Sun and Shadow

The moor was silent. Mist covered the countryside, its smoky fingers winding around even the tallest peaks of the Daehir Mountains that lay to the east. Settled uncomfortably within the middle of the flat, dying heath was a ramshackle manor, surrounded by a weary and morose village. The sun had barely crested over the horizon, casting a pallid, almost ethereal light over the land, causing the sickly grass to turn the color of scorched bronze. Morning was approaching upon the failing hall of Rochdor.

The pale sunlight streamed through the window, placing its wiry fingers upon Eremin’s closed lids. With a soft groan of discontent, he opened his cerulean eyes, and was met with the dreary site of his bedchamber. The walls were of cold stone, occasional patches of lichen and mildew appearing here and there between cracks in the mortar.

Sliding out from underneath his thick quilt, for the weather seemed adamant in changing its wintry mindset, despite the season being late spring; the young prince shuddered at the feel of the frostbitten carpet beneath his feet. He knew it must have been before sunrise, for that was the usual time in which one of the manor’s few servants would arrive to wake, dress, and escort him to the dining hall, where he would eventually be fed, and no one had come.

Walking over to his wardrobe, Eremin quickly changed from his bedclothes to the standard court wear for children of the lord, shivering violently each time the frigid air touched his bare skin. He wished desperately that he had the luxury of a fireplace, like his older siblings did.

After getting dressed, Eremin strode down the silent halls of Rochdor, slowly and with little purpose. He briefly considered going to the kitchens to inquire about the possibility of having a premature breakfast, but quickly dismissed that. Judging by the still pale morning sky, he assumed that even the early-rising cooks were still in their beds.

Wandering out to the front stair the led to the door into the manor, Eremin mentally settled for saddling up his horse, Mornim, and going for a quick gallop. As he descended the steps towards the village (and the lord’s stables), he suddenly caught a glimpse of darkness, a deeply contrasted speck upon the horizon of the barren, dead plains.

Stopping, Eremin watched as the figure got closer. It was now much more distinct, and he could make out the form of a horse and rider. Both were as black as night. His eyes widening, Eremin began to panic. That rider came from the west, where the land of Amarthimlad lay.

Sprinting back up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest, the prince began to frantically think of reasons why a rider would be coming from Amarthimlad, the land of shadows.

Running into the dining hall, Eremin was greatly relieved to see his parents sitting at the head of the table, being served their breakfast.

“My lord!” He shouted, sprinting over to his father, Anorsid’s, chair. Looking up, the lord was surprised to see his youngest son running over to him.

“Eremin, my son – what is it?” He questioned as the prince briefly dropped to one knee by his side.

“Father, I have spied a dark rider coming in from the west.” Eremin panted, his sweaty hand tightly clutching the arm of his lord’s chair.

“The west? That must mean they’re from Amarthimlad…” Anorsid murmured, turning to face his wife, a look of worry etched upon their faces.

“What could this mean?” The lady Nenithil whispered, setting her spoon down. “Our family has had a truce with Elavaetu for the past two decades at least… Perhaps this is a declaration of war?” She questioned, brushing a few stray pieces of chocolaty hair out of her eyes.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t.” Anorsid declared, standing. “Come, let us meet this stranger, and see what it is that he wants.” With a nod, his family members swiftly followed him outside, stepping out onto the front steps just as the rider was galloping through the gates into the manor.

The horse was slowed to a trot, and eventually to a halt, and the darkly cloaked rider dismounted. Eremin noticed his father stiffen slightly, and his mother wringing her hands. The prince judged by the rider’s frame that he couldn’t be much older than himself, but, then again, those who dwelled with Amarthimlad seemed to grow differently than those who lived within the light.

“What business does a rider of Amarthimlad bring to these halls of Rochdor?” Anorsid commanded, his voice appearing strong on the outside, but Eremin was able to notice the quivering fear that lurked below the mask.

The young man stepped forward, his face invisible beneath a hood the color of midnight. Eremin stiffened as a silky, almost dangerous voice emerged from the cloak.

“I bring news from Amarthimlad…” He murmured, his voice thick with the strange, lovely accent that the residents of Amarthimlad possessed.

“Continue.” Anorsid commanded, his eyes cold. The rider took a deep breath, as though he did not wish to speak. After a moment’s hesitation, however, speak he did.

“I bring a declaration… of war.”

