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The Mistress of the Shadowland, Second Book, The next Chapter
It's sunday and time for a new chapter! Please enjoy it and thank you so much for reading!! ♥
With a heavy heart, Neererin felt Trálír's weight on his right arm, which was wrapped around the high elf's waist to support him as he walked. The First Hand tried to get the young ruler's son out of the noisy and crowded Great Hall without causing a fuss.
If he had taken his arm from the firstborn's waist, the latter would not have fallen over, but would have had great difficulty taking even a single straight step. Even with his support, Trálír's steps were very unsteady. Nevertheless, he stood upright, his chin raised high, his gaze straight ahead. However, his gait was so unsteady that they could only move forward slowly.
Neererin noticed that the elf's eyes were slightly glassy, and he also heard the incomprehensible murmurs that escaped his lips.
They had to make a small detour around a dancing group of several elves, and Neererin decided to go to a small storeroom at the back of the hall, because there he could go unseen with Trálír to the first floor. The staircase there was narrow and steep, and it would take some effort to carry the elf up there as drunk as he was, but the risk of someone seeing him on the Grand Staircase was too great.
So Neererin opened the heavy door, which squeaked loudly, causing him to glance quickly over his shoulder, but the guests near him were too preoccupied with themselves, indulging in alcohol, the still abundant food in their hands or dancing together. He pushed Trálír into the dark chamber, where he slumped against the wall, and quickly closed the door behind him.
“Oh, no, no,” Neererin exclaimed, quickly grabbing Trálír's arm as he was about to slide to the floor.
“Tired...” murmured the firstborn in a blurred voice, pointing his hand toward a corner. “There...”
“Yes, I believe you're tired, my boy,” replied the older elf patiently, sliding his shoulder under Trálír's right armpit so he could support him better. With his left arm, he grabbed Trálír's upper arm and slowly put one foot in front of the other. A narrow window, more like a slit, sparsely illuminated the chamber with the light of the full moon in the sky.
Neererin groaned as he took each step, dragging Trálír along with him, whose weight was now noticeable in his grip, as the ruler's son could barely keep his eyes open and was no longer able to stand upright.
Sighing softly, Neererin dragged the young elf along with him, but the spiral staircase was so narrow that he constantly bumped his head, shoulder, arms, and hips against the damp wall.
At least he's so drunk that he doesn't notice anything, thought the First Hand, feeling a dull ache in his stomach. It was a feeling he knew only too well since Trálír and his brother had come into this world. It was the feeling of sadness, of a guilty conscience, of knowing that he had failed to keep a promise he had once made. For a moment, Neererin stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, seeing the woman he once loved in his mind's eye and feeling the deep, stabbing pain of loss so strongly in his heart that his body seemed to collapse for a brief moment.
The knowledge of her loss, of his failure, weighed so heavily on his shoulders that Neererin felt as if his legs were giving way too.
But he pulled himself together, straightened his shoulders, dragged the slumped Trálír a little closer to him to get a better grip on him, and took another step.
The last evening he had seen Elaria, the mother of Trálír and Tearlách, in the hallway, dressed only in a simple nightgown, her honey-blonde hair reaching below her hips, she seemed almost as fragile as a ghost. She was pale, her green eyes, which always reminded him of a lush summer meadow, glistened with unshed tears, and her voice was just a whisper. When she recognized him, a simple candle in her hand that inadequately illuminated the dark hallway, Elaria approached him. Neererin bowed to her, wanting to ask her what she was doing outside her chambers so late at night and whether he should take her back, but she placed her slender hand on his chest, her eyes pleading.
“Promise me you will watch over my children, so that no harm will come to them.”
He remembered all too well how confused he was by her words. Why did she say these words to him, a simple soldier, an elf from the forest lands, on the outer borders that reached the black coast? Had she noticed his shy and embarrassed glances? Had she sensed that his heart always beats faster than usual when he saw her?
He had so many questions for her and at the same time felt the need to take her in his arms, because Elaria seemed so fragile and... helpless? She repeated her words, her voice faltering, her eyes pleading. And he nodded. A wordless promise.
A tear slid down her cheek, she pressed a tender kiss on his cheek, a touch he would never forget as long as he walked these lands. It would be the last thing he remembered when his time came.
He closed his eyes, his heart racing, his throat tightening, and he could still feel her lips on his skin. When he opened his eyes, the corridor was dark and no one was to be seen.
Neererin remembered his confusion, wondering if it was all just a trick of his longing for the ruler's wife. Or maybe it was something like a dream? He shook his head, ended his service shortly afterwards and retired to his chamber.
In his meditation, he heard her words over and over again, the sound of her voice, remembering her pleading gaze... her lips on his cheek.
In the morning, a scream was heard, and he was not the only one who was startled out of his meditation.
And when he learned that she had died, that she had ended her life, he knew that this had not been a dream. It was the urgent plea of a mother who wanted to ensure that he would protect her sons.
And he had failed.
