il slid his hand over the riveted mail, smiling profoundly as he felt the risen bits of metal. And there was good reason for it – it was one of the finest armours he had ever seen. A hundred thousand links of steel, a year of hard work.

"It's so smooth," he said drowsily, "it feels like wool, yet you can't pass a needle through the links."

Mey lowered his head onto the mail, brushing the soft rings on his cheek. Never had he imagined a piece of metal would be this comfortable. It was six kilos of elven steel, yet softer than wool. "Truly a glorious creation," he said, "I've never seen such a thing before."

"Neither has anyone but the folk of the greatest prestige. This is royal mail."

"I'm happy for you," he shook his head, "don it on, you'll be nigh invincible."

"No," Vil replied, holding the shirt up to his chest. It was too small to fit his massive figure, and too tight across the chest. "This is not for me, I ordered it for you."

Mey's eyes widened in confusion, Vil had ordered armour of the greatest quality for him? How would he ever accept such an expensive gift? Maybe it was Vil just wanting to ensure nothing bad ever happened to him, or maybe it was him being a follower of his own ideologies.

"No," Mey replied at length, "I can't accept it. And by the way, I'm not the one who madly charges into enemy lines, ignoring all stabs of spear and sword like mosquito-bites. You do."

Vil laughed, but his laughter stopped as the pain in his belly singed. No matter how heroic he made himself to be, he was only mortal at the end of the day. The herbs had healed a great deal, but it still pained him.

Mey moved forward, covering his bandaged wound with his hand. "Wounds don't heal if you keep touching them."

"The pain is not physical," he replied sorrowfully, "but in my heart."

Mey looked at him with concern, "how much pierogis did you eat for lunch exactly?"

"Sixteen, why?"

Mey shook his head in disappointment. "Vil, you have an injury in your abdomen, can't you control your gluttony for a couple days? Not like your pierogi will run away or something."

Vil laughed. "No, it's not acidity. I mean, I feel bad for the Master of Change."

Mey looked at him with a troubled face, "he tried to kill you, and would have succeeded if not for Raucion and your father."

"I know," Vil responded, "but still, not like he was doing it out of spite. And don't we all want to attain salvation from this constant cycle of birth and rebirth? He had a chance to be free, to know the Ultimate Truth, merge with the godhead, attain Ziyu . . . and because of Nixior it couldn't happen."

"Don't worry, he'll get another chance to, I'm sure of that."

...

Vil lowered his head in sorrow, the pain still throbbing in his gut, the uneasiness of it following every breath. What was baffling to him was that he succumbed to a wound the meekest partisan would shrug off. He placed his hand on the red cotton, ever so gently pushing. It was painful, but he acted otherwise.

"Stop it," Mey said in an authoritative yet tender voice, "you're hurting yourself."

"Nah, it's nothing," he assured him, only to draw out a red palm, stained by his own blood. "Why does it hurt so much?"

"Because: when the spear skewered your guts, a lot of nerve endings were damaged," Meneldir answered, "and now you're touching those unguarded nerves."

Vil gave him a puzzled look.

"What? Do you think you're the only smart guy in the entire world?" he laughed.

"I know how that happens," said Vil, leaning his head back to lose himself into the depths of imagination. "Just that . . . I don't like being vulnerable, I've seen slaves suffer worse damages and walk it off like it's nothing. What am I to the likes of Darrian?"

"You are no Darrian," Mey touched his nose, "you are Vilyánur."

Mey locked his eyes at him, deeply staring down; his amber eyes reflected off his deep blue like the sun of the morning, driving Vil into a lustful zeal. "I'm not in the mood," Vil replied, "I do not want more pain."

"I don't intend to," Mey replied, brushing his fingers on his cheek. "I'm just playing along."

They giggled together, only to hear two other people giggling outside.

"Arial! Niall! I told you two not to spy on us!" Mey shouted in wrath.

"Oh sorry," Arial walked in, "we were here for some work, but didn't want to break the romance between the two of you. By the gods, you two look cute together."

Vil smiled back, "what news?"

"Caravir is dead," Niall said in a dark mind, "and Legate Lazar with him."

Vil and Mey looked in dread. "And what of the legionnaires?" asked Vilyánur.

"Half spent," Arial replied, "as of the wood-elf auxiliaries: all."

"Damn it, not Caravir," Mey ground his teeth, "he was our greatest weapon against the daemons. How will a mere force of wood-elves and high-elves take down the former King of the Gods now?"

"Caravir's a dragon, he'll be back," Vil said in relief. "He needs some respite, that's all."

"Also, we have another piece of good news," said Arial, smiling brightly. "Since the legate has fallen, a new one has to be inaugurated."

"How is that good news?" asked Mey.

"Because the candidates were grand-centurions, and guess who of all was chosen."

Vil looked in excitement.

"Lord Vilyánur, please follow us," said Niall as they walked out of the tower and towards the war quarters.

*****

It was a pretty hot day for mid-autumn, even though it had rained continuously for three days. Ravens perched atop the sullen treetops and straw roofs, searching for worms to feast upon. Golden light from outside burst into the dark rooms, illuminating the stone castle with an aura of eminence, dampening out the faint lantern and candlelight. Some of Vil's and Mey's most trusted centurions had gathered in the war quarters and stood around the table.

