Mellark

Mell peered around Fenn’s shoulder to see a handsome young elf wearing a woven satchel at the door. He handed Fenn two rolled scrolls. 

“Fyr-Ceann Silverstem and Ceann-Arthais Willowbirth each send word to you, Fennorin. The carriers have also arrived with a tent. Where would you like it set up?”

“Just at the edge of the clearing over there.” Fenn gestured in front of his cabin, then reached for the scrolls. “May the wind carry you swiftly, messenger. Thank you.” Fenn bobbed his head and the messenger bowed.

“A breeze’s bliss.”

Mell suppressed a smile. She was way too excited to hear the archaic greetings spoken in casual conversation. Even more exciting: if Ceann Silverstem had referred to his daughter had Fennorin’s betrothed, then Fyr-Ceann Silverstem would be none other than that same betrothed. It was a curiosity that Fenn had finally developed an interest in romance. Yet here was the evidence. She watched Fenn expectantly, waiting for him to open his letters. “A letter from your betrothed?”

“Seems so,” he said without sparing a glance for the scrolls. He crossed the room, striding toward a writing desk. Her steps creaked on the wood planks behind him as she followed, trying not to peek around him. Then he placed the letters on the desk and turned away. 

Ouch. That’s a bit harsh. She knew he was on bad terms with his father, but this was his betrothed. He’d skirted the topic at the Meeting House. Well, they had time now.

“So, Fyr-Ceann Silverstem. Is she cute?” Mell offered him a mischievous smile. 

Fenn lifted his hand from where it had been scratching at his temple. “Is who what?”

“Fyr-Ceann Silverstem, you just said she is your betrothed, right? I asked if she was cute.”

He shifted his weight and rubbed his narrow chin. “Hm, well most everyone seems to think so, though they would no doubt use the term ‘beautiful.’ We don’t really use cute except to describe kits and such. Mostly, everyone admires her accomplishments as a singer and performer, but that isn’t what you asked. Yes, she is my betrothed.” 

It was as detached an answer as Mell had ever heard. She pressed forward with the ribbing. “But is she cute?” 

Fenn sighed. “Mell, it’s something of an arranged…” he hesitated, and seemed to search his mind for a word, ”marriage. The situation is a bit tangled.”

Mell’s brows furrowed. Marriage wasn’t a word he would likely forget, especially not in his native Elvish. And he didn’t seem particularly pleased. “Is she an unpleasant person?” 

Fenn’s eyes opened wide and he raised his hands in protest. “No, no, not at all. She’s perfectly lovely. Like I said, extremely skilled in music and song, and well-admired by our people.”

“Mm-hm, so you do like her.” Mell couldn’t help the little smile that crept out. “Yet, you don’t seem too happy about the betrothal.”

He sighed again, with no hint of his odd, purple blush on his cheeks. “Well, no. I wasn’t exactly looking to enter a partnership, or raise kids for that matter. My focus has been on my research and locating the Fae World. And my research is not exactly desirable to the Etnfrandians.”

“Well, they tend to have poor taste.” Mell regarded the stove in the corner. “Art isn’t everything to a culture any more than fruit juice is to food.” She watched Fenn nod slowly. Somehow, the betrothal must have been forced. Fenn never had shown romantic interest in any of his pursuers back at the University, and there had been a couple. Wait, did he mention kids? “Oh by Lorthen! Fenn, is she pregnant?!”

“What? No! Don’t be crass!” He cringed away from the mere thought of it.

Mell rolled her eyes. Her eldest had been conceived out of wedlock. Sure, she had plenty of regrets about it, and even more about the subsequent marriage. But it was not impossible. 

Fenn pressed his lips together in thought, then perked up. “So, have you heard anything from your ex-husband lately? The girls should be completely grown and on their own by now, shouldn’t they?”

She squinted at Fenn. He was far too eager. “Yes. They’re grown, so Brandon hasn’t updated me in a while.” She pointed a finger at him. “But don’t change the subject. How did you get yourself roped up in an arranged marriage?” 

 Fenn took in a breath. He ran a hand backward through his hair. It stuck up in the air, off his forehead, and slowly began to lie flat. “Without going into a whole discourse on our marriage culture, this kind of partnership is initiated by the marton-to-be and affirmed by the fathers and patron. My father backed me into a corner. If I had not agreed to the arrangement, we wouldn’t have a cabin to stand in right now.”

This kind? Matron? Patron? No, Mell didn’t understand any of it. “What in Hethbarn does your father have to gain from this?”  As soon as she asked, she realized the answer was obvious. Fenn’s father was a Ceann, as was the girl’s. It was a maneuver for influence. Because of the betrothal connection, Mell had been allowed inside Etnfrandia. The connection must extend to the fathers. 

“Well, political alliance for one. To tie his—”

Mell cut him off. “Nevermind, it was a dumb question. The real one is if the Fyr-Ceann is actually a good person, why not tell her about your research? Explain yourself to her?”

Fenn studied the boots on his feet.

She could not decide if that was shyness or shame. “Oh? Too nervous that she’ll be disappointed?” She nudged him. “Fenn, do you actually like her?” 

“It’s more like,” he wilted under Mell’s questions, “I’m afraid she would report me to the Council.”

“What? Report you?” What council?

“For pursuing illegal knowledge.” He shrunk into his shoulders, not daring to hold her gaze.

Mell’s jaw dropped. “Illegal?” she whispered it by instinct. “Fenn, this is important information! Is it your exploration of the Fae? You have already been there, right?”