The First Hand had now reached the end of the stairs and awkwardly opened the door, as he was now holding Trálír's entire weight in his arms. He peered into the hallway, saw no one in the corridor lit by a few torches on the walls, and gently tapped the ruler's son on the chest with his right hand. The latter opened his eyes with a groan, but did not seem to understand where he was.
“Mylord, you must help me a little,” whispered Neererin, and Trálír turned his face toward him. Slowly, a slight recognition appeared in his eyes. He nodded laboriously. “Try to put one foot in front of the other. Careful. I'll hold you.”
He nodded again, and Neererin felt the elf in his grip put one foot in front of the other, slowly and softly swaying, but steadily approaching Trálír's chamber.
After what felt like an eternity, the two men finally reached their destination, and the First Hand gently leaned the drunk Trálír against the wall, his left hand resting on his chest and pressing him against the masonry behind him so that he would not sink to the floor.
Neererin opened the door, pushed Trálír into his chamber, and followed him, quickly locking the door behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trálír's legs give way and him in danger of sliding to the floor, but the older elf was quicker and prevented this by catching him. He gently carried Trálír to his bed, where the ruler's son sat down, swaying.
I know I could never fulfill your request, mistress, Neererin thought dejectedly, looking down at the young elf. But I'll be damned if I can't stand by him now.
Trálír was still sitting on the bed, but his head had fallen onto his chest, his hair hung over his face, and he was muttering something that Neererin couldn't understand.
He gently stroked Trálír's hair and then began to undress him. The ruler's son let this happen without resistance, and when Neererin had stripped him down to his underwear, he pulled back the blanket and softly pressed him onto the mattress. As he pulled the sheet over his body, Trálír suddenly grabbed his wrist. Surprised, he looked at the young elf, who was staring at him with clear eyes and had half sat up.
“You must help me, Neererin,” Trálír whispered urgently. “Make sure nothing happens to my wife. Take her away from here.”
“My lord?” Neererin's heart was in his throat when he heard the elf's words.
“Take us away ... help us...”
Tralír's grip on the older elf's wrist loosened, then his eyes closed and he sank back onto his bed. The pale light through the window illuminated the chamber a little, and Neererin stared at the full moon in the sky. Once, on a night like this, he had been asked to make a promise, and he had failed, never fulfilling it.
Thinking about Elaria's request, knowing that he had not completed her wish because he feared Trálír, the elder, so much, he decided this time to do everything he could to grant her request. For he felt that Trálír's words, even in the intoxication of drunkenness, were true. And that the young elf was afraid.
With a heavy heart, Neererin felt Trálír's weight on his right arm, which was wrapped around the high elf's waist to support him as he walked. The First Hand tried to get the young ruler's son out of the noisy and crowded Great Hall without causing a fuss.
If he had taken his arm from the firstborn's waist, the latter would not have fallen over, but would have had great difficulty taking even a single straight step. Even with his support, Trálír's steps were very unsteady. Nevertheless, he stood upright, his chin raised high, his gaze straight ahead. However, his gait was so unsteady that they could only move forward slowly.
Neererin noticed that the elf's eyes were slightly glassy, and he also heard the incomprehensible murmurs that escaped his lips.
They had to make a small detour around a dancing group of several elves, and Neererin decided to go to a small storeroom at the back of the hall, because there he could go unseen with Trálír to the first floor. The staircase there was narrow and steep, and it would take some effort to carry the elf up there as drunk as he was, but the risk of someone seeing him on the Grand Staircase was too great.
So Neererin opened the heavy door, which squeaked loudly, causing him to glance quickly over his shoulder, but the guests near him were too preoccupied with themselves, indulging in alcohol, the still abundant food in their hands or dancing together. He pushed Trálír into the dark chamber, where he slumped against the wall, and quickly closed the door behind him.
“Oh, no, no,” Neererin exclaimed, quickly grabbing Trálír's arm as he was about to slide to the floor.
“Tired...” murmured the firstborn in a blurred voice, pointing his hand toward a corner. “There...”
“Yes, I believe you're tired, my boy,” replied the older elf patiently, sliding his shoulder under Trálír's right armpit so he could support him better. With his left arm, he grabbed Trálír's upper arm and slowly put one foot in front of the other. A narrow window, more like a slit, sparsely illuminated the chamber with the light of the full moon in the sky.
Neererin groaned as he took each step, dragging Trálír along with him, whose weight was now noticeable in his grip, as the ruler's son could barely keep his eyes open and was no longer able to stand upright.
Sighing softly, Neererin dragged the young elf along with him, but the spiral staircase was so narrow that he constantly bumped his head, shoulder, arms, and hips against the damp wall.
At least he's so drunk that he doesn't notice anything, thought the First Hand, feeling a dull ache in his stomach. It was a feeling he knew only too well since Trálír and his brother had come into this world. It was the feeling of sadness, of a guilty conscience, of knowing that he had failed to keep a promise he had once made. For a moment, Neererin stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, seeing the woman he once loved in his mind's eye and feeling the deep, stabbing pain of loss so strongly in his heart that his body seemed to collapse for a brief moment.
