why would Tantras know that? Why would he care? :It's illegal to be shaych in Rethwallen. Punishable by means I won't describe to you.:

Tran's eyes widened. :But you keep going there.:

:I have to,: and he felt maddeningly stifled by months of dealing with them, goading on assumptions and pretenses and doing his damnedest to never mention the one thing that ever made him happy. And yes, he was furious that Torrall had disparaged Stef for having more openness than Van could allow of himself. They lived so differently together, opposites that couldn't do without each other. I need him. Gods, I need to recite him that conversation word for word so he can make a joke of it and not let me feel this pointlessly angry.

:I'm sorry, Van.: He waved off Tran's apology with irritation. :Torrall's not a bad sort and he's not a fool. I'll have a word with him about it later -:

:Don't.: The thought was so sharp that Tantras's mind bent from his, and the connection between them flickered out. Damn it.

Tran reached for him again, as steadily as if it hadn't happened. :I understand if you don't want the trouble. But you know I'll always make trouble for you if you do want trouble? I owe you that much. You, and the Bard.:

Van looked aside, feeling fractious and unable to explain why. Tantras was a good friend, and Van knew he meant it, but...

For years now, Van had been jumpy around everyone except Heralds and family - well, since that previous winter he'd felt jumpy around everyone but Stef. It was months since he'd left Haven, and it was impossible to even convey to Tantras how very much he didn't want to deal with any of this, or anyone. :I want to go home.:

He didn't know he'd Sent that til it escaped him. His hand slipped to his mouth in embarrassment. It was too easy to say more than you meant to, mind-to-mind - but I've always had more control than that, and he wilted under Tantras's sympathetic expression. :Go get some rest, Van. We'll talk about Horn in the morning - I'll keep the prince occupied.:

Van gave into the offer, and he muttered a few words aloud about finding the privy while Tantras leaned closer to Fath, following up on some point he surely didn't care about at all. Van tried to Send some expression of his pitiful gratitude.

:Just go. You haven't been sleeping enough, I can tell.:

If Tran had seen his nightmares, that wouldn't surprise him.



He knew exactly where he'd find Roal; still working. An army kept a Healer busy. He found her watching as one of the journeymen tended to a man's bruised foot, but she immediately straightened and favoured Vanyel with her full attention. "There you are." Ten years had barely changed her. Roal was a thin staff of a woman, wrapped with iron. "Tantras warned me you wanted to see me."

"I'm barely scratched -"

"If you ask at all, I know you need it," she replied. "And you look worn down enough."

"Just old," he complained.

Roal snorted in derision. "Don't give me that." He was unsure of her age - rather older than him, to be sure, but Healers tended to age well. Most Healers, and his heart bruised with a thought of Shavri in her last weeks of life.

Pushing the feeling aside, he swept his hair to the side to reveal the damage. "Kiss from a Karsite archer," he explained.

Roal's eyes widened, and she gingerly touched his torn ear. "It's not as bad as it looks," she informed him. "But it's a mess. Sit on the earth with me a moment - I'd better cleanse it before I fix it up," and she pulled a flask from her bag and uncorked it. Vanyel smelt ether, and he gritted his teeth at the cold, stinging pain as she cleaned the wound. All for my vanity. The healing is worse than the injury was.

And he'd grown soft, when it came to pain. He remembered that day in the winter when he'd overextended himself into backlash and spent the whole afternoon in bed atop a mound of pillows, while Stef played an entire song cycle to him until the pain had passed. Vanyel had protested, but Stef had sworn it was effortless - and truly, it hadn't seemed to drain him. Between a lifebonded pair, there could be more joy than effort in moving energy, and Stef didn't even need to enter a trance to exert his strange power upon Vanyel's pain. It was more like a reflex - just as he reflexively soothes his own hurts. The number of times Stef had played his fingers raw without noticing...

That image of Stef's hand, curled and bleeding, lingered with him as Roal finished her work, and he felt shaken with loneliness and awe and yearning and other feelings he didn't have space for. That's who he is. He doesn't hurt, doesn't rest, doesn't give up. And he cares for me, for some damnedfool reason. He was so exhausted, and thinking of Stef's boundless energy was like trying to stare at a bright mage-light in a darkened room - he couldn't bear it.

Roal set down her flask, and held his ear with both her hands, delicately aligning the torn flesh. Vanyel felt her energy drawing the wounded edges back together, urging them to be whole again. For such a superficial wound, it didn't take long. "There. Back in one piece," she said. "No other road wounds?"

I meant to ask her -

But why? Most likely, she'd only tell him to sleep more, and he hadn't time. But Van felt an odd guilt as he held his tongue. I need to tell Starwind and Moondance how I feel. And I'll never have time to reach them. So until I do, there's no point me asking anyone else about my magic. Whenever it occurred to him, the thought of that journey to K'Treva Vale lingered over his mind, oddly like his old ice-dream; a distant destination in his future. He had known for months, and hadn't dared explain it to Taver, or to Stef. But he could not see a world beyond it.

"No, I'm fine," he replied.



Vanyel looked up at the starry sky and breathed deeply and slowly, tasting a chill at the back of his throat in the summer-warm air. He walked slowly with the seedheads of the long grass scraping at his legs. There were soldiers to every side of him, raucous in groups or sleeping off their ale. There was a clear gap between the two camps, but in the dark they felt little different to Van; full of strangers, lives he had to take care for and use as best he could.

He gingerly felt at a magical node nearby, glowing under the hill oblivious to all the ruckus, and he hungrily thought of drawing on its power - but he'd never stopped long in Haravale before, and he couldn't deal with its strangeness or his own gnarled grasp on his magic. Forget it. If I sleep, I'll wake up with more energy. Probably. That's how it's meant to work, isn't it? He wasn't sure any more. There seemed to be less of him left every day.

Great gods, I need to go home.

But he knew 'home' was only a fantasy. The moment he was alone, it sunk its claws into his heart; thoughts of Stef and Haven and a safe place to sleep, and Jisa, and the few other close ones he had still living. Mostly Stef. And he knew, from hard experience, that going home was nothing like his fantasy of going home. Usually he slept for most of a few days. He doubted Stef would have the time to offer what Van needed, even if he wanted to.

He thought of that night after he'd crossed the border with Favinolieth. That courier who'd brought bad news and those letters he had read over and over. He'd slept on Valdemaran earth again with Stef's words pressed against his heart, and that night he'd imagined their gentle welcome-home lovemaking. But by now, the thought of real intimacy left him cold. He couldn't feel whatever part of him used to need that - it was gnarled and chitinous, no longer reachable. It's almost like how I felt on the way north to the Ice Wall... And that's why he left me at the border post that morning.

He swore he was sorry for staying behind, but the fear wouldn't leave him, fear of losing something he didn't even know how to have.

He found that someone else had kindly pitched his tent, and he slipped into the dark and curled atop his bedroll with his boots still on, closing his eyes against the world. I can't bear being away. I can't do anything right when I'm home. I can't do anything right.

:Those aren't helpful thoughts, Van,: Taver cautioned.

Indeed not. Van tugged at the ends of his own hair in irritation. Maybe heading off alone had been a mistake. But he didn't dare ask even Tantras to share quarters with him tonight. It's not the rumours I'm afraid of - I could hurt him. Or do worse than hurt him.

Guilt closed smothering thick over him. It was no use. Everything else led into that unrelenting spiral.

He scrunched his eyes closed and tried to empty his mind completely. He reached gingerly for the node, and watched without thinking as the magic flowed from it. There it came, under his control, into the recesses of his power...and thence fading, less than it should be. There was some place beyond his awareness where everything became less. Like carrying water in a cup laced with hairline cracks. What was wrong with him?

Everything. Everything I do or think or am is going awry. He scrabbled for some point before loss, a moment where he felt whole and aware and his instincts weren't hopelessly out of tune.

Before he'd let Leareth touch him.

He turned his face to the earth, almost hearing Stef's response in his ears. It had become so rote that Stef didn't even sound angry any more. Van had, eventually, told him every grisly detail and Stef still claimed it changed nothing, that a mere bodily reaction wasn't a sign he had allowed anything Leareth had done to him. But this is the only body I've got, and how he wished he could claw it away into shreds. Stef could very well say that when he'd felt pleasure, become hard, shed seed with that monster, it wasn't because he willed it. Then what is my will even for? If pleasure can be hatred and sickness, if my body can be not my own, how do I know anything about what I feel any more?

And without the illusion of control, the foundations of his life gave way like sand. Nothing he felt meant anything. When had he ever felt sure of one thing in his life? Oh, 'Lendel...

He hesitated. :Taver?: He'd never asked him anything so personal before.

:What's wrong, Van?:

Taver sounded tired, and Van felt all the more guilty for troubling him with such inanities. But who else alive would understand? :Do you still think about Shavri?:

:Of course I do.:

:And Lancir?:

:Van, I think of all of them,: Taver told him, and his mindvoice sounded far, far away. :I always will. But I've found there's a difference between remembering those I've lost in the past for their own sake, and dwelling on them because something feels wrong in the present.:

A shiver ran up Vanyel's spine. :I don't know...: Taver's words struck at his intuition like a gong. Not for the first time. He had found it worth paying attention to that feeling - often, it took days or weeks after that first tremor to discover how true Taver's words had been.

