[Guild Storyline]: The One True King

[Lady Sunwhisper]

Peering down in the dark, the woman clutching the lantern narrowed her eyes. She did not seek to peer further into the vast maw that stretched the undercroft crypt for miles beneath the church and city, but to look upon the gaunt and now hollowed out face of one who had been buried here no less than a cycle ago. Such were his deeds -- this emaciated corpse -- that only his surname was now legible; no date, no well-wishes to send him off. The top of the casket had been pulled away gently, if only to expose the gift within. The orange glow of the lantern filed across the white of the ruffle-neck they had allowed to remain on the body; the neckline still stained a deep, ruddy crimson from where his head had been liberated from his shoulders. A clean cut. Nothing to suggest there was even a moment of pain when the blade struck. 

“Fool,” she hissed in her malcontent; her face twisting unnaturally in the half-darkness. 

The man with her had not spoken a word. Whether this was out of fear of reprisal or simply having nothing of substance to add, he now dared to cross that frozen line with her and cut his voice low out of respect for the sleeping dead. “I take it you’ve changed your mind about bringing him back?” The question came off as more of a response to whatever thoughts she had looming between them and this corpse. 

She considered snapping at him with venomous fangs bared to silence any further quips he thought to add, but unlike her predecessor now lying cold in the ground, she would not treat her son with such wretched disdain. He was not her enemy. He was her golden idol. “No, my son,” she replied in a maternal coo, “I will not raise him as I thought. He was foolish enough to allow himself to be caught so easily by those of… lesser stock.” 

The man curled his lips at the term ‘lesser stock.’ Like his mother, he had no quarrel outwardly with anyone, though internally, he struggled often enough to reconcile that he was living among not just muddied breeds of his kin, but those who had such diluted elf in their bloodline that they would treat it as if they shared the same level of equality as those of full blood. With as much apathy as anyone could muster --  perhaps moreso -- the woman lift her lantern up and began the long walk back to the sewer system that led up to the chapel floor just behind the pulpit. In the same catacomb, they passed another set of burial cells much like those further in. The difference was that these cells were given more thought and the metal pieces that adorned them were done with great care. 

The man stopped to brush his fingers along the name: Dariel Sunstriker. 

“I never understood why he displeased his father so much.” The man crooned, attempting to match his mother’s disinterest in the Sunstriker family now that they had been properly disposed of. His mother stopped short, once more raising her lantern so that the glow of the magical flame dancing haphazardly around a bed of oil could illuminate her features. Elves did not age as their human counterparts, and often carried less wisdom than their Draenei ones. In this light, all of the age of years and millennia showed on her face, giving the shadows that rested there a reason to remain long after the light had been snuffed out. The man recoiled, only slightly, at just how severe his mother could look in such a way. 

“Because,” she began, reaching out for her son as a crone, and using him to walk her the remainder of the way, “he did not care about our people. He, like your wretched cousin, only cared about peace. Bah. Peace is a lie. Peace will always be a lie.”

The man didn’t inquire further on the short sermon. In his many years with her, he had come to accept that she had a manner in which she explained all things; whether he truly understood her unique euphemisms or not, he never exposed it. At this stage in his life, he had reconciled that there were things she understood that he never could, and so there was always a constant need for her in some way. Sometimes this need for her bordered on the strange, but it was simply his way of keeping close the one person who had guided him -- a crutch of his own. 

 

***

 

Daylight had broken, but even Emiline Duskfeather found the source of the sun on this day to be an annoyance. Of course, not in the length of her lifetime, would she tell anyone that she hissed at the sun as it filtered through her window and pulled the covers over her head. There was no malice toward the sun, no. What kind of high elf would she be that she hated the sun. The timing was just all wrong. She had only managed to slip into her bed two hours prior and having the sun remind her that it was a new day and she had a new list of expectations waiting for her was not the kind of greeting she had wanted. A cloudy, gray, dreary day might have been welcoming for once. 

No one had come to knock on her door to rouse her, so she figured if she covered her head and allowed herself a few more minutes of blissful rest, she might get away-- 

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Emiline?” A meek voice asked from behind the thick wooden door. Perhaps the little woman on the other side had not knocked as loudly as she had heard, but Emiline was struggling with lack of sleep to truly care about the volume other people could hear. 

“Come in! Not so loud--” she groaned, pushing her head further beneath her pillows. The woman who entered was a petite sort; a collection of knees-and-elbows girl with not much going for her save for a very long, slender neck and a head full of tawny hair. As she shuffled her way in, she closed the door as gently as she could manage with its predetermined weight. A string of apologies filed on her tongue just in case Emiline made any movements that needed apologizing for. 

