Chương 25: Chapter 23

Mallorn's Cave Mallorn the elf Speaking with his mother was always a strange and uncomfortable experience. She had given birth to him, sure, but they seemed persistently incapable of understanding each other. The habits of elves made this no simpler; he distinctly recalled a period of four or five years where she simply wasn't present at all, having apparently gone off to do some task for the Elven Monarch. What task that was? He didn't know.

No matter how many times he'd asked, a straight answer was never given to him, and eventually he'd just written off the entire task as a lost cause. Learning why she was gone didn't really accomplish anything for him, so there was no point in putting forth any more fruitless effort towards figuring it out. Those early days were mostly occupied by his older sisters and nannies doing their best to corral and socialize him. For a while, this distracted him.

Babysitting other kids his age wasn't his idea of a good time, but it was tolerable while they still looked like the children they were. It became increasingly intolerable as they got older and older but still acted like children, chasing bugs in fields, playing simple games, attending imaginary tea parties, and so on. As a child? He could roll his eyes and play along. As a preteen? That was irritating but something he could ignore. As a teenager it was simply insufferable.

The moment he cracked was when he was invited to one such imaginary tea party by a handful of elves unfamiliar to him. When asked how old they were, they told him in an infuriatingly roundabout manner they ranged between sixty and eighty years, giggling into their hands, frilly dresses all adorned, females and effeminate males both. It was at that moment Rasil decided he wanted nothing to do with these people. He was a child of about eleven by then.

He walked away without a word and left the people who should absolutely be adults by now to their own devices. The very next day he stopped babysitting his peers and started as many rigorous bodyweight exercises as he could, a habit he never stopped. Mother returned about a year after this, speaking in very similar roundabout ways and her bearing nigh-expressionless.

It was the first time he actually remembered meeting her, standing in the foyer and flanked by maids and guards, his previous interactions with her having been while he was too young to recall much of anything. Most of that 'conversation' had been extended periods of them staring at each other until he asked to leave. The rest of their interactions had followed similar patterns. He had exaggerated earlier in explaining this by saying 'once per year', but only slightly.

He'd had a 'conversation' with his mother once during each major holiday, and on the rare occasions where he'd had to swallow his pride and ask for something. These conversations had been yet more periods of extended expressionless staring and confusing-to-parse roundabout words until they'd ended and he'd been able to go back to other things. They'd been cordial conversations, at least, but that was about the extent of it. Needless to say, a hug like this was slightly bewildering to him.

After the obligatory period of allowing her to touch him, he gave two good pats on her back and slackened his hold, clearly indicating that he wanted to be released already. As much as a hug was nice to receive, he was a grown man at this point and hugs weren't something he needed all that often. She took quite a bit longer to actually slacken her hold and let him go, and even then she hovered uncomfortably close. And just as every other time, he didn't really know what to say to her.

He glanced away, looking to the elven knights in overly skimpy armor searching the cave. His eyes trailed over to the great elephantine corpse of the dragon, and questions returned to his mind. He focused on those- they were easy.

"You said you were the one to injure Malamadr, correct?" His ears twitched as he scowled thoughtfully.

"We did," she answered with a tiny incline of her head, eyes still utterly focused upon him.

"Lady Titania smelled your scent upon her guised form, and confronted her in Duram-Mandom. My Familiar fled to summon us, and we arrived after a time." She tilted her head, eyes finally pulling away to look at the corpse with him.

"Our manastar struck her flank, and crippled her thoroughly. Our second manastar was not swift enough, and she fled back to her lair. My familiar pursued." Whatever a 'manastar' was, it sounded both powerful and too expensive to really be worth it most of the time.

"Whereupon I ambushed her," he continued with a firm nod and little sharp grin.

"It's good that she was injured already, it limited her means of battle greatly- I was able to predict almost every movement and counter accordingly."

"It is not a feat that will ever be forgotten," Mother declared with an intense but blank stare, and a hard but flat voice. It was almost impossible to tell what exactly she was thinking.

"For as long as elves record history, this will be remembered." The fairy was still engaging in a full-body hug of his head, limbs thoroughly tangled in his blood-drenched hair.

"You can say that about everything," he grumbled, long held frustrations bubbling to the surface.

"I've seen the scrolls- we record the things no one cares about. Saying this won't be forgotten doesn't mean anything." There was silence for a time, before a thought occurred to him.

"Wait- Titania confronted her in Duram?"

"Duram-Mandom," his mother blankly corrected.

"What was Titania doing in Mandom?" His brows scrunched together and his head tilted, ears going asymmetrical.

"You didn't send her after me, did you?"

"We did not," his mother clarified.

"She pursued you without orders, and delivered a message back informing us of your fleeing and her chase." Why was his combat tutor chasing him over the countryside? That's neither what she was hired for nor something he would've really expected from the proper and precise lady-knight. At best he would've predicted that she'd send a scout to follow him, as that would be 'their proper duty, t'would be best to not deprive them of such.' To chase him personally was just strange. His ears pulled back.

