Sevensworn

IX. Vok'Xi

"Hold steady!" A woman's voice rang out and Ronan ducked his head, ignoring the shouts from those walking in front of them.

He and Shivaroth had gotten away from the mountain with relative ease, and fallen in with a caravan travelling the east highway. Merchants and refugees from Illirium walked beside them, some with belongings on their backs and others empty-handed, looking as worn and bloodied as they did. The pain and terror around them was tangible.

He had been right about the mortality rate, the last thing he had wanted to predict correctly. There were very few people walking beside them, and those that had made it out looked haunted and hardly spoke. Even as Llyran became visible on the horizon through the light haze of snow and fog, spirits were low and everyone kept to themselves. No one spared he or Shivaroth any second glances, which he was grateful for.

There was no sign of Wynne or Acaeus.

He knew the reality of what they faced, the risk of it, the sacrifices that would have to be made. Foolishly, though, he'd imagined they'd have more time. His death date was set in stone, already decided, but the ones around him were free of that burden, unmarked by prophecy. In his mind, they had a chance to continue on after this mess of a war, and live unconcerned. No matter how hopeless, he kept looking. Maybe they'd made it after all.

He had to believe that was so. He couldn't allow himself to think that Acaeus died with Ronan's betrayal still sharp in his mind, or that Wynne had not seen her wife again before the life left her. If he did, if he gave the treacherous thoughts any ground, he wouldn't be able to go a step farther.

Ronan's vision blurred. He stumbled. Before he could react, Shivaroth caught one of his arms and a stranger caught the other, keeping him upright and holding him steady until he was able to keep moving. The stranger met Ronan's eyes and gave him a solemn nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

"Easy," Shivaroth said. "Not much longer."

"I'm..." Ronan stared blankly at the spot the stranger had stood. "I'm tired."

"I know." Shivaroth's bare feet provided a startling contrast against the snow.

Ronan's brow furrowed, his mind unable to focus on a single topic.

"Are your feet alright?"

"My..?" Shivaroth glanced down and gave a weak chuckle. "The cold will not harm me. You do not need to worry."

"It's not uncomfortable?" An odd conversation for small talk, perhaps, but Ronan's own feet were dragging, and Shivaroth tugged one of Ronan's arms over his shoulders, letting the prince lean against his side.

"I prefer it," Shivaroth murmured, voice soothing. "I find shoes uncomfortable. My feet rarely touched the ground in Serenvah, but when they did, I enjoyed the feeling of the moss beneath my skin." A faraway look came over his eyes. "Aevar wore armor whenever he visited. He would leave heavy footprints, while I left none at all." Ronan looked up as Shivaroth spoke. It was rare for him to bring up other members of the pantheon, but whenever he did, an intriguing quality came about him.

"Did Aevar visit often?"

"He used to visit every evening." A flicker of a smile crossed the god's lips. "I would wait for him. He would sing, occasionally, and he would ask me to join him. I always enjoyed that." Ronan dropped his eyes.

"I'm sorry you lost him," he said.

"I am sorry you did not know him before this," Shivaroth replied. His face was framed by the stark white and gray of the Adacian landscape. "I used to love him, you know. He was my brother."