So I'll try to be honest with myself right off the bat. When I think about Stef, that means thinking of the very real problems between us - problems there's nothing I can do about right now. When I think about 'Lendel, I can remember us as if our bright days never ended. And that's not even so bittersweet any more. I have Stef, even if I don't know what to do for him.

That was it. That was all and insoluably it. And put like that, it was little wonder that in his thoughts of Stefen, he felt an edge of pain and exhaustion and fear.

He kicked off his boots and curled himself up tightly, feeling the memory of a strong arm thrown over his shoulder, soft curls against his cheek. A fierce whisper - "Van-ashke, tell me what you need. I'm here for you."

I just need to sleep.

I wish I didn't have to sleep. Every night for weeks he'd dreamed of walls closing in on him, quaking from thunder beyond, and his body riven by a formless hunger. But for a few moments, thinking of Tylendel brought him peace.



3


Torrall pulled a worn white handkerchief from his sleeve and folded it in quarters. He mopped the dewfall from the table, starting at one corner and dabbing back and forth. Tired as he was, Vanyel found his meticulousness mesmerising, and he stared tiredly as Torrall's long, thin fingers moved along the rough grain of the wood, sliding the cloth into each knothole. Leaning against the uneven table, Van made certain to rub his eyes dramatically and wince at the sound of the cockerel in the inn's backyard; best to hint to Torrall that he'd drunk enough last night to fuzzle his wits and forget all that had been said. In truth he'd had but one cup of ale and was entirely clear-headed, just far too weary to enjoy the advantage.

Satisfied at last, the young Herald unfurled his map atop the table. "There. Let's get our bearings." The canvas was rich with detail, its inked contours and topography peppered with additional charcoal-scrawled marks. Vanyel knew it for the work of a Farseeing Herald of a more peaceful age, a creation blended from their Gift, their travels and the mathematical arts that had always been beyond him. Favinolieth leaned so close his beard almost touched the tabletop, and he traced the River Petra with a fingernail, through the point marked Haravale, matching its curve south to the point marked Horn.

Van waved to Tantras to join them - Tran was deep in conversation with a hearty-looking young woman dressed in a smock and sturdy wooden-soled sandals. "Not since last frost," Van heard her say as they came closer. A milk pail hung from a hooked stick over her shoulder. "My ma says we should go stay with her sister, over west. But my da don't like her sister, and he says the Heralds is coming again." She looked between the three of them cautiously, as if their very presence was merely pushing her to take sides in a domestic quarrel that she had chosen none of.

Van wanted to smile in spite of his exhaustion. It's the littlest human things that remind me why I'm out here. Gods preserve all quarrellers and stubborn mountain folk and apathetic milkmaids. Favinolieth looked curiously at the young woman, and Van hoped he saw the Heraldic principle that Tantras was demonstrating; we protect by consent. Heralds need support from Valdemar's common folk just as much as they need ours, and in unfamiliar situations they often know a damned sight more than we do.

Tantras pointed to a cross-mark on the map, at the borderline southwest of Horn. "Here's where they first broke through." Valdemar hadn't been ready for the attack - not so soon, and not so far west. They'd thought, from all the signals that the new regime had been sending, that the Prophet wasn't inclined to be so aggressive as the former secular rulers. But now Randi's gone, and I'm all the magic we have left. He's testing us. They're testing themselves. It wasn't a clean revolution - maybe attacking us helps heal their own civil strife. Maybe they're trying to get rid of a threat. They need some great monster to rail against together, and it's Valdemar. The filthy demonic mages of Valdemar. Me. "So by last frost, they held the east pass into Horn Valley?" She nodded. "And they've just camped there ever since?"

The woman snorted. "Haven't just. They stole my brother's cattle. Steal anything they can get. That's why I went to stay with my ma and da over mountain. Them as didn't get off the slopes of Horn Valley, I - I don't know." They were killed, Van was fairly sure. If the Karsites had taken prisoners, surely they would have been used as bargaining chips by now. "They've got the right idea," she waved toward the square, where the innkeeper, the ostler and a burly man who might well be the smith were loading up a cart together; the last of the village was packing itself away.

"So Karse isn't moving their forces; they're just digging in at Horn." Tran ran a hand across his brow, leaving a dark charcoal stain. "That's what we thought, after our trade escort got split off."

"Not just a trade escort," added Torrell. "They were guarding a caravan party and a group of Healers bound for the border region." Van's anger rose another notch. There was a deep layer of hell for those who attacked Healers. "Captain Loravon said some of the traders and Healers made it into the citadel during the attack. But that's the only supplies they've had since winter."

"Must be ugly. Van, can you use Farsight to see the Karsite position from here?"

They were, probably, close enough now - some fifteen miles out - and Van nodded slowly. "I can try." He turned southeast, shading his eyes from the bright morning sun, and he focused on a mountaintop at the limit of his vision. His mortal eyes blurred over, and he rose like a hawk from that other point in space, skimming the distant ridges. "I see their banner at the west pass," he said. Some hundred soldiers, enough to control access from the east, but hardly an army. And then over the crest into Horn Valley -

His heart sank at the sight that lay below his vantage point. "There's thousands of them - they've stripped the forest to stubs and built barricades across all three roads. Earthworks, too - they've set walls made of treetrunks and rocks around all their encampments. And they're - they're trying to break through to the citadel." He dropped closer, and watched as four men lifted a huge stone into the cup of a great wooden siege engine, aimed up at the walled city on the rise above them. The outer walls of Horn looked scarred, blemished and spilling rubble from their interior - but still standing. How much more can they take?

"Damn," muttered Tran. "What about inside? Who's still alive in there?"

Vanyel stretched his vision up over the citadel walls, feeling his way through the tiny, winding streets he knew of old. Horn Citadel was a keep and a gatehouse with a town wound tight between their walls, artisans and tradesmen and temples sheltered within the thick and ancient walls. Van drifted over the low rooves of the commoners' houses, past the keep, along the wall that ran to the gatehouse. Men in helms and armour kept low behind the battlement, watching their enemy. He saw them laugh with relief, a little madness, as the huge stone flung by the Karsite device went wide, tumbling harmlessly into the earth outside the wall. Vanyel's viewpoint moved to the gatehouse, and inside the gatehouse drawing room where Lord Percever had always gone to watch over the southern mountains.

And there he was. Older than the image of him in Van's memory, but unmistakeably Percey. Thinner, and more ragged and raw at the eyes. He was deep in conversation with two others who Van couldn't quite see. He shifted closer. That was Ioun - Percey's armsmaster and keeper of his secrets. And -

"No," he told Tantras, after taking a second to regain his senses. "I can't get a fine fix that far out. Not enough energy," he explained apologetically.

Because he didn't want to tell Tran he was going mad.

He drew a hand across his brow, as if he could brush away the touch of those brown eyes, that desperate yearning, that call that rang every false alarm in his hindbrain. Oh gods, had anything he'd seen been real?

It's not just my Gifts - if I can't tell the difference between Farsight and waking dreams any more, I'm losing more than control. I'm losing my mind. Tran's depending on my sanity. They all are. It'll be months before I have any relief from that. Afterwards, I swear I'll go do something to set myself to rights. If I keep going on with such poor control, I'll do worse than seeing illusions or letting a word or a spell slip away from me.

He shook his head, still trying to shake that intruding glimpse of loss. "I don't know how they haven't surrendered by now," he muttered. "Percevar's definitely tough under fire, but siege often leads straight to revolt, and I don't think he inspires any great loyalty." He remembered that he had once called Percey a despicable louse of a man, and Percey had laughed at him as he'd slammed the door. "But now we're showing in force, you're sure we can't negotiate?"

"No," said Tran shortly. "Their demands just aren't reasonable."

"What are they demanding?"

Tantras froze, so it was Torrall who answered. "It's right hear if you want to read it." He pulled a tattered proclamation from his bag and thumped it down on the table with much disgust. The sight of the golden sun-seal made Vanyel's stomach turn.

He took it between cold fingertips, and scanned the text as he unrolled it. 'In the light of the atrocities both historic and recent... atonement and cleansing from the foul powers that stained our northern reaches... the only possible assurance of non-aggression from Valdemar... To reliquish that knowledge contrary to human peace and autonomy...'

Once he'd reached the final, inevitable demand, he rolled the document carefully and slipped it in his pack without a word. Torrall's mouth was set in a thin line, affronted in a way Van couldn't muster himself. "See? All they want is you. Dead. So we can't negotiate."

Vanyel closed his eyes against Tantras's pained look and for a moment, he let himself indulge in the bright fantasy of walking into the Karsite camp and immolating himself. I can't, but how many people would that bring relief to? Karse's right. As long as I have magic, they aren't safe. I'm not sure anyone on Velgarth is. They know what I can do and they've every reason to fear what I could do to their people next time. And that means I put anyone who wants peace in an impossible situation. And I can't ask Valdemar to trust me. I barely even trust myself to sleep in the same bed as my lifebonded, for hell's sake. I've done nothing to put myself right and it's infecting everything I do.

The vision flashed in his mind again, a golden balm against the black shame that threatened to smother him. Maybe I am to be Called. I'm not sure that's a worse thought than that I'm uncontrollably hallucinating things I wish I could see but never will again.

