The Origin of Fear

Chapter 22

A week passed. The merging of the Orcs, Thursar, and the Light Elves was a difficult one, but the hostilities between them were not nearly as drastic as Fera and Silvë thought they would be. The Orcish followed their Emperor’s lead loyally. The Elves trusted the Orcish Emperor—not unquestioningly, because they knew of and feared her abilities. But their King had the utmost faith in her, and it put the Elves at ease to see one of their own in charge of recently hostile forces. 

Despite her victories, however, the effects of her loss was what Silvë saw in her. He knew she loved her people, both Orcish and Elvish alike. He knew she loved being in New Alfheim, with him and with Meera and Sonja. But he also knew, without doubt, that Fera was not happy. Though she tried to hide it, it was evident that she missed something—or, rather, someone. And when Meera had noted to Silvë how distraught she seemed to be, Silvë had already had enough. He decided he would send Fera, kicking and screaming, to Asgard, to work out whatever mysterious issues she and Prince Loki had, because he could not stand seeing her so inherently unhappy.

She was alone in the Training Courtyard when he found her. She was not crying, or weeping, which Silvë had spent hours preparing for, but tearing apart the training dummies that had been stationed there. Her long, Asgardian knives glinted in the setting sun as she twirled them around her deftly, and sliced through rows upon rows of soft and stationary foes. Silvë should have expected to find her like this; she was always in the Courtyard, hacking away at the training dummies as if they were her personal antagonists, directly responsible for her troubles. Silvë had been told by Eybrel that her daily dummy body count had been in the hundreds, and recently that number had begun to climb. 

As Silvë pushed open the wooden door with an echoing creak, she turned, her stance defensive, but relaxed when she saw him. Sweat poured down her face and glistened in the dusk. 

“Your Grace,” she murmured, with just a hint of sarcasm as she returned to the dummy she was massacring. 

“Nice out today,” Silvë called, coming toward her in easy strides. 

“It was nicer this morning,” she replied, twirling her blade in her hand deftly and sweeping the head off a dummy behind her without looking. Silvë frowned.

“How long have you been here?” 

Fera shrugged, stilling her blades for a moment. “I’m here as long as I need to be. It helps,”

“Helps with what?” 

Fera shrugged again, and Silvë inwardly groaned in frustration. Fera never told him anything, and was so closed off at times it was difficult to help her. “I have to exorcise my demons somehow,”

Silvë fell silent for a few minutes, and Fera continued to tear through the straw dummies.

“You’re always in here,” he noted to her, breaking the silence.

Fera rolled her eyes, but did not slow. 

“Ever observant,” she replied in a pant, throwing her right-hand knife so it curved through the air and pierced through a dummy’s straw belly, wedging itself into the wood holding it upright. She walked over to it and yanked it out, sweeping it across the dummy’s neck furiously. Silvë sighed again. They were getting nowhere. 

“Why are you still here?” he called to her, stepping forward. 

“I thought we just covered this,” she answered, thrusting a knife through a dummy’s fabric head. “Would you rather me be here putting these dummies to good use, or off in your kingdom, unable to stop myself from looking people in the eye?” 

“Here, definitely,” Silvë murmured. “But that’s not what I meant. Why are you still here?” 

At that, Fera hesitated, and the grip on her knives tightened. “I live here, Silvë,” she said quietly, looking down at her blades.