Story Love upon a Frozen Knoll - A Novel

[Icanra]

An Author's Perverse:

I dedicate this novel to The Mother - Sallana. May my words on the transformative qualities of love, bring hope to even the loneliest gentleman and lady. Though you may feel alone, our Mother has a partner for each soul, one only need to look beyond their own hearts, to embrace another.

To my dear, my lady, Rai, may my words echo my love till long after we both return to soil. To my child, Aislin, may you always know of a loving home – and regardless of which adventures you take and choices you make, know that your father will always be here. I shall always be ready for you both with guidance, compassion, and outstretched arms.

And finally, to you, the reader. May your love thaw even the harshest frost, may the tide guide your sails to journey to find such a soul to match your own – so that you may both chart a course, and find your way to home.

- Lune Tek'ton



Chapter One – A King atop a Frozen Castle​

Some would say that a man needs no riches nor title to be happy, and for if he holds love in his heart then any home becomes a castle, any meal becomes a banquet, and any stoop becomes his throne.

Our story begins in a fertile valley. Hills of green and rivers of blue taper the rolling landscape. The sun slowly rises from the horizon, painting the valley with colour. Great yellows and oranges flow though the hills like a sweet summer wine, seemingly making each blade of grass greener and each drop of water sparkle like a thousand shards of glass. Such a sight provides the song for any bard, a rhyme for any poet and an endless pallet of colour for each artist to spend a lazy morning drawing – so as he can bring such a sight home for more to bear witness to.

Amidst these hills sits a structure not carved by nature but built by man. Cobbled stone sits atop a grassy verge. A great behemoth mass of cobbles, bricks and stone held together with clay alike not the consistency of watery oats. Indeed, not even the green grass could pierce the drab grey which seemed to emit from this melancholy castle that bears witness to a small city below. The city was Hayholm, capital of a great farming kingdom. A nation once held in acclaim for such fertile soil and rich meats, that left its front gates and into the palms of those wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. Though as with all acclaimed nations, the sun set on its prosperity and left all its people scraping by with what they had to get their next meal. Well, almost all its people…

For if one were to look up from the worn streets of Hayholm, towards the keep that stood so high above them, they might see a fleck of colour alike the spice of ginger root. A colour that gently bobs in the morning breeze. The source of such colour was a young man, but not simply any mortal man, but one with rings of gold upon his temples and wrists, one who had royal blood rushing through his veins. Such a man would hold the title of King! Though whisperings from the city below would scoff and scorn such a man bearing the title.

King Edgar was the fourth of his name, a name which he held dear. For t’was King Edgar the First who conquered the lands they resided upon, from the evil which once prowled the hills. Not to forget King Edgar the Second, who constructed the mighty keep and the great city which surrounded the hill it sat upon. Though one couldn’t simply list the Edgar’s without mention of our Edgar’s father – King Edgar the Third – whom held the most praise and acclaim. For he was the one who constructed the fertile farms within the Kingdom’s lands… He was the one who helped the city thrive… And he was the one who saw off the neighbouring kingdom’s threat.

Ah yes… the only kingdom whose army could rival the city of Hayholm – Duskgrad, a bastion of an old Elven Kingdom.

The Humans and the Elves had been in petty war for years, over an argument long since forgotten. There are many reasons why they were believed to have fought… Some say it was over the fertile fields, others say it was trade that soon turned sour. But the reason most believed in… Was love.

In fact, it was this very war which provoked King Edgar the Fourth to venture onto his balcony on that crisp Frosty morning. For the thought had banished off any hopes the young King had of getting to sleep and left nothing but paranoia circling around in his mind – alike a worn spindle with which even a barn-full of wool could not satiate. He paced back and forth on the balcony, his features far from the idolised looks his ancestors once bore. Instead of chiselled features, his cheeks were full, flushed. With the look of someone who had never gone without a meal (with second helpings for good measure). Indeed his gut boasted proudly from within fine silken robes – the young King had long given up on a belt or scabbard, content that the fine rope from his dressing robe would keep his shirt buttoned up just enough that the very buttons did not fly away from him.