“I am sorry for disturbing you,” the apologies began, “I really tru--”

“Just be out with it!” Emiline commanded from the sanctuary of her head perfectly stuffed beneath her pillows. The girl was a meek sort, but not the kind that would jump at her own shadow. There was a brief look of hesitation on the girl’s face as she questioned whether to continue with the morning report or come back at a later time. Emiline might have been more forgiving if the girl had returned some time before lunch, but then she would have had a new set of issues to contend with. 

“Agent Lukeberry returned from his rounds to report that the woman you have been following, Duskhollow, was seen out and about last night with a younger man whose name we do not know, yet. Unless ‘honey’ is his name…” She trailed off, smiling a bit in hopes that the barb would be taken jokingly and ease the tension in the room. 

Emiline shot straight up. Although the girl was clearly at ease with what she had said, the jolt did make her take a measured step back to watch Emiline writhe with the information. The night previous had been something of a waste of information for her as she scoured through endless books and documents trying to find something on the Duskhollow family and why many of their members seemed entirely familiar to her. Going further back, Emiline recalled the face of the red-haired woman at the meet-and-greet banquet that the Queen had graciously hosted. The woman was reserved, but polite as anyone with a strained smile could possibly be. When the master of ceremonies poked his chubby head out of the doorway to announce that dinner would be served soon, Emiline watched as the woman silently excused herself. 

In any other situation, Emiline might have been satisfied to have one of her newer agents trail the woman back to her house just to ensure the woman was not up to anything illegal and that she got home safely. It was standard procedure for those who left parties early to be trailed and examined. This night, though, was far different if only because the woman’s face was coquettishly concealed by the style of her bob. What part of her face was made visible seemed inexcusably familiar to her, and she could only surmise that her presence was taken much the same way as the woman locked eyes on her for only a brief moment and the color drained from her face. If she had meant to keep her purpose there a secret, she had done an awful job of hiding herself from Emiline. Just after their eyes met, the woman scurried off to another part of the castle to find her exit. 

Emiline had gone to follow the woman, against her better judgement in leaving Rennali to the protection of her newer agents. As she followed the woman, she noticed how rigidly she walked in a vain attempt to pretend she didn’t know someone was following her. To Emiline’s surprise, the woman fled to a cottage just outside Bellflower, which was only just recently become demilitarized. Once the woman entered her home, Emiline sat in a nearby tree to watch the woman’s next move. It wasn’t terribly unusual for Emiline to take such precautions when something tugged at her like this, but something about this felt wrong to her -- as though the woman was having Emiline trailed simultaneously. The feeling didn’t leave, even as day broke the next morning and nothing unusual had happened through the night. 

Against agent protocol, Emiline could not shake the sensation she knew the woman in some capacity and so she spent her time going through the archives of the Chancellery to find any census that would place someone in that cottage near that city. The only person she felt she could trust to tail the woman was an older gentleman who had come into her employ after retiring from SI:7, but without the will to continue retirement. Alfred Lukeberry was a salt-and-pepper man with a tall, six-foot build and slate-gray eyes to match. If he had long ears, he might have been easily mistaken for elf kind… when he shaved. All he was tasked with was following the woman and reporting back any activity. As Emiline looked upon the girl reporting for him, she began to question if perhaps Lukeberry shouldn’t be truly retired. 

“So, he got nothing.” Emiline growled in her sleep deprivation. 

“Not nothing,” the girl corrected her, hoping somehow she could persuade Emiline to see differently. “Agent Lukeberry found that this man she was with is somehow connected to her. Maybe we can find more about him?” 

Emiline pulled herself toward the end of the bed. When she had come to bed, she hadn’t even taken off her leathers, and eve now there was no reason to remove them. The girl eyed her superior over with a hint of concern dragging along the soft flesh of her eyes. 

Emiline looked up, noticing the girl’s reaction. “I will sleep when this stops pestering me,” she replied in anticipation of what the girl was going to say. “Stop worrying about me.” 

The girl had opened her mouth to say something about the ineffectiveness of telling someone not to worry about them, but as she drew in breath, she elected to take it less as an order and more as a request for the time being. The moment Emiline looked up, she had already mentally prepared to hear some speech about it, but was pleasantly surprised that the younger agent had taken a different road and stood there waiting for a set of orders she could follow better. 

“Did Lukeberry, by chance, happen to say where they went last night?” Emiline asked, before the thought of dismissing the girl became too eager. 

“Yes,” the girl said, drawing her eyes skyward, “something about a late-night stroll to the chapel.” 

"The chapel?” Emiline echoed. 

Like most chapels, they had a closing time when all of the clergymembers would shuffle off either to the annex for the evening or to the monastery where they lived, depending. For the most part, the clergymembers were relatively alright with keeping the doors of their churches unlocked so that those who wished to could find solace in the church even after hours. Most often they had curators or caretakers who would be up through the night to ensure that hooligans or bandits didn’t make off with the more valuable items left within the church. Emiline’s eyes drew toward the girl and stared at her as she cultivated the thoughts brewing in her head. 

