But it was not to be. He was human and she was elven. Such intimacies were forbidden by her people. She was willing to give it up for him, but he wasn't ready to let her, to doom her to hundreds of years of banishment from her people just to be with him for however short his human lifespan lasted. So he left and broke both of their hearts in the process.
Then this whole war started and in the way that only Fate or circumstance can mock somebody, it all came full circle back to him. After an argument with the King, in which he protested the whole idea of starting a war with a race of people that had, hitherto, been perfectly peaceful, he, as the neutral head of the Academy, decided to meddle and gain an ally from the enemy's side to try and stop the war before it started.
So he tried to contact the elvish maid that he still dreamed of every night, hoping she could find it in her heart to forgive him and work with him to stop needless bloodshed. So it came as a shock when he was introduced to the Queen and ruler of Selenthia herself. It came as a bigger surprise when the ruler turned out to be the love of his life, which had only recently ascended to the throne, picked by her people upon the death of their late king.
Oh the irony of life.
Denician rubbed his temples. "Selenthia," he disliked the name, though it was the fate of all elven rulers to inherit the name of their homeland, "Please, now is not the time. Things are getting worse and we haven't gotten anywhere."
The image nodded. "The Council wishes to eradicate your Kingdom for daring to attack unprovoked. We, of course, believe that we were right in the trade dispute. There are hints of wanting to return to the warlike people we once were."
"I can't allow that to happen. For either side, win or lose. This isn't what Faelon needs. I swear there is a puppet master behind these strings of war, but whoever they are, I haven't gotten wind beyond my suspicions."
"What about the prophet?"
Denician nodded. Shortly before the war started, a nameless prophet appeared, clad in simple white robes and black mask that hid his features, and everything he had said came true. Famine, births, disasters. He came to the King, telling him of a path he must take to lead Faelon to an era of prosperity. There had been great civil unrest in Morlian at the time, mostly from a great plague that had swept through, leaving a trail of misery behind it. Then a trade caravan containing a highly sought after metal got robbed and both sides claim the other was behind it.
The news was convenient enough to take Morlian's focus off its problems. Too convenient, by the Headmaster's reckoning. Denician immediately suspected the robed man, but no matter the security and surveillance he placed on the masked prophet, he couldn't prove anything.
He felt as if he was just a nameless pawn dancing along to the tune of an unseen piper. The feeling of hopelessness infuriated him. He knew there had to be more to this, but despite his best efforts, all he got were shadows flitting about the dark.
"He's still clean. I've got my best men watching every move he makes, and yet, nothing. He gets up every morning, meditates, consults the king, eats, and then meditates some more. That's it, every day, without fail."
The willowy figure huffed with frustration. A very unqueen-like action that reminded Denician of the woman she was before. It was hard to stop the smile tugging at his lips. "We are missing something, love. Both of us realize there is more to this war than meets the eye. But neither of us can prove it. Are you sure your men are trustworthy?"
The Headmaster bristled. "Of course. I'd not trust anyone but my best men for such a task. And what about you, is anyone not being honest among your elves?"
"We are different than the newer races, with a longer view of the world. I do not see anyone of us betraying our kind." There was a brief moment of hesitation. "But I do not discount it, just because I trust my people. I have been looking into it, though I have to be subtle. We do not distrust easily, amongst ourselves. It would be a great affront to openly bring the suspicion to the forefront of our politics."
Denician snorted. "With all due respect, from what I remember of the goings on within your courts, the inner workings of our own ‘newer' races seems tame in comparison."
"That is a bit different. To us it is like a game. We live centuries and must find ways to amuse ourselves. The intrigue and wordplay interests us. It is mostly posturing and harmless in intent."
"So how do we lesser lived races know that one of your people isn't viewing this like a game? Poking and prodding and instigating for his, or her, own sick, twisted, amusement? Are you saying your people are incapable of evil? Or maybe that they might not view things differently, somehow believing what they are doing is for the greater good??"
