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penumbra: part one
corruption
“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”
The aimless chatter of the event rose up to the balcony where he leaned, boredom hidden behind a carved ivory mask. The ballroom could hold several hundred, leaving the room with an emptiness that rang true, the ninety-or-so dressed for a party that only few could attend. Lines across their faces and tracing down below collars pulled nothing but a grimace to his lips. His face burned underneath the mask, where lines once proclaimed him no better than them.
They danced and drank and ate and shouted praise for the mages who sat, always removed, watching but never joining. It twisted his stomach. It made his skin crawl, the way it was now turned on him too. He was one of them, and he hated every second of it. No longer could he find the intellectual joy of court intrigue. No longer was he simply Mythal’s shadow.
Near-silent footsteps approached him, one of the seven breaking away from the table behind him to lean against the railing. “Bored?” That melodious tenor that he knew too well gave little away, save for the quirk in his lips of a small smile. Fen’Harel tilted his head just enough to lance up at Falon’Din and give a quick roll of his eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked directly. Falon’Din gasped, affronted, and held a gloved hand to his chest. Fen’Harel raised an eyebrow but left his response otherwise silent. Falon’Din chuckled and leaned forwards, joining him in his people-watching.
“You are bored, aren’t you?”
“I have never enjoyed events such as these,” Fen’Harel said, returning to his game of tracing the lines of those who wore Elgar’nan’s vallaslin through the ballroom. They stood in a near-straight line, from the door to one of the windows. “Neither when I was down there, nor up here.”
“And yet you have always been here,” Falon’Din hummed. “Was it because Mythal insisted, or did you come with a different intention?”
“Are you asking if my presence at these events was because I intended to gather information about your family?” Fen’Harel turned to look at him properly, gray eyes piercing through the mask. “I needed no information to beat you at your temple.” Falon’Din scowled, rubbing at the thin scar on his neck where Fen’Harel’s sword had rested, his boot planted on his chest, when Fen’Harel had ordered him to call off his soldiers.
“You banned the use of magic.”
“You should know how to fight without magic,” Fen’Harel responded, “or did the years you spent attached to Dirthamen simply vanish from your memory?” He pushed himself back from the railing and sighed. This event had gone on far too long, and he had better things to do than sit around.
A glint of light through a window caught his eye, a flash of something brighter than magelight. If there was ever an excuse…
“There are matters that require my attention,” Fen’Harel said to the empty air next to him, striding towards the door to the open-air terrace. He picked up his pace to a jog and used a gust of wind as a step to throw himself into the open air over the railing, shifting into a hawk before he could plummet to the world below.
Behind him, Falon’Din watched, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “You’re staring,” Andruil said, tapping her nails against her lover’s arm. “Does the wolf interest you so much?”
“It’s because the wolf stepped on him,” Sylaise laughed further down the table, leaning forwards to speak around June. “How he likes that, our spirit-brother!”
“Were you not first enraptured with Ghil, too, when she first joined us?” Falon’Din asked. “Were Dirthamen here, he, too, would be watching the wolf.”
“For other reasons,” Andruil snorted. “But, you know, that brings up a good question. Where is Dirthamen?”
⎈
A shadow descended over him but Fen’Harel didn’t dare to look, instead diving suddenly. The shadow followed, materialising into a large kestrel next to him. Fen’Harel would have grimaced if he could.
I can all but hear your pouting. Mythal’s voice echoed in his mind.
You would be pouting too, if you had spent the last few hours with the company I have, Fen’Harel responded. Mythal laughed, swooping down to fly next to him. Dirthamen wasn’t there.
I set him on a puzzle.
That did indeed explain his absence. If one thing remained consistent over the centuries, it was Dirthamen’s need to pick apart every puzzle put in front of him, unravelling every tapestry until he could identify the origin of each thread. Fen’Harel would have smiled, but instead swooped down towards the roof of a house on an empty street. He shifted mere feet from the ground and landed with a light hop.
When he turned, Mythal stood beside him, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “There is something on your mind, my friend,” she said. Her eyes were a piercing silver-blue, a gaze he avoided meeting. “What has you so vexed?”
“Am I growing complacent?”
Fen’Harel folded his hands behind his back and faced out towards the city and, past that, the ever-expansive sea of clouds beneath them. “Complacent?” Mythal echoed. She took a step to stand by him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Together they looked out, down.
“I fear that I am growing like the rest,” Fen’Harel said. “Each day I see our people’s pain and do nothing to change the plight that they endure.”