“Who is the caretaker for that chapel?” Emiline asked, continuing to search the girl for any shadow of doubt. 

“Harland Rhys, I believe,” the girl replied, tossing her shoulders up. “I haven’t been back home in some time, so I am not sure if he retired it to his son yet or not.” 

“You are from Bellflower?” Emiline asked. 

The girl gave a nod. “Harland Rhys was a friend in his younger days. When my family decided to make the move here, he did much the same. I suppose he thought he and I--” She stopped there, giving a blush, of which Emiline appeared to be unphased by. 

“Right, well, you know how to get into contact with this Mister Rhys?” Emiline asked, planting her boots now firmly on the floor. 

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Emiline smiled genuinely for the first time since their conversation began, “I want to speak with him as soon as possible.” 

[Lady Sunwhisper]

The tragedy of Bellflower was how much like its name it no longer resembled. When Lord sunstriker had reached the zenith of his power and influence, he had used it to assemble his mercenaries at the foot of the Olympus he had sought to create. In its day, Bellflower had been little more than a village of farmers and tradesmen who began to cultivate a culture based primarily around providing for a commonwealth. There had been nothing too ornate about the collection of cottages outside of their structure of ivory and white-washed walls with blue dome roofs, giving a circular nature to the center of the town. With how the homes and businesses were situated, it made a spiral that pulled people inwardly to the center where a large indoor bazaar was housed. With only a stretched dome roof, most of the bazaar was open-air where merchants could set up day pavilions where they chose and could sell anything from market-fresh vegetables to dried and cured meats to silks and spices. Over the years, Bellflower had amassed a generous wealth which was often used to provide for those who wished to settle in and make it a permanent home. When Lord Sunstriker came in to establish his foothold, he manipulated the government of Bellflower to use their wealth to buy munitions and build a high, metal wall around the village. By the time anyone got to it, the city had been fortified, and many of its people either driven out and forced to leave their belongings or remained in the city and afraid. 

The military of the Phoenix Queen had been able to liberate much of the city, although some of its choices in decimating the wall had very strong negative effects on the people. The queen had made a note to visit Bellflower to see the damage for herself, but such was the loss of life that it was almost too much for her to bear, and even in her speech of being willing to provide from the royal coffers to ensure they could rebuild -- it didn’t seem quite enough. Bellflower was now a shadow of its former self, standing in the gray light of dusk. To the east of the city, much of the wall that had kept everyone outside of it still remained, almost in defiance of what little rebuilding they had managed to accomplish. It was difficult to rebuild when so many had lost their valuables and traders no longer felt safe in a place that was so easily persuaded to treat their people egregiously. 

Emiline and Dorkus, the young girl who had mentioned knowing Harland Rhys, made their way to Bellflower in under two days by horseback. Both of them would have infinitely prefered a quicker portal, but no magus was available to try and scry a position near Bellflower that would have been suitable. Without a proper mage to do the job, they took the horses from the livery and made their way east and away from the comforts of the main castle. 

“Speaking from earlier,” Emiline said as she turned to her riding companion; the girl with the tawny hair and long neck, “I take it you know Curator Rhys fairly intimately.”

“I know him well enough.” Dorkus replied. 

Emiline believed as much of that as she believed in the sudden apathy in her tone. Dorkus had thought to keep her personal affairs out of the conversation, if anything said earlier had meant much at all. Now, as they approached Bellflower, Emiline seemed very interested in just how deep the relationship with them had gone. To anyone else, this might have been an opening to dig as deeply as one could reasonably expect to go, but for Emiline, this was an opening to something that had been plaguing her now for days. 

“How well? Do you think he will receive us?” Emiline asked, her eyes narrowing on the speck in the wooded distance that was the remnants of Bellflower. Dorkus shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

“He might.” She replied with nothing more said. 

There had been little time to inquire further as to Dorkus’ cryptic meaning, and with the village now coming into clear view, Emiline thought little else of it. This was not a social call nor one to expect Dorkus to entertain an old flame, but to get answers. As they trotted into the village, Emiline could see the cottage from her peripherals. They were just on the outskirts of the town near the rickety inn she had first encountered the small group who would help her dispatch Lord Sunstriker. From the inn to the cottage was perhaps no less several hundred yards. If nothing else, Emiline committed this to memory. 