Though while Edgar did not have the rugged physique or dashing looks that his namesakes had borne before him – he had a kind look about him. Not a kind look that would imply that he would give all his money to the poor, but more of one that implied that he was (mostly) harmless.

As his thoughtful pacing started to induce a light sweat, Edgar would stop to wipe his brow – out of breath as he runs a hand through his light ginger hair. Despite his many flaws, it could never be said that Edgar did not look after his hair, for that was perhaps the only feature he shared with the others of his name – as he would always keep it finely trimmed and maintained with the best oils that his immense wealth could afford.

As Edgar relaxes from what could be considered his only real exercise routine, he rests upon the balcony’s edge – looking over the city once more. Though this spate of relaxation would soon be interrupted as a shrewd voice calls to him from inside his chamber.

“Sire?” the wavering voice calls out.

Edgar closes his eyes, hoping that if he remained quiet enough – the voice would believe he were not in fact there.

“Your Majesty?” the voice croaks out again.

Once more there is silence from Edgar as he edges out of sight from the door. One foot over the other he moves to the opposite side of the balcony. Edgar glances towards the entrance to his chambers. Nothing. He waits… Nothing still. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looks down towards the town, wishing how all his troubles were so easy to get rid of. In fact, Edgar considered what his father would do in such a-

“My King?” the voice once again calls from within Edgar’s chambers as a figure edges into the light of the Morning Sun.

“Ah! Well… I say, yes, yes, I do say. There you are! Your… g-grace”.

It is said that one can often identify a person by their voice alone. Well such a statement definitely applied to Edgar’s current situation, as he watches his elderly advisor – a man by the name of Bertrude – hobble into his view.

The old man moved towards Edgar at a pace which even an elderly tortoise could consider a leisurely stroll. Bertrude’s fine robes clung to him only slightly better than his wrinkled skin did, as his walking stick leads his journey towards the King.

“Sire! Won-wonderfuh-fuh… Excellent news!” The old man exclaims as he finally reaches the Balcony’s edge.

‘Excellent news?’ Edgar thought to himself, his face lighting up as he turned to Bertrude, as even positive news that another townsfolk had not flung themselves from their rooftop could be considered a somewhat productive morning.

“News? What news?!” He exclaimed!

The young King’s mind races. What could the news be? Could the elves have given up the fight? Could his people have accepted his rule? Could they have stumbled on a previously hidden vault of money that would solve all the kingdom’s problems? A thousand equally unlikely thoughts rush through his head, in about the length of time it takes for Bertrude to begin his next sentence. Though at the rate the old advisor was going, that could have easily been a matter of minutes.

“Well milord, I’m told this season’s harvest could be this one of this year’s finest!” The old man proudly states, licking his shrivelled lips and smacking his teeth together. “Looks like fresh turnips for everyone!

Edgar blankly stares at his advisor who had now began to hum happily to himself. As the old man began what could only be called an odd, celebratory shuffle over such mediocre news. Edgar wondered what the length of time would be between Bertrude ‘accidently’ find himself being shoved over the balcony, and a suitable replacement arriving at his door (preferably one that would refrain from such dances that paralleled an duck with severe arthritis). Shaking his head, Edgar removed such childish fantasies from his mind and turned his attention back to the notion at hand.

“And the economy?!” Edgar demands towards Bertrude with a sharp tone that caused even the half deaf man to stop his dance.

“Ah well… The farmers are trying to sell… The turnip harvest so we can afford a harvest festival. City moral and all that nonse-“

“Harvest… Festival… Harvest Festival?! Festival?!” Edgar screams at his advisor, his sour mood clearly having worsened. “My royal court! My most trusted advisors, we’re broke! No money, nothing to fund ourselves, or our army! With the elves on our doorstep! And you all want a festival?!”

Edgar pants, clearly his body isn’t up to handling such pressure. Beneath his numerous chins, a fat vein throbs in his neck, sending slight ripples down the flesh, his neck seemingly disappearing under rolls of chin. With clenched hands and a stiff gait, he looms over his advisor who only seems to shrink further.

“Well… S-sire! Please c-calm down! If we hold a festival, we improve moral… So maybe they won’t mind if we raise taxes… Just, a tiny bit… Maybe they’ll even like you a tad mor-”

Edgar stares at Bertrude as the old man slowly trails off having realised what he said.

