The Origin of Fear

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“Fera?” 

Silvë’s eyes were wide and frightened, and travelled past her to the tall, lethal man who had appeared just behind her, his jet-black hair falling like a curtain around his face as he regarded the war-painted Elf struggling underneath Fera with nothing short of murder in his eyes.   The man had magic; Silvë had seen it when he had appeared in front of him, conjuring thick, dark smoke in an attempt to confuse his men as he began to cut them down. As he came toward him, however, no magic flew off his fingertips, and he did not even reach for the sharp dagger sheathed in his belt; Silvë was sure the man would have torn him apart with his bare hands if Fera had not stepped in.

“Wait!” Fera yelped, jumping off of Silvë and stilling the man by putting a hand to his chest. “He’s not an Orc,” 

“Orc?” Silvë repeated. He rose to his feet, keeping an eye on the glowering man behind Fera, who regarded him with a stance that resembled a cat about to jump on its tiny, field-mouse prey. Silvë held his sword out in front of him defensively, and jumped back as one of his own men came barreling toward him, caught in close combat with a rather rotund man. “Hold! Everyone--hold!” 

His men were no soldiers. They were butchers, breadmakers, and basket-weaving artisans  that had survived the sacking of their city and wished to serve in what little of their army remained. They were loyal men, but not nearly as trained as he would have liked them to be; but he knew that was what came with rebuilding an entire civilization within a single month. Disorganization was to be expected, but he was rather exasperated at not having a well-oiled army to fall behind him as he’d had before their numbers had been decimated and the army all but wiped out. 

His men slowly stopped fighting, a few of them continuing their scuffles until their opponents lowered their weapons. Silvë looked to Fera, who was now clutching the arm of the raven-haired sorcerer behind her for support, her eyes wide as she regarded him. He lowered his sword, and within a half a second she launched herself into his arms. 

“I thought you were dead,” she said quietly. Silvë wrapped his arms around her. She was much slighter than she used to be; it was apparent that the loss of their home had taken as much of a toll on her as it had on him. His gaze flickered to the man behind her, who had not moved, but was watching him with narrow, distrusting eyes, his stance still one that looked like he was ready to tear Silvë apart at any moment. He met Silvë’s gaze and his hand moved toward the dagger on his belt, giving him a sneer. 

“I thought you were dead,” Silvë said, his attention returning to Fera. “The king--” 

“Was murdered,” she answered in a watery voice, stepping away from him and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I know,” 

“Where did you go?” Silvë demanded, looking at the spot in between her eyes. It was a delicate balance and had taken years of him almost meeting her gaze to perfect, but he couldn’t stand the idea of having to lower his gaze to the ground. The others that had come with her had gathered near the dark, fiercely protective man, and were eyeing his soldiers warily. “We searched everywhere for you,”

“I escaped,” she said lowly. 

Silvë looked at the people behind her, who were regarding him with equal contempt. “And the Asgardians took you prisoner?” he asked, his men immediately drawing their swords. 

“No! No, Silvë, they took me in. They saved me. I would have died if it weren’t for them,” she said, glaring at the soldiers behind them. They hastily put away their swords, the clatter of their steel on their scabbards almost making him wince. Silvë peered at her curiously as she continued to stare at them until they were unarmed. That was new; Fera never looked at anyone, and here she was, staring straight at him and throwing glares at whoever threatened her new friends.