The ramshackle inn and tavern -- aptly named the ‘Sleepy Hollow’ -- was just as run-down as Emiline remembered it a year ago. The interior was nearly falling apart, and that was complementary to how the foundation looked, or the patrons. The wooden walls were warped and slightly singed from the battle and from time; the floorboards weak enough to begin to give way and creak ominously even as someone as light as Dorkus took steps. One might have mistaken her for some heavy-set warrior with how her boots thudded loudly when she took each cautious step. A moldy-scented musk was the first thing to invade them both with a sensory overload. There were no cobwebs to speak of, and for the most part the lighting managed to keep tabs on even the darkest corners of the room, but it did little to enrich the patrons into not hovering like prisoners over their drinks. The tavernkeeper had changed over the course of a year; his graying beard was now stark white and his eyes that had once burned a bright green from the fire of revolution were now dulled and heavy-lidded as he wiped the same area down as he had just moments ago. It was the same blackened scorch mark that had been there when she first arrived. 

“Hello,” Emiline spoke up to grab his attention. At first, he entertained the notion of not having heard her, as he no longer recognized her any more than he recognized himself. However, when Dorkus came into the light, he regarded her with something of a passable smile. 

“Aah, my Lady Fingrip!” He announced with mustered pleasure. “And--” He paused just long enough to look up and peer at Emiline. When the ghosts of his past caught up with him, his smile crackled a bit through strained lips. “Lady Verdantarrow.” 

Emiline simply nodded. 

“What can this old wretch do for you young ladies? I am sorry to say that we only have one vacancy, but I am sure Lady Verdantarrow will not mind. It is her old room.” The tavernkeep spoke primarily to Dorkus, but his words were not lost on Emiline. To this, Emiline elected to step in and grab the tavernkeep’s attention one last time. 

“We haven’t need of a room tonight. We are staying in the chapel. Tell me, is Curator Rhys available?” Emiline posed the question, watching the man’s facial expressions as he replied. 

“If you mean old Harland, he should be up at the chapel. When you see him, you tell him Ryan says he needs to retire and let Magnus take over. The man can barely see anymore.” The tavernkeep said, nodding his head in absolute declaration. Emiline smiled candidly, and tapped the bar twice as a means of agreement. As Emiline turned to exit the tavern, she noticed the quizzical expression stamped on Dorkus’ face. 

“You’re concerned?” Emiline asked, opening the door for Dorkus to exit first. 

“Somewhat.” She admitted, partially. 

“We aren’t here to heckle your boyfriend.” Emiline said rather bluntly, which caught Dorkus by surprise. Though she recalled her initial reaction to talking about Harland, she hadn’t figured Emiline to be the type to use it as a barb. Unwilling to question the veracity of Emiline’s claim, Dorkus decided to make her sentiments very known. 

“He isn’t my boyfriend and never was.” 

Emiline stopped, but did not turn around to regard Dorkus with anything direct. “My apologies.” 

 

***

 

The pair stalked off toward the chapel that rest on one of the arms of the spiral that languished outwardly to the west. Unlike most of the buildings in the city, the chapel had been refurbished and completely rebuilt. The paint on the front wooden panels was fresh enough that even from a distance, it could be smelled among the burning of incense and the distinct scent of warm supper. Through the bright, white light of the candles and lanterns inside, shadows moved across the walls as several individuals seemed to be sweeping and preparing for something. When Emiline stepped up toward the two open front doors, an elderly human man was the first to drop his broom and open his arms. With the smile he bore, it was never any wonder why he felt the need to widen his arms out like he did; Emiline was convinced he needed that much space to carry the weight of his joy at outsiders being present. 

“Come! Come!” He beckoned them gleefully. “You are most welcome here, strangers!”

“Strangers?” Dorkus chimed in with a laugh, “We are not strangers, Harland. It’s me.” 

Perhaps it was the insinuation that a near-blind man could tell who ‘me’ was purely by a voice he had likely not heard in years or the fact that he seemed to be able to do just that, Emiline found herself snickering just under her breath. Harland had completely disregarded the sound, instead making heavy, lumbering footsteps toward Dorkus as though the weight of his glee was now a physical barrier preventing him from rushing at her like he wished. 

“Dorkus?” He asked in disbelief. “I… I didn’t think you would come back. Not after--” He paused, his footsteps stopping abruptly. The young man behind him watched with no painted expression on his face, as though watching the old man work his way toward the little elf was of no consequence on him or his plans. The moment he stopped, both the young man and Dorkus exchanged glances that spoke volumes of the interaction they both had. The young man furrowed his brow in a darkened, accusatory way whereas she looked almost burdened with guilt. 

“Never mind that. You are my friend, Harland, and I am only upset that I have not come to see you and your beautiful chapel sooner. I got your letter that they sent you fifty gold sovereign to rebuild it. You used the money well.” Dorkus continued on, dismissing whatever ghosts of the past Harland had been clinging to. Emiline looked back to the young man to examine his reaction, to which he seemed satisfied that the subject was not breached and his father was still pleasant as ever. 