“S-sire I”

Edgar holds up a hand as Bertrude falls silent.

“They don’t like me do they…” The King begins.

Bertrude looks up at Edgar, unsure of what to say.

“Wh-why of course sire! I only meant tha-“

“Enough… I know that they do not respect me as they once did my father… And as much as I would like to do so, I cannot blame you for such a fact.”

Bertrude whimpers as the King slowly regains his calm.

“The festival…” Edgar sighs “Isn’t a terrible idea.”

“Why thank you-“

“But… That still doesn’t solve our problem with the elves…”

“Sire the Elves have been against us for nigh’ on two hundred years, we can ha-hardly expect them to just… give up now. Though we could dream…”

“You know that each one of my name accomplished something great with their lives. Isn’t it time I do the same? Do something that earns their respect.”

“Why of course but I don’t u-understand what that has to do with the elve… Oh, no… No, no”

Bertrude looks desperately towards the King, his eyes pleading as he slowly shakes his head. The King nods. Bertrude shakes his head once more. Edgar nods again. Bertrude fiercely shakes his head.

“Please sire…”

Edgar grins, his mind racing, his face showing the look of someone who had finally solved a puzzle that had been unfinished for decades, he slowly moves towards the door.

“The elves are set in tradition; you wouldn’t be the first to try and I-I doubt it’d be the last”

Edgar slowly wanders back into his chambers, the old advisor’s words echoing in his ears as Bertrude follows him in.

“Please sire I beg you not to meet with those savages!”

Edgar looks around his room, as if seeing it all for the first time. Stacks of plates, rich unfinished food, fresh linin and a feather mattress long since bolstered by his heavy frame – with the dent in his bed being the only imprint his reign had left upon his nation. Was gluttony and idleness to be his legacy? Bertrude’s full attention turns back towards the balcony, still rambling on – but the words now falling on deaf ears.

“So, I beg of you… Reconsider! For your people” Bertrude sighs, slowly turning around. “Shall I take your silence as a yes? “

The old advisor’s advice falls ill. For the room was now empty.

And Edgar was gone.

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Two – The Small, The Large and The Legen-dairy​

From within a cracked stone wall - flashes streaks of brown and grey. A small mouse peers from its dark enclave, it’s fleshy nose darting about in the cold air of the Hayholm Castle. Letting out a small squeak it smells the air, trying to find its next meal. The creature turns back into its hovel, gazing lovingly at his mate – who was sleeping in a bed of wool and thread, a bed which the mouse had spent many an hour making for his beloved dam. The female mouse did not stir at her mate’s presence, instead upon her back with her ruffled, furry stomach breathing heavily. Her belly heaved from each breath, bloated and stretched – resting for the inevitable labour which would soon ensue to provide the family with a litter of young.

After the mouse is positive his dam is safe, he ventures out into the open to find his mate some food to help sustain her and his unborn children. The mouse creeps out into the cold, stinging air of the empty hallways - the Season of Frost was indeed, soon approaching and it was near time to stockpile all that they could before the snow sets. Darting down a spiral staircase – jumping from step to step, the fuzzy creature pauses in front of a door – brushing his head and whiskers before shivering. The mouse smells the warm scents emitting from the door… The Kitchen.

The smell of great hunks of crisping meat, dripping with warm succulent juices. Fresh pies from the oven, smelling of sweet berries and fruit alike which the meadows he once called home had boasted. And… Another smell, something more potent and smoother, something aromatic but ever so tasty. To the mouse it felt like being cozied up to his mate in their hovel, watching as the rain fell past the Castle’s windows, the sweet scent of moist air whilst knowing that he was safe and warm with the one he loved. T’was a most glorious smell… Was it milk? No too strong of a smell… Bread? No… Something smoother, creamier - T’was cheese.

The small creature scans the door looking away into the room before-

He stops.

The mouse freezes as a towering figure garbed in dirtied white chef-wear exits from the towering entrance. The rodent backs its way into the dark parts of the hall, flattening himself as low as possible to avoid being seen – slinking to safety before…

The giant stops, it looks about.

