[Amanaduial the archer]

Arthain heard Anwenelme’s voice from somewere outside the bubble of apin that seemed to surround him now, but what she said he neither heard, nor cared about. Probing with her voice, prodding, seeking a weakness, trying to find a way to shatter the bubble, for then its shards would fly all around, destroying Arthain entirely.

That venomous snake…that treacherous viper…well, she had found his weakness. His two weaknesses- the only weakness such a soldier could have. The weaknesses deep inside. The weaknesses of the heart. Melost and Yilsa. Arthain couldn’t shake away that last image of Melost, the last pain-laden, betrayed look as his eyes lingered on Arthain, horrified, as he stumbled from the tent. The scene repeated itself a thousand times in his head, and Melost’s words echoed in Arthain’s mind….his curse…

“You will see the one dearest to your heart die in your arms. May you know the pain I know now and thrice over…

You will see the one dearest to your heart die in your arms. May you know the pain I know now and thrice over…

You will see the one dearest to your heart die in your arms. May you know the pain I know now and thrice over…”

It was Dorlas’s voice which eventually woke Arthain up to some extent, business-like and harder than his years would suggest as he addressed the women of the camp. “Get some rest, all of you! We leave tomorrow, no matter what!”

The woman did nothing, barely even acknowledged that Dorlas had spoken, just stood, speaking among themselves, gossiping, feigning sympathy. And for some reason, this suddenly made Arthain incredibly, unspeakably angry. Did they look down on him because of what his master had done? Or was it just because he was a mortal, a foolish mortal, in general? How dare they! How dare they! Arthain stood, facing them, standing as steadily as he could and speaking with a hard voice, although his thoughts were as wild and ragged and scattered as the skeletons of leaves, stirred up and swirling on the wind, which, with but a gentle breeze, could shatter them completely.

“You heard him!” He barked, courtesy thrown to the wind. “We leave tomorrow! Get back to your tents!”

The women stood, shocked into silence momentarily, not even gossiping for a second, before Menelya spoke, but spoke as if she had not even heard Arthain. “I am going to my tent now- the night is late, and no matter what has passed, we, at least, must look good for the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood. I suggest,” the word was laden with sarcasm, “that you do the same.”

With that, she turned in her heel and, without even a mere glance at the two men, she swept into her tent, appearing every bit as arrogant and unaffected as if none of the events of the night had ever passed, and so convincing was she that Arthain could almost have believed that she truly didn’t care. But he saw her clenched fists, and for a moment, thinking of that delighted, malicious pleasure which Anwenelme took in upsetting her mother, Arthain wondered bitterly whether the ruin of her mother had also been in Anwenelme’s vicious plot.

“I’ll take the watch.” Arthain muttered to Dorlas, turning to walk to the edge of the camp. Dorlas hovered behind him and eventually said something, concern in his voice.

“Are you sure you can-”

Arthain shot him a bitter look. “Do you think I can sleep tonight?” Dorlas was wise enough not to reply, and Arthain continued, leaving the poor boy to try and comfort Thelian.

As for Arthain…he would indeed watch, he would watch harder than he ever had before, not taking any note of the stars or the moon which still hung, cold and indifferent, in the night sky, but looking for any sign of the friend who, he knew, he could never make amends with…