"We can't negotiate," he repeated slowly. Never. They can't ask me for peace when I have none to give.

"But you can defeat them, surely?"

Torrall looked far too excited by the prospect and Vanyel all but snarled at him. "You mean with magic? Yes, I could. But probably not without destroying the citadel as well. And every bare inch of Horn Valley would be soaked in blood in front of Favinolieth's people, most of whom are deathly afraid of me already." He was so tired of being near people who feared or adored him. I'm not just a mindless weapon. But I've done nothing but play into their hands - I've been as flashy and frightening as I can be. Fath's people are just as scared of me as Karse. "This is what they mean, isn't it? Maybe they want me to clear out their besiegers. They hear I'm haring for Rethwallen, then they surround Horn and send you this screed so that when I retaliate, they have proof it was all true. They want to poison this alliance." He looked Fath dead in the eye, and felt the prince fighting to hold his gaze. The deep brown of his eyes thinned to the rim, but he didn't back away from Vanyel's anger and despair. So I frighten you. I frighten you in every way I could and I've tried so hard to show you I'm more than what you fear, and I know you're still trying to see that. There's something in me you find human. But what if I have no choice left?

"And if our Guardsmen and Fath's people fight them off, army to army -" Tantras speculated.

"Then Horn Valley will be soaked in the blood of three armies." Van shook his head. "There's got to be a better way. A way to get them away from there without slaughtering ten thousand men." His unfocused eyes settled on Torrall. "Wait, didn't Tantras say your gift is Fetching?"



Van dismounted, and signalled for Torrall to do the same; he took a deep breath, and rested a hand against Taver's shoulder as he mustered his strength and focus. Ilusions required exactly the kind of fine control that had lately escaped him. He looked at Torrall in the thin moonlight, and fold by fold, he wrapped the young man's body with the image of a Karsite soldier's garb; once he was satisfied with Torrall's appearance, he applied the same illusion to himself.

Beneath the pretense, they were both dressed in the plain shirts and breeches that the Guard wore beneath their uniform tunics. If they were to be discovered, it would be as spies, but not demonic Heralds.

He leaned his face against Taver's neck, and breathed the familiar scent of him, letting the breeze brush his Companion's mane over his head. This was the most dangerous thing he'd done since Taver had Chosen him, and they couldn't even be together. :If we die out there, I'm going to take a lot of them with me,: he promised.

In return, he Felt all of Taver's pride and faith in him. :I won't count that a fair trade, beloved,: he replied. :But you know what you're headed into, and you know you can handle it.:

:Do I know, though?: he asked, bitter. He had to admit it, now. It wasn't fair not to. :I'm not sure anything I Saw was real. Not after... Did you see?: he asked.

:Naught but a golden glimpse of a man,: he replied. Not asking. Because if he'd asked, Van could not have lied to him, and even now he'd grant that courtesy to his addle-brained Chosen.

:It was 'Lendel,: he said flatly. :I saw Tylendel and Percevar side by side. Which means it wasn't Farsight at all.:

:Then what was it?:

:It was me. Something I put there. I feel like I'm falling apart -: And the emotion suddenly burst out of him - the fear of his own thoughts, his own body, trapped on every side by people he couldn't trust on even the basest human level, and always so close to losing everything he had left. But his Companion didn't waver. He felt Taver's love, and his worry, and a trust that he hadn't earned and somehow couldn't lose. :I'm losing my mind and I might die but I have you,: he said, needing Taver to know how much that mattered. That he'd try to honour their bond, as best as he was still able.

:Always,: and Taver couldn't lie to him, and they both knew always wasn't true. Van stepped back to look that paradox straight in the eye, and for a moment he lost himself completely, in a blue like the heart of an old star; an ancient fire that would not die. :Wind to thy wings,: and Van felt a twinge of pride that he'd taught Taver that parting. Dozens of bonds, and I can still make a little impression on him. He'll think of me...

He turned, and found Torrall leaning close against Masha, sharing a moment of their own. A moment later, he looked around, and Van nodded and set off uphill.

They'd stopped under deep tree cover; Van went up the steep trail to the pass at a half-run, Torrall in his footsteps. :If we get stopped by their watchmen, say nothing,: Van warned him. :I'll deal with them if I have to.: Torrall nodded, and they carried on up the incline.

His calves were burning by the time the hill plateaued. It was easier to see now. The trees up here were thinly spread, and dawn ghosted at the eastern horizon. Vanyel remembered riding this road one evening years ago, crossing the pass and seeing the faraway firelight of Horn below him, lamplight and warm chimneys and, somewhere, Percevar, never an easy sleeper, striding about the night with a candle clutched in his hands; now the city was dark, unplaceable in the night, but ringed with Karsite beacons.

Most of the Karsite troops at the pass still slept, and the guard at the watchpost merely grunted at them, more absorbed in her awaiting of the dawn. They marched on into the valley without meeting her eyes. When they next reached a cluster of trees, he reached for Torrall's arm. :We won't have long after we reach the camp. The Guard and Fath's army will reach the pass not long after dawn, and then our part is done. So we need to split up - I'll go north across the river, you go south around the citadel.: He Sent an image from his aborted Farsight vision; the crude fortifications around the Karsite camp, the bruised walls looming defiantly above the enemy. :Once Tantras is close, I'm going to light the signal fires at their northern guard post. At that point, you'll be in danger. Keep an eye out for places to hide.:

Torrall Sent an affirmative, and his mindtouch to Vanyel was in absolute trust and more than a little awe. Van looked away to the dark northern sky. If he knew me, I would disgust him. He'd never touch my mind.

Soon, they were at the edge of the camp. The Karsite invaders had barricaded the west road with a wall of earth and timber, higher than Vanyel was tall, and broad enough that a man could stand astride it - and several did. It would be dangerous. Was there an easier point of entry? But someone saw him, shouted down at him. Vanyel made the sign of the sun at his forehead, and the man called down at them again - a question - and as Torrall mimicked his foreign salute, Vanyel just shook his head glumly, projecting his very real futility and weariness.

The man reached down along the crude steps built into the barricade, and offered Vanyel his hand.

No time to think. Never, ever time to think, and he took what he was offered, a thin and tired hand in his own. That casual touch hoisting him upward only gave him a deeper rapport with his enemy - the man had little hope, little conviction. Only love and cameraderie, and an abiding urge to see the sun, as if dawn would make the world well again. He was, Van realised, a desertion waiting to happen. One more cloudy dawn could do the trick.

Van muttered his thanks, and helped Torrall up after him. He breathed harder than he had to, an excuse not to reply as the soldier gave them his instructions. They clambered down into the darkened camp, and Vanyel turned, made the sunmark again before picking his way north toward the old ford he remembered, past sleepers and ashen firepits. He glanced behind, and saw Torrall heading away from him, past one of the great siege engines.

:Get at least fifty paces away first,: Van reminded him. :The longer you stay safe, the more damage we can do before Tantras and Fath arrive.:

:Understood,: Torrall promised. :Let's break them.:



Vanyel curled on the earth in a gap between two rows of sleeping soldiers. He pulled his damp cloak over his body and feined sleep with his eyes slitted open. If his disguise had one flaw, it was that he had kept too faithful to the image of the Karsite holy warrior. The men who slept around him, or walked slow patrols through the camp, looked tattered and mouse-eaten and too thin for their clothes. How long have they been here? I keep losing time - I knew they were ready to move when I left Haven, and that was how long ago? He filtered through his surroundings; objects, minds, dormant living matter. He located flimsy articles of faith.

Fetching was a Gift he used only rarely. At least it hasn't tried to drive me mad yet, he reflected, and collapsed the fence about a corrall that held about a dozen horses. He gently nudged the dumb beasts awake. No need to do more yet. He hunkered down, and ran his mind over stacks of supplies. He was loath to damage food or water. Arrows, however...

North of him, he felt the shape of one of their huge siege engines, pointed at the citadel with a stack of those huge stones beside it. The size of it staggered him. He could have simply broken it, but he felt Tantras and his troops drawing nearer by the moment. More chaos, he decided. He stared at the ropes that bound the great machine at its base, and he twisted one of the threads into flame.

Just a small fire. It would take time for the Karsites to notice, amid their beacons and embers, and he rolled to his knees and crept on through the camp. Looking for something more prominent - a banner - the commander's post. Faraway, he heard a great crash and shout rang out. Echoes and twisting, breaking as a collapsing makeshift wall brought down the shelter beside it. A horse yelled - and bolted.

The dumb animal fled mindlessly across the camp, its herd at its heels, and Vanyel ripped apart the earth and timber wall ahead of them. Someone screamed, and all at once the camp was rousing around him. He turned to the half-awake, panicked men behind him and yelled one of the few Karsite phrases he knew, one he'd heard many a time in the past. "We're under attack!"

He drew his sword and ran, ducking behind tents, yelling the phrase twice more and ignoring the responses. I am your worst soldier, a panicking fool and would-be deserter, he decided, and heard another shout go up behind him - someone had discovered his fire. He was almost past the citadel's north edge now - and there was the great sun-banner of Karse, high over their great siege camp, draped over its post in the still air.