The tiny creature’s heart stops – he closes his eyes tightly, hoping, praying. His love, his dam’s face as a beacon in his mind’s eye. Footsteps… Then nothing. Opening his eyes, the mouse lets out a squeak of relief, before peering towards the door and seeing it had been left ajar. The mouse makes a wild dash to the door, squeezing in the tight gap, his small body stretching and contorting before he slips through with the grace of a baby deer’s first steps. Staring up onto the countertop he sees his creamy prize – a great hunk of cheese cut into tiny pieces, sitting atop a breadboard with crackers, dough and sweet pastes. Climbing onto the counter he carefully moves to the board, his tiny eyes darting back and forth about the giants domain – cautiously shoving the cheese chunks into his cheeks, stuffing them as full as he could, until he resembled not a rodent but more like a small fluffy satchel. The mouse wanted so badly to swallow the cheese, it tasted alike heaven on earth – a rich, creamy taste with a subtle fruity aroma. But the mouse was determined and dashed back out of the kitchen and up the spiral staircase.

As he reached the corridor once more, the mouse stops – his small peachy ears flickering upwards to the sounds of what could only be great sacks of potatoes being flung from a tower… But who would do such a thing? What indeed was that great, heavy sound?

Boom, boom, boom, boom! The very dust and dirt upon the carpet bounces with each of the floor’s vibrations, the mouse trembles – it’s ears flattening against its head, whiskers twitching, eyes staring for the answer of what was truly coming down the stairs. As the rodent retreated slowly backwards, the answer finally came. It was a giant. A great giant with hair like fire, great rolls of flesh and lard barely covered by fine robes, the giant bounded towards the creature, taking great gasps – greedily sucking in the air – as beads of sweat glistened like morning dewdrops upon the behemoth’s brow. With a terrified squeak the mouse races back towards its hovel.

Boom!

The mouse sprints as fast as it can, foot over foot, toe by toe pushing against the great mass of blue cloth and patchwork beneath his tiny feet.

Boom!

The mouse slows, the pace clearly taking its toll, his stuffed cheeks hindering his pace, but determination keeps him running amidst the great sea of woven blues and greys, his bones ached, feeling not like running anymore but swimming against the tide, the shuddering ground acted like waves, the dirt shielding his view alike a fierce storm, the pebbles and dust were the many obstacles beneath the waves, and the great giant was indeed alike a prowling shark.

Boom!

The mouse begins to slow even more, its limbs aching and pleading him to stop. The small creature pants, almost choking on the bounty within his cheeks. As the Giant’s foot seems to loom over him – time itself slows as the mouse shuts its eyes tightly. Suddenly a song, quiet yet alike a thousand windchimes crying out as once, the mouse feels his very heart begin to beat alike the heartiest drum, his limbs renewed – he dodges the foot, sprinting paw over paw. He darts past the rocks and feet of the giant, surging towards a cracked stone wall that moved ever closer.

The mouse felt aflame, it’s very soul pounding until he finally makes it to his hovel and darts inside. The pounding soon subsides, leaving only silence and the soft sound of rain hitting the stained glass of the corridor. The mouse shudders and combs his head with his hands, calming himself. As he looks towards his dam, he feels a sense of pride and love which only a father could indeed feel. Moving towards a small stockpile of morsels and food, he empties his cheeks – dropping his cheesy prize onto the pile. T’was a noble stockpile but not quite enough to last them the cold, harsh season, the father mouse knew he’d have to begin his perilous journey again the next morn’. But for now, he is content to curl up to his love, feeling her soft breath upon his fur, and the kicks of his future kin upon his side. Tomorrow he’d risk life and limb once more for the family he truly cares for, but for now he is content to sleep.

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Three – Unto the Fray​

Indeed, the Giant did not notice the small mouse, nor his hovel home or kin. For the Giant was in a terrible hurry, well perhaps he would say ‘hurry’ - but you and I could not quite bring ourselves to call it a run, instead it seemed more of a desperate waddle, like freshly made jelly from the castle’s kitchen. The Giant, however, was no Giant. He was in fact – as many of us would have guessed – Edgar. After having had his ‘great’ epiphany in his chambers, he straight away called for the council to be gathered within the Throne Room, to; ‘discuss the future of Human and Elven relations’. Edgar felt most proud of the way he stated that, feeling joyous at how formal he sounded, perhaps this plan was not too farfetched after all.