“I was about to ring the evening bell.” Harland announced proudly. 

“We feed some of the homeless that still reside in Bellflower.” The young man chimed in behind Harland. It was only when his voice filtered into the conversation that Harland turned around with an open palm.

“Dorkus, this is little Magnus,” Harland presented the young man with as much pride as any father could boast. Although he could not see the silent interaction between the pair of them, Emiline could review it as clearly as anything else she had seen between two people with a mutual distrust for one another -- even if this distrust was purely one-sided. Suddenly, it dawned on Emiline what Dorkus had meant when she figured only he - Harland - would receive them well. By this time, Emiline had figured that even if Magnus and Dorkus had a history that was painted in shades of red or gray, it would not hinder what she was looking for, or rather, hoped that it didn’t. 

“I remember him,” Dorkus spoke with a false smile. 

“Magnus, you remember me telling you all about Dorkus, yes?” Harland asked, nearly begging for Magnus to say no just so he would have a reason to lavish praise on the woman like some treasure returned to him before his terminal breath. 

“Yes, father,” Magnus spoke softly, being careful not to completely decimate his father’s hopes. 

“I am sorry to interrupt this reunion, but I have some questions for you, Curator Rhys.” Emiline had a talent for being able to cut through anything with a knife: fruit, meat, people and conversations. Rather than allowing a bite to assume the position of her inquiry, she allowed a bit of silence to linger between her announcement and her inquisition. 

Dorkus quickly looked to Emiline, now realizing suddenly she was still there and they both had a purpose. Apologies and reminiscing would have to happen much later. “Yes, right,” Dorkus laughed in spite of herself, “Harland, this is Agent Duskfeather. She came with me to inquire about someone who you might have had contact with recently.” 

Harland’s demeanor changed so dramatically that even Emiline was a little taken aback by it. Harland quickly lowered his arms down and took up the broom he had been so eager to remove from his person if only to greet wayward souls. Magnus, equally as stunned by his father’s change, took a step back to reassess what was going on and what person that could have met him recently would put a damper on the reunion his father had been so merry about. Dorkus and Emiline exchanged glances this time, both of them questioning the other if something had been said that was amiss. 

“Harland?” Dorkus asked, slowly taking one step forward and into the chapel. 

“I am sorry, Dorkus,” he mused with a sigh, “I don’t think I can help you. I don’t see as well as I used to, and I haven’t been here all that often. Magnus takes care of most things for me these days. I am usually at home with Barbara now that she is ill. Magnus still lets me set up for our weekly suppers, though. You and your--” he hesitated a moment to search for a proper word. When none could be found that suited what he supposed Emiline to be, he went with the more polite response -- “your friend are welcome to join us. It isn’t much.” 

Dorkus glanced to Emiline, this time in search of a proper response. 

“We can stay. For supper. We have a room at the inn.” Emiline lied, smiling casually to Magnus and then to Harland who was staring attentively at the floor in front of him. Dorkus had thought about correcting Emiline, as they hadn’t secured a room or anything of that sort -- in fact, she remembered Emiline telling the tavernkeeper they were staying at the chapel for the night. The moment Dorkus drew in air, Emiline cast a quick, and decisive glare to the woman. It was only at the sensation of ice being trailed up her spine that Dorkus insisted upon herself to say nothing. Ever. 

With the conversation steadily becoming non-existent, Emiline -- for once -- was pleased that a throng of people had begun to flock to the chapel. With Magnus and Harland busy tending to the hungry and destitute, it gave Emiline and Dorkus plenty of time to sit, wait and discuss a plan. Although they were ushered to sit near the front where they could see Magnus and Harland up close, Emiline politely declined and took herself and Dorkus toward the back where they could keep tabs on everyone. The chapel’s interior was no bigger than a one-room flat, but with the pews shuffled away, small tables and some overused chairs were put in such a way where more people could sit and comfortably eat. Emiline figured the maximum capacity with the pews was roughly forty-eight people, if they were allowed to stand against the walls, and tonight it appeared they were housing at least sixty-three with only a few people standing against the walls. The whole room was one large breadbox with waxed and shined floors, a pulpit at the most northern point and a high, vaulted ceiling with a narrow attic space just above the pulpit. The attic was not large enough to house anything of use except perhaps a few boxes of leaflets and some small decorations for the holidays, which meant that the chapel had a space beneath it. 

“Emiline?” Dorkus spoke up with a spoonful of meat-and-potato slosh in her mouth. “Why do you think Harland started acting strange? I’ve never seen him react that way before.” 

Emiline looked up, naturally, but only out of annoyance as she was shaken from her thoughts. “I’m not sure. He could very well be hiding something. We hadn’t even mentioned who it was he might have met, so I believe he knows who we might be looking for.” 