“That’s right. Nobody from Etnfrandia knows about the Door, or my trips through it. Nor that I’m actually attempting to locate the gods, or at least the ruins of their temples. Not even that I have ongoing research of magical artifacts.”

She leaned in. It felt as though the very shadows dancing across the windows were listening, barely held at bay by Fenn’s flickering candle. This had been the reason he’d been nervous at the meetinghouse; why his letter had begged for absolute secrecy. She spoke low, “Fenn, What happens if we’re caught? A fine? Some jail time?” 

“That would be the best case scenario.” He stared at his hands, clenched at his stomach.

Mell wished she could bore a hole into his mind and discover what he had been thinking. “Fenn. What. Are. The consequences?”

“For an Etnfrandian, I’d guess exile.”

“Not so bad for you, considering. What about for an outsider?”

“Depends on the crime you are caught for, really.” He looked through a window that faced further into the Greenriver Valley, focused as though he could see someone far away, traversing the woods. “And on the Outsider.”

“Fenn.” She pressed every bit of her impatience into her tone.

“For stealing an artifact, I’d guess a long imprisonment. Lifelong for a human, I’m sure. Not that that would be intentional. We just don’t have a precedent for anything like it.”

“Oh, well lovely.” Sarcasm leaked from Mell’s voice. “And for seeking out the Fae, and the gods, and such?”

“Well, attempting to propagate teachings on them as alive and available in the Faeworld may just get you executed, if it is ruled as dissemination of Forbidden Knowledge and Culture.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if that was not the precise fact he’d clearly been avoiding.

She closed her eyes and held in a groan. Though her clergy had sought the Fae for centuries, she had kept quiet. She was immensely glad she had.

He shifted again. “And then there’d be an execution for any Dark Elf, for any reason.”

Mell stiffened. She should have known he would figure it out. He had studied these things, even visited Brikhvarnn to interview the Night Elves there. But does Syrdin know the danger zhe is in? 

“I’d understand if you wanted to back out.” Fenn was fiddling with his hands now, rubbing at the callous on the side of his left pointer finger, his writing hand.

Mell blinked. “Are you kidding me?” She grabbed him by both of his upper arms and shook him. “I’ve been dreaming of this opportunity for decades. A little advance warning would have been nice, but no one knows what we’re up to, and I’m not about to go preaching to the multitudes of Etnfrandia, so we should be just fine.”

Fenn nodded. 

She let go of him. She had one more question burning on her mind. “But how did you find the passage? To the Faeworld.”

He took a seat at his desk. “Do you remember Professor Spacklebottom? The gnome who left his research to me?

Mell suppressed a snort. She remembered the old coot. In all his eccentricities, one had been an obsession with Faerie lore, from which Fenn had gleaned plentiful knowledge. Near Fenn’s age, he had passed away about five years before Fenn had returned to Etnfrandia.  

“One of his notebooks contained witness accounts of Etnfrandia. In particular, a second-hand witness was a half-elf child of an Etnfrandian abdicator. She spoke of the “last door” between the Wildlands–erm Faeworld and Trueplane. In Etnfrandia.” Fenn went on to describe the many methods he’d employed to locate this “Door.” In the end, he had simply cracked it open–with magic. 

As he meandered down a tangent, Mell took a moment to wonder at how the Door her clergy had been seeking for hundreds of years had simply been sitting “unlocked” in Etnfrandia. How did no one notice?

“There’s so much we don’t know, Mell.” Fenn’s excitement pulled her back to their conversation. “‘Can you really destroy a history without also destroying its people?’ My people are alive, so the history must be there for me to find. It’s there, Mell. I can feel it.”

Mell smiled sympathetically. He had quoted the late professor. She wasn’t sure that his words meant what Fenn believed they did, if they meant anything at all. But the Elves did originate in the Faeworld, as did their gods. “We’ll definitely find something there, Fenn. Here’s hoping it brings you some answers.”

Fenn nodded, then grew silent, staring at his hands as he rubbed them together. “About the betrothal, I wouldn’t worry about it. Once we disappear with those artifacts, I’m sure the Silverstems will cancel the contract.”

So that is how he has chosen to handle the poor girl’s feelings. Avoiding them. Part of Mell wanted to intervene, to make him tell her the truth. A girl deserved some honesty from her beau. But then she didn’t understand their culture, only that Fenn felt trapped. Perhaps it truly would have been worse to inform a Fyr-Ceann that her attention was unwanted.

Fenn glanced outside. “Speaking of, I suppose it has to be dark enough. We better get moving if we are going to get everything done before dawn, when my father will no doubt come demanding your removal. Probably mine, too.” 

He stood and slid an ornate rug over from the center of the room to reveal a trapdoor. He lifted it up and gestured down into what was clearly a cellar. Peering inside, where there should have been barrels of fruits, vegetables, and grains, she saw instead shelves and chests. She clambered down into the dank room. With the trapdoor still open, she could just see his shelves were littered with notebooks, his own volumes upon reed-bound volumes labeled by chronology and subject matter.

Mell smiled. She was glad to know Fenn had created a sanctuary of scholarship in this place. On her left, a shelf stood empty. “No trunk of knick knacks?”

He slid down behind her. “I’ve moved them to my–to our camp on the other side.”

Of course. Mell’s skin prickled with excitement. The Faeworld. They would be there soon. He closed the trapdoor and she was plunged into absolute darkness.