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The Mistress of the Shadowland, Second Book, The next Chapter
Please enjoy this chapter and thank you so, so much for reading and commenting. It means the world to me!!
The torches lighting the long corridor cast long shadows on the cool stone walls as Trálír walked along it with his heart beating rapidly on his way to his father's chamber. He was ready to face this battle, because he knew that it would not just be a conversation in which the participants would exchange their opinions. He knew that his father would not back down from his decision, but neither would Trálír. He was not prepared to give in, to let his father push him into a corner. Either the engagement would be broken, or Trálír would leave this castle, this life, this damned unbearable duty as the firstborn and next heir to these lands behind him for good. A duty and responsibility he had never asked for. He was ready for his banishment, for there was nothing that would keep him in this castle any longer.
Trálír stood at the door to his father's chamber and placed his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them and stepped into the room. He slammed the door behind him. Trálír, the Elder, and the men in his chamber turned in surprise toward the firstborn.
“We need to talk.”
His voice was cold, stern, emotionless. He looked at his father, his eyes like a turbulent sea, a reflection of what was going on inside him.
His father raised an eyebrow at his sons words, reached for the papers lying on the table in front of him, and rolled them up.
“I don't believe that,” he replied in a dark voice that was not yet filled with anger or rage. But Trálír knew from numerous experiences in the past that this could change in the blink of an eye. His gaze shifted to Neererin, who was still dressed in the uniform of the Blackwater Country, standing opposite his father and looking uneasily at Trálír. You could see the tension on his face, the warning in his eyes that Trálír was walking straight into what felt like a war and that he was in danger of losing it.
Two soldiers from the inner circle stood behind the First Hand.
“I am already engaged in conversation. Return to your chambers and appear before me early in the morning, then I will have time for you.” To everyone else in the room, the ruler's voice sounded emotionless and almost polite, but Trálír knew those small, barely audible nuances that told him his father was on the verge of losing his patience.
“No.”
“No?” Trálír, the elder, raised his eyebrows, his gray eyes dark and menacing.
“Leave. My. Chambers,” the elder elf pressed out between clenched lips. The emphasis on each word was a clear warning to his son that it would only take one more word from him to lose his patience.
Neererin, who was standing only a few feet away from the firstborn, felt the urge to walk over to him, place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and get him to obey his father's words, as this moment was obviously anything but appropriate for the conversation he had in mind. But when he looked at the ruler still dressed in the robe he had worn that evening, a stormy look in his dark gray eyes and almost painful tension that resembled an uncertain dance on the tip of a sharp sword, he decided to do nothing. He did not want to increase the uneasiness between him and his son by intervening. So he stood still in the chamber of Trálír the Elder, looking nervously from one to the other.
“I will not leave your chamber until you have broken off the engagement between me and Count Silverleaf's daughter,” Trálír replied, his head held high, staring defiantly at his father. The ruler began to laugh loudly, but his laughter sounded anything but joyful. One might say it sounded extremely threatening. Neererin shook his head unconsciously and whispered Trálír's name. “Don't do it...”
“I seem to have misheard you, my son,” said Trálír the Elder, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the heavy oak table while his fingers interlaced.
“No, I don't think so,” his son replied through clenched teeth. “I am well aware of what I said.”
“But you don't seem to be aware of the consequences your words will have.”
“I'm tired of hearing about your consequences and veiled threats, Father,” replied the firstborn, feeling the anger slowly creeping out of the shadows and into his heart, striving for the light in this room. “I demand that you break off this engagement, Father. I will not be forced into marriage with Ysilia.”
“Oh yes, you will, my son,” replied his father in a calm voice, a malicious smile appearing on his thin lips. But Trálír shook his head vehemently.
“My heart belongs to Anwyn, and no other woman will ever take her place.”
“Enough of this talk!” Trálír the Elder suddenly roared, sitting up angrily and bracing himself with his palms on the massive desk. “I'm tired of hearing about your damn human whore! Do as all the other rulers in the numerous lands on this continent do, marry for political reasons and keep this damn witch as your mistress, make her a few bastards for all I care, but fulfill your duty as heir to these lands!” The ruler's face was filled with rage, lightning danced behind his eyes and Neererin and the two soldiers standing behind him flinched unconsciously. Trálír, however, stood tall in front of his father, his gaze fixed on him.