"A battle occurred in the town then… What are the casualties?"

"Immense." His eyes glanced at his mother briefly, before going back to the corpse and the hoard. It didn't take much time at all to decide what to do.

"... I suppose I can part with some of my new treasure- to fund the rebuilding. I've little use for this much gold. The corpse will need to be brought back, they need a victory to justify the deaths, and Malamadr has long plagued their halls from what I've been told." He inclined his head.

"I can think of no better apology than her death- and the opportunity to render her into my arms and armor."

"An Elven master can process the corp-" his mother began. He interrupted her.

"No. That would ruin the story." He turned to stare at her more directly, even as uneasy as looking at her was making him.

"Malamadr was their enemy- their foe and curse. It must be a master of their hold that renders her. For some utterly unrelated Elven smith to touch the corpse is nothing short of an insult." He turned away.

"I might have had the honor of slaying her and claim the right to her scales, but I will not take anything else from the sons of Erem. The joys of cleaning this kill will be theirs and theirs alone, that closure must belong to them." There were a great many reasons he had for this, but he wasn't sure if he could string together a series of words sufficient to describe them. A too-tangled knot of motivations and emotions burning and stirring in his breast, one that he couldn't begin to untangle.

A much simpler solution was to simply cut the knot entirely, and move along unburdened by it. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. All he knew was that this was the right course of action- and he couldn't quite parse why beyond the reasons he had stated. A sympathetic pride, maybe. Mother stared at him for a long few moments, before giving a tiny nod and turning to address one of her knights.

"Dame Maria. Return through the waygate and request the aid of what giants remain standing. Tell them what has occurred here, that a great corpse and great haul of treasure must be moved. That my son has slain the dragon in single combat." The words made his heart swell with heady pride. It was difficult to keep the sense of triumphant victory from his face. He glanced down- reaching up to call the knight to stop before she leapt from the cave- Too late. She was beyond sight at once.

"Shit," he cursed, stumbling forwards and looking around.

"I'm naked- I need something to cover myself before they arrive." A few moments later, he was surrounded by elven knights holding various lengths of cloth and silk ripped from the walls of the cave itself- splashing him again with blood from their vision-blurring speed. A credit to their station- the knightmaids were useful to have around. Shame they all had identically pretentious expressions on their faces, otherwise he may have had a positive opinion about them.

— It did not take long for the older dwarves, the taller trolls and a handful of giants to make their way through the waygate- most of them having to crouch low to get through the archway and take stock of the cave. One of them held himself as the obvious leader, a giant by any description, immense and broad with limbs as thick as some of the thickest tree trunks. Perhaps as tall as a windmill in absolute scale, with horns thick and long enough to hang carriages from.

His beard was long and white, braided and bound in study clasps, and hung just past his waist. His armor was dominated by layers of gambeson, sturdy leather, and relatively small plates of overlapping steel scales. His eyes were a shade of pale gold, and his horns scraped the roof of the cave. The only natural reaction, of course, was to stand tall and with blood-stained axe displayed proudly, blood of the dragon up to his ankles and modesty barely retained through a tapestry torn from the walls.

His mother stood next to him, spearstaff leaned against her shoulder and ears pulled back. The knight-elves stood about, surrounding the two of them in a wide circle. The giant was still and careful as he took in the sight of the cave, the immense piles of stained treasures and the corpse of the dragon, flanked by trolls with bearded helms wielding longhammers and halberds. His own weapon, a sort of hammer clearly carved from an immense femur bone, hung on his belt with tip scraping against the cave floor.

It was honestly embarrassing to stand before a number of well-clad warriors with heavy plates and sturdy weapons while flanked by what could pass off as particularly modest strippers with pointy ears. Dammit, mom- he's trying to look cool in front of the giants and your tits are about to fall out, can't your 'battle' attire be decent? One of the trolls was inspecting the injuries of the corpse- and the mouth most critically, and gave a firm nod.

An immense grunt came from the lead giant, as his eyes turned from the corpse to him.

"All evidence is in line- so you have slain the Half-Horned." The voice rolled like distant thunder, all together too immense and deep to come from anything but a giant. He nodded shortly, making sure to exaggerate his movements so the immense mountainfolk could see them.

"I am!" he called out with his best common.

"Though I slew her in single combat- I could not have won if she had been uninjured-""Bah," the lead giant gruffed, interrupting his words with a tiny shake of his head- which still sent those immense horns moving many feet with enough speed to impale.

"Modesty for a great deed is insulting, little elf." His mother bristled next to him, ears pulling back. He considered that statement for a moment, before letting a little grin come to his face. He understood. He raised his axe and slammed the butt of it against the floor, letting the sound echo through the cave.

"YES- I HAVE!" he roared out, even as his ribs protested.