Keeping low, he ran toward the banner. He was near the camp's makeshift kitchen, and he ripped the earth around the great firepit open wider, sending two half-asleep men down into the dead ashes. There were six more horses tethered near the the command post to the north of him, and he loosed them and flashed a tiny magelight into one stallion's eyes. The beast startled, and raced downhill toward the citadel.

Most of the soldiers were now moving against him - toward his trail of sabotage, or Torrall's, or in panic from the scattering horses, or simply out of the camp to the west, looking for attackers - and soon enough, straight into Favinolieth's spearmen. He hunkered down, pulling more power from Horn Valley's old, familiar node before creeping on toward the banner. Was that the commander? A sash over his robe, a plume - most likely. Vanyel ran, and he pointed and yelled at one of the ring of men that surrounded the banner, exorting them as best he could with his voice - one of Stef's tricks, and he tried to bury the thought as fast as it came. The elite soldiers ran the way he'd pointed, and Van fell against the commander, flailing and babbling like a panicked madman, and he shoved the man back into his own tent. His mind picked through the bedroll - no one there - trust a holy Karsite warlord to sleep piously alone - and he leapt onto the commander as he tried to rise, elbow in his throat, drawing his dagger from his boot and up to his enemy's neck in one smooth motion.

Van smothered the man's scream with his body, and felt hot, wet blood seeping into his shirt. At least it won't show past the illusion. Beats ruining another set of Whites. He spun on his knee, and wiped his dagger on the dead man's breeches. Had anyone seen, or heard? He set fire to the banner outside the tent above them. That would frighten away anyone nearby, and besides, he had wanted to see it burn.

Nothing for it. He ducked out of the tent, rolling about the corner of it as fast as he could, headlong into a man fleeing - "We're under attack!" the soldier yelled at him, and Van nodded and pointed frantically to the south. A group of archers ran past them, and he snapped every bowstring with a finesse that pleased him. At least I've one Gift I can still rely on.

He ran twenty yards further, and he heard a shout and a splash - some fool trying to impiously extinguish their blazing banner with a bucket of water - and they'd know, in moments, that the commander was dead, and Vanyel fell in step with the man to his left, fleeing downhill. They passed a crude wooden shelter, and he crept behind it - it looked like a stand for the Karsite archers, built to protect them from missiles sent down from the citadel. He was in sight of the east beacon. The sky was coming alive with clear morning twilight. Where were Tran and Fath?

I ought to look over the pass, but he mind-called Taver rather than risk another glimpse from his own grief and madness. :Almost,: and he could feel the chase in Taver's blood, and sense Delian and Masha running beside him, at the head of the first wave of the attack. :Beloved, it's time.: And he caught a glimpse, as if through his own eyes, of Taver charging into the guardpost he and Torrall had grunted their way past a mere candlemark ago, racing the dawn into Horn Valley, and he reached up the hill in his mind and lit the warning beacon the Karsites had erected on the road east of the citadel.

The sun rose onto chaos.

Karse's enemies - headed by three white demons - charged down from the west, and with the east warning lit, they could fight on two flanks or they could flee. In moments word would spread that they had no leader. Their siege machines were burning or shattered. Their archers had what arrows they carried, of little use before they were run down by thousands of their foes. Beside the shelter, Vanyel heard a man mutter the words of the dawn prayer to Vkandis in despair.

Run, he told the man silently.

East to the sun, or south to home. Run from here.

He felt the rout begin as Taver, Masha and Delian descended toward the shattered earthworks, Fath and the first wave of his army at their heels. Vanyel saw through Taver's eyes again, men climbing over their crude walls and each other to escape on the south road, running for their lives. For the few who stood and fought, the Companion had no mercy.

Vanyel focused on his illusory disguise, blending it into his hiding place until he couldn't be seen at all. :That went well.: He couldn't have prayed for the sabotage attack to go better. Horn would soon be liberated, with little slaughter. Without using the Gifts that now frightened him. Without allowing the Karsites anything but empty humiliation. Fath and his army would chase the them to the border to answer to the Sunlord for their burned banner and lost glory.

He hid for most of a candlemark, taking whatever chances he found to encourage the stragglers to flee, and when all around him had gone, he silently exalted in the victory. He was safe. Taver and Tantras were safe. And Torrall? He followed the thread between them, feeling him closer than expected. Higher. :Where are you?:

:The citadel - Percevar's men let me inside.:

:Dressed like a Karsite?: He wanted to laugh.

The younger Herald's thoughts came to him in a jumble. :Yes - told them who I was - Fetched the gate open - Lord Percevar asked me things only a Herald would know. They were lucky - almost all alive - stayed together and peaceful -: The spirit behind his words was the purest Valdemaran thing that Vanyel knew, people who would do anything for each other to survive together. It was in every song of the Founding. He felt Torrall's thankfulness for it radiating from his mind.

:Is Percevar well?: he asked, surprised how much he still cared. :And his people?:

:Yes - hungry but in such good spirits - we're going to run for the Karsite supplies. Been under barrage from archers and catapaults - they cared for their wounded - those Healers did make it in here. And a Bard - I can't believe it - I think I misjudged him, Vanyel -:

The illusion fell apart around him.

Vanyel pulled back from Torall's mind before his anguish could escape from his buckling shields. All the pieces came together, each damnable clue twisting about the next until they felt like a rope at his neck. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

I should have known.

I saw Tylendel next to Percevar when I used Farsight to look into the citadel and I was so sure it was because I'd lost my mind. How many times have they changed places in my dreams? And not a single letter in three months? Last time I was gone, he wrote to me like my life depended on it. Power kept slipping from me, and my mind kept pulling me here - to him. I should have known all along that he was here. I knew he can be this much of a damned fool.

Slowly, Vanyel rose to his feet, found his hands caked in dirt where he'd curled them into the churned earth. He stared up at the citadel on its rise, dawn breaking on its cracked walls, and he swallowed down his fury. What in the cold hells was he thinking?

He reached back to Torrall, shielding out every thought he could find before resuming their contact. :I'm heading to the citadel. Tell Lord Percevar I'm coming,: he said. Not a word for Stef. He'd deal with that face to face.



4


Taver came back to Vanyel on the road up to the citadel. He was an angel aflame, dawn light on his flanks and blood drying on his forelegs. Vanyel met the cold satisfaction in his eyes with his own simmering, helpless fury, and it was only then that he realised how little strength he had left. The first time they'd ever stood on a battlefield together, and any triumph he might have felt had run like water through the cracks in his mind. It was impossible to even put into words how stupid he felt.

A low terror rumbled below his ribs. "I need to see Stef," he said. I know I should be out there chasing the Karsites back to the border -"

:Delian says Favinolieth is taking care of that. He's leading the Guard's charge south now. Fath and Tantras decided that the Heralds should see that their people were safe.:

He leaned against his Companion's shoulder for a moment before pulling himself up into the saddle. Already, he saw a group had left the citadel, Torrall and a band of rangy youths, collecting what the Karsites had abandoned - grain, fuel, and he saw Masha walking tightening circles around a herd of escaped cattle that wandered the south of the valley. Their Healers were riding down from the pass, escorted by a dozen Guardsmen.

Taver picked his way up the overgrown track to the gates of Horn, picking his way past the sharp stones that littered the path. They never gave an inch, Van realised. Never let the enemy get near their doors without welcoming them with all they'd got. There's mountain hospitality. Percey should be proud. Van loathed Percey's arrogance but today he had the right.

A shout from the gates - someone chanting his name - and he put all those feelings aside and set that mask over his face as best he could, Herald Vanyel, Monarchs' Own and the last Herald-Mage of Valdemar; something more than an exhausted, angry man who needed to confront his errant partner before he lost his last thread of self-control.

:Don't belittle this,: Taver told him. :If you can enjoy this victory for even a moment, let it be now.: Van Felt his trust supporting him like a foundation-stone, and he spread his fingers gently over Taver's neck. He straightened in the saddle, making the most of the view as they neared the gates. Taver was a hand taller than Yfandes, and Valdemar had sung his name for generations. It meant something, to ride into Horn like this. Victory meant something. He didn't have to play the hero alone. Taver was much better at that role than he was.

The crowd spilled from the gates to surround them, and Taver raised his head high; Van tried to hide his shock at the thin arms raised toward him, the sickly-looking children, the woman whose loose chemise fell off half her bony shoulder. They look like they're down to scraped bones and sawdust here. How on earth did they not surrender? Taver turned a slow, deliberate circle in the courtyard to make space for Vanyel to dismount. As soon as he'd stepped foot on the worn stone flags, a man in armoured regalia held out willow-branch arms to him.

It was Ioun - Percey's armsmaster. Vanyel held his wecome for a long moment. "It's a relief to see you again -"

Ioun laughed, and the sound was as light as the wind whistling in a chimney flue. "Don't let me start, Herald. This is a miracle." He dropped Van's arms and made a sign to the gods above them. He was never pious, Van recalled, I don't remember so much piety here at all - Percey never encouraged it, and even his wife gave up on that pretense. It's been that bad - of course it's been that bad. But looking at the faces pressed around them, he didn't see a shred of ill-feeling. They've all borne it together. Somehow.