“Do you think she threatened him? You know, with Barbara being ill?” 

Dorkus seemed far more concerned than Emiline had originally tagged her to be. This only fueled Emiline’s need to quiz the young girl on just what had transpired before she became an agent-scribe. Emiline leaned in propping one elbow up on the table to curl around her half-eaten bowl. “What exactly happened between you and Harland? I noticed Magnus giving you quite the stink-eye when we arrived.” 

“You noticed it, too?” Dorkus asked sheepishly. 

“I would have to have been dead not to notice it.”

Dorkus steeled herself for the inevitable. Before Emiline could begin her line of questioning, Dorkus took a much larger bite of the sloshy stew. There was nothing particularly appetizing about it: left over cured meats and dried vegetables steeped in some kind of bland broth, but Dorkus seemed content to use it as a crutch to be as evasive in her responses as possible. “Harland and I were very close when he was growing up. We were as close as two people could be without… you know…” 

“Being intimate?” Emiline asked, allowing herself the fortune of her lips curling into a smile. 

“Yes, that.” Dorkus replied briskly. “In any case, Harland and I came here together when his parents died and my family didn’t want to leave him to nothing. My father figured one day we would grow up and get married. Despite all things, he was actually okay with it. He respected Harland.” 

Emiline scooped up a spoonful herself, deigning to at least try the slop. “So what happened?”

“Life.” Dorkus replied shortly. 

To this, Emiline tilt her head off to one side to study the tawny-haired she-elf. No more than perhaps five or six feet high and a few stones worth in weight, she did not seem to have any of the advantages of a woman who would find herself in the throes of passion, nor did she have the personality of one who would enjoy that level of company. 

“Life?” Emiline echoed in question. “Whose life? Yours or his?”

“I got scared the day of the wedding and I ran. I ran as far as I could go and I didn’t look back. When I finally did feel the need to write him, he wrote back and told me he was married and expecting his first son - Magnus.” Dorkus revealed. It was only after she mentioned that part -- as quickly as her mouth and voice would allow her -- that Emiline swallowed the lump in her throat with another bite of the awful bits of broth coagulation. Dorkus could see the look on Emiline’s face, even if she didn’t dare look up to confirm it. 

“You know,” Emiline began as she swallowed, roughly, “you’re not the first person to make a mistake like that and regret it later. Some lives are series of regretful decisions.” 

Dorkus paused herself to watch Emiline. She knew the elder agent was right across the table, but for the moment, she felt as if she were speaking to someone leagues away from her. “You?” Dorkus asked. 

Emiline nodded. 

“So the thing about you and Lord Sunstriker--” 

“His son, actually,” Emiline corrected her with a becoming smile. “At the time, when my family was being held against their will, Dariel had come to me and proposed that if he helped me dispatch his father he would see me made an honest woman if for the child I was carrying.” 

Dorkus could only sit stunned. Rumor had floated around for some time about the reasoning that Lord Sunstriker had to ensure the lineage of his offspring, but never had it settled with anyone that he would have taken Emiline’s innocence so callously. Up to this point, Emiline hadn’t spoken of it with anyone -- not even the queen during one of their many private sessions together to discuss the future of Liambridge. Even now, as the topic was breached, Emiline’s face didn’t shift or break the otherwise seamless nature she was displaying to Dorkus. 

“Wh-what happened?” Dorkus continued, now entirely sunken to the story. 

“Just what you and others know. Roanae discovered his son’s betrayal and immediately killed him. We sent our best men and women out to end that bastard’s life, and they did.” Emiline appeared only too proud of the words she spoke, but as Dorkus continued to stare at her, she knew precisely the question the young girl wanted to ask. Emiline cleared her throat. “That is a story for another time.” 

Dorkus let out a soft groan. 

[Lady Sunwhisper]

Supper had been nothing remarkable or noteworthy aside from Harland’s sudden change in demeanor. Before everyone had piled in, he had appeared entirely unwilling to cooperate, which was far from what Emiline had wanted. Somewhere between the fourth or fifth helping of the meat slosh, Dorkus had brought up the inquiry on why they had mentioned staying in two places that neither of them intended to stay at, though it was met with a dismissive wave when Emiline elected to pay close attention to something innocuous Magnus or Harland were doing. After the second time asking and finding her inquiry brushed off, Dorkus was satisfied to level her attentions back on Harland for entirely different reasons. 

