Meanwhile, at the Fraxous estate, within the Elven Capital
Kith’tharin Bol’ittha, elf’na-fae—and matriarch of the line of Fraxous—paused, paused before the giant double doors before her son’s chambers. Flatly, she regarded the two servants stationed outside, with a steady stare that instantly saw them straighten.
“How long?” she asked.
The elder of the two stepped forward. “Since his return, my lady. He’s refused entree to all but that girl Fae’elen. The—the young master has dismissed three attendants, and declined all invitations that would see him leave his chambers.”
“Three?”
“Ye—yes, my lady. The last was Le’lura this morning. The poor girl left in tears, and her cheek was that of rose...”
Kith’tharin’s lips thinned as a cold, calculative rage bloomed behind her indifferent mask. ‘To strike a servant? A young fae no less? What was that boy thinking? Why—if word got out...’ That was it. She had-had enough. For near two weeks of sulking, and not one attempt to do anything about it.
What a disappointment...
“Leave us,” she said, and with a bow, the servants withdrew.
She waited until their footsteps faded before pushing open the heavy doors herself.
The room was a disgrace.
Heavy curtains had been drawn across the tall windows, shutting out the pale afternoon light. Plates of half-eaten food and empty wine bottles sat haphazardly around the chamber. Sad little mounds of fine garments lay crumpled on the floor; she even spotted a discarded brassiere draped over a chair.
‘At least someone’s fulfilling their duty,’ she thought, taking in the once opulent chamber with a look of simmering disgust.
And there, sprawled across his bed, lay her only son, Leth’tharnian Bol’littha—still dressed in the loose tunic he had apparently slept in. The young ven’s flaxen hair hung untidily about his face, and the shadows beneath his eyes suggested that sleep had offered him little comfort.
He stirred at her entry, and groggily glanced her way.
“My son,” she greeted, letting the doors slam shut behind her. Kith’tharin’s steady gaze passed over the disordered chamber once more before settling upon him. “I ask, are you ill?”
He huffed, “No, mother. I am not ill.”
“Then I presume you have some explanation for... this.” She swept a hand, gesturing around the room.
Leth’tharnian followed her gaze, then shrugged. “I haven't felt inclined to entertain.”
“Entertain?” She repeated the word as though it tasted foul. “I see. So that is what you think of your noble obligations?”
He sighed and rolled onto his back. “Must we begin this again, mother? I’ve well had enough of everyone telling me what I ought to be doing.”
“Oh?” she said, beginning her steady approach. “Then perhaps you should have considered your obligations before making a further spectacle of yourself.”
His expression hardened at her rebuke.
There it was. A flicker of indignation—at least. She had begun to wonder whether even that had been beaten out of him.
“You have no idea what happened... Or—or what they said,” he muttered, in an unpleasant whine.
“Then enlighten me,” she said, drawing closer. “I should be delighted to hear how the circumstances of your further disgrace have somehow rendered you blameless.”
His jaw tightened at her thinly veiled sarcasm.
Having said her piece, she stepped towards the windows and drew back one of the curtains. Afternoon light spilled across the room, illuminating the abandoned wine and the rumpled sheets.
With a groan, Leth’tharnian rolled over and covered his eyes. “Oh—must you, mother?”
“Yes. Yes, I must. Now, get up.”
She drew the remaining curtains aside and turned on the disheveled mess that was her son.
Her disgust was plain and ill-disguised. “All your gifts, and this—this is how you choose to spend your time? As a drunk, wallowing in self-pity? Like some common wastrel? I ask, are you—my son, really so weak as to come undone with a few whispered words, a few thoughtless snickers from those well beneath your notice?”
Leth’tharnian stirred at her remark.
Seeing her words having their intended effect, she continued coldly, “Are you truly so eager to prove yourself a failure, a failure just as disappointing as your father?”
He sat upright. “Do not bring Father into this,” he hissed.
“Why not? You seem so determined to follow his example.”
“That is enough, mother!” he said, tossing his pillow and bedding aside as he near rose to his feet.
“No. No—it is not nearly enough. You are of my blood, child—and I expect you to behave as such!”
For a moment, neither spoke.
She studied her son’s angry features. He had his father's eyes, though little else of the man remained in him. The resemblance had once pleased her. Now, it was a reminder of old mistakes, old compromises, and years spent salvaging what another had nearly squandered.
She had sworn, when Leth’tharnian was born, that she would not see him repeat those same failings. He would be better educated, better connected, better prepared. She had secured tutors whose names commanded respect across the capital; opportunities that other families would have sacrificed fortunes to obtain.
Every advantage had been placed before him. And this, this is what he had become? A boy sulking in squalor, whilst bitterly nursing his wounded pride.
How utterly disappointing...
“You were born of E'drassous and Fraxous, my son. Do you understand what that means?” She asked, a harshness now present in her words.
He looked away. “I—I understand perfectly well.”
