"Oh we'll miss yeh so much! I dunna like the looks o' that Pearson chap, seems a might bit terse, that one does," Lem said as Bertronius and McNab loaded their belongings into the carriage that night. "And make sure yeh stay dry too! Nothin' worse than wet shoes on a long journey, my gran says."
"Don't worry, Lem, his bite's not half so bad as that affected bark of his. If he gives yeh any trouble, jus' tell Scrudton and he'll mind hisself," McNab responded with a smile, placing a comforting hand on Lem's shoulder.
"Won' be nearly so much fun, 'round here without you two," Nelhoepher added, his face more solemn than Bertronius had ever seen it. "Stay out o' trouble, a'right?"
"That goes double for you two! I'll...I'll miss you," Bertronius said mournfully. It was the first time in a long while that he found himself short of words, but Nelhoepher and Lem didn't seem to mind. They gave him a big, rough hug as he climbed into the carriage that filled him with a warmth and sense of belonging. In spite of his protests, they managed to lock McNab into a bear hug as well, before he climbed in next to Bertronius. They waved at their comrades for as long as they could see them before settling back in their seats.
"Well, Bert, ready fer our next adventure?" McNab asked with a twinkle in his eyes.
Bertronius smiled broadly and nodded: he was ready for anything.
*****
The path down the mountain had indeed been tricky. It was a narrow, winding trail with nothing protecting the rebels from the sheer cliffs. The scree was particularly difficult to walk through, and each step sent stones and pebbles sliding beneath Rethnaki’s feet. He was profoundly exhausted and had to force his trembling limbs to keep moving through sheer force of will. Rethnaki, aware that they were near the end of the trail, allowed himself to stop to catch his breath. He drank deeply from his canteen and watched Helkint and Elcrona navigate their way nimbly down the path ahead of him. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Sellior guide Moshel down the ledge with great care.
Rethnaki yawned deeply and started back down the path. Carefully, he half-walked, half-slid through the layer of loose rocks until, at last, he found himself on the flat, expansive ground where the Fethil met the Klevarcht Mountains. He felt much more secure here, where there was no more danger of his fatigue sending him over a jagged cliff, and let out a deep sigh of relief. Looking up, he saw Elcrona running forward towards Nyabel with her arms spread wide. The two women embraced warmly and talked hurriedly with one another. Helkint, Rethnaki noticed, stood lurking just beside the trail. The scarred young elf tried his best to be nonchalant, but Rethnaki knew he had held back from the others until Rethnaki made it down the path himself.
“C’mon, lad," Rethnaki said, draping a heavy arm over the elf-boy’s skinny shoulder. He nodded appreciatively to Johannes, draped languidly against his wagon wearing one of the characteristically inscrutable smirks that Rethnaki found so infuriating about the satyr, and walked over to Safir.
He was bone-tired and more morose than he had ever been before; nevertheless, the sight of the warm, easygoing felintark caused Rethnaki to break into an affectionate grin without realizing it. He had taken an instant liking to Safir – in many ways, the two were kindred spirits. In one another, they recognized each other’s best qualities, and found a rare kind of unspoken, intuitive understanding of each other’s actions that needed no explanation.
Safir, all broad shoulders and thick arms, scooped the elf into a tight hug. When he pulled away, he regarded Rethnaki with a bittersweet smile, saying, “It’s lovely to see you again, friend! Even if it is only for a few minutes.”
Rethnaki nodded emphatically and patted Safir’s arm. Safir, just noticing Moshel and Sellior making their way down the last length of the path gave a little noise of surprise. “Rethnaki, are Moshel and Sellior….?”
“Oh, aye, they are indeed,” Rethnaki replied, noting the tenderness with which his friend held the wounded tinker. “An’ I t’ink they’re quite serious, too. Ta way they look at each other, I’d not be surprised if they joined together someday.”
Safir raised his eyebrows. “Marriage, huh?” Rethnaki, surprised by his tone, gave him a perplexed look. “Oh, it’s just that Sellior is not Moshel’s type, in a number of ways.” He watched the pair approach for a moment and gave a soft, small sigh. “But he does look happy. I’ve never seen him handle an injury so well!”
