My legs refused to move. Her words overloaded my senses. My breathing became restricted and sporadic as the very air around me became solid. I extracted myself from Lyria’s company, to wander alone. Every time I attempted to process her words, acute pain accompanied by blurring of vision rocked my very being. Disorientation tossed me as the very sky blurred. Gone was the bejewelled view of the night sky and in its stead, only a blinding white light, heavy and pulsating, threatened to overwhelm. Lyria's caring words fell on deaf ears. In the following days, robbed of my senses, orientation and reason, I slowly felt myself drifting along with the rest of the Ashen Bulwarks.
Lyria must have made an error, after all, she is not the sharpest tool in the inventory. Aasimars are born to high-elven families, to human couples, and even to orcs and goblins but never to dark-elves. It simply is impossible. The fact that there never has been an Aasimar-drow is proof of it. Lyria is definitely wrong. There is no other explanation.
Lyria is simply a fool for tarnishing my daughter. Delyn is exceptionally gifted, even as a child. Such children, who are different from their peers; better than the rest of their group, are always misunderstood. Their talents; demonized and their names dragged through mud. Delyn is just a victim of such slander. And Lyria is obtuse for falling for it.
“You should apologise for the libel,” I confronted Lyria with steeled nerves on one morning.
Bewildered by the sudden accusation, Lyria stood perplexed for a moment before she pulled me closer and tried to wrap her arms around me. Sensing my indifference, she relaxed her grip and instead sat close. Her callous hands slowly rubbed my back.
“Rils, I understand what you go through,” she spoke softly, almost as if calming a crying child.
“No, you don’t,” I snapped back.
“Yes, I do,” countered Lyria with a bit of steel edge added to her soft tone, “You feel betrayed. You are in the denial phase.”
“No one knows her better than me. We have an unspoken bond, a deep unbreakable one.” I uttered between breaking sobs.
Even as the words fell, I knew how the facts were all there -- for me to ignore. Her charm with convincing people, her magnetic presence, the way she could extract absolute loyalty from unwilling strangers -- the signs were all there.
When Savvas visited me in Sarenthill, he touched upon Delyn’s heritage. He suspected it. I had no clue that hidden behind his youthful charm was an ophidian cunningness. I raised him as my own and yet he repaid me by withholding. Anger surged in me at his nihilistic action.
And Vangere, I would roast you alive over sulphurous pools, a thousand times over; just to hear your agonizing plea like a sweet symphony. I trusted you with my life. I blindly bought your lie. A lie you concocted about a drow who wanted to father but leaned towards men.
Delyn. Every time I thought of her, I could not ignore the welling up emotions that came with the memory. Why did she shoulder that heavy burden, all alone? My door was always open to her. There was no conceivable reason why she could not trust me. I had exiled myself to protect her. Why could she never trust me?
I grabbed Lyria with a powerful hold. She knew it. She and Vangere, both hid my daughter’s true identity. The role of a dedicated affectionate lover and a caring friend; they played it well. Well enough to deceive me. She drove me insane with her disappearing act, forcing me to pursue trailless leads while blinding me to the important truth. Her disappearance! Was it all another well-laid-out plan?
“Enough with the two-faced act,” I snapped, “You had the audacity to blame me. To take a moral high grounds, rebuking me, judging me for fabricated truth while you hid important facts from me.”
Lyria slumped her shoulders in surrender but her eyes never strayed. She still held her gaze fixed -- engaging me.
“Rils, there is a reason, a good one,” she answered softly.
“What reasons could you conjure to justify yourself? Are you willing to commit the same act that you accused me of? How low are you going to stoop, Lyria?” I scoffed and hissed through my teeth.
Lyria squirmed like a boneless worm on a dry rock bed under the sweltering sun.
“Rils, you are in anger. Take out all your anger on me. I will bear it, but please do not hate me,” she pleaded as she tried to take my palm in hers, “When this anger of your subsides, I will explain everything.” Her voice heaved in anguish only held in control by her last shred of reason.
“Hate you?” I scoffed once again, “Lyria, you are either stupid or have a high opinion of yourself,”
I gave another scornful laugh at her pitiful form. Her face hardened and held the expression -- unchanging, like sculpted in marble. Eventually, when she spoke, it was neither an apology nor any excuse.
“Rils, You need an outlet for your pent-up anger and I will stay with you, in good times and in bad. I will smile when you are happy, comfort you when you cry and take blows if it meant protecting you,” she replied.
So, now she wants martyrdom for her efforts. No Lyria, this is karmic retribution.
“Our wedding is off. You have manipulated me from the beginning. Played me for the lovelorn sow, that I was. I can never trust you again,” I stomped off from her poisonous presence without saying any further.
A day later, Lyria slowly approached me. She tried to engage me but immediately abandoned once she saw the firm look in my eyes.
“I will stay with you till your anger dissipates. Once you are calm, I will explain everything to you,” saying that, Lyria scuttled away without waiting for an answer.
It is her relentless optimistic attitude, which she just demonstrated, that will become her undoing.
My temperament must have set an aura of warning; for the next few days, the Dusk Reavers delivered their reports directly to Lyria. The Ashen Bulwarks kept mostly to their own. Their loud unrestrained voices dropped low to a silent whisper whenever I passed nearby. Even Taltil, gave a curt nod and a bow, before scurrying away with the goblin sappers. Once Maapu tried to say something before Taltil interrupted and dragged him away. Theko almost became a ghost. I could occasionally hear his voice or his name being shouted, but the goblin himself took every measure to stay away from my sight.
Lyria, undeterred by my rebuke, continued to engage me. Despite the cold shoulder, that I gave her, she diligently brought my meals, prepared my sleeping spot and ensured my privacy at moments. Her bright silver-grey eyes held deep concern, every time she approached.
As the barren terrain slipped by, a blanket of green vegetation received us. The borders of the lands of Baron Beoric were close by, probably if I should wager, two or three days. I called for a halt. The Dusk Reavers were instructed to scout an optimal spot for waiting. They came back with reports of a small grove, not wide enough to hide our marching army from the flying patrol of gryphon scouts, nor did I bother to hide from Zelaphiel’s eyes in the sky. Before his forces could converge on my location, I would have crossed the border into Asterlund, probably even close to Westerleygates.
The Dusk Reavers would surely guide Urganza to our location when she is near. And when we meet, I would hand over her companies back to her and with that our makeshift alliance would dissolve. My time with Lyria was beautiful, even a gift of a lifetime. Meeting her again, connecting with her, was sublime. But we should part now -- like how it should have ended centuries ago.
We split our way separate.