As Edgar continued across the corridor – having now made it to the bottom floor of the castle – he by chance looked out across to the castle gardens where a young, beautiful couple were sat. Edgar was not sure if it was a cruel jab of fate, or simply painful coincidence that he’d have to witness the sight. He felt a pang of longing and sadness in his heart as he slowed to watch the couple. They sat upon a finely carved wooden bench in the centre of the lush garden, facing the shimmering bond before them – ripples of grey falling from the sky and putting a more drab, melancholy sight to the garden. But though the red roses were now wilting upon the frost’s return, although the deep blues and purples of the violets could not stand the cold, and though the sunflowers could no longer see its namesake – love still bloomed around the pond. For the couple seemed not to mind the rain, their hands holding each other lovingly. Edgar continued to watch as he made his way to the throne room. The woman said something to the man, they shared a laugh, before the man gave over his coat to his partner – keeping her dry from the rain’s advances. They share a small kiss before embracing, sharing each other’s closeness and warmth.

Edgar shakes his head. Insufferable and most cringeworthy. ‘Why should they feel the need to boast their love in the view of many?’ He thought. But while he tried to convince himself that the feelings he felt were dislike towards the public affection – he couldn’t help the ever-present feeling that it might - in fact - be jealousy. For why couldn’t he have such love? It looked so pure, so real. Someone who would always be truthful and care for him, instead of a handful of advisors who mostly nodded to everything he said. Why couldn’t-

Edgar stops in his tracks. He wasn’t yet at the throne room door. He was but a few long strides away but, he stopped anyway. For a truly depraved thought to come into his mind. He knew why he couldn’t have that. Because he was ugly. Who would have him? That was not to say that he couldn’t get a woman – for there were many ‘working girls’ that would answer his call. But that was not for love, instead for the money he possessed. He wanted love for the sake of love. But he could never find the right words to even start a courtship with another. He truly hated how he looked. He did not have good looks or a charming wit, he felt disgusted at his body. Avoiding looking into mirrors, for he could only ever pick out each bad feature he had. Sadly – as many do – our King could not see the positives he held, but could only focus on the parts of him he despised.

The Young King shakes his head, angrily striding to the throne room door, refusing to look towards the gardens any longer, feeling sick to his core with a poisonous combination of longing and self-loathing. He’d approach the door and slam it open. Curiously the slam would be accompanied by a startled gasp. He looks towards the source of the noise, seeing his youngest advisor Malcom and Malcom’s guard – Julia – hastily drawing away from each other. Both of them looked quite flustered that he had arrived early, both red in the cheeks. Edgar soon dismissed this as general skittishness from his presence, and took his seat at the head of a long wooden table that spanned in front of his throne.

Within the span of the next minutes, his lords and advisors soon came and took their places around the table. With Bertrude being the last to enter, hobbling into the chamber with a look of pure annoyance at Edgar. Once they were all seated – Edgar laid out his plan. The lords were at first silent, looking to each other with mixed looks of general confusion and abjection to the idea, before bursting into merry laughter.

“Good one Sire!” one lord called out.

“Most funny! Most funny indeed!” cried one of his advisors.

“An alliance with the elves? What rubbish!” laughed another lord.

Edgar was annoyed, this was not the reaction he had hoped for. He simply stared at those around the table, not even a hint of a smile upon his face. One by one the lords stop laughing and shuffle awkwardly in their seats.

“That… Wasn’t a joke. Was it sire?” one of the younger lords quivered.

Edgar simply shakes his head, as a few moments of awkward silence pass, before the lord start up in uproar. Mixed cries and objections to the very idea of aligning themselves with their decade old enemy.

“Silence!” The King cries, banging an empty mug of ale into the table. “I am your king! And I see no other way to assure safety from an attack now we are at our weakest. If anyone has any objections to my plan, they can leave my sight immediately!”

The room falls silent once more, no one daring to oppose their king – however feeble his reputation. Each lord and lady content to simply let another raise their joint concerns first. Edgar seems smug, happy that no one called his bluff – until Bertrude stands.