Harland was so much more frail than she had imagined him being, but Dorkus blamed that entirely on the poor memories of elves. For so long, she had clung to this memory of him being a strapping lumberjack with long, flowing hair -- but as she looked upon a man who could have been easily mistaken as a cathedral hunchback bell-ringer -- she realized that they were just fantasies she cooked up in her head as a means of justifying what she had done. It was one thing to be scared and to run away, and it was something entirely different to be faced with what was left behind. Dorkus had become an agent of the crown; a young, gangly thing with nary a feather in her cap to note herself in the world while Harland had remained, married Barbara, had children and made his mark in the lives of those he helped as curator of the chapel. He was somebody, even in this small, backwater town. Guilt welled up in her throat, but not long enough for her to struggle with when Emiline flinched rather abruptly. Dorkus looked up and began to notice that people had finished their supper and were leaving on the long trek back to their darkened lives, shackled to whatever was left to salvage of homes. 

“We need to know who he saw two days ago,” Emiline spoke in a hushed tone to Dorkus. At first, Dorkus had contemplated shaking her head and denying the chance to ask Harland, but as Emiline refused to look at her to give her the option, Dorkus would have to be sated with doing her duty. She was an agent now. Agents didn’t have personal lives that she was ever really aware of. 

Lifting herself up from one of the tables, Dorkus trudged her way to the northern part of the chapel where Harland was busy packing away any left overs to be used for the stew next time. If nothing else, he was never wasteful, and that was a memory she felt she could use in her favor. 

“Harland?” Dorkus asked, moving just behind him in case he decided speaking to her was too much for him. Harland stopped moving for a moment as he collected himself. 

He said nothing. 

“Harland, I know you are busy cleaning, but, we need to ask you some questions--”

“Dorkus, do you remember what you wrote to me when you apologized all those years ago?” Harland asked the question, but by the distance in his voice, it was evident that he was not so much looking for an answer as an explanation. Dorkus stood there for a few moments as she reconciled with herself that if he was going to be of any use to them, he was going to expect something in return. When she had first laid eyes on him at the front of the door, there was a moment of hesitation on her part. For a brief moment she considered lying to him and telling him she was merely someone there on a mission. That might have spared her daggers from Magnus and it might have furthered their position such as it was. 

“I do,” she finally responded to him in a low, apologetic tone. “I said--”

“You said that you understood if I was angry with you.” Harland continued the moment she went to explain herself. Anyone else might have been willing to instruct him in etiquette with conversations, but his rudeness in their exchange was not wholly unexpected. At least not by her. Magnus, on the other hand, watched with wide eyes as he took in the discourse happening right in front of him. 

“I still do, Harland.” Dorkus resigned herself. 

“When you had left, I wished the best upon you. I know you had no ill will toward me, even if at the time, I didn’t quite understand what made you leave as you did.” Harland spoke, though his words still felt hollow and distant. Turning around, he did not lift his head to square up with Dorkus, but rather to sit himself down and accept the age he had come to pass. Watching him in his fragility suddenly made Dorkus realize just how juvenile she had been in many of her decisions; regret swelling her throat and making her eyes foggy. 

Harland smiled. “I suppose I imagined this going so much differently than it is. You were supposed to come back for a cup of tea and we would laugh about the old days like friends.” 

“We can still have that.” Dorkus smiled, holding back the sting of tears that now stabbed at her eyelids. Although there was never any training on this, Dorkus was convinced that agents didn’t cry, and so she wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of her superior who was now approaching them slowly and cautiously. 

Harland shook his head as his response. 

Emiline had watched the silence between the pair of them enough that she knew any moment allowed past that point would begin to build walls of disdain, and she had very little patience for that sort of thing. Cutting toward Dorkus, Emiline frowned and took a much stronger stance toward the enfeebled man. “Curator Rhys, I am an agent of the crown, as is Agent Fingrip here. Two nights ago, you had a woman come in here with a man and I need to know who was here and what was their purpose.” 

Magnus frowned, but as he approached to try and push back, he found his efforts stymied by the presence of his father’s hand outstretched. The chapel fell into an eerie silence that kept Emiline on her toes. Outside, the birds and insects of the night had silenced themselves to a degree that made the flesh along her arms raise off of the very bones they had been designed to protect. Harland squared his shoulders off, settling his hands down on his knees as he raised his head to speak to them more directly. 

“As I told you, Agent Duskfeather, I am an old man who cannot see as well as he used to. Even as curator, things go without my notice sometimes. If you wish, I can fetch the guestbook for you. Sometimes they sign in and sometimes they don’t. We open our doors to anyone who seeks prayer.” Harland spoke, but his words were removed from his person; they were hollow, mechanical and imperfectly rehearsed. 

“Now you are putting us off. You are the curator; I doubt anything passes through here without you knowing it.” Emiline challenged him. 

Harland bit a laugh that was far too egregious not to be offended by even at the slightest tone. Emiline watched the old man sag for a moment until he took in a deep breath. The air around them was thick with electric tension -- the kind that often trained wolves to mind their masters. In one last plea, Dorkus turned her attention to Harland. 

