Many miles from where the Chosen slept, a messenger carried a whisper from the mind of an elf so ancient, and so steeped in the power of the land around her, that her limbs had long ago turned to branches and rooted her life to the heart of the world-tree Verdantes at the heart of the Greenbough. The norn-mother rested there, in the bosom of Ilani’s greatest child, her body nourished by the heartsblood of the great tree, in silent communion with the infinite unfolding branches of Fate.

From time to time, her blind eyes would open, questing about, sensing the flows of mana for one of the attendants that served as her voice. Then the norn-maiden would kneel in communion with her charge, forging a bridge of intricate Wind-aspected mana, speaking mind to mind with the eldest. The ancient one would impart some vision or insight regarding the branches of Fate, and the attendant would rise and make haste to the Thrones, to communicate the norn-mother’s wyrding to the Twin Kings.

The elf in question, the youngest of the current norn-maidens, a girl of only forty years, had delivered her message to the Summer King, who had sent one of the frostguard to fetch the Winter King. She had listened as the Lord of Thicket and Rain had relayed the wyrding to the Lord of Air and Darkness, and now she waited to be dismissed. Her Kings, however, seemed preoccupied.

“Truly? In the Llyaliin Crossing? We shall send a ship to that pile of sticks and mud on the coast, with a hundred rangers, to fetch… ehm… invite… them to Verdantes,” the Winter King paused as he stalked the dais of the throne room, chastened by the overeager sentiment behind his words.

Still seated in the Throne of Spring, the Summer King smiled as he watched.

“The Crossing is called the Reyvan Pass now. It has not been the Llyaliin for… I believe, a hundred and twenty years or so. Or thereabouts,” his bemused expression warmed as the Winter King turned to face him.

“I care not for what the children of Adam call the twists and turns of the serpent’s passage. It was the Llyaliin when I was a stripling, and that is what I shall call it, you old…” he struggled to find a word to express his unending frustrated adoration with the serene face in front of him, “…FIG!”

“Fig?” an immaculate golden eyebrow quirked.

“Tis what I grasped in the moment,” he waved his hand in a frustrated dismissal.

“Perhaps you will elaborate?” the Summer King gestured for him to continue.

He turned sharply, the blades of his warcloak scraping the dais with the cry of steel on stone.

“A treacherously sweet thing with a wasp at the center!” he groused.

He stalked back toward the Spring Throne, stopping a few feet away, where the Summer King sat, with his hand over his mouth, hiding a bemused smile.

“Truly? Are they so close?” he whispered.

“They have tribulations yet to overcome before they reach our shores, but yes, my love. A dozen leagues from the mouth of the Astara,” the Summer King replied.

“Can we not simply send for them? Even an invitation? Promise them arms, armor, lands, gold?” the Winter King sighed.

“They are not ready,” he replied.

“Ready!? What does READY mean!? They are the Chosen! The soul-eaters of the Night! They shall make greater strides in a day STROLLING through the Godswood and killing REDCAPS than I have gained in the last decade murdering dragons!” he ranted.

“Need I remind you that the reason you have gained so little power in the last decade is that you have found nothing in that time that did not fall beneath a single stroke of your sword?” the Summer King smirked.

“There was one thing,” he replied darkly.

“And yet, you garnered no profit upon your path from even the greed-eater, did you?” he chided gently. “You stand at the pinnacle of the known, my heart, and to take a step higher, you must have something to stand upon. Yet there is nothing there, for you have surmounted every stone and stumbling rock in your path for a century. Even the beast of gold is no match for you, and yet here you stand, throwing a tantrum like a stripling, because to slay it again does no more than allow its fell power to flourish like a parasitic vine on the tree of your might,” the lord of Spring stood and stepped toward his opposite.

They stood, staring at each other, in the gentle glow of the luminescent moss and dancing wisps within the throne room.

“Let them grow, as you were allowed to grow, and perhaps the great sacrifice we plan in our hearts will not be so urgent when finally they step foot in our wood,” he held out his hand.

The Winter King growled in frustration.

“For what reason has Fate cursed me with such a…” he clenched his armored fists, “damnably reasonable elf as you at my side, forever taking my hand and gently leading me back onto the narrow path. Can you not for once allow the fire in my heart to burn for even a moment?”

“The volcano within your breast is allowed to consume your reason for only one design,” he responded coolly.

“And what is that?” the Winter King scowled at him.

The Summer King turned, his elegant golden robes splashing light across the interior of the throne room, his crown catching the rays and shadows and casting them back, a kaleidoscope of radiance. He gathered the robes to his side and sat, comfortably, in the Throne of Spring.

“For me, my love,” he replied dryly.

“Signs, save me from this absurdity while my sanity yet remains,” the silver-haired elf threw his hands up.

“Umm… your graces, I beg your pardon, but… may… may I go?”