“This-s idea is nonsense and goes against ever-evehryth-e… All your family ever stood for! I shall have no part of it, and I expect I am not the only one”. The old advisor looked around the table as the lords murmur to themselves.

A few seconds pass as one by one, most of the lords stand and leave the room – Bertrude standing by the door with a scornful look upon his face.

“When all this inevitably fails, do not come crying to me my… ‘King’. Your father would be ashamed…”. The advisor snaps before closing the door behind him – leaving only Malcom and several other lords at his table – along with their respective guards.

Edgar nervously clears his throat.

“Well kinsmen, looks like you are all due for a raised position within my court” the King tries to joke, but is clearly shaken and annoyed by the lack of respect that his apparent ‘most trusted advisors’ had given him.

“Perhaps they are right. This is hopeless…” The King mutters. “We have no way to reason with the Elves or even hope to end the conflict. Tis a lost cause… Should they wish to attack us, all will be lost.”

“Love.” Malcom mumbles to himself. The remaining lords all dart their heads towards him.

“What?” Edgar asks, unsure of what Malcom had said.

“That’s it… It’s love.”

“What is?” The King seems completely confused.

“My mother used to tell me the story how the Humans and the Elves started their war. She said…” He stops to think, as all the lords desperately lean in. “She said…” Malcom struggles to think as he carefully continues.

“She said… that the Humans and the Elves were once powerful allies, set to join their people once and for all with a rite of marriage between the humans and the elves.“ As his reciting continues his voice strengthens as his confidence grows.

“But the humans backed out of the deal, for another kingdom offered their alliance for a better deal.” The young lord continued on “The elves were furious and vowed that until love’s rite was restored in the name of The Mother, they would never cease to drain the kingdom of prosperity that they had once given them.”

He finished his story and looks up.

“Maybe that’s it? We restore the rite of marriage and bring an end to the war!”. Malcom seems proud of himself, looking towards Julia – who had never gazed away from the young advisor throughout the entirety of his story.

“That could just work…” Edgar mutters.

“Malcom you are indeed a godsend! You shall marry an elven princess and the war shall end! Well volunteered!”. Edgar struggles up, overly enthused at his plan. Malcom and Julia on the other hand looked mortified, staring at one another.

“Sire I-I can’t!” Splutters Malcom.

“Of course, you can! You are not betrothed! Are you’re a strapping young lad! It’s perfect!” The young king seems to be quite caught up in this plan now, setting out orders to the other lords.

“You! Prepare our horses and a provisioned travelling party at once! And you! Arrange the Harvest festival! It shall go ahead! We’ll invite the elves! Oh, happy day!”.

Having become more and more animated to the point he begins jiggling all over the place, Edgar exits quickly, leaving Malcom and Julia to look at each other with a look of pure dread.

The King’s word was indeed carried out with haste. Birds were sent to warn the elves of their diplomatic proposition and arrival. The festival plans were well underway, and the party of the King, Malcom and Julia, his remaining lords and a handful of Guards set off through the gates. Riding through the cold forests towards Duskgrad, the King found his eyes wandering towards a sight in the distance, a proud stag walking with his doe in the first snow of the season – seemingly unfazed by the cold, they entwined their heads, brushing up against each other against the blistering wind. Edgar shook his head and cracked the reigns of his large, stocky stallion which - thankfully for both the rider (and the animal itself) – was built alike a workhorse.

Back upon the Castle battlements, Bertrude shakes his head as the party’s silhouettes fade into the distance. For if Edgar failed, he’d surely ruin them all.

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Four – As we take Flight​

The sun rises as the Season of Frost had well and truly began. The once greens and blues of the valley are now replaced by sheets of white. Such perfect, untouched white that spanned the frozen hills as far as the eye can see. Gentle snow continues to fall from the sky – each snowflake alike a new piece of the puzzle that continues to makeup the ever-growing cloud of colourlessness upon the ground. Like a porcelain mask upon the face of a great beauty – t’was perfection atop of perfection.

Amidst the snow and sleet lay a tree. Without leaves now – for they had long since fallen and scattered to the winds – but still holding a fragile nest, far out of reach from the hungry predators below. Inside the nest held three sleeping hatchlings, with their father sparrow covering them with his well-groomed wings, shielding them from the cold, frozen morning. The mother sparrow hops to the edge of the nest, flapping its wings and taking to the sky to find food for her chicks.