“War?!” Eremin found himself shouting, and began to run forward, but his mother’s hand on his shoulder stayed him. The messenger, however, remained silent, one of his hands absently stroking his horse’s heaving side. Anorsid scowled, although you could barely call it a crack in the stony glare.

“…who are you? Show yourself, rider.” He demanded. The young man gave the slightest of nods as he reached up to remove his hood.

There were two crystalline red eyes, staring darkly at his family from a pale, deep-set face, bordered by silvery hair, which, when caught within the weak rays from the sun, seemed to shimmer and turn lavender. The rider made a dangerously beautiful creature, with his dark radiance.

Eremin had never expected anyone from the shadowy land of Amarthimlad to look as though they had just emerged from the heavens above. It seemed unnatural. Glancing at his parents, even they seemed shocked at this rider’s beauty. The young man, however, seemed unaffected by their stares – Anorsid’s borderline angry, Nenithil’s unabashedly enraptured.

“My name is Daerana…” The rider whispered, his voice quiet, yet still imposing, as though he was challenging anyone to oppose him. “I am the youngest prince of Amarthimlad, son of Elavaetu and younger brother to Iamor…” The lord stiffened, his jaw set.

“And why does the prince of shadows come to the realm of light to discuss battle with us?” Anorsid questioned.

“… I no longer have an allegiance with Amarthimlad… I have fled.” Daerana murmured, locking gazes with all three of them. Eremin shuddered. He knew that those bloody eyes had seen things that no one should ever see, all the things that happened under the watchful eye of the lord of shadows.

“I don’t know myself… but…” The prince looked down, strands of silver hair falling to cover his face.

“There was something deep within me that was telling me to come here… As soon as my father announced that he would begin to prepare the soldiers for war, I felt a stirring within the depths of my heart… And, so, I took Seregithil and ran.” He finished, giving his ebony horse a gentle pat, as though to confirm his method of defection.

“You claim that your allegiances lie elsewhere, but how are we to know that you aren’t going to revert to your previous ways?” Anorsid commanded, his trust within this dark young man wavering. How was he supposed to believe a former denizen of Amarthimlad?

“I’m afraid that the only proof you’ll have is my word. I know not of anything that happened before my birth between Amarthimlad and the realm of light, but I will not allow history to repeat itself… I swear it.” Daerana finished, his eyes morose and pleading. Eremin knew he was telling the truth, that his alliance would not waver, but his father refused to believe this. However, before Eremin could argue against his father’s obvious thoughts, his mother beat him to it.

“My lord.” She said, stepping forward, her blue eyes wide. “Do not think this to be a trap, for I believe that it is not… Why would Elavaetu bother sending a lone messenger to warn us of battle when the element of surprise would be much more efficient in defeating us? The lord of shadows is not nearly so naïve… Please, you must believe this young man.” Nenithil finished, her hands tightly clasped. It was not customary for the lady of the manor to make such decisions, and although they did have a say in the law and order of the land, it was never thrust upon the woman of the hall to declare war, even if the lord was unable to do so for any reason – that duty was passed on to the steward of the court.

Anorsid sighed as he looked at his wife, his dark brown eyes meeting her watery gaze. Turning back to face Daerana, his mouth set into a thin line, he gave a small nod.

“I accept your word.” He said, causing the corners of the prince’s mouth to twitch in what Eremin assumed to be a grim smile.

“Very well. Many thanks, my lord. Now, the first course of action shall be to prepare the warriors of this realm for battle.” Daerana said, his scarlet eyes fixed upon Eremin’s anxious face. Eremin didn’t like the sound of any of this. Battle and bloodshed… It wasn’t as though he had never engaged in battle before, but, the thought of an all-out war between the light and the shadow… It seemed incomprehensible. He felt a few beads of sweat collecting on the back of his neck, and his fists clenched involuntarily. He knew that war would be upon them… and it was unavoidable.

“War?” It was a question Eremin had soon become incredibly tired of hearing. It was his younger sister Nimeryn who had spoken this time, and Eremin prepared himself for another one of Daerana’s explanations. He amusedly noticed that they got shorter and much more exasperated each time.

“Elavaetu wishes to consume the realm of light with darkness… I believe that he’s searching for a certain weapon, something that will give him total control over all the land… However, I have no idea what that might be…” Daerana sighed, threading a pale, bony hand through his hair to rest against his temple, his elbow propped against the table to support the weight.