“No, I will not,” he replied in a calm voice, shaking his head. “Anwyn is my Thiramin, and I will take her as my wife. She will be the mother of my children, and she will not be just a mistress whom I will mount on a whim. And I will not deviate from this decision, Father.”
Trálír, the elder, stared at his son in a rage as he continued: “You and I both know that I was never the firstborn you wanted. Tearlách would have been the right choice, but because of your behavior and your upbringing...” The high elf emphasized the word “upbringing” and could hear his father let out a low growl. "You drove him into the shadows with your behavior, and I have no desire to take your place. Perhaps you will sit on that damned, cursed throne until the end of your life, and I couldn't care less. I am ready to leave all this behind and go into exile. Whatever you think, whatever plans you have, this will no longer be my concern. I have made my decision, and nothing and no one will ever dissuade me, Father."
Trálír, the elder, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you're sure of that?”
Neererin sensed that the next words to come out of the ruler's mouth would not bode well. He took a step toward Trálír, raised his hand reassuringly in his direction, wanting to gently guide him toward the door, because his gut feeling told him that the next words, no matter which side they came from, would only exacerbate the situation.
“Nothing will stop me from taking this step, Father,” replied Trálír, confirming his words with a nod. His father now looked at Neererin, his eyes dark with the intentions he wanted to put into action.
"Neererin, ride to the village by the Great Oak and ask for the healer. Take some men with you and make sure you capture her and bring her to the castle."
“My Lord?” asked Neererin, stunned, staring at Trálír, who had turned pale at his father's words.
“You wouldn't dare,” he whispered, shocked, panic in his eyes.
“You will kill those who do not help you. Likewise those who stand in your way. Throw the bodies into the sea; they will surely make good fish food. But you will make sure you bring that damned whore to the castle. And that your first stop is the dungeon.”
“Father...” whispered Trálír, the sudden fear he felt for Anwyn and her safety causing him to freeze.
“And for you, my son, this means that you will marry Count Silverleaf's daughter, otherwise...” His father paused and looked at his son, a malicious smile appearing on his face.
"... otherwise, every day, I will peel a piece of skin from the body of your beloved witch. I will start at her feet and work my way up, day by day. Slowly, I will revel in her screams, enjoying watching the blood drip from her body, watching the pain and torment she suffers drive her mad. And while you still refuse, still think you can override my decision, I will devote myself to her body with relish. And should I grow tired of her body and her screams, I may give Tearlach the opportunity to take care of her. We both know that he is quite interested in her. After all, she seems to exert a certain spell on our family."
“I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” Trálír screamed, lunging forward toward his father and literally jumping over the desk. Documents and writing utensils fell from it, and a small inkwell spilled over the wood as his hands wrapped around his father's throat and brutally squeezed.
“Trálír, don't!” he heard Neererin's voice from a distance as his eyes burned into his father's. All Trálír felt at that moment was a burning desire to protect Anwyn, even if it meant killing his own father. He was ready to take that step, ready to give in to this dark inner desire if it meant he could protect his beloved. He felt the tense muscles in his father's neck under his fingertips, heard the blood rushing through his veins, reveled in the frightened gasps escaping from Trálír the Elder's mouth.
He felt someone grab his arms, his shoulders, trying to pull him away from his father.
The firstborn heard the chair his father had been sitting in fall over, heard the table suddenly being pushed aside frantically. He was being pulled, he heard screams, his name, felt his own father's fist hit him in the face, felt his vision darken and then everything around him turn red. Blood dripped into his eyes, he heard something, someone, growling loudly. Was it him?
The blows raining down on him fueled his anger, seemed to intensify the darkness within him. His fingernails dug into his father's firm flesh, blood oozing from the open wounds. Screams rang out shrill. His name was shouted, and the world around him was bathed in a hot red as suddenly everything went black and the hot anger inside him, almost as dark as the blood in his veins, disappeared around him.