Souring over the untouched fields, a large forest comes into her sight, it’s trees seemingly sporting fertile leaves against all the hardships of the harsh frost. As she sours downwards into the greenery, it can be seen that many-a creature had come to sleep here for the season. As she landed, she begins pecking the ground, hopping deeper and deeper into the forest as she does: trying to see if anything would emerge. But as she looked up, she caught sight of a city within the forest. With homes built up high in the trees. Everything looked so peaceful yet so bustling, with the elven people wandering their snowy streets to get about the days business. It was a breath-taking sight to see a city that could co-exist with such beautiful nature. A sight that one could never take their eyes from, the mother bird continues her search, yet no grubs heeded her eager call. From within the mother’s head, she began calculating – as the day passed and she was yet to find but a morsel. It’s head darts to the sky, a soft note carries on the winter breeze alike the sweetest siren’s song… As if beckoned by the music, a worm would pierce the dirt, before another, and another still. Poking their way from the earth like the prodding fingers of curious kin.

Snap! Snap!

The mother sparrow grabbed the first worm, flying into the air – yanking the worm out of the ground and swallowing it whole. It swoops towards the second, before trailing back for another, and another, and another still. Satisfied the fat worms would be enough to feed her young, she flies once more around the city of Elstrium, spying a castle seemingly made from pure white rock.

Curious, the bird would fly towards an open window, in which it seemed several giants were having a conversation. Half of the room were slightly broader occupants, with small ears and dark hair. The other half held large pointed ears and hair as pale as the snow that fell so frequently in the frozen season. Tilting it’s head it took off once more – her curiosity satiated – as she flies home to her nest.

The giants however (as we know) were Edgar and his party, mid-meeting with the Elves. Edgar had made use of the long journey to the elven bastion (over the great part of a month), forming the plan that he now fully proposes to the aged figure before him - The King of Elstrium. He was a truly ancient being – a thin, gauntly faced elf with wrinkled skin, slumped in his quartz throne, with pale hair falling down to almost meet the ground.

“So… You humans finally wish to come to your senses… And settle what was promised to us eons ago...” The old elf rasped.

“Yes! Your most gracious majesty…” Edgar cited, with a bow – clearly playing up to his status but not as much so to find a king bowing to another king a touch out of the ordinary.

“And whom may I ask do you expect me to give away my granddaughter to?” The elven king narrows his eyes, scanning the King’s party with a slightly disapproving gaze.

“May I present to your noble eyes, the young lord Malcom.” Edgar lightly gestures to the mentioned lord – who looks completely downtrodden – Julia standing by his side as ever, looking towards him with a great pain. The old king stares at Malcom, before briefly looking over towards Julia whose eyes never crept from their watchful gaze over Edgar’s proposed ‘suitor’.

“A fine offer…” The elf begins before Edgar interrupts.

“Oh, why thank you your ma-“

“But his love is… Not yours to give.” The elven king continues.

“What do you mean your grace?” Edgar looks at Malcom confused, truly misunderstanding the situation. Malcom and Julia look towards each other in silent glee, but dare not to act upon such, instead both trying to keep blank faces so as not to disturb the meeting.

The Wise King shakes his head, muttering to himself before looking up towards Edgar.

“Since he cannot wed my granddaughter, I have chosen a suitable replacement”

“Oh, you have?” Edgar scratches his ginger locks, looking about the other lords. “Whom?”

The Elven King sighs at Edgar’s obliviousness, raising a shrivelled hand and pointing an aged finger towards him. Edgar chuckles for a few seconds, before realising the king was in-fact serious.

“Sir I-“ But before Edgar could even object, the Elven King claps his hands.

“It is settled… I shall send my daughter and my royal court home with you to this… Festival you have planned. Should she find your presence tolerable, I shall allow the Rite of the Mother’s Love to finally be restored and this pointless war shall come to an end.”.

With that final statement, the room began to burst into life, everyone bustling to prepare for the Elven Party’s departure. All accept Edgar, who still stood in a state of shock. What had he gotten himself into?