“Patience, Pride,” she said. Her hand came to rest on his arm, a warm reminder of her guiding presence. “You cannot win a war against all of them.”
“Nor can I stand by and watch–” Fen’Harel cut himself off with an aborted noise of frustration and turned on his heel, pacing atop the blue-tinted roof.
“Patience,” Mythal said, calmly. Always calmly. Always soothing tempers. Fen’Harel swallowed a bitter laugh. “Here is neither the place nor the time.”
“Then when?” he snapped. “You tell me to control my temper, to wait for the right time and place, but tell me, when? When is the right time to stage my rebellion? No matter when, the Evanuris will protest and fight back. They abhor change, and change that strips their power from them will be change they fight against with all of their might.”
“People will die.”
“People will always die!” Fen’Harel yelled. His voice rang out against the cobblestone, an echoing cry. He stopped short of Mythal and glared at her. She met his gaze, always steady, and waited.
His expression softened, little by little, until he was sinking in on himself. Only then did she reach out and pull him close to her, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. “I am tired,” Fen’Harel said.
“I know,” Mythal murmured back. He closed his eyes and leaned his head into her touch. “The time will come. You must be patient.”
He had never been good at patience. Time passed as it always did, a mere afterthought to the changing of seasons on the ground. Battles waged, wars fought, slaves freed, and Fen’Harel waited. It would take but a word from Mythal and he would collect his forces.
But no word came.
Fen’Harel paced the stone floor of his fortress, bare feet against the cold stone. Outside the open doors to the balcony, a storm raged. Flurries of snowflakes spun, melting against the force of the barrier in the doorway. From the height of the room, there was almost nothing visible; no mountain peaks, not even the courtyard below.
Fen’Harel growled, spinning on his heel suddenly. The soldiers and newly-freed slaves scattered at the sight of him in the halls, his temper a well-known tempest. He followed a worn path, beneath the forge, down fourteen stairs, his toes feeling out the indent in the floor. He pressed the stone buttons in and stepped through the waiting Eluvian, the ripple of magic falling away to the gardens.
Unlike the mountains, it was warm in the gardens, humid with only a barely-there breeze. Blooming flowers and budding plants sang and danced in the wind and reached for his magic. Fen’Harel couldn’t deny the smile that tilted his lips upward. He brushed his fingertips against the straining petals and soothed them with a pulse of mana.
“How… quaint.”
Fen’Harel didn’t turn, even when the point of a dagger pressed to his back, and there was the warmth of another body close to his. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“You have been following me for some time now. I assumed you wished to speak,” Fen’Harel replied. The press of the dagger to his back lightened, and then pulled away. When he opened his eyes, Falon'Din stood in front of him, regarding him with a strange expression.
In the gleaming sunlight of the garden, it was easier to see the places where Falon'Din and Dirthamen differed. Falon'Din stood tall and proud in his black robes, not unlike the ones Fen’Harel himself wore. A high collar just barely covered the thin scar across his neck, and on days such as these, when it was only another god who saw him, Falon'Din made no effort to cover his face with one of his masks.
And were Fen’Harel honest with himself, he would admit that Falon'Din and Dirthamen shared their handsome looks. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, and thin lips that seemed to slant upwards with little effort; the twin Evanuris were handsome men. But what Dirthamen lacked was the pride in Falon'Din’s eyes. Dirthamen sequestered himself away, growing more isolated with each passing year. But Falon'Din stood among the people; he reveled with them, shared in victories and defeats.
There was little humility in Falon'Din’s eyes. And fight as he might have against the change, Fen’Harel had been Pride, before he had been anything else.
“Like what you see?” Falon'Din’s voice broke through Fen’Harel’s thoughts. He blinked and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “You are staring.” Falon'Din smiled at him, clasping his hands behind his back. It was less an approximation of Fen’Harel’s own stance and, instead, a quiet statement, a gesture of goodwill. He wished to speak, Fen’Harel reminded himself, and relaxed his own body with an acquiescing nod.
“You wished to speak?” he repeated.
“I did,” Falon'Din said, his tone clipped. The sudden change in demeanor startled Fen’Harel but he contained the surprise to the barest of pauses. He walked down the pathway and gestured to a gazebo, hidden. Falon'Din followed him and made an amused sound when Fen’Harel sat at a chess board and gestured for him to sit opposite. Only once he had sat did Fen’Harel move a pawn.