The knowledge of her loss, of his failure, weighed so heavily on his shoulders that Neererin felt as if his legs were giving way too.
But he pulled himself together, straightened his shoulders, dragged the slumped Trálír a little closer to him to get a better grip on him, and took another step.
The last evening he had seen Elaria, the mother of Trálír and Tearlách, in the hallway, dressed only in a simple nightgown, her honey-blonde hair reaching below her hips, she seemed almost as fragile as a ghost. She was pale, her green eyes, which always reminded him of a lush summer meadow, glistened with unshed tears, and her voice was just a whisper. When she recognized him, a simple candle in her hand that inadequately illuminated the dark hallway, Elaria approached him. Neererin bowed to her, wanting to ask her what she was doing outside her chambers so late at night and whether he should take her back, but she placed her slender hand on his chest, her eyes pleading.
“Promise me you will watch over my children, so that no harm will come to them.”
He remembered all too well how confused he was by her words. Why did she say these words to him, a simple soldier, an elf from the forest lands, on the outer borders that reached the black coast? Had she noticed his shy and embarrassed glances? Had she sensed that his heart always beats faster than usual when he saw her?
He had so many questions for her and at the same time felt the need to take her in his arms, because Elaria seemed so fragile and... helpless? She repeated her words, her voice faltering, her eyes pleading. And he nodded. A wordless promise.
A tear slid down her cheek, she pressed a tender kiss on his cheek, a touch he would never forget as long as he walked these lands. It would be the last thing he remembered when his time came.
He closed his eyes, his heart racing, his throat tightening, and he could still feel her lips on his skin. When he opened his eyes, the corridor was dark and no one was to be seen.
Neererin remembered his confusion, wondering if it was all just a trick of his longing for the ruler's wife. Or maybe it was something like a dream? He shook his head, ended his service shortly afterwards and retired to his chamber.
In his meditation, he heard her words over and over again, the sound of her voice, remembering her pleading gaze... her lips on his cheek.
In the morning, a scream was heard, and he was not the only one who was startled out of his meditation.
And when he learned that she had died, that she had ended her life, he knew that this had not been a dream. It was the urgent plea of a mother who wanted to ensure that he would protect her sons.
And he had failed.
The First Hand had now reached the end of the stairs and awkwardly opened the door, as he was now holding Trálír's entire weight in his arms. He peered into the hallway, saw no one in the corridor lit by a few torches on the walls, and gently tapped the ruler's son on the chest with his right hand. The latter opened his eyes with a groan, but did not seem to understand where he was.
“Mylord, you must help me a little,” whispered Neererin, and Trálír turned his face toward him. Slowly, a slight recognition appeared in his eyes. He nodded laboriously. “Try to put one foot in front of the other. Careful. I'll hold you.”
He nodded again, and Neererin felt the elf in his grip put one foot in front of the other, slowly and softly swaying, but steadily approaching Trálír's chamber.
After what felt like an eternity, the two men finally reached their destination, and the First Hand gently leaned the drunk Trálír against the wall, his left hand resting on his chest and pressing him against the masonry behind him so that he would not sink to the floor.
Neererin opened the door, pushed Trálír into his chamber, and followed him, quickly locking the door behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trálír's legs give way and him in danger of sliding to the floor, but the older elf was quicker and prevented this by catching him. He gently carried Trálír to his bed, where the ruler's son sat down, swaying.
I know I could never fulfill your request, mistress, Neererin thought dejectedly, looking down at the young elf. But I'll be damned if I can't stand by him now.
Trálír was still sitting on the bed, but his head had fallen onto his chest, his hair hung over his face, and he was muttering something that Neererin couldn't understand.
He gently stroked Trálír's hair and then began to undress him. The ruler's son let this happen without resistance, and when Neererin had stripped him down to his underwear, he pulled back the blanket and softly pressed him onto the mattress. As he pulled the sheet over his body, Trálír suddenly grabbed his wrist. Surprised, he looked at the young elf, who was staring at him with clear eyes and had half sat up.
“You must help me, Neererin,” Trálír whispered urgently. “Make sure nothing happens to my wife. Take her away from here.”
“My lord?” Neererin's heart was in his throat when he heard the elf's words.
“Take us away ... help us...”
Tralír's grip on the older elf's wrist loosened, then his eyes closed and he sank back onto his bed. The pale light through the window illuminated the chamber a little, and Neererin stared at the full moon in the sky. Once, on a night like this, he had been asked to make a promise, and he had failed, never fulfilling it.
Thinking about Elaria's request, knowing that he had not completed her wish because he feared Trálír, the elder, so much, he decided this time to do everything he could to grant her request. For he felt that Trálír's words, even in the intoxication of drunkenness, were true. And that the young elf was afraid.
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