His weak, pathetic stammer grated upon her, but she ignored it. “Then I suggest you begin behaving accordingly.”
“Accordingly?” He laughed bitterly. “You speak as though I can simply walk outside and pretend nothing happened! Everyone knows. Everyone! They whisper, they scorn my name. They call me fool, they call me coward!” This chapter was taken from NovelPing without permission.
“Why—of course they do! What else did you expect? You marched thousands of men and elves to their deaths and had the gall to flee, abandoning them to their fate. All this, while leading the tide into untainted lands.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “And now, now the entire kingdom must clean up your mess... I ask again, what exactly did you expect, Leth’tharnian?”
He blanched at her blunt accusation, looking both shocked and wounded by her frankness.
“You have failed, my son. You must accept this, for it is the truth of things.” She took a breath, and allowed her sharp words to settle. “But know that your failure is not yours alone... For it belongs to this house... To our entire line...”
She stepped forward, placing a hand on his slumped shoulder. “My boy, know that every insult you allow unchallenged further diminishes us. Every invitation you refuse gives our rivals another reason to question our judgment... And every day you spend hiding, only confirms what they already suspect...”
His near-hysterical outrage faded with the placing of her comforting hand. “...And—and what is that?”
“That the line of Fraxous is weak and cannot face their failings. And that we—the children of light—require others to clean up our mess...”
His face darkened, as his bitter features became sharper with the rousing of his pride.
‘Good, at least he’s not completely lost,’ she thought, allowing the silence to linger.
There had been a time when she might have softened such words with reassurance. However, reassurance was a poor substitute for discipline and resolve when beset by the scorn of others. The world would not comfort her son when it came to collect its debts. Better that he hear the truth from her now, than face it later...
“You think yourself ruined,” she said at last. “You are not. Not yet—at least. But if you continue like this, my son... you soon will be...”
She watched as the seeds of resolve began to sprout within him. But then the bitterness returned. “And what would you have me do, mother? Parade myself before the court? To have my lessers laugh at my expense?”
She frowned. “I would have you remember that humiliation is only as permanent as you allow it to be.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, really, Mother? How convenient.”
“Convenient? No, no—it is by no means convenient.” Her voice sharpened as she punished his sarcasm with a sudden squeeze, and watching him wince, she released his shoulder. “My son, do you imagine that the rest of us have the luxury of indulging our grievances? Your father's failures nearly cost us everything. I spent years restoring the standing he so easily squandered, and now you would have me watch you completely dismantle all I’ve built. All because you cannot stomach mere whispers of your failings?”
He said nothing as he distanced himself from her wrathful reach.
Seeing his petulance cowed, she took a measured breath, and began pacing the room. “Enough of this... There are matters requiring your attention, and I will not have you stumble blindly into them.”
“What matters?” he asked, looking wronged as he rubbed his pained shoulder.
“The Tower opens in but a few weeks, and I would see you prepared.”
He frowned. “What of it? I have done my time in the Tower, and—”
“—What of it?!” she echoed incredulously. “Why—are you truly so dim-witted, my son?”
He shrank back. “It—it happens every year. Why is this time any different?”
Struggling to restrain her building frustration, she let out a heated breath. And as calmly as she could manage, she explained: “Because this time, my son, more than half of the great lines have their heirs participating, including your would-be wife.”
That drew his attention, albeit reluctantly. “I see... And what is expected of me?”
Kith’tharin clicked her tongue. “You are to be a guest lecturer to the would-be aspirants, and I expect you to comport yourself as a wise and gracious senior whilst you instruct them on the ways of the Tower.”
She crossed to the writing desk, where a sizable stack of correspondence lay haphazardly beside a silver letter opener. Driven by a sudden impulse, she began tidying up his desk.
“Leth’tharnian, know that an opportunity such as this does not come often. The Tower's opening will draw together those who will inherit the wealth, office, and military command of the kingdom. It is one of—if not the—greatest chance for them to prove themselves worthy of their would-be station. They will remember who distinguished themselves, who proved useful, and who was conspicuously absent.”
“And you believe my presence will somehow change their opinions of me?”
She turned to face him. “No, my son. I believe your absence will settle them permanently.”
Upon hearing her words, he gazed down, and whilst clenching his idle hands, he considered the consequences of further inaction. His pride remained wounded, yes, but the prospect of being excluded from the company of his peers had struck a more effective nerve than she expected.
‘Good,’ she thought, picking up some of the garments draped about the chamber.
“The Tide’s attack has already altered the balance of the court,” she continued. “The council is divided over how to respond to its incursion. Some demand reinforcements for the eastern marches. Others argue that we must preserve our strength until the extent of the threat is known.”
She reluctantly picked up the discarded brassiere, and with a look of distaste, she flung it across the room. “Meanwhile, everyone is maneuvering to ensure that someone else bears the cost.”
He huffed, “Then perhaps they should concern themselves with the Tide rather than the continuous squabble over minor profit and petty intrigues.”
