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He is drawn to the courtyard by the sound of laughter. It is deep and strong, a little wicked curl at the end like a challenge, and he knows who it belongs to by the way it dances across his skin. A year after his ascension, everything is still strange to him. He feels colors and smells voices, tastes memories and emotions on his tongue. He can hear the collective soul of the Elvhen and finds himself singing the tune in quiet hums.
When he enters, he finds Andruil draped across a settee, the long strands of her wild hair spilling like molten fire against the pale pillows and throws beneath her. For once she has left most of her armor behind and wears only a silver chest piece atop a green dress. Even soft, she is terrifyingly beautiful and he finds himself frozen as she stares at him through the floating bubbles of her drink.
“Ah look, the pup has come to join us.”
At that he finally notices the others present. Falon’Din sits straight, wrapped in black and red cloth darker than blood, metals of prestige collected atop his shoulders and piercing the eye when he moves. He regards Fen’Harel with stoic disinterest and perhaps a little dislike. It is hard to look upon him for too long with the ragged scar cutting through the side of his face.
Sylaise rests on the arm of his chair, blue eyes annoyed, and Fen’Harel is certain he has only added a part to it by the away Falon’Din grips tight to the fabric beneath his hands.
Fen’Harel gives them all a small bow. “I heard the most curious noise just now. It sounded almost like laughter.”
“If you can believe it, Falon’Din made quite the joke,” Andruil replies and the other god frowns even more. “He suggested that he is better suited for leading our next attack, that his great military prowess far surpasses my abilities. I do believe he called them limited.”
“How generous of him.”
Falon’Din shoots from his seat. “And what would you know of war, Dread Wolf?”
Fen’Harel steps to meet him. “You seem to be forgetting it was I who stormed through the very doors of this palace not long ago.”
“That was not war. You used trickery and underhanded tactics, the mark of any coward. In a fair fight across a true battlefield you would have failed. There is nothing glorious to be found in such foul methods.”
“Except victory.”
“Was there victory for the hundreds of Elvhen slaughtered for your ideals? In the end their deaths meant little but to fuel your own ambition. There is more to victory than merely winning. Maybe your rebellion would have succeeded if you were wise enough to understand such a thing.”
The young wolf growls low, feeding his anger instead of the gnawing guilt at the reality of Falon’Din’s words. “I have learned much since then. Perhaps you would like to test my worth now?”
Andruil slithers up beside them with hunger in her eyes. He can feel the heat of her power licking against his own, adding fuel to fire of his rage. He can see the blaze of it growing in Falon’Din’s eyes as well.
A cool gust of calm washes over them as Sylaise approaches and runs fingers down Falon’Din’s uniform. “This posturing is utterly futile. It is Mythal’s will that sees Andruil lead tomorrow. There will be no relinquishing roles unless she commands it so. We all know this.”
A moment passes as the power of four gods mingles together before Falon’Din moves back and breaks the silent battle brewing between them. He takes Sylaise’s arm but pauses at Fen’Harel’s side before departing. “You would do well to consider my words, Wolf, and to take care whose company you linger in.”
When they’ve gone, Andruil plops back into her place with a disappointed grunt. “She’s always been such a spoil sport. Come and drink with me, Fen’Harel. I know you to be better company than those two. More entertaining, at the very least.”
He sits by her feet and takes the glass from her hand, eyes and thoughts still focused on the retreating forms of the gods of war and hearth. The crisp sound of glasses clinking together draws his attention back to Andruil. “To victory,” she says.
The cool liquid bursts in his mouth as he brings it to his lips, sweet and strong and singing of something he can’t quite understand yet, but it does not taste like victory much at all.