“Please,” she pleaded with him, “tell us anything you know and we can take it from there.”

By this time, Magnus had elected to take leave of the chapel and exited as quickly as he could without bothering to take the brook with him. Whatever had frightened him was enough that he did not make a sound even as he planted both of his boots firmly on the soil just outside of the manicured steps. The silence between the three now left had been utterly and irreparably broken the moment Harland lunged for the only beating heart in the room that suddenly held any significance to him. As he came forward in a display of flung, disjointed appendages -- a sharpened dagger in hand -- Dorkus immediately cupped her hands over her ears and felt her knees draw her down to the earth with a sickening thud. She had foolishly anticipated that Harland would come for her in one last moment of revenge for her slight against him. In some ways, she not only foresaw it, she willed it. Hitting the ground had been the only option she felt left to her and as her knees came crashing down hard on the wooden slats, she could feel the curdling pain that came when bone split in two. For a brief moment, and in spite of her hands being cupped at her head to drown out the sounds of her own potential gurgling, she could distinctly hear the sound of snapping wood -- but there had been no wood damaged. 

When Dorkus finally released the hold on her head to now cradle her broken knees, she looked to where Harland had landed. He had not lunged for her as she had supposed. His body was now propped up against Emiline who had gripped his hand in hers as tightly as she could -- only noted by how Harland’s knuckles now swelled and turned an ugly shade of gray-violet. The pain was far too much for Dorkus to handle mentally, and as she could feel her legs began to squeeze menacingly at her veins, threatening to cut off all circulation, she rolled herself away to one of the corners of the chapel that had been left relatively unmended; a culvert that dropped into a sink-pit of mud and debris. Even from her position in the darkness, she could see why Emiline had been standing so still, her eyes were trained on Harland’s even as he felt her thrust the knife away from him. 

“No--” Dorkus whispered hoarsely through the pain. Harland had not gone to kill Dorkus, he had prepared himself to slay Emiline, only to fail and find his blade used on himself. In her petrified state, Dorkus watched helplessly; Emiline removing the blade and releasing Harland’s hand slowly so that when he crumpled to the ground he had some dignity left. A clean kill. 

“Dork--” Emiline began to say her name, searching for her missing and injured companion, only to find herself stopped dead in her tracks. 

“Long live the Queen,” a man’s voice pierced through the shadows from the vaulted ceilings where the attic space had been. It had been much too small to store anything… save perhaps a single person lying in wait. Emiline’s face drained of all color so much so that Dorkus swore she saw the dark-haired elf blend in with the flickering of the pale lanterns. Shifting in the muddied pit, Dorkus strained to see who Emiline was trying to speak to. As she moved her shoulders, she felt the weight of her body sinking further into the mud, forcing her to see only Emiline and a shadowy figure obscured behind one of the support beams. 

“You-- I should have figured you would have--” 

If Emiline could have chosen any words to use, knowing they would be her last, she likely would have chosen ones far better than something accusatory that did little to help Dorkus figure who would be the one to take the same dagger Harland had attempted to use earlier in their squabble and succeed with it. Immediately cupping her soiled hand over her mouth to stifle the urge to scream in disbelief, Dorkus watched as her superior was gutted no more eloquently than a fish being prepared for a dinner. Harland’s body had not even been slumped over for less than a few moments when Dorkus watched Emiline vanish from sight and a sickening thud sound just within reach of her ears and fingertips. For a moment, Dorkus clenched her eyes shut and meekly squeaked out a prayer that this was all just a nightmare and she would wake up at her desk any moment with Emiline hovering over her and making some off-color remark about her laziness. She could even begin to hear Emiline’s voice through her own whimpering: Callous, overreaching numbskull -- Something to that effect. 

When Dorkus opened her eyes with all of the expectation that she would be right where she thought she was, she heard a muffled rumble and a grunt before a weight had been heaved upon her without so much as a request of her presence. Her eyes trailed down the formless, shapeless mass until she fell squarely on a pair of dulled, blue eyes that had lost all of their arcane glow. Had she been a simpleton and entirely removed from this situation, she might have called these eyes those of some unlucky sap. After all, it was easy to distance yourself from emotionally compromising things like death if you treated it with a callous nature. 

No.

These were not just the eyes of some unlucky sap. These were Emiline’s eyes. She had been killed and disposed of like common trash. Dorkus bit down hard on her hand to where she could taste the blood that spurted from her damaged flesh, but it was all she could think to do to suppress any desire to scream -- to call for help that would never come. For now, she was sparing her life from sharing her superior’s fate. As the blood drained from her hand and out of the corner of her mouth, she could feel the pain from her knees now numbing everything else in her body. At any other time, she might have tried to push through it to impress the woman whose corpse now christened her body, but this time she allowed it to overwhelm her and put her to rest. For now.