49th of Gnielm, 157 RI
High Arborway, Athal
Filauriel would be off the throne, soon. That much she knew. In the interim, she paced atop the long whitestone rampart which demarcated the near edge of the kingdom which she had been thrust into rulership over. It formed a road, of sorts, a wide and open boulevard for the marching of troops. They were high above the ground there, high enough that they didn’t really even need to see the swamp below. Instead, the midpoint of the wall was clutched all around by the canopy; vermillion trees roiling like clouds all out from stark white trunks.
At her side was Imryll, keeping pace with her, ever the dutiful child.
“They will come,” Filauriel thumbed the ornate fabric of her robes in attempt to keep her hands from betraying apprehension, “The heraldic horns will come, and they will be the last.”
“There have been times when they have not, in the past.” Imryll replied solemnly. “Father lost his life here, on this demiplane. The victory calls did not come on that day.”
Hearing it said aloud weakened Filauriel’s resolve. It still stabbed at her, the degree to which the scarlet leaves had matched the color of Micai’s blood when his body had been hoisted up the wall. It had been a great battle, in his long war against the orcish horde. She was glad that the last of it’s engagements was occurring far past the aether. She would not wish for it to end here, where he had.
“Your father was a good man.” Filauriel felt the wind blow past in strained measure. “His death was a tragedy. Fate had a cruel way with him, I suppose.”
Imryll was quiet a moment, clearly contemplative. “The Stria teaches that the fate we are dealt is often the fate we follow. That fate and the world and the self are not so separate as we might think, and that all things that come to be will come to end as well.”
Sermons of a foreign faith brought Filauriel little comfort, but still she summoned a forbearing smile. Imryll was young, by elven standards, but it was well known that they held all the temperament of a prudent leader. “You are wise beyond your years, child of mine. No matter when the time is right, you-”
BAROOOOOOOooooooooo Baroooo Barooooooooooo
Just then, a great low and tempestuous blare cut her power of articulation flat. The sound of a horn’s blare, echoing from far off and down below the wall near the edge of the aether.
And just like that, the wait was over. The battle was won, the war ended. Peace had been achieved, at last, and the weight that Filauriel had carried since she had been forced from queen consort to queen regent could finally lift.
She hugged Imryll, hugged them tightly. When she released she found that she had begun to shed tears, sparking as they splashed against the spotless marble walkway.
“I am glad, too, mother.” Imryll continued to squeeze her hand comfortingly. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” She felt it to be true. “Yes I am quite well. I was only going to say that, now that the time is right, you’re going to make a great monarch. I know that you will follow a kinder fate now than those who wore the crown before you.”
Imryll nodded, gazing out over the ramparts. After a moment he asked, “Why did father start this war? Really?”
“Oh.” Filauriel took a solemn look, feeling this last responsibility to the truth coming over her. “I don’t think he knew what to do with himself, when it came to be his time. That was the pain of it, time.”
Imryll listened intently, absorbing as much as they could as Filauriel continued. “Llywelyn, your grandfather. You never met him, but he was truly a king. Such a force to him. To look at him, he seemed as though he would rule for a millennia. His death was unexpected, your father was not prepared for it. He had meant to spend many years with your grandfather to advise him. But, that was not the way things were to be. He knew only war, by that point, and so that is all the throne brought out of him.”
“I see.” Imryll intoned simply, truly. “I see. That’s why you’ve insisted on holding the throne in my stead, for so long as you have. That I might not have my beginnings marked by that legacy of bloodshed.”
Breath released from Filauriel’s chest. Imryll had understood. They were ready, beyond any doubt.
Having spilled out, in that too-perfect sunlight, Filauriel felt herself overcome by a sudden fatigue. “Yes. Yes, exactly. And I bore it gladly, knowing that that is why your rule will be the best of the name of Ranavar.”
The Etra Anthology 