“Perhaps,” she replied coolly, “But they do not. And wishing that they did will not change the matter.” Despite her efforts, the chamber still looked a mess. Giving up on seeing the room look the least bit presentable, she moved to the window beside Leth’tharnian’s bed.
She stood there, admiring the distant spires of the capital through the glass. “Do you know what they are saying about our failed campaign?”
His silence was answer enough.
“They say we overreached; that we committed too much to a venture whose rewards were uncertain. That our judgment is no longer what it once was...”
“They weren't there,” he snapped. “They know nothing of what happened, nor the monsters we faced...”
Appreciating the city’s beauty, she ignored his outrage. “They know that our coffers are diminished, that our influence has suffered, and that the campaign yielded none of the gains we promised. To the court, those facts are sufficient to see us face condemnation and ridicule.”
“They would see us bled dry, and then mock us for it.”
“Then give them something else to discuss, my son.”
“And how would I do that?”
She turned. “At last, you ask a sensible question...”
Returning to the desk, she lifted a sealed letter bearing the crest of Querkus; a mighty black oak haloed by golden light. It was a letter from his would-be in-laws.
He frowned. “I thought the matter was settled.”
“It was progressing satisfactorily,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That is not the same as ‘things being settled’. Your prospective bride's family has heard the rumors. They have begun asking whether our proposed alliance remains advantageous. Know that their patience is not infinite, and neither is mine.”
“So now I'm to be paraded before them until they are satisfied that I'm sufficiently obedient?”
“You are a ven, a ven of Fraxous; you are to prove that you remain a worthy match for their heir.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you will be discarded as I discarded your useless father.”
His mouth twisted as his eyes flared. “I am not a bargaining token—subject to your every whim.”
“No, no—you are not,” she said. “A bargaining token has the luxury of being discarded when it ceases to be useful. You—my son, do not.”
The words struck harder than she intended. And for a fleeting moment, she saw something other than anger in his expression.
It was hurt. Hurt that she would so blatantly use him in pursuit of her own ambitions.
She nearly reached for him. Nearly.
Instead, she straightened the cuff of her sleeve and announced: “Listen carefully. The tower's opening offers you an opportunity to restore your standing. You will attend. You will give your lecture. And you will present yourself with dignity as you cultivate the company of those that would strengthen our position.”
He scoffed. “And if they have no interest in speaking with me?”
“Then you will give them a reason to.” She sighed. “Leth’tharnian, your campaign has cost us much. We must begin somewhere, and for the moment, you are the most useful instrument available to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “How comforting, mother.”
“I did not come here to comfort you, my child.”
“—No. You came to remind me that I am a disappointment.”
She paused; for feeling the weight of his bitterness, she could not instantly find the words to counter so blunt an accusation.
“...I came because you are my son, and despite your failings, I have yet to give up on you.”
The emotional admission escaped far more rawly than she intended. And for a moment, she regretted it. It offered him something he might mistake for leniency, or worse, an invitation to seek the very reassurance she had so often denied.
It was not her way to foster such dependency in her children, for it was not a weakness she wished her progeny possessed.
Her voice hardened as she made for the door. “Tomorrow, you will begin preparing your lecture. I want you to think about your own time in the Tower and advice you would have appreciated going in... The more impactful and useful, the better.”
“And if I fail again?”
Kith’tharin stopped at the door.
Beyond it lay the immaculate corridors of the Fraxous estate, the portraits of ancestors who had built their fortunes through conquest, diplomacy, and calculated sacrifice.
Truly, it was a bitter shadow of what once was. They had lost much with the fall of Leth’thindaria. She had spent her life ensuring that their descendants would inherit something worthy of their name.
She would not allow it to end with her.
“Then you will learn,” she said quietly, “how little you are worth, without the name of your line behind you.”
She left him without another word as the heavy chamber doors creaked closed behind her.
For several moments, Kith’tharin stood motionless in the corridor, soaking in the silence of the estate. She had given him an opportunity, perhaps his last, to prove that the blood of Fraxous still possessed some measure of its old ambition.
Whether he would seize it remained uncertain.
She resumed her walk, her expression composed as she passed the busy servants.
There was much to be done before the tower opened. Debts to renegotiate. Alliances to secure. Rivals to watch.
And a son to salvage.
They had survived the fall.
But she, she would see them thrive.
For she—Kith’tharin Bol’ittha, matriarch of the line of Fraxous—had never mistaken survival for virtue. It was simply the first obligation of those who wished to retain their power. She would see her line seize their rightful place. Or she would perish in the attempt...
For to her, there existed no other option...
“Quite often the disposition of the great lines is a direct reflection of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs that rule them. Some are gentle and nurturing. Some are fierce and protective. But all... All are ambitious before the elevation of their line and their pursuit of ever more power...”
—Lord Dardylon Mantous, High-lord and master of Rivers Reach