"My comrade princes and centurions," Niall spoke aloud to them, "may I present: Legate Vilyánur Sarmäcil, Lord Commander of Legion VI."

"Hail, Legate Vilyánur Sarmacil!" they responded in unison, "we are yours to command."

Vil looked at them with a sight of pleasure. Even though in times of hardships and what might've been the worst time to come to power, he was finally become legate. The dream of his childhood had been accomplished.

A round of applause went around; glistening with an aura of expectations and glory, but it was painful. Now whatever he did, ten thousand people would observe directly. Even though it meant more power, it meant more responsibility: he was in the same place as his cousins.

"Congratulations," a voice so familiar said to him, he looked up and saw Prince Soren, Sareth beside him. "Comrade Legate."

No, he whispered, you're not real, not real!

Mey could see that Vil was in pain, it was imminent to him. He recalled those moments Vil would wake up in the deep of night and scream out in horror, reimagining those horrid memories that plagued him. It was not the face of satisfaction, but the face of dread.

"Stop!" shouted Mey, "can't you see? He is troubled; give him some space, off to your businesses. We'll inform you later."

The centurions nodded and dispersed, Vil taking a seat in the room.

...

For an hour Vil had been sitting there, ever so slowly chugging the drugged liquor, hoping it would calm his nerves. "Being drunk is not the solution to your issues," Mey reminded him, still pouring his drinks. "But it's alright, drink all you want. If it helps you, go ahead."

"I think I'm alright now," he replied, "just that . . . it's a bit too much to take in."

"I understand, and I won't tell you to hurry, take all the time you need."

Vil sat there, his fingers pressing against his skull, trying to curb his headache. In the end he picked the whole bottle up, pouring down his food-pipe, washing his insides of all toxins that plagued him, both physical and mental.

"Prince Meneldir," Glarion approached him, "may I talk to you in private?"

"Yes?" asked Mey, walking away from Vil and into the stairwell, standing where nobody would see them, Glarion was clearly in no mood for fun.

"I've been noticing him for a couple years now, and it's just wondrous how much he has changed over the years. I don't think he can tackle the responsibilities of being a leader, not because he's inept or inexperienced, but the opposite instead."

"So you think he blames himself for all of what happened?"

"Rightly so," he answered, "he used to be a cheerful lad, rarely drinking, always jolly. Ever since he defeated Krayn, his life changed forever. He frequently kept getting drunk, trying to sever his veins, alternating between depression and mania every now and then."

Mey nodded, "I know, and to be honest, he has good reason to. What else?"

"Do not let him drink too much; he might drink himself to death. He thinks being drunk is a solution to his issues, but no, all that that poison brings him is just more sadness."

"I know, but . . . I can't see him in pain."

Glarion put his hand on Mey's shoulder, driving a wave of glee through him. "I know, but he chose you, and you need to improvise. He needs you to survive."

Mey nodded, mentally preparing himself to head in and confront Vil.

"Also," Glarion stopped him, "give him this, tell him it's a gift from someone special."

Glarion handed Mey a sword, a hand and half long, a jewelled hilt glistening in the light of the sun, ever so smoothly carved, with a serpent's jaw holding it in place.

"I will," he nodded, "thank you."

And so Glarion exited the tower, once again the sun faded behind a veil of clouds, the sound of rain mingled with thunder to dampen out all other noises. The rain was heavy, much heavier than the days before. And in the unholy darkness Mey dwelt.

"Vil?" he stepped at last into the darkness-wreathed hall, his eyes almost mistaking a troubled Vil for a corpse, his dark visage draped over his weary face, the thick strands of hair messed up. "Vil," Mey moved close to him, embracing his weary figure into his arms.

"I wish I was stronger," Vil sobbed, crying like a little child on Mey's shoulders, but Mey was more than pleased to hold him there. It was strange, but Mey realised: Vil never got the childhood he deserved, maybe Mey was more of a guardian of him than the other way around.

No, what am I thinking? Mey laughed to himself; wondering what strange turns this relationship of theirs was taking. Once he'd be the pupil and Vil the teacher, and at other times the opposite.

*****

"Are you well now?" asked Mey.

"Yeah, I think so," Vil nodded, much to the relief of Meneldir. "I mean, I like the idea of being promoted, now I am the legate: the greatest of rank in my legion. Though 'tis only temporary as I see it, the power that rests in my hand now is real."

Mey smiled, "I'm happy for you, at last you're getting the attention you deserve."

"Still nowhere near the levels of a prince," Vil scratched his head, "you're still my superior in terms of power and position."

"Shush," Mey embraced him, "I've never considered you anything but my equal, I don't care what society says. Fuck society. If I'm a prince, then so are you."

Vil smiled, "Prince Vilyánur, eh? I guess I would've been had my father still been king, but he didn't, so just Lord will do."

"My lord," Mey bowed, ever so sweetly, kissing the ring on his finger.

"Shush, what are you doing?"

"Why? I'm just giving you the respect you deserve."

Vil moved his head closer, kissing Mey on his lips, ever so gently biting on his reds, their hands interlocked, and foreheads touching.

"From now on, never ever call yourself not equal to me," Mey warned him, "also, I have a gift for you."

"Gift? What gift?" Vil sprang up in excitement.