Sellior sighed and squared his shoulders. He slowly, carefully, shifted himself out from underneath the tinker. When Moshel looked steady enough, he dropped to the ground and rooted around in his pack, producing a small jar, some bandages, and a pouch. “You’ll need these later,” he said in a quavering voice full of mock-bravery. “Spread the paste o’er ta gash when ye change ta bandages. It’ll sting, but ye need ta get it inside ta wound, alrigh’? An’ if ta pain gets too great, eat some o’ those herbs in ta pouch there. They taste awful, but they work jus’ ta same,” he said, handing the medicines over.
Rethnaki, having seen Sellior use these things to tend to the tinker’s wounds more than once that day, knew that Moshel did not need the red elf’s explanations. Neverthless, the silver elf just nodded and dutifully placed them in his own pack. Sellior closed his eyes, and his brow furrowed and his face drew tight. He sighed deeply and took a step towards Rethnaki bearing a tortured expression Rethnaki had never seen cross is long, broad face.
Moshel reached out and brushed Sellior’s arms with his slate-gray fingers. “I have something for you,” he said in his quiet way. Sellior turned, and Rethnaki could see that he had already lost the battle he was waging with himself. Tears glinted in the red-orange light of dusk as he turned back to the gray elf.
Moshel, still unsteady and with one hand firmly planted on his bandaged ribs, pulled something small and metallic threaded on a leather thong out of his pocket. He let go of his wound and took one of Sellior’s hand and turned it palm upward, gently placed the gift into it, and curled the red elf’s fingers around it with his other hand.
Sellior opened his hand and gave a tiny gasp, and looked at Moshel with wide, green eyes. “Moshel, is this ta key ta ta gate ye made?” The tinker nodded. “But yer so proud o’ it, an’ it meant so much ta ye, goin’ t’rough it an’ all – I can’….ye should…’” Sellior stammered.
Moshel smiled and shook his head. “I’d like for you to have it.”
Sellior nodded and pulled the leather cord over his head. He tucked the small key into his shirt and gave Moshel a look full of longing and tenderness that pained Rethnaki just watching. He wiped the tears from his face and turned to step away. The young red elf took perhaps three steps before he gave up the pretense of their stoic parting. He dropped his pack, whipped himself around in a violent spin that sent his long hair flying by like a swath of vibrant red light, and took the tinker in his arms.
Tears fell from his tightly closed eyes as he kissed the silver elf with a hungry passion and force that made Rethnaki’s own lips tingle and arms ache to reach for someone dear. He pressed against the tinker with a strong, burning desire that was palpable to all around them, and had lost the awareness or self-control to even be careful with the tinker’s wound. Moshel returned Sellior’s embrace with at least as much fierce devotion. He wound one long arm around Sellior’s back, drawing him impossibly closer, and sunk the other hand deep into Sellior’s pale red hair. They stayed there, locked in each other’s arms, for some time. It was a sad, beautiful moment that seemed to hold everything around it still, as if the world paused and held its breath so that the two lovers could hold on to each other a few seconds longer.
They pulled apart slowly, painfully, and stood with their foreheads resting against each other. Watching them like that, consumed so completely with their love for each other, Rethnaki felt his heart shatter all over again. He knew what Sellior was feeling, knew the sweet agony of that last kiss before a long and uncertain farewell. Rethnaki considered sadly how much more painful this goodbye must be in the face of their short time together.
Sellior reached up and wiped the tears off Moshel’s cheeks, causing the tinker to smile slightly. He caressed his sharp cheeks and ran his hands through his white hair and gave Moshel a pleading, desperate look. “Moshel, come wit’ me. Please, come wit’ me,” he whispered.
“I can’t, Selli. This is not my war, and I’m no soldier. There’s no place for me with you,” he responded in a sad, resigned voice.
Sellior winced, as if the hand of fate herself had stuck him. “Moshel, I – I need ye…I’ll be lost wit’out ye."
“You were fine before me, and you’ll be fine again. You’ll find a way.”
Sellior looked at him with obvious skepticism. He started to say something, but couldn’t seem to find either his voice or the words and stopped. He drew his long hair over his left shoulder, something Rethnaki knew he did instinctively when he felt overwhelmed and unsure.