True to the King’s word, the elven party was ready within less than an hour. Clearly the elves had been expecting that the terrible frost would finally whittle down the Human’s resolve, and so they had made plans for such an occasion. Awaiting by one of the carriages that the elves had prepared – stood Edgar, shuffling nervously as he awaited his apparent future bride. This was indeed not how Edgar had expected the trip to go. Even the thoughtful comments of his party could not stop the King from feeling sick. What if she saw him and laughed? If she saw him and did so, the wedding would surely be called off – and the kingdom would be doomed. Such a thought echoed in his head until finally an elven fanfare was blown, and the castle gates opened to an Elven Party travelling in formation, leading along an elven woman dressed in a pale blue dress that flowed around her like the snow that littered the ground.

Edgar was amazed. She was stunning. She had a well sculpted face with long braided hair, as pale as the sweetest milk. Her face was a porcelain beauty, he felt as if her looks were not born but sculpted by the finest craftsman the world had ever seen. Her pale features were only complimented by her dress – which now upon closer inspection was seemingly made up of fine silk: a thousand shades of blue. Edgar found himself discovering a new shade upon each second he spent looking upon such a marvel of textiles. She stood lean and elegant, gently walking the snow-covered path in a lady-like gait until she stood face to face with the young king.

“Hello your majesty…” She spoke, but Edgar did not pay attention to the words, but more to her voice, which matched the soft silk of her dress, yet seemed to ooze a sweetness alike a summer honey. Edgar was well and truly dumbstruck, taking a few moments to take in her presence before trying to compile something charming to say: he urged his mind to say something clever, something transfixing, anything… He finally spoke.

“Hello your majesty…” He repeated.

A few seconds pass.

Edgar cringes.

Malcom and the Lords Cringe.

Even the Horses leading the carriage stopped to cringe for a moment as if to reprimand Edgar’s utterly hopeless response.

They all look to the Elven Lady, awaiting her response. She laughs. But it was not the kind of laughing Edgar feared, not one of mocking nature. But a sweet laugh, like he had told a joke. Such a sweet laugh as light as a morning breeze. She was so overcome with joy she placed a hand against Edgar, trying to contain her fit of giggles. Edgar paused – reddening - before chuckling along with her – he on the other hand, had more of a laugh like a dying goose. Once the Elven Lady stopped laughing, she offered out a hand.

“Lady Cath’ra, your Majesty” she smiles, filling Edgar with a newfound confidence.

“A beautiful name my lady… Might I venture to call you Cath?”

“Well I suppose you may call me whatever you like…” With that the Elven Lady would get into the carriage leaving Edgar shocked and looking towards his Lords, who all were laughing to themselves, whilst making suggestive gestures towards their King. In a significantly better mood now however, he lets this slide, and goes to join Cath’ra in the carriage.

“I hope you are comfortable my Lady, tis a long journey to Hayholm” Remarks the King to her, offering out a small blanket from next to him.

“Oh yes, most comfortable sire” She smiles, placing the blanket over her lap. As Edgar goes to shut the carriage door. Before he is able to however, he is stopped by another Elven Woman getting into the carriage. This one with slightly darker hair than the Lady, clad up to her neck in polished red, elven armour, an elven bow strapped across her back. Edgar stares to the new arrival, entirely flummoxed as she took a seat next to Cath’ra. Offering a look towards the Lady as if to say ‘What?!’, Edgar’s worries would soon be answered.

“Oh sire, this is Mar’lyn, my protectorate.” She gestures to the elven woman. Whilst not as fair as the Princess, Mar’lyn had a certain beauty about her. Her pale skin covered with gentle freckles; her features hardened – but with a certain touch of grace. She was truly an odd character indeed. Though at this point, Edgar’s day had gone so un-according to plan that he shrugged to himself, shut the door of the carriage and rubbed his temples as the carriage set up. Indeed, what had he gotten himself into?

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Five – Upon a Frozen Knoll

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Six - Melting Bonds

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Seven – Spring's Thaw

 

[Icanra]

Chapter Eight - Frost comes Again

 

[Icanra]

CHAPTER 2 ADDED

 

[Icanra]

CHAPTER 3 ADDED