"If I could ask an audience with Lord Percevar -"

"None of that formal crap," Ioun gave him a warm grin that only made his hollow cheeks look the stranger to Van. Ioun still had the presence to shoulder a way through the crowd, even if his strength looked much the less. "His lordship is pleased as punch that it's you come break us out."

His meaning was clear on his face. If Ioun hadn't known, all those years ago, he'd guessed. Fantastic. He pulled open the door of the gatehouse - always Percey's favourite haunt, but Percey was rapidly fading from Van's attention as that stretched sense of his other, the point that was part of him and not, grew close enough to feel, almost to touch. There was no one in the gatehouse's hall. Percey's hunting trophies - a great white stag, two mountan lions - made their glass-eyed vigil above an empty fireplace. Van set a hand to the sandstone wall as he followed Ioun up the stairs, feeling the stability and resilience of those old stones. He wouldn't let a hint of his unsteadiness show. He flicked his cloak neatly over his shoulder, and ran a hasty hand through his hair. I am going to be The Herald Mage and they can both try their best to make good with that.

He stepped through the door. He no longer waited for his moment to make an entrance; The Herald Mage was always a moment. Percey's drawing room was just as it was in Van's memories, or in his vision the day before. Bright with sunlight from the windows over the courtyard; mere arrow-slits opened over the citadel walls. From there Percey had watched their enemy, made plans over his sturdy leather-topped desk (oh how Van remembered that desk) and warmed himself at the open fire. He'd called down to his citizens in the courtyard. Made speeches, no doubt - gods, Percey loved the sound of his own voice. But in this moment, he had lost it mid-sentence. He stared at Van with his mouth held open in a perfect pink circle, silent in the face of Vanyel's implacability. He was gaunt, something Vanyel thought he'd never see. He'd been plump back when they'd been lovers, and if it had seemed from Vanyel's occasional visits thereafter that if marriage had padded him out, divorce had done all the more so.

And Stefen sat on the edge of that desk, one leg folded under him. He looked well enough; he wore an extra layer of clothes over shabby Scarlets, like a poor man in winter. He dared to meet Vanyel's gaze, and smiled like a bright midwinter dawn. His heart sang at the sight, grating and shrill with disuse. Damn him to all hells.

"Lord Percevar," Van said, his eyes slowly and reluctantly drawing away from Stefen. "Herald Tantras and Prince Favinolieth of Rethwallen are escorting your visitors away - I stayed to see to the care of your people."

Percey finally recovered his power of speech. "Vanyel - Herald, I - no, Van, gods be damned, you'll always be Van to me," and Vanyel seethed at his proprietory expression. "However did you do it? Never mind. You'll tell me. But great good gods, I thought I was dreaming when I saw them running from our walls. We were days from the end of everything. It's a damned good thing I had Bard Stefen here - if he hadn't been here, Karse would've had the city a month ago."

Stef shook his head, and slipped down from his perch to stand on his feet, swaying a little under the weight of Vanyel's gaze. All his movements seemed so slight - economical - but he seemed well enough. "Milord, your citizens are better than that. Though Vanyel always told me not to underestimate the power of music," and he smiled. His lips were thin and pale.

"You're friends?" Percey sounded deflated.

He would have tried to show Stef off to me like a child with a new toy. It was as ironic as it was annoying. "We've met," Van confirmed. Stef raised his chin defiantly to meet his gaze - and Van had an odd feeling of vertigo, as if he teetered at the edge of a pit. Stef was lower on energy than he'd first seemed, and his eyes looked dim, flickering. Yet he seemed well.

"Once or twice," Stef added, his weary smirk not reaching his eyes.

But never like this, and there was only so much politeness Van could stand. "Bard Stefen," he gestured to the door in the corner. It led to a balcony that connected to the outer battlement that ran by Percey's bedroom in the keep - a detail Van recalled from that chilly night he'd spent evading Percey's former wife, an escapade that had made him swear off married men for good. "We need to talk. I won't be long," he assured Percey and Ioun as Stefen opened the door, still moving slowly, stiffly, his jaw set in its most stubborn line.

He's in no mood to back down - but neither am I, he determined. He closed the door behind them. "What in the hells are you doing here?" he hissed.

"My duty," Stef replied, and he leaned delicately on the balustrade as Vanyel spluttered. "I joined the Healers heading for the Border, and we holed up in here when the Karsites attacked our Guard escorts."

War Healers worked strictly behind the lines, out of combat. Vanyel knew that. They'd saved his life twice, decades ago. They were still at great risk. "Why would Jisa and Treven have ever assigned you away from Haven?"

"Because I asked them to. I was tired of just sitting there when I knew they needed Bards and they needed Healers. So I went south with the Healers - I was teaching them how to block pain and they were teaching me field medicine. What would you have of me? What have you always told me?" Stef's eyes sawed dangerously into him. His voice was a fierce whisper. "You heard Percever. I kept this city whole for a month. I kept them sharing what they had - even his lordship and his household and the merchants and the priests. I kept everyone from feeling pain and despair. Even if Percever's the only one who ever thanks me for that I'll count that worthwhile. No matter what you think." Stef's hands trembled on the stones, and he breathed like he was winded. "I used my Gift to do something no one else could. You always told me that's all that mattered."

Van clutched at his hair with his hands. "Don't you dare turn my own words on me. You promised me you'd stay safe -"

"I'm safe now you're here -"

"- In Haven," he finished, furious. "If Horn needed a damned Bard -"

"It needed me. There's people who wouldn't have made it without me." He rocked where he sat on the balustrade, the wind lifting his thin hair. "But thank the gods you came," and he looked gentle into Vanyel's anger. "I don't know how much rope we had left. I only hoped to see you again," and Van felt a flash of - resignation - like a dark cloud crossing the sun.

What's wrong with you? He took Stefen by the shoulders, and his beloved seemed strangely small in his hands. Layers of cloth folded between his knuckles. But Stefen looked well enough, Stefen looked well enough and my eyes slide off him when I try to look at him, because he's well enough, everything will be well enough and he felt his mind catch in swirling fog. Stefen looked well enough and Van flailed at the empathic glamour with his shields, struggling to see with his own eyes. With his hands. Cold in the hollows of Stefen's shoulders. A clutch of hair fell away in his hand.

He was holding almost nothing.

"When did you last eat?" he demanded and Stef shrugged, or tried to.

"Been a couple of days. I gave my food yesterday to the children - they can take care of themselves now," and he turned to stare over the walls, at the youths carrying their spoils of war back to the citadel. Vanyel could see every vertebra on his neck, and the skeletal ghastliness of him wasn't even the worst of the things Vanyel could suddenly perceive. He's got no energy. And he's keeping up at least two projective Empathic effects with the energy he doesn't have. How can he be even standing? Surely the pain alone -

"I'm very tired," he admitted, but looked up at Vanyel with that too familiar stubbornness, and Van caught him in his arms because Stef was too proud to fall.

"Stef," he asked. "Are you blocking your own pain?"

"I think so," he said. Stef's eyes had lost any tangible focus. You think so? If he can't even say what he's doing - and he's no energy to be doing it with - Van turned his MageSight deep into Stefen, through his disguises, dreading what he might see. What reserves could he possibly have left?

He saw less than nothing.

It was worse than he'd dared to fear.

He saw the empathic workings of Stef's relentless, infectious hope, and his blase disguise - the two effects were running his Bardic Gift so raw that anyone else would have been in agony. His pain-dampening Gift looped a knot of power through his projective channels, holding all that he was together, numb and cold, as the totality of him sank into quicksand.

After reserved energy was gone, power fed on life itself. That's how blood magic worked. That's how a Final Strike worked. Stef's Gifts were eating him alive.



Van's arms barely felt strained by the weight of Stef's body. "Ioun, I need my packs." And he didn't care what strategic discussion he'd interrupted, nor did he care for the gormless surprise on Percey's face. "Immediately," he added. "Where does Stef sleep?"

"In the east corner room over the courtyard - he's taken ill?"

"Looked well, did he?" Van hissed. He reached for Torrall's mind as he shouldered open the door. :Can you find Healer Roal and send her to the gatehouse? Not anyone else. I need Roal, and as soon as possible.: He heard Percey following him down the hallway. "Open the east room door," he called to a young servant in the hallway. The room beyond looked half-empty. How many of Horn's treasures had been stripped for firewood? The bed was still intact, and Van set Stef down, pulling blankets over his body and pulling the curtains closed. Not enough. He added a warming spell. He's barely keeping his blood warm.

"What's the matter with him?" called Percey, staring in shock from the doorway.

Vanyel forcibly reminded himself that this wasn't Percey's fault. If it took me so much effort to see through that act, he hadn't a chance. But he might at least have some idea how long this had been going on. "Does he take meals with you?"

"Meals were a moon ago," Percey groused. "We took our share of the scraps once a day, then every other day. He likes to eat with the children. Sings at them and keeps them on the hunt. They lure out songbirds and vermin and catch them. That Bard's uncouth," he added with approval. "Used the last of my Ceejan black pepper to entice me to eat a rat. Told me I could dine out on that story in Haven," and a shudder ran through him, as if months of deprivation and horror had only just registered in his mind. "Gods, how many Bards would know how to skin a rat," and he laughed with disgust. "His miserable guttersnipe ways saved my life. Saved all our lives," he admitted.