Slowly, gently, Moshel took Sellior’s face in his hands. He stroked the red elf’s cheek with his index finger and traced his jawline with his thumb with one hand and brushed more tears away with the other. “Sellior, I will wait for you.”
Sellior sunk into him a little further. “Don’t. It’s a war, ye daft bastard, I might not make it out.”
Moshel held him tighter. “Then I will wait forever.”
“I love you, real and true.”
“I love you, too.”
Sellior sighed. “I’m sorry."
“Don’t be. I’m very good at waiting,” Moshel said with a small, sad smile. He sighed and leaned in to gently kiss Sellior’s forehead, an unhurried, tender gesture of the sweetest kind. Moshel withdrew his lips and rested his cheek on Sellior’s forehead. “Now, go with the others,” he whispered in a voice cracking under the weight of his heartache as he stroked Sellior’s hair.
Sellior nodded slowly and the pair drifted apart, casting longing glances at each other. Rethnaki watched as the felintarks each gently draped an arm around the tinker elf, supported him carefully as they walked back to Susselfen. Next to him stood Sellior, and Rethnaki wrapped his arm around his shoulder. Glancing down, he saw that Elcrona stood on Sellior’s other side holding his hand tightly. Sellior’s face was ashen, and he looked hollow and insubstantial, like he could be blown away as easy as a fallen leaf. Rethnaki held him a little tighter, knowing that the desperate longing and loneliness of such a separation was sometimes eased by such small comforts.
The silence was broken by the satyr’s deep, melodious voice. It was quiet, and as respectful as it could be, but it retained a sardonic quality that irked Rethnaki nonetheless. “Masquerading as a band of minstrels is easiest if we’re actually minstrels. Do you have musical talents, by any chance?”
Elcrona spoke up first, but Rethnaki noticed that she pointedly looked away from the satyr as she responded. He suppressed a smile, thinking of how difficult the next few months could be for her should Johannes grow bored and make a game of unnerving her with his attentions. “I can do some half decent drummin’, passable, I’d say, fer our purposes, anyway. But yer in luck wit’ Selli – he’s a marvel wit’ a fiddle if ye ha’e a spare one lyin’ about.” Johannes mentioned that he did and then turned his icy, fathomless eyes to Helkint.
Rethnaki was about to tell the satyr to leave the boy alone, but to his great surprise, Helkint answered Johannes himself. “I can sing. Me mam was a minstrel, an’ she taught me ta old ballads in Athenorkos an’ in Sindhelli. Do ye know Sindhelli?”
Johannes looked a bit surprised, pleasantly so. “Sindhelli is my mother tongue. I think you and I will get along well, young one.” He turned to Rethnaki with an expectant face. “And you, Starling, what do you bring to the table?”
Rethnaki frowned. He could of course sing and dance, but only passably for a red elf, and certainly not well enough to convince Fethilians he was a bard. Jealously, he thought of his twin in Elftown, who was a gifted musician if there ever was one (respected among satyrs, even – possibly Johannes had heard of him). “No, I can’ help ye tha’ way. I can tell a fine tale, though.”
Johannes made a slight grimace. “Oh, that’s alright. I guess we’ll have you sell tickets or break up brawls or something practical like that. Now, get into the wagon, my new elvish friends. There’s food and blankets back there; you should catch up on your sleep before we get to Neerhemfeth.”
They piled into the covered wagon, which was more spacious inside than Rethnaki had expected, and got the first glimpse of what would be their home for several months of slow, meandering travel through the Fethil and Perejin. Johannes took his place at the seat at the front, picked up the reigns and thwacked them to send the horses trotting off.
Rethnaki took a look at the others: they had always been his friends, but now they were also his charges. He selfishly vowed not to lose anyone else, knowingly, that he could not handle another loss. He knew the trip to the edge of the forest would be long, and that the trip to the rest of the rebels would be even longer, and felt a unnamed, unarticulated fear creep up. And then, mercifully, he felt the invisible siren call of sleep overtake him. He slept deeply, gratefully, in the swaying wagon for the first time in weeks.
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