"I don't like your implications, love. We have not instigated a conflict for centu-"
"But just because you haven't doesn't mean you can't, am I correct?"
"I'm not sure why you are attacking my race. . . but yes, you are correct. Anybody is capable of malicious intent, even the longer lived ones that should know better."
The Headmaster sighed. It was always like this. He was always looking for ways to fight with her. He hated the social customs of the elves. The pomp, the strict caste rules, the nitpicking. Furthermore, navigating the murky and lengthy list of what was proper was painstaking at best. One had to live for centuries just to get anything done!
He blamed a large part of the frustration on not being able to have what he desired. If he was so great, why couldn't he just take what he wanted? Social norms be damned! At the thought, he mentally shook his head. Go down that road and he'd be the one pushing for war.
"I'm sorry. . . Ashe," he breathed an apology, her birth name rolling off his tongue, bittersweet.
The image twirled lightly, the happiness evident in her movements. Denician found an unwitting smile grace his lips. It was always so easy to make her happy. Underneath the pretense of a ruler, still beat the heart of the carefree woman that stole his heart. "I understand, love." The image finally came to rest. "We have all been taxed rather hard. When may I see you next?"
It was an abrupt change of topic, and had Denician not been used to dealing with the capriciousness elves, he'd have thought her uncaring for her people in this time of war. He wished they would take the threat his nation posed seriously. Morlian was a slow to awaken beast, but changes were happening within that he was powerless to stop, despite his best efforts. The beast was stretching out its claws, and Denician saw trouble in the future of anything that got in its way.
But the elves, with their long view of the world at large, refused to believe that anything could really threaten them. This was just another bump in the road of time. They didn't see the war machine slowly gearing up, as Denician did. They believed they had a chance. Denician hoped they were right. All the elves had seen were skirmishes and smaller battles with Morlia. What would they do when the beast was fully awakened, fangs spread, bearing down on their homeland?
He wasn't exactly an elven advocate, but he didn't want them eradicated or absorbed into Morlia.
He considered her question. Despite what he told himself to the contrary, she would always hold a place in his heart. Like a drug, he found himself always going back to her under some pretense or another. They could never be overtly together, but it didn't stop them from seeking solace from everything in each other's arms when they could.
It was dangerous. . . if they ever got caught. . . Still. . .
"I don't know, Ashe. It's hard, with the war and all. But I'll come under some pretense of Academy work when I can." He paused, and it took him a few moments to get the words out. "I miss you."
"And I miss you. I'll look into matters more closely, at your suggestion. The dishonor it would bring to my people to have a traitor among us wouldn't even be close to how history would judge us if we allowed this to happen unchallenged. Now I must go. This spell taxes my energy. Until we meet again, my heart."
The ghostly figure kissed her fingertips, touching them to Denician's lips gently before vanishing, now nothing more than a swirling mass of nether to his eyes. And so it was, the Headmaster all alone again in his office. The ache in his chest grew at her absence and he let himself slump down in his chair with a groan, the leather lining protesting his sudden intrusion. Reaching into a secret compartment in his desk, he pulled out a flask of the strongest brandy he had
Later on he planned to rotate the men he had watching the prophet. He'd never admit to being wrong to Ashe, but it didn't hurt to give her suggestion a shot, no matter how much he didn't want for it to be true. He also had to go contact and bribe some of his spy network, searching for that something that he was missing. He had a lot of work to do, and that didn't even include his Academy duties.
But that was for later. Right now he needed a drink.
Chapter 20
The assassins entered the room silently, having picked the lock with a speed that indicated dedication to a craft that depended on perfection.
Instead of the two pompous wizards and a bodyguard they were told resided there, they opened the door to an old crone, her husband, and a young waif. The two parties paused, unsure.
The moment of confusion was all that was needed A sword appeared in the old man's hand, and the blade flashed. One of the five fell dead, his throat sliced into the crude facsimile of a smile. The deadly weapon struck again, but this time instinct took over and the assassin got his sword up in time, deflecting the blow.