Journey of the Half-Elf - Book 1

Chapter XIV - The Onslaught

As the ephemeral summer moon hung low in the navy blue sky, Guinevere observed the few stars that she could make out, her green wandering eyes full of admiration. Meanwhile, Gastan passed the time by taking a well-earned rest, warmed by the magically lit fire.

"Father?" The 16-year old asked him as he slept.

"Hm?" He mumbled, his eyes still gently shut.

"Where do you think Mother and Gaiagan are now?"

"Why d'ya wanna know?"

"No reason. I guess... I just hope they're in Ca'haeledh." She responded.

"Ca'haeledh... that's uh... Paradise, right?" Gastan's surprisingly moderate knowledge of Elven religion showed.

"Yes," Guinevere nodded before letting out a brief chuckle, "I thought you already knew this."

"Hey, I ain't that smart. Besides, Ela didn't marry me for my brains." He informed his daughter.

"So what did you two marry for?" Now she was actually curious:
How did a powerful Elven Princess, strong and fierce as she was stunning and feminine, choose some leather-palmed carpenter's boy from the village of Bowcopse to be her husband? And not just marry him, but carry his daughter for nine months? Their love must have been great enough to resist cracking under the weight of her Royal duties, survive the onslaught of disgust and disdain for 'submitting to the enemy'.

"Actually I uh... sorta lied." He opened his eyes. "Your mum and I... we weren't actually married. We just gave each other gold rings and uh... pretended we were."

Guinevere sat there slack-jawed, confounded by his confession.

"I... I am a... bastard?" She pondered.

"Nothing wrong with that. I'm a bastard too.
Look kid," Gastan got up and sat beside her, "Marriage ain't everything. Your mum knew that. Why'd you think she waited decades before having you? Even when all them royal shit-rags kept calling her a whore, she didn't crumble. She stood her ground and didn't let no one control her.

You know... this is gonna sound pretty cruel, but I'm glad most of them royals are dead." He bluntly confessed, angering Guinevere. "Come on Gwinna," he attempted to reverse her seething glare, "You can't deny that they were right shitstains. Not just to your mum, but you too. I hope that bitch Guincilla and her two brats got burnt to fucking ash."

"Are you trying to frustrate me, Father?" Guinevere began her long retort, a searing scowl across her face. "Do you realise that they were not the only people I killed? Do you?! I killed innocents. Not peasants, not farmers, but innocent PEOPLE. People who did not ask to die. I killed all of these men, and women, and children. Not you, not Guingeras, not his soldiers, but ME. You are not the one who had to bury all those bodies, who had to keep digging and digging for hours and hours, for two days straight, burning in this heat, without food, without water. I had to walk and dig barefoot, I did not have shoes. My feet were on the verge of being cut in half. I healed them just in time, along with the rest of my wounds.

I was alone here, Father. You have no, fucking, idea what I went through. And you never will." Guinevere's fiery breaths began to slow down.

"I... I'm sorry, Gwinna. I didn't mean to hurt you." Gastan grew remorseful of his brutally honest words, even if they did come from a good place.
"You're right, I don't know what it's like. But I do know one thing: I'm here for you, kid.
I love you." He showed his suffering daughter, softly placing a hand on her shoulder. Gastan felt how heavy her heart was, how it burst at the seams with guilt and sadness. It was like an infection had ensnared her, an infection as immortal as the burns on her body.