Darkness.
The torches lighting the long corridor cast long shadows on the cool stone walls as Trálír walked along it with his heart beating rapidly on his way to his father's chamber. He was ready to face this battle, because he knew that it would not just be a conversation in which the participants would exchange their opinions. He knew that his father would not back down from his decision, but neither would Trálír. He was not prepared to give in, to let his father push him into a corner. Either the engagement would be broken, or Trálír would leave this castle, this life, this damned unbearable duty as the firstborn and next heir to these lands behind him for good. A duty and responsibility he had never asked for. He was ready for his banishment, for there was nothing that would keep him in this castle any longer.
Trálír stood at the door to his father's chamber and placed his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them and stepped into the room. He slammed the door behind him. Trálír, the Elder, and the men in his chamber turned in surprise toward the firstborn.
“We need to talk.”
His voice was cold, stern, emotionless. He looked at his father, his eyes like a turbulent sea, a reflection of what was going on inside him.
His father raised an eyebrow at his sons words, reached for the papers lying on the table in front of him, and rolled them up.
“I don't believe that,” he replied in a dark voice that was not yet filled with anger or rage. But Trálír knew from numerous experiences in the past that this could change in the blink of an eye. His gaze shifted to Neererin, who was still dressed in the uniform of the Blackwater Country, standing opposite his father and looking uneasily at Trálír. You could see the tension on his face, the warning in his eyes that Trálír was walking straight into what felt like a war and that he was in danger of losing it.
Two soldiers from the inner circle stood behind the First Hand.
“I am already engaged in conversation. Return to your chambers and appear before me early in the morning, then I will have time for you.” To everyone else in the room, the ruler's voice sounded emotionless and almost polite, but Trálír knew those small, barely audible nuances that told him his father was on the verge of losing his patience.
“No.”
“No?” Trálír, the elder, raised his eyebrows, his gray eyes dark and menacing.
“Leave. My. Chambers,” the elder elf pressed out between clenched lips. The emphasis on each word was a clear warning to his son that it would only take one more word from him to lose his patience.
Neererin, who was standing only a few feet away from the firstborn, felt the urge to walk over to him, place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and get him to obey his father's words, as this moment was obviously anything but appropriate for the conversation he had in mind. But when he looked at the ruler still dressed in the robe he had worn that evening, a stormy look in his dark gray eyes and almost painful tension that resembled an uncertain dance on the tip of a sharp sword, he decided to do nothing. He did not want to increase the uneasiness between him and his son by intervening. So he stood still in the chamber of Trálír the Elder, looking nervously from one to the other.
“I will not leave your chamber until you have broken off the engagement between me and Count Silverleaf's daughter,” Trálír replied, his head held high, staring defiantly at his father. The ruler began to laugh loudly, but his laughter sounded anything but joyful. One might say it sounded extremely threatening. Neererin shook his head unconsciously and whispered Trálír's name. “Don't do it...”
“I seem to have misheard you, my son,” said Trálír the Elder, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the heavy oak table while his fingers interlaced.
“No, I don't think so,” his son replied through clenched teeth. “I am well aware of what I said.”
“But you don't seem to be aware of the consequences your words will have.”
“I'm tired of hearing about your consequences and veiled threats, Father,” replied the firstborn, feeling the anger slowly creeping out of the shadows and into his heart, striving for the light in this room. “I demand that you break off this engagement, Father. I will not be forced into marriage with Ysilia.”
“Oh yes, you will, my son,” replied his father in a calm voice, a malicious smile appearing on his thin lips. But Trálír shook his head vehemently.
“My heart belongs to Anwyn, and no other woman will ever take her place.”
“Enough of this talk!” Trálír the Elder suddenly roared, sitting up angrily and bracing himself with his palms on the massive desk. “I'm tired of hearing about your damn human whore! Do as all the other rulers in the numerous lands on this continent do, marry for political reasons and keep this damn witch as your mistress, make her a few bastards for all I care, but fulfill your duty as heir to these lands!” The ruler's face was filled with rage, lightning danced behind his eyes and Neererin and the two soldiers standing behind him flinched unconsciously. Trálír, however, stood tall in front of his father, his gaze fixed on him.