“How are we to fight? Elavaetu’s warriors are increasing in number, and we don’t have nearly enough soldiers to match him.” Eremin’s older brother, Aremegil, questioned.

He was a strong young man, barely a year older than Eremin, with dark brown hair and eyes like bleached sapphire. Along with Eremin, he was in line to claim the lord’s throne, and Eremin fully thought that Aremegil would obtain it. He seemed to Eremin to be infinitely better at everything Eremin tried to do, although he never tried to turn it into a contest – it was just the way things were. Needless to say, his brother’s accomplishments made Eremin’s life, especially recently, much more anxious and packed with unfulfilled expectations, or so it felt.

“I haven’t put much consideration into that aspect… we could attempt to rally up the residents of as many cities and towns as we can, and assemble them into as large an army as the hall can withstand.” Daerana continued.

“But who would lead the army?” asked Arasea, Eremin’s eldest sister. At once, all gazes fixed upon the weary Anorsid, who was seated at the head of the table, looking much older than 38.

“I’m getting old…” He sighed, and stroked his graying beard as though on cue. “My time as the lord of Rochdor is ending… I’m in no condition to lead an army, but I’m sure that I could hold my own if the time comes.” He added with a watery smile. Nenithil grabbed his hand softly, her lips pressed in a tight line.

“It is time for me to choose my successor.” Anorsid sighed. There was an audible gasp from the table’s occupants. Eremin and Aremegil’s gazes met for a moment, before reverting back to stare at their father. Eremin knew how much this one decision would change both of their lives. He couldn’t hold back a fearful shudder.

“I won’t force so much pressure upon you two on such short notice…” The lord continued, his words directed at his two nervous sons. Eremin began to wring his hands nervously. He knew he wouldn’t be chosen as the heir. For one, he was the youngest, and he knew right out that he wasn’t even close in comparing to Aremegil’s general qualities of leadership and compassion. Why did Anorsid even bother?

“I’ll make my decision tonight, and relay the news tomorrow…” Anorsid wheezed, squeezing Nenithil’s hand as he granted his subjects with a watery smile.

“I can still barely believe that I’m having to make this decision… such fine young sons I have been gifted with… to be able to see one of you take your rightful place as the lord of Rochdor makes me proud to be your father.” Despite himself, Eremin couldn’t help but feel his heart leap and his eyes prick at his father’s words.

“Now… let us sleep. I hope you dream of pleasantries, for I believe that all that the future holds for us is dark times… Although I am thankful that matters will soon be in more capable hands.” And with those grim words, Anorsid gathered his robes and swept away from the table, leaving his bewildered, speechless company alone in the oppressive atmosphere.

That night, it seemed as though sleep and Eremin were reluctant to find each other. He sat up in his bed, wrapped in his quilt, shivering – but not just from the cold.

Thoughts ran through his head. Tomorrow would be the day that his father would finally choose his successor, and Eremin believed that even with a hundred years worth of preparation, he would never really be able to face the truth – that Aremegil would always surpass him. Eremin and his brother had never had a competitive relationship, but it seemed as though Aremegil was constantly besting him at every sort of task imaginable. Eremin had initially believed this to be because Aremegil was a year his senior, but as he got older, this tiny hope of possible accomplishment died a sad death, and Eremin eventually accepted the sorry fact that he would never be able to live up to his brother.

And then there was the looming war. Ah, yes, the ever-present thought of riding into battle, with the morale-crippling lack of banners flying, swords flashing, and actual soldiers, was not a particularly helpful one in comforting Eremin’s already frantic mind. He couldn’t even imagine in his wildest dreams riding into any sort of battle, much less one that boiled down to light against shadow, the two most powerful forces in the world. The sheer magnitude of such a fight made his heart want to leap out of his chest, and his body became coated with a nervous sweat. Even the thought of his older brother (soon to become his lord) leading the army wasn’t enough to sooth his ragged nerves. In fact, it just made the thought of battle worse. Even if he did manage to keep himself alive, (he had no doubt that Aremegil would be able to fight off anything that came his way) he would get none of the glory. No, all of that would go to his brother. Aremegil would refuse any rewards offered - being his kind, modest self - but he would never think to offer any of it to his little brother… when it came to war, or anything that mattered, really, Eremin was always ignored.