They played in silence for several minutes. Falon'Din’s expression changed slowly, from one of amusement to concentration. Fen’Harel hid a smile as he moved a tower. Their strategies were similar and, once Falon'Din turned his attention fully to the game, they were equally matched, ending the game locked in a draw.
“You have grown frustrated with Mythal.” Falon'Din broke the silence as Fen’Harel set up the board for another game. Fen’Harel raised gaze to meet Falon'Din’s eyes, his eyebrows raising as well. “You are not so subtle that we- I haven’t noticed. You were once attached to her side.”
“I was not titled ‘Evanuris’ then,” Fen’Harel said. Falon'Din smiled. He had dimples, Fen’Harel noticed, in both cheeks when he smiled. “I have been busy.”
“Considering trickery is your domain, you are terrible at lying.” Fen’Harel rolled his eyes and dropped several ivory pieces onto the board, the loud clattering interrupting their conversation. Falon'Din’s smile widened irregardless.
“Mythal and I have had our arguments. As I have had arguments with most people,” Fen’Harel said slowly.
“Come now, wolf. Most people are not ‘the best of us.’” Falon'Din raised his fingers in quotes before dropping his hands to his lap casually. “You cannot isolate yourself forever.”
“Should you not tell your brother that too?” Fen’Harel said under his breath. Falon'Din snorted. Perhaps he hadn’t spoken quietly enough.
“Dirthamen does join us, on occasion. He, like you, does not prefer the crowds. The people, who only sing our praises and simper like fools.” Falon'Din spread his hands. “We have meals together.”
“The Evanuris?”
“Some of us.” Falon'Din tilted his head and smiled once again. “You are welcome to join us.”
“Do not speak for the others,” Fen’Harel warned. Falon'Din laughed, a bright warm sound, and, though the pieces on his side of the board were black once again, he made the first move, starting their game anew.
“It was Sylaise who extended this invitation, in truth. I didn’t think you would want to attend. And I fear your presence will chase Dirthamen away from these.”
Fen’Harel grimaced. He missed him in the quietest of moments. His relationship with Dirthamen had never improved after he had told him the truth of Mythal’s order to share his bed. Their friendship had not been built on nothing, but the trust had been shattered, and Fen’Harel was not personable enough to figure out how to pick up the pieces. “Sylaise does not like me,” Fen’Harel said instead.
“She does not,” Falon’Din agreed, “but she loves June. And June was the newest of us not so long ago.”
“And Ghilan’nain more recently.”
“And Ghilan’nain more recently,” Falon'Din acquiesced. “And once you and Ghilan’nain were friends.” Fen’Harel’s eye twitched. “What changed?”
“She accepted a rank among the Evanuris,” Fen’Harel said. He was reminded, again, of his abrasive nature at the momentary rankling Falon'Din exhibited but was surprised when Falon'Din steadied himself and shook off whatever irritation lingered.
“You think so poorly of us.”
Fen’Harel frowned. “You have given me no reason not to,” he responded sharply.
“I have invited you to lunch, have I not?”
He couldn’t argue with that. “It was Sylaise who extended the invitation? Truly?”
“Why do you find it so hard to believe me?”
“Forgive the implication, but did I not beat you nearly to death not three years ago?”
Falon'Din laughed again, a proper laugh. Fen’Harel frowned again. Falon'Din closed his eyes when he laughed, and threw his head back. It shifted the braids in his hair, the golden rings making a pleasant sound as they knocked against one another.
“I hold no grudge against you, Fen’Harel,” Falon'Din said. “You beat me, fairly. I won’t deny you your victory.” He smiled still, a wicked thing that sang mischief from rooftops. “Perhaps, when my swordsmanship has improved, we might spar once again.”
Fen’Harel stared. There were no obvious signs of anger in Falon’Din, only that pleasant smile, like his near-death was a joke they shared only between them. A noise pulled him from his thoughts and he looked down at the chessboard, to where Falon’Din had trapped him. “Checkmate,” the man said cheerfully. “I hope to see you at lunch, dear wolf.”
⎈
It was not the clothes that brought him discomfort, but Fen’Harel still pulled at the tight sleeves and high neck of his robes like they would loosen along with the knots in his chest. Looking in the mirror, it was hard to see himself as the same man who had stood in Mythal’s court for centuries.
Black robes, lined with gold seams that almost resembled Mythal’s vallaslin, and his hair loose for once, Fen’Harel stared, and pulled again at his sleeve.
“You’ll ruin the robe if you keep doing that.”
Fen’Harel scowled at no one in particular and glanced to the side. One of his generals, one of the ones who had followed him directly from Mythal’s court, leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest and faint amusement written in stark lines across her face.
