Pan’assár straightened, the lines of his face hardening, eyes glinting. “You think you know it all? That you can call an elf ‘monster’ because you think you know what happened?”
“What is there to know? Or’Talán kept his son from his soulmate. He broke their hearts. What was he, if not a monster?”
“You do not understand.”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“And why do you not want to understand? This journal explains it all but you—you just sneer at it and condemn its author. You prefer ignorance.”
“To acquire knowledge, you must first desire that knowledge—is that not so, Idernon?” It was not really a question, but the Wise Warrior nodded all the same. “And when your mother suffers the consequences of another’s decision, you suggest I should want to understand the elf that brought her that torment? Is that your suggestion?”
“It is your duty to understand, as his grandson.”
“It is my duty to hate him, as my mother’s son!” Fel’annár stood and leaned over the fire, his eyes aflame with rising anger. He felt Idernon standing beside him, one hand on his arm. He snatched it away.
“Call him a liar if you will,” said Pan’assár as he, too, stood to the challenge. “But he did not break his son’s heart, nor your mother’s. You have it wrong … we all did.”
“Now you will tell me he must have done it for a good cause. That he did it for his land, for the good of his people. Duteous king, sinful father.”
“For the love of Aria, I am telling you it is here, if you will just listen. If you still think he is a monster after then so be it. You and I will never be friends, but at least I will respect you for listening.”
Fel’annár had nothing to say to that, and so he watched as Pan’assár shuffled through the journal.
“There is much to be said before we get to this moment—things you can learn of if you so desire. But for now, know that your grandfather was just as good as you with his sketches.” Pan’assár circled the fire, stood in front of Fel’annár and held up the journal with both hands.
Wood hissed on the fire, flames flickering, bringing the image upon the parchment alive for a moment. There, before Fel’annár’s very eyes, was his mother. The colour of her hair, the vibrance of her slanted green eyes. The utter beauty of that face. It was the face he had once seen in his dreams, the face he himself had sketched in his own journal. But there were details in this rendering, and in those details, a new truth was revealed.
She wasn’t sad, didn’t grieve, and in her hair, a double-threaded braid, tied at the end by the Seven Wheels. They had bonded.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He could not look at her, could not abide the pain. And yet curiosity opened them, and he stared, allowed his eyes to truly search.
She was smiling, seemed exuberant, and she was, undoubtedly, standing in the presence of Or’Talán, allowing him to draw her.
He shook his head. Didn’t understand.
“You see what I mean, Fel’annár? See her expression, how he captured it. He not only met her; he knew her. He accepted their bond.”
“And then he ruined her life,” he whispered. “He knew they were inseparable.”
“No. He did none of that. He tried to help,” explained Gor’sadén as he came to stand beside Pan’assár. “As we read this journal, Fel’annár, the truth came to light. I once told you that if Or’Talán had forbidden his son to marry Lássira, there was a good reason for it. Now, we know what happened. All you need do, in your own words, is to desire that knowledge. Do you? Do you want to know why?”
Fel’annár had always been angry about what Or’Talán had done, and his anger was a sure sign that he cared. He caught Gor’sadén’s steady gaze, and then he nodded curtly. He would listen, at least, and then he would come to his own conclusions, Pan’assár be damned.
He sat back down and Pan’assár returned to his place at the fire, the journal sitting in his lap.
“So far, we have learned of how and why the two brothers became distant. And we know of Band’orán’s journey from loving brother to scheming would-be king. But what most concerns us now is that Band’orán demanded that his brother disallow the marriage of Thargodén and Lássira. Whether Band’orán knew that his nephew had already bonded, we do not know. Whichever is the case, Or’Talán didn’t understand, wouldn’t do it, but Band’orán threatened him. He told his brother that if he should allow their union, he would destroy her, kill her. With Lássira’s death, Thargodén would be all but dead himself. Or’Talán knew his son had already bonded. Yet, to the Alpines, he was still unwed. Or’Talán was left with two choices: forbid the union and give Band’orán what he wanted, or allow it and risk his unsettled brother persecuting her, killing her. He chose neither.”
“What do you mean?” asked Handir.
“He played Band’orán for a fool,” continued Pan’assár. “He told him he would forbid it. And then he went in search of Lássira and told her of his plan. He told her to trust him, that he would find a way to bring them together. He was aware that perhaps he would need to take drastic action against his brother, but he needed to do so carefully. Band’orán had his own following, a shared doctrine of racial hatred. He had to show his brother was guilty of conspiracy, to exile him to Valley and beyond.”
Handir was staring at Pan’assár as if he had gone mad. He turned to Fel’annár when he spoke.
“He told my mother, but not the king?”
“Band’orán is insightful, skilled to the extreme in reading others. Or’Talán knew his brother’s strengths, and so he told his son he could not marry Lássira. It was the only way to show Band’orán that he had agreed to his terms. But it was always in his mind to undo that wrong. It broke his heart, but he says it was just days later that he was called urgently into the field. We have yet to read the rest.”
“And then he died in battle,” murmured Fel’annár. “But why didn’t he tell Thargodén before he left? Why leave him in agony like that?”
“We do not know, Fel’annár. But should we read of it, do you want to know? Would you listen?”
He lifted his head, met Pan’assár’s gaze. It was no longer hard and challenging, but open and honest. Before he could answer, Handir spoke, and Fel’annár was grateful, wondered if he did it to help him. “I would hear it, Pan’assár.”
The commander bowed at the prince, glanced at Fel’annár, acknowledging his curt nod.
Pan’assár tucked the journal away, glad, at least, that Fel’annár had listened, that his anger seemed to have ebbed. He was stubborn, as much as he himself, but he couldn’t blame the boy. None of them had imagined what Or’Talán had planned, how that plan was fatefully interrupted by war. And then he wondered, apart from the Silvan people, who else had known that Lássira and Thargodén were bonded? Only now did Pan’assár truly understand why that first rent between their people had opened. It had started with the banning of Thargodén’s love for a Silvan woman, with the death of Or’Talán.