Sitting up in his bed, ignoring the biting cold that the stone walls only seemed to amplify, Eremin made his decision. He wasn’t needed here, he would never be needed here again. He was just part of the background, rarely noticed and never called upon. They would barely notice his absence, and even if they did, he would soon be forgotten. Who would ever remember a pale imitation of brilliance like himself? Aremegil was the only one they would ever need. They would be better off without him.

Getting out from underneath his covers, Eremin walked over to his window and opened the two glass doors, allowing a chilly wind to wash over him like water. Ignoring the pinpricks of cold that brought shivers all over his body, Eremin took a deep breath of the brisk night air. He would have to get used to it- he’d be dealing with the frigid darkness for quite a while.

Quickly and quietly, he proceeded in dressing himself, his heart racing. Thoughts of regret rose in the back of his head, but he quickly stifled those with simple wonderings of whether or not he’d actually be able to go through with his plan.

Eremin soon found himself creeping as swiftly as possible down the dark, echoing hallways, his head snapping back in forth with hysterical, paranoid eyes shining darkly from his pale, drawn face.

After a quick trip to the kitchens, where he grabbed as much food as his saddlebags could comfortably hold, placing it in a small burlap sack for easy transportation; he snuck quietly out of the side door and tore for the stables. With indistinct whispers, he slipped Mornim a few of the sugar cubes he had nicked from the kitchen, his hand gently stroking the white blaze on the bay’s forehead.

It was as he was just finishing making one last check on the girth when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Wheeling around, Eremin was only half surprised to see Daerana’s crimson gaze staring at him from the darkness of the stable.

“Yes, I do. You don’t understand.” Eremin protested, buckling the girth with much more force than necessary, causing Mornim to startle for a brief moment before Eremin patted his neck to calm him down.

“But what of your family? Will they not miss you?” Daerana asked to Eremin’s back, his voice resonating throughout the stables despite its soft volume.

“I’m not needed here. They would notice my absence about as much as they would notice another cloud in the sky. Aremegil is the only prince they need – I might as well just have never been born.” Eremin explained, a hint of sadness in his voice despite earlier vowing to himself never to feel regret about his actions again.

“Where are you going to go? There’s nowhere that you can hide… Elavaetu’s forces will grow and infiltrate the entire realm of light… Nowhere is safe.” Daerana murmured, his voice as emotionless and unrevealing as ever. Wheeling around angrily, Eremin strode over, a finger pointed threateningly at Daerana’s face.

“Who are you to say such things?! Amarthimlad filth! You barely know the meaning of the word ‘feeling’, much less anything involving my emotions! We should have sent you off as soon as you arrived… you’ve brought nothing but despair.” Eremin spat before turning and walking back towards Mornim. Daerana looked to the ground, his red eyes half-closed, silvery hair shining lavender in the moonlight.

Eremin swung himself onto Mornim’s back, steadying the gelding with a light vibration of the reins, for the horse had startled. Setting off at a walk, he strode past Daerana, purposely refusing to meet the other’s bloody gaze. Before he was out the door, however, Daerana spoke again.

“It’ll be lonely, won’t it?” Eremin stiffened, his grip on the reins tightening.

“You need them, whether you like it or not. And they need you, contrary to your beliefs. They care about you, my prince… There is still time to repent… you don’t have to go through with this.” Daerana echoed. Eremin’s voice was soft, but fierce.

“Don’t even attempt at such a pathetic excuse of a lie, dark scum. We’ve only known each other for less than a day – as if I would believe that you, of all people, could care for me. I know already that my family doesn’t care; they haven’t cared for 15 years… you would think I’d have noticed by now.” With these words, his resolve was stiffened. With a light, unnecessary kick to Mornim’s sides, Eremin galloped out of the stable, and could soon be seen exiting the manor and running through the barren plains, parallel to the Daehir Mountains.

Motionless in the stable, Daerana watched him, his sharp, red eyes able to track the prince’s every moment. With a grim smile, Daerana walked over to Seregithil’s stall, allowing the shadowy horse to sink his teeth into his finger, searching for the rosy blood that would not flow. As Eremin galloped out of Daerana’s range of vision, the former prince sighed, and murmured to the night,

“You will return, Eremin, son of Anorsid… Despite your denial, your family will need you… we will all need you. The realm of light will not be safe without you. But for now, flee like fall on the wings of winter… I pray that by the end of all this, you will have found at least a semblance of identity deep within the troubled waters of your heart.”