“Have you anything useful to add?” he snapped. He needn’t follow it up with an apologetic look; Tarasahl just laughed at him and shook her head.
“The Dread Wolf’s first romantic get-away,” she teased as a door opened and closed behind them.
“A romantic get-away? Our Wolf? Never.”
“Does no one knock?” Fen’Harel asked the empty air in front of him. Felassan tossed a stack of papers down onto his desk and leaned against it, smirk pulling at his lips. “What’s that?”
“Business you can take care of. After your romantic get-away. Who–”
“There is no romantic get-away!”
“–is it with anyways?”
Tarasahl snorted. “One of the Evanuris. He’s wearing fancy robes.”
“Definitely not Mythal. She likes him in green.”
“Mm, definitely not. And he’d throw himself off one of the outlooks if Elgar’nan asked him to lunch.”
“Most certainly. Which did he choose? The black robes? With the gold?”
“Mhm.”
“Almost certainly one of the tw–”
“Get out. Both of you.” Fen’Harel threw the door open with a flick of his wrist and pushed Tarasahl with the other hand. Felassan laughed and followed behind her. He paused only to brush down the front of Fen’Harel’s robes, fixing his belt.
“Very handsome. I’d bed you,” Felassan said.
“Go.”
Felassan’s laughter echoed down the hall as he left. Fen’Harel shut the door and bolted it, scowling again as he turned towards the mirror once more. Scowling, because if he did not, he would smile like a fool instead. The knots in his chest had loosened, fond exasperation taking over in waves. His impatience, irritation, soothed by the two who had always stood by his side, who knew that their rebellion, lying in wait, was not a betrayal of Mythal, but a promise to her.
Fen’Harel let out a slow breath and softened his expression. Little by little, until that practised neutral fell over his face once again. He turned and strode to the open balcony, to the section without railing, and walked off the side. In a burst of green magic, he transformed and flew away from his fortress.
Six Evanuris were already seated at the table when he stepped onto the balcony; a burst of green light and he was a man once more, striding with purpose into the room.
“Fen’Harel!” It was Falon’Din who spoke, sitting up straight at the sight of him. He had forgone his mask, handsome face with all of the emotions that flitted across it on display. Surprise, joy, warmth. It was the kindest welcome Fen’Harel had received… ever.
“Falon’Din,” Fen’Harel said carefully. He looked around the table, until his eyes fell on Sylaise, and he inclined his head to her. He couldn’t bring himself to thank her verbally for the invitation. Sylaise tilted her head in response, a small smile tugging the corners of her painted lips up.
“Come, Fen’Harel. Sit.” It was Andruil who spoke, gesturing to the only empty seat. The empty seat, next to Falon’Din, and across from Dirthamen. Fen’Harel didn’t allow his expression to change as he sank down into the seat and promptly looked anywhere but at Dirthamen.
It was rare to see the Evanuris without their masks. Since their ascension, they had removed themselves from the public. It was almost easy to forget they were related; Fen’Harel could see Mythal in Sylaise’s smile and Elgar’nan in Andruil’s eyes.
And they all bore the same intensity, sharp eyes and shrewd knowing looks that rarely left their expressions. Once he had thought it attractive on Dirthamen, that enigmatic insight he adorned like a piece of jewellery.
“We didn’t think you would join us.” Ghilan’nain that time. Fen’Harel turned to look at her, and found himself leaning to see her around Falon’Din. Was it intentional? What power play was this, seating him so? Ghilan’nain seemed to absently twirl a strand of her pale hair around her finger, staring, through Falon’Din, at him with her silver eyes.
“It was kind to extend an invitation,” Fen’Harel said. He said nothing else as Falon’Din served him food. Fen’Harel doubted they would fault him for checking for poison before eating.
He pretended not to see the slight smile on Dirthamen’s lips at the gesture.
“How could we not? It is endearing to watch Falon’Din stare.” Fen’Harel turned, startled, to look at Falon’Din. He was still, steady; he had the same tell as his twin, a twitch of their ears, when they were embarrassed.
“Besides. We so rarely get to talk to you without our father present,” Sylaise added. June had yet to say anything, not that Fen’Harel expected him to say much. June rarely spoke. He always seemed far away, in thought and glance. Fen’Harel was unsurprised to see a sketch on a cloth near June, drawn in sauce, machinations that June could not stop from working on even at a meal.