"I HAVE SLAIN THE HALF-HORNED IN SINGLE COMBAT! BARE AS THE DAY OF MY BIRTH AND AXE IN HAND! BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST, I CLAIM HER HOARD AND CORPSE!" It was impossible to tell their expressions through their masked and bearded helms, but their shoulders began to tilt and their eyes focused upon him. Mother and her warriors tensed, but he ignored them and increased the bravado of his boasting. He widened his stance and raised the axe to point at the lead giant, arm shaking with the strain.

"WARRIORS OF EREM- YOUR LONG-FOE LIES DEAD AT MY HAND! WHERE IS MY VICTORY-FEAST?! WHERE IS MY DRINKING-HORN AND WHY IS IT EMPTY? YOU'RE SLACKING IN CELEBRATIONS!" Laughter started to rumble from the gathered mountainfolk. Laughter, the tramp of boots, and the sound of rustling metal scales.

"Hrng," the lead giant let out a long and terribly friendly grunt at that, not quite laughing but distinctly amused in tone.

"That's more like it- Rare is the elf that understands the proper times to be proud."

"They do it all backwards." Mallorn shook his head with sympathetic frustration, ignoring the focused stare from his mother.

"I slipped for a moment there- I'll have to keep my elvishness in mind." Distinct rumbling laughter from that, as the giant let out an immense grumble.

"You speak to Fjolsvoir, little elf. Elder of Clan Goldendoor."

"You speak to Mallorn, immense-one." He grinned.

"Mallorn who-is-Rasil, of House Greenwood."

"Hrm. Son of Drasil, Son of Brasil, of the Line of Yig then?" The giant recounted at once, head tilting slightly.

"Then you would be his mother- wife of Drasil- Tylwyth of House Teg." He turned slightly to see his mother incline her head.

"We express our astonishment- that there was even a single non-elf that managed to remember such simple things." His ears flattened and he let out a low irritated hiss. A genuine statement worded in the most pretentious and insulting manner possible. Sure enough, mother was an elf.

"Hm." The giant was suitably unimpressed, grunting and turning his eyes away from her, lowering an immense hand down to rest against the floor- palm up.

"Come now- Son of Drasil. Your stature does not fit your deed- in honor of your kill, I'll lend my own." He took a moment to parse that statement, before grinning and moving forwards boldly, ignoring the reaching hand of his mother and stepping into the palm of the giant, placing a hand on the raised pinky to brace himself.

"My thanks, your immenseness, my legs do me no credit."

"Hrng." The giant grunted in an agreeable fashion, then nodding at the others.

"Come now- a return march must be made, with corpse and hero on full display. It's best to be prompt in our arrangements." A very quick strategy meeting proceeded as the gathered figured out the best way to show off the victory when they came back through the waygate. — Through the archway of stone and simmering lights, the smallest of the trolls marched out, boots bloody and horns high.

They carried immense loads of treasure on their backs and in their hands, in trunks and chests and bags and piles, loot overflowing and coins spilling as they moved in lockstep. These were the first to greet the old battlefield, and they sang a dwarvish victory song.

"Barku baraz salon bund~""Bar-un, bar-un, bar-un, bar-un~" The elven knightmaids marched next, armored heels similarly stained in blood and carrying tapestries upon their spears, each depicting one of Malamadr's visages and each stabbed through their center, allowed to hang and drag behind them. Their helms were pulled back, allowing all to see their lovely features and long flowing hair. The song of the dwarves continued as they marched, even as they added to the lyrics with their own voices.

"Kibil turg ark marzarb~""Bar-um, bar-um, bar-um, Bazaund~" His mother walked next, just before the corpse of the immense dragon. It was carried by the two largest mountain warriors, aside from the lead giant, who bore the corpse on their shoulders and slowly but steadily dragged it forwards. Like two men dragging along a truly gargantuan crocodile in proportion, but scaled up several times. The dragon itself dwarfed everything except the giants, and it hung limply between their massive arms.

Mother, however, was in no way unnoticeable, walking alone as she was behind her knights and still bearing the burning manastar lights above her head. Finally, half-crawling through the gate at first before rising to his full height, the giant Fjolsvior in the fullness of his height, hands raised like platforms to carry the slayer just above his head.

There Mallorn stood, nude save for the tapestry wrapped around him, letting himself be fully displayed to the watching eyes of the townsfolk waiting and watching the procession. Legs broad and butt of the axe planted to help keep him stable, he was holding aloft a single object. A drinking horn. The cheers were already loud by the time Fjolsvior emerged with him in hands. They were deafening afterwards. The celebration in his name was heady, and almost enough to make him drunk with pride.

The sight of the completely ruined town was just barely enough to sober him, for with it came the realization that his friends might have been in this battle, and they might not have survived. Patience was a terrible thing to need, he realized as he maintained the victorious posture for the duration of the marching. All the while, the crowds screamed the dwarvish song.

"Bardum! Bardum! Bardum! Bar-dum!"