Van looked away coldly. The last thing he wanted was to admit that Stef was right, in any way. Fortunately, Ioun arrived with his packs, and Torrall was right behind him. Vanyel upended his medical kit and his sack of provisions on the sheets. "Here," and he tossed Percey and Ioun the last of a cut of Rethwalleni cheese and a heel of bread. "Did you see Healer Roal?" he asked the young Herald, ignoring the near-ecstatic sounds of Percey eating.

"She was in the middle of a Healing - I left word that she was needed here."

Vanyel bit back a curse. "Help him sit up. Carefully," he cautioned, and he grabbed an upturned goblet from the mantlepiece. He tipped his waterskin into the cup until it was near to brim-full, then he searched for the balm he kept for soothing burns. It was mostly honey - laced with some foully bitter herb, but Stef must have known worse fare of late, so he smeared all of it into the cup with his thumb and stirred until it dissolved. "Drink this." He pressed the stem of the cup into Stefen's hand, and held tight when Stef almost dropped it.

His lover grimaced at the taste, but drank deep. He taught me this - safer than solid food for children left weak from hunger or water-sickness. It might help his strength. And until Roal gets here, it's almost the only thing I can do for him. Vanyel took the empty cup, and he watched Stef's eyes slip closed.

"He didn't look ill when I got here," muttered Torrall.

Vanyel's hand curled into a fist. "He was using his Gift to make everyone around him think he was doing fine," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why would he do that?"

He sagged against the bedpost. The question would have enraged him if it hadn't been on the tip of his own tongue. "I, I don't -"

"He had to," said Percey. "Gods, I hung on his every word. A song from him was as good as three meals. He'd roam the city with a crowd at his back every night, and he promised every last citizen that the Heralds were going to come and fight off Karse - he said you would save us from them," and he stared at Vanyel in wonder. "I swore to him that they'd all riot and barter our scalps to Karse, but he'd have none of it. He kept telling them that if we helped each other, if we waited and held strong together, we'd live and their children would live..." Percey shivered, his dry hands curling in his lap. "Who would have believed him if they'd seen him looking like that? Not me, for sure. And I believed him. Every word. I believed what he said about you. And gods damn him, here you are."

It was very like Percey - and Stef - to understand this thing Vanyel hadn't, the way survival could depend on appearances. "He kept it up all the time?" asked Torrall. "I've never heard of a Bard who could do that - or anyone who could do that."

You're impossible. Awe and terror cut through Vanyel as he laid a hand on Stef's brow, looking for his energy. I am here, and I'll make good on your every promise to them. You kept this city alight - but what's left of your fire now?

Stef's reserves were gone - past gone - yet Vanyel still felt the machinations of his Gift turning deep inside him. Making him look like more than he was. Stopping his own pain. He should have been forced to stop pretending all was well, to rest and recover til it didn't hurt any more.

The pain-numbing Gift seemed to ebb in a low spiral, each trickle of self-generated energy flowing briefly down its channels before trickling away into its own numbness. Leaving nothing left. Nothing, still burning. Consuming energy Stef didn't have in reserve. Energy that came from rest and food that Stef wasn't taking because he never had to feel the need for anything but the music. Deep inside, he still sang.



He listened with less than half an ear as Percey talked about the siege, and what precious little they had left, and Torrall listed what they'd recovered from the Karsites. Horn had been at the edge of her resources. Percey left, restless and hungry and knowing he was needed - if his people hadn't rioted before, they might if they didn't see leadership now. Dimly, Van heard more chanting from the courtyard - Tantras had arrived, doubtless with more grace than Van had.

There wasn't much more he could do. He'd cut Stef's empathic projection, but he daren't interfere with the pain-numbing loop without Roal's advice. At least there was that familiar node below the citadel, and it responded easily to his touch. He brought its energy into his own, replenishing all that he needed and then channelling it through the deep link between them, watching the power move past the hazy borderline between himself and Stefen. It flowed into the power loop, barely any of it staying with Stef as fuel. Damn.

Absorbed in the flow of energy, he barely noticed Roal until the Healer stepped beside him. She had always had a quiet tread. "You called for me, Herald?" Behind him, Torrall pulled the door closed.

If I ask, you know I need it. "Bard Stefen is burning out," Van said shortly, and he barely breathed as Roal knelt at Stef's side.

"This is Stefen the Pain-Soother?" Roal asked, and clasped Stef's limp hand. "What a way to finally meet him. He's down to bare roots," she muttered after a few moments. "You gave him food?"

"Just a little honey-water."

"It's giving him strength, physically. But his energies," and Roal's fingers slipped behind Stef's ear. "Great gods, how is he still burning energy?"

"He's suppressing his own pain. It's a reflex." It's the strongest part of you, strangling the rest. Desperation almost overcame him.

"I see," and her expression was one that no one would ever wish to see on a Healer's face. "It must be days since he last ate, or slept."

"Slept?" Van asked. Stef might skip meals if he wasn't reminded, but sleeping wasn't something Stef usually found hard. Not like me...and everything came into focus and he felt so tired he could barely breathe. That's Stef making me feel so exhausted?

"If he's in too much pain to sleep, and if he's working this power by reflex every time he feels pain, it makes sense that he's not really sleeping. Probably like this half the time - catatonic. And his channels aren't taking in energy barely at all. It's like he's forgotten how to sustain himself. I don't have many options - I could intervene and close off that energy process, but the pain would be tremendous. Quite possibly more than his body can bear right now. And he's too physically weak to take a numbing draught - in this state, a thimbleful of argonel could kill him. But if it's not stopped..." Roal's eyes told Van what path she'd seen ahead.

If the loop were to end, the pain alone could kill Stef. If the loop didn't end, Stef would die.

"Maybe he's stabilising. He's burning energy but it's not eating any deeper into him right now," Roal observed, as if trying to find grains of hope.

"I'm sending him energy straight from a mage node under the citadel," Van explained.

"Are you sure that's safe?"

The Healer's tone made it quite clear that she thought it was not. Van's panic climbed again. "Only for an Adept, usually. But with Stef there's a link I can use to filter the power through my own focus stone and make it compatible with his energy."

Roal frowned. "I can't see it. You'll have to show me the connection -"

"It's a deep line - hard to watch from outside," he explained, hoping Roal would get the hint, but she only frowned in perplexity, her fingers wandering the back of Stef's head. Gods, but Stef would have taken him to task if he'd been lucid. You're dying and I'm still resorting to euphemisms? "He's my lifebonded." Dismay swept over Roal's face. "Energy I've attuned to me is attuned to him as well - it's safe enough to - to try. And he's used to catching stray pieces of my mind." Dimly, he heard Torrall back away from him so fast he walked into the wall.

Roal looked at him sadly - not in judgement, but with little hope. "I see. It could help if you can get him a buffer of energy to feed from while he heals. But his natural energy cycle still needs to be restored - I think his channels are too worn to fulfil their normal base functions right now. And you know I don't just mean the use of his Gifts." Vanyel felt an instinctive blankness settle over his face. He wanted to shout, to cry, and he couldn't. For the Gifted, there wasn't a division between one's energy and life itself; the two ran together, like the salt and water in the Northern Ocean. Starving, sleepless and with his channels close to destroyed, Stef was losing his ability to process the energy he needed to breathe and dream and live. Van knew he'd once come close to that precipice, blast-burned channels eating his will to live. Stef had chosen to dance to the end of that line.

"Be honest with me," Van said - softly, but it was a demand. "Can you heal him?"

Roal was silent for far too long, Vanyel's stomach dropping further with every second. "I've rarely seen burnout this bad, and I've never seen burnout coupled with near-starvation," Roal told him. "Physically, he's out of leeway. I don't know if his channels can heal while he's in that condition. But if you give him some careful feeding and some rest, I'll do everything I can."

Vanyel stared down at his beloved in despair.


ch 5-->
ch 6-8-->

Comments

[pennie_dreadful]

Re: ch 1, I feel like the pacing is good. I did wonder who Van was mindspeaking with and why he was doing what he was doing, but the important thing is I could tell what he was doing, and trust that the narrative would fill in the details as needed. Which it did. (Of course Vanyel squirmed his way out of magic therapy...also are you implying that Percavar was that One Dude who put Vanyel off married men and possibly the guy both Van and Stef slept with??? XD)

Vanyel's puzzlement over why the Prince defers to him. Vanyel. Van. My dude. I mean my initial assessment is "he's into you, you bonehead," but even if not, you're a freakin LEGEND, OF COURSE he's gonna look up to you. I love a clueless idiot, of course I do.

I feel like making Van the King's Own is really the only Choosing option that makes sense--who else could even begin to deal with that mess of trauma other than the one Being who's survived how many of his Chosen? Vanyel trying to talk him out of it makes a horrible amount of sense, too.

Re: ch2, Tantras! Bless. Man, that dinner conversation was...awkward.

"Well, uh," and much as Vanyel would love to know how he'd explain such a comment to the Monarchs' Own Herald - that notorious immaculate who never whored and never gossiped bahahaha, man I really do wish this had been able to play out in its entirety, srsly.

Tran is the best friend. Vanyel is getting better (at least a little bit) in understanding his emotions. God how much worse would he be without Taver around to at least try to stop the negativity self hate spiral? And when he realizes why Lendel's so much on his mind lately? And then permits himself the fantasy? Oh my fuck. I mean, i love pain, but it's still. Ouch.