“Is there much to talk about?” Fen’Harel asked, and promptly took a bite of a roll to keep himself from speaking further.
“Of course there is. You are, after all, the newest named Evanuris, are you not?” Andruil pushed her chair back onto the back legs, keeping her balance only with her hand, rested on Ghilan’nain’s shoulder, and swirls of black magic.
“And what we know of you is only that you are Mother’s favourite,” Sylaise added. She glanced at Dirthamen and amended, “most of us, that is.”
He, too, looked at Dirthamen. For the first time in centuries, their eyes met. Fen’Harel almost drew back, at the warmth reflected back at him, a soft knowing in the gold watching him. Dirthamen, even hidden as he was under a hooded cloak, quirked a small smile and raised his fork to his mouth. The subsequent crunch of the vegetable between his teeth was loud enough to break a tension that had settled. Fen’Harel let out a shaky breath and looked away.
“What the hell happened between you two?” Andruil’s chair legs snapped to the ground and she leaned forwards, braids falling over her shoulder. Ghilan’nain swept them away from her plate with barely a gesture and arched an eyebrow. “Last we’d heard, Mother was all but planning a wedding, and then Dirthamen went and disappeared for decades and you,” she pointed at Fen’Harel, “you started picking fights.”
“In his defense, he was picking fights well before then.” Dirthamen spoke for the first time and Fen’Harel held back a shuddering breath. It seemed stupid to think Dirthamen would change so quickly, and yet he was still surprised by the depths of Dirthamen’s baritone, the melodious motion of his sentences, like waves lapping at the beaches they once walked at night.
“I don’t need your defense,” Fen’Harel said. Dirthamen raised an eyebrow at him and took another bite of a vegetable, something long and green and entirely unappealing to Fen’Harel.
“Very well,” Dirthamen said and gestured. “Have at him, sisters.”
“How about you don’t?” The third surprise of the day. Falon’Din glared, first at Dirthamen, and then at Andruil. “You invited him to lunch, and then you interrogate him when he actually comes?”
“We only invited him because you insisted on it,” Sylaise drawled. Fen’Harel froze. His head turned slowly, fixing his eyes on Falon’Din. Falon’Din’s eyes turned on her, his jaw tense and eyes blazing, and as he opened his mouth to argue, Sylaise cut him off. “But perhaps Andruil has, ah, been hasty in her interrogation.”
“I’ve done no such–”
“Mythal ordered me to his bed.” Six pairs of eyes turned to him at once. Incredulity, shock, anger; it faded away until it was a blur. Fen’Harel took a slow breath and placed his palms on the table. It was not his fault, he reminded himself, and he held no orders now.
“She did what?” Falon’Din found his voice first, the anger no less faded than before.
“That is a new low, even for her,” Sylaise breathed.
“I told you,” Dirthamen grumbled, “she has grown increasingly desperate to control us.”
“She’s scared,” Ghilan’nain said. She wasn’t watching him; her eyes were instead on Andruil. Her love, the huntress, still silent. Until she wasn’t.
“Did she order you to my bed?” Andruil demanded, turning. Her hand moved, seemingly of its own accord, towards the dagger on her belt. Ghilan’nain paled and shook her head vehemently.
“No. No, she did not. I had no contact with your mother before– other than–” They turned in unison to look at Fen’Harel. He winced. Ghilan’nain raised her hand to her mouth, though it did little to muffle the curse. “You– You were only my friend, on orders from Mythal?”
“June?” Sylaise whispered.
“No,” he replied gruffly. “She has only made requests.”
“She could not order you the way she ordered the wolf. You did not wear her brands,” Dirthamen said dryly. Fen’Harel winced again and looked away.
“You!” Andruil lunged. Falon’Din knocked her back, a shield materialising on his arm. He kicked his own chair back, out of the way. Fen’Harel’s eyes darted between them. There was danger, here. There was danger, everywhere.
People will die.
He shook his head. No. He held no orders now; he was free.
Patience, Pride.
Fen’Harel closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He held no orders.
You cannot win a war against all of them.
He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He was clever, but they held more power as a group.
People will die.
People would always die. No matter what, there was no perfect solution. How dare she ask him to wait until she could find one?
The time will come. You must be patient.
He could be patient no longer.
“Solas?” Falon’Din’s voice, hesitant.
He almost cried at the sound of his name.
Instead, he opened his eyes and steadily met the six pairs of eyes staring at him with mixtures of anger and confusion. “Mythal has hold over me no more, and I do not do her bidding,” he said firmly. “I am an Evanuris.”