“No, I will not,” he replied in a calm voice, shaking his head. “Anwyn is my Thiramin, and I will take her as my wife. She will be the mother of my children, and she will not be just a mistress whom I will mount on a whim. And I will not deviate from this decision, Father.”
Trálír, the elder, stared at his son in a rage as he continued: “You and I both know that I was never the firstborn you wanted. Tearlách would have been the right choice, but because of your behavior and your upbringing...” The high elf emphasized the word “upbringing” and could hear his father let out a low growl. "You drove him into the shadows with your behavior, and I have no desire to take your place. Perhaps you will sit on that damned, cursed throne until the end of your life, and I couldn't care less. I am ready to leave all this behind and go into exile. Whatever you think, whatever plans you have, this will no longer be my concern. I have made my decision, and nothing and no one will ever dissuade me, Father."
Trálír, the elder, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you're sure of that?”
Neererin sensed that the next words to come out of the ruler's mouth would not bode well. He took a step toward Trálír, raised his hand reassuringly in his direction, wanting to gently guide him toward the door, because his gut feeling told him that the next words, no matter which side they came from, would only exacerbate the situation.
“Nothing will stop me from taking this step, Father,” replied Trálír, confirming his words with a nod. His father now looked at Neererin, his eyes dark with the intentions he wanted to put into action.
"Neererin, ride to the village by the Great Oak and ask for the healer. Take some men with you and make sure you capture her and bring her to the castle."
“My Lord?” asked Neererin, stunned, staring at Trálír, who had turned pale at his father's words.
“You wouldn't dare,” he whispered, shocked, panic in his eyes.
“You will kill those who do not help you. Likewise those who stand in your way. Throw the bodies into the sea; they will surely make good fish food. But you will make sure you bring that damned whore to the castle. And that your first stop is the dungeon.”
“Father...” whispered Trálír, the sudden fear he felt for Anwyn and her safety causing him to freeze.
“And for you, my son, this means that you will marry Count Silverleaf's daughter, otherwise...” His father paused and looked at his son, a malicious smile appearing on his face.
"... otherwise, every day, I will peel a piece of skin from the body of your beloved witch. I will start at her feet and work my way up, day by day. Slowly, I will revel in her screams, enjoying watching the blood drip from her body, watching the pain and torment she suffers drive her mad. And while you still refuse, still think you can override my decision, I will devote myself to her body with relish. And should I grow tired of her body and her screams, I may give Tearlach the opportunity to take care of her. We both know that he is quite interested in her. After all, she seems to exert a certain spell on our family."
“I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” Trálír screamed, lunging forward toward his father and literally jumping over the desk. Documents and writing utensils fell from it, and a small inkwell spilled over the wood as his hands wrapped around his father's throat and brutally squeezed.
“Trálír, don't!” he heard Neererin's voice from a distance as his eyes burned into his father's. All Trálír felt at that moment was a burning desire to protect Anwyn, even if it meant killing his own father. He was ready to take that step, ready to give in to this dark inner desire if it meant he could protect his beloved. He felt the tense muscles in his father's neck under his fingertips, heard the blood rushing through his veins, reveled in the frightened gasps escaping from Trálír the Elder's mouth.
He felt someone grab his arms, his shoulders, trying to pull him away from his father.
The firstborn heard the chair his father had been sitting in fall over, heard the table suddenly being pushed aside frantically. He was being pulled, he heard screams, his name, felt his own father's fist hit him in the face, felt his vision darken and then everything around him turn red. Blood dripped into his eyes, he heard something, someone, growling loudly. Was it him?
The blows raining down on him fueled his anger, seemed to intensify the darkness within him. His fingernails dug into his father's firm flesh, blood oozing from the open wounds. Screams rang out shrill. His name was shouted, and the world around him was bathed in a hot red as suddenly everything went black and the hot anger inside him, almost as dark as the blood in his veins, disappeared around him.
Darkness.
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