(Also cackling bc I totally called Percy as Van's ex XD)

Re: ch3, It's so good to see Vanyel get his action hero on! His sense of sanity slipping, oh Van. Like, this really is the best of both worlds, this intense feeling that he's barely hanging on, yet still manages to come through.

Also, I reaaally really should have seen Stef coming (this is you after all) but it still came as a surprise! Hooooo boy, dis gone be good *cackles, rubs hands together*

Re: ch 4, Vanyel: has been thinking about how amazing Stef is with people all through this fic, also knows how desperate the people of Horn were and now knows Stef has been here the whole time

Vanyel: gosh it's a wonder they didn't revolt or surrender

He is The Worst :D

OH SO IT'S "MAKE STEF SUFFER TIME", I SEE. Fuuuuuck!!!!!!! Everything makes sense now!!!!! You pulled the ol' bait 'n switch, fuckin,,,,,thanks??? Oh god i can't wait for the rest. You are the best i hate u

[thene]

.__. I am way too into hiding petty shit for irony value but am trying to stick to the rule of only one 'big lie' at once? (Percey being Van's ex, I wasn't trying to hide, so am glad that was p obvious from the getgo. Spoiler, no he has not slept with Stef. My main incentive to get ch 5 out is an absolutely poisonous conversation between him and Van, mostly about Stef...*rubs hands*)

bahaha you know I love awkward Van dealing with ppl's opinions about Stef. & I wanted Tran to be his good friend who doesn't quite GET it but will cover for him anyway. <3 This is also the point where I realised this is h/c but cast as a farce - we've got Van, his favourite and least favourite exes, an awkward teen homophobe, a token innocent who has to be protected from any idea of these sexy shenanigans, surprise!Stef, and poor Tantras just trying to keep everything on the rails.

I am rly, rly glad to know that Van's falling-apartness is getting across properly, bc as you noticed he is actually functioning fine, which is always his problem tbph - far too high functioning for anyone to notice what a complete wreck he is.

and yessssss bc it feels basic but I've never done a Stef whump fic before and it's past time.

Here is the short list of things I feel should be in these opening chapters but aren't: more about what actually happened last year (I haven't found a way to shoehorn in anything about Jisa, who I think was Chosen as well, so I'm kinda handwaving that here); more substance to Fath, who is by far the weakest character in this farce at present; more substance to Van's relationship with Taver. Like you said, Taver should be helpful for Van's trauma, but I think Van is still learning to trust him, so the main quality that's being applied there is his immense patience... I'll look for more ways to build on that I guess.

[rymenhild]

I only see one ex, Percevar, unless you also mean Tylendel?

(Check spelling on Percevar- I see three different spellings in this story. Also, the country is Rethwellan.)

I am so excited for this story.

[thene]

Yes I meant Lendel
I dont know the canon adjective form of Rethwallen for sure - I went with Rethwalleni.
Ty for the note on Percey - I experimented a bit with his name before settling.

[rymenhild]

Taver, couldn't you wait a month for Moondance to start working on those gaping emotional wounds in your next King's Own? Although I guess, if the Karsites jumped at once, there was no time.

And poor Stef. Van, I hope someone tells you straight out that it's your fault that he's burnt himself to a cinder. If he had something better to live for, he might not be holding up a siege with the sheer force of his personality.

Which is to say, this is a terrific plotty, painful piece. I look forward to the comfort part... but someone had better talk sense into Vanyel very soon! Thanks for sharing the story.

[thene]

TBPH that ending to Ashes to Ashes was a hurdle at first - see the note about changing my timeline ideas - at first I thought the Magical Therapy part would be first and the Horn Incident was going to happen a few years later. But nothing was working until I clicked that it should be the other way around [or rather: that if it was the other way around, my two drawerfics could become one glorious hurt/comfort trainwreck], which left me scrambling on how to deal with their plan in A2A & somewhat regretting I'd laid that out already - but actually, Van guilting over not going through with said plan made for extra pointless emotional drama so it all works out!!!

I hope someone tells you straight out that it's your fault that he's burnt himself to a cinder. spoiler this is in the next chapter. Which I hope I can kick together later this week... I have a lot of text for it, but it's in a huge formless pile rn. nonlinear4lyfe

Omg

[(Anonymous)]

Ok so I love everything about this from the h/c flip to Van’s dubious choice of exes to his baiting the younger Herald. I just had child number 3 (like, just) so this was such a great post-hospital present! I would go on and on but I can only type with my left hand. Can’t wait for more!!

Also this is Gildaurel- I forgot my password ha.

Re: Omg

[thene]

GILDAAAAAA omg congrats! you have made so many small humans 0___0 Pls rest up, I will try to have more soon. There's a Van/Percey scene in the next part I am looking forward to sharing. Percey has a few regrets as well...

If you've not done so yet you HAVE to read Dardrea's beautiful Stef whump fic (this is so up your alley, and mine) and swimmer963's fic here (there's 2 gdocs files in the comments, but here are the direct links - Part 1 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1N2oZR9oj6irk9KHSaQMUjqXfsAQqCv6L_5kVAJg94D0/edit Part 2 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1H0ZDCFr7uqwLBvzTIY97YJe_gBnNvzLzqtdXCMsfGyU/edit ).

[dardrea]

OMG dude, I need this! I need more of this!

I love your voice so much, both in Van’s particular perspective and just the general descriptions, the politics with Rethwellan, the conflict with Karse, the specifics of this confrontation, sneaking around the Karsite camp, sabotaging their forces, urging them to flee, even assassinating their leader—ouch!

You did catch me with Stef being there, I did not see that coming at all, and I love it! (Seeing “Tylendel” in his Farsight and thinking it was just a sign he was cracking, cruel and clever, lol) Poor Stefen...I canNOT wait to see where you have them take this! 3:) The idea of Van as monarch’s own hurts though, he already has all the responsibility of being the last Herald-Mage, the only mage in all Valdemar, and now the King’s Own too? It makes so much sense though, and Taver... just makes so much sense. But I still miss Yfandes ;-;

I need to read the fallout, so much! Van being on the flip-side of someone wearing themselves to a thread almost literally while they take care of everyone else, while hiding how bad off it’s leaving them... So angry...so little room to talk...muahaha

I’m so glad you told me you posted!!! :D

(Looking at your other comments, personally, I’m okay with the level of detail about the past year but I would like to know more about Fath and especially about Van’s relationship with Taver because they at least seem to “talk” like they’re super close, Taver calling him Beloved and such, but the distance is clearly there. And as much as part of me is all ‘noooo!’ at the thought of him being king’s own too, the idea of a Herald/Companion bond between a Companion *and* Herald who’ve both been bonded before is... intriguing. So many ghosts there, I’d think, and a certain perhaps inevitable hesitation? But Yfandes isn’t mentioned much, or even the fact that Van has already known that bond too? Are you the one who didn’t like her? I know I’d had a conversation in comments with someone who wasn’t fond of her, lol... anywhoo, YES, bring on the history (accusations?) about Percey, and hitting Van over the head with what his distance has left for Stefen, and the anger and guilt and—guh! I can’t wait! >:) )

[thene]

Idk the older I get the more I get frustrated at canon's fundamentally straight perspective on this shit whereas to my mind, dealing with Rethwallen isn't a matter of passive acceptance for Van. It has to do his head in, until he doesn't even realise how angry he is with their bullshit.

Tbh, I think in some ways being monarchs' own (note apostrophe placement) wouldn't be a huge change in practical terms for Van in that it's implied he was doing the job in practice for years because Shavri was too absorbed with Randi's health. But having Taver as that point of continuity is going to make a big difference. And I have barely even mentioned Jisa here or what it means for Van that he's devoted his life to her now & her other two parents are dead. That should be a big deal but *frantic handwaving*

YESSSS Van has no place to go off at Stef about this shit :D he needs Stef to Not do the kind of stuff he would, and now he can't deal.

I don't dislike Fandes omg! But I do think it's tough that in canon there isn't much of her beyond being an extension of Van - she doesn't have her own plot points or own agenda/perspective much. When I edit this I will definitely bear in mind what you say and that there needs to be more of Yfandes here - that's probably linked to how I need to build up the relationship with Taver more, because inevitably Van is going to be thinking of Fandes if I lean into that. But yes, I don't think he and Taver were close there. DEF agree on inevitable hesitation. Hell, he wasn't close with Fandes at the end of vol 1, was he? It's gonna take him time to really feel comfortable with their bond and not have a bunch of distance & grief in there, but there is a lot of potential for interesting stuff rn that I'm not really bringing up here. Whereas Taver is like, this phase again.

[thene]

i made more of it fyi

[swimmer963]

This is really good!

I really, really like your writing style – you're incredibly good at conveying complex emotional tones in a way that's really poetic without being too wordy. The pacing is great and things are always moving along, but every once in a while you pull out a phrase that goes BAM right in the feels and then I just have to stop and blink at it for a while.

"As long as I have magic, they aren't safe. I'm not sure anyone on Velgarth is.” Poor Van, walking around basically thinking of himself as a weapon of mass destruction (because everyone else kinda does).

"Van stepped back to look that paradox straight in the eye, and for a moment he lost himself completely, in a blue like the heart of an old star; an ancient fire that would not die." Love this so much. I'm a huge fan of evocative descriptive stuff about Companions (you may have noticed).

"No time to think. Never, ever time to think, and he took what he was offered, a thin and tired hand in his own. That casual touch hoisting him upward only gave him a deeper rapport with his enemy - the man had little hope, little conviction. Only love and cameraderie, and an abiding urge to see the sun, as if dawn would make the world well again.” You do such a good job of capturing the world-weariness of people who've been out in the field for waaaaay too long. Actually, the whole thing does that really well.

"Energy that came from rest and food that Stef wasn't taking because he never had to feel the need for anything but the music. Deep inside, he still sang." AAAAAAAAA STEF ok but seriously I read the final section like 10 times in a row. I'm also such a sucker for any kind of scene that involves someone being critically ill and Healers (former ICU nurse here, I could geek out about the mechanics of magical Healing all day).

Other likes:
*You write uncomfortable social interactions really well. Good mix of painfully awkward and hilarious, so it kind of hurts but I still want to read it. (I'm terrible at writing social awkwardness and conflict, my failure mode is all the characters being too reasonable and nice unless I'm deliberately *trying* to think of conflicts).

*I really like how you touch on the "spirit of Valdemar" theme. "The spirit behind his words was the purest Valdemaran thing that Vanyel knew, people who would do anything for each other to survive together. It was in every song of the Founding." It's super poignant, I think it'd be easy for it to feel preachy if it was too explicit but I think you point it out the right amount?

I enjoyed the battlefield and tactics stuff but I think some of the time I had a hard time visualizing what was going on? So I was ending up tracking the ambiance/emotional tones more than what they were doing.

Would love to see more detail on Fath, he seems intriguing but I agree he's more a sketch of a character than fleshed-out.

[thene]

Thank you so much for all of your commentary & suggestions! they are much appreciated! (And sorry I misfired on this comment, I accidentally posted it while digging up links).

Poor Van, walking around basically thinking of himself as a weapon of mass destruction (because everyone else kinda does). Yuuuuup, you nailed it. I am also in Metal Gear fandom XD I could also go on a lot about the nuclear analogies I read into canon - missile shielding, mutually assured destruction and disarmament. (there's a little Wikipedia paragraph on how missile shields disrupt the norms of nuclear politics). Van's path there is to shield Valdemar from enemy magic, then use the last of his own magic to neutralise an equal threat, and then turn Stef on to guiding people back to relying on "conventional" warfare. It's all very bleak and very late-80s. If you want to read it that way. And I am way too metal gear not to. XD I may well flesh out the Karsite argument sufficiently to make it clear that they're right, or at least rational; they've chosen disarmament because they believe it's the right thing to do and they have a good argument that Valdemar should follow suit. In canon, mutual disarmament just Happens, without having to dismantle Valdemar's role in the conflict. (I can get so mad at canon on this front. Colonialism is another - Valdemar is an empty-land myth, and the Tayledras have conveniently made that land safe AND conveniently vanished west...I've never addressed this bullshit in fic bc i honestly have no idea how, but yeaaaah

Uh, I apologise for the totally pretend medical stuff in this fic. XD Glad you're enjoying it though - that was probably the first part of this that I wrote, ages ago now - wanted Van to have to deal with Stef having a complete physical breakdown.

Van is preachy as fuck, come on. XD (Total other topic but, while I haven't worked it in anywhere yet, I can completely imagine, in the past, Van going off at Percey about the adultery & Percey is like 'dude I literally just fucked you and you were really into it, what the hell?')

I too used to shy away from social uncomfortableness in fic! More than anyone else in the world, it was Gildaurel (the above commenter) who shook me out of that. I feel like Gilda aims to punish me for loving this ship by bring out all the AWFUL, conflicted mess of it and then whispering 'but you still love it, don't you? don't you?'. Some examples: Frustration, aka Stef is a teenager with a teen social circle and everything about this is awful; The Resistance Effort, in which Van walks in on Stef at an unfortunate moment; A Second Start, in which Stef gets at Van about his coldness & avoidance. If that's not enough, i could dig up the WIP in which Van is a functional alcoholic bc OH MY GOD.

I think some of the time I had a hard time visualizing what was going on? Ty for this - I wasn't sure if I was doing enough in that regard & I'll try to get more colour and space in there in the second draft. Also Fath, needs a lot more work there.

[(Anonymous)]

I was thinking about rereading Vanyel's trilogy for some time and only yesterday I checked for new fics. I should have known that it's a Sign that you posted something new. I'm glad that there's a continuation of my favorite AU. The more the better.

Tbh I read previous parts long ago enough to forget that Yfandes died so that first dialogue didn’t sound weird to me bc I though that Van's talking to her. But yeah, as soon as Taver's name appeared I remembered and reread that part again. In general I think that you really good captured how much Taver cares for Van even if they don’t really know/trust each other and that goes well with how it was with Yfandes - suddenly she just was there and loved Van even if he didn’t want that and preferred despairing over Lendel. So I like that bit that Taver just was there and they had a very deep bond from the beginning even if they don't really understand each other. Though it would be good if you put some more of their interactions - imo it works good as it is but Taver's character needs a bit more light. I liked that part when Van asked him about Shavri and Lancir bc that showed that Taver is not the same as Yfandes. (And as for her I felt that pain every time he just mentioned her and I don't know if making Van more elaborate about her will be good - I think it's not a lose that he can just process and putting it into words could destroy that feeling of deep loss).
That whole conversation between Van, Tantras and Torrall was pure gold. I'm always for Herald having Mindspeech conversation behind everyone’s back and explaining things to others while still having polite conversation outside. Also there are so many little things I like there: that Tran didn't know about Rethvellans' homophobia and Van needed to explain, that Torrall almost made a diplomatic catastrophe and his general opinion about Van's private life. Like, everyone thought that Van's some kind of saint even before he became King's Own so now probably most people don't even treat him like a mortal anymore.
I was surprised by a sudden Stef, though it makes sense, when you pointed out everything. My first interpretation was that Van's low energy was bc of psychical issues (like, if PTSD and depression can cause a physical fatigue I guess it can also cause lowering of magic abilities) and that Lendel Van saw was someone with similar appearance like Tashir or some mage of his family that miraculously survived. So yes, there were so logical explanations of this I never really thought about Stef. It's really Stef-like to do something like this. I'm really curious where you're going now with the plot bc it's usually Van who heroically suffers and Stef's here to only hold his hand. I like this change of roles, bc (as I said somewhere before) I really like how you're portraying Stef and that in your version he has much more importance and depth.

Niofo

[thene]

<3 I have been digging out of a bad writing drought but will try to have more of this soon, I swear. At least I know most of what else is going to happen ><

I agree, I'd like to highlight more of Taver's personality but I'm not sure where to slip it in, esp as I DO feel like Van wouldn't fully trust him yet & wouldn't have a super close friendship with him.

Yesss it struck me that in canon, a) no one CARES abt Van and Rethwallen or is mad on his behalf about it, it's just a contrived plot inconvenience, b) it's never explained in what sense Rethwallen is so much more markedly homophobic than Valdemar that Van was actually worried about it (so I made something up, or rather, lifted something from my own homeland's relatively recent history, because we never have to make these things up). Canon isn't fundamentally interested in challenging these structures.

You aren't wrong, in that Van is in pretty deep denial of how badly he is suffering from PTSD, physically, mentally and magically. He thinks he should be better by now. And yesssss, the whole original core of this fic was how awful Van feels abt Stef heroically suffering...just took an age to set up this state of elevated manpain XD

WHAT

[apoxofstars]

I--but--what??!? TAVER?!? I wondered why Yfandes' mindspeech wasn't getting tagged, and then it's not Yfandes at all, and it's like--noo! What happened to Yfandes? But also OF COURSE Taver would Choose Vanyel if he was still around...but Yfandes??? Oh nooooo no no--I just went back through Snowblind b/c evidently I'd forgotten that very important detail. *sobbing* SO MUCH HURT

Okay, sorry for that.

RE: your note at the beginning about withholding information--it was VERY EFFECTIVE for me (b/c I forgot everything about Snowblind smh), but if I'd re-read Snowblind before reading this, I think it would have been fine? But either way, a brief mention of Yfandes' loss just to orient the reader wouldn't hurt.

I just finished reading the rest of Scavenger and I am...ooooh, to go from crying to laughing like that has got to be some kind of curative, right?

Finally, some real *healing* for these people!

I am SO GLAD that you posted this. It is AMAZING.

Re: WHAT

[thene]

Thank you, I really appreciate hearing your reaction to all that. I think when I do the redraft, I want Van to be thinking more about both Yfandes and Savil throughout as they're pretty important to his state of mind - without those familiar emotional anchors, he's drifting off the map. I might try to slip something into that first scene about how he's really not used to doing this stuff without Fandes and he hasn't had time to adjust. Taver, I'm in this annoying place of wanting to flesh him out more but also wanting to keep his relationship with Van a bit new and distant. I will try tho.

And god yes a bit of space to heal is all I want for them ;____; Hopefully will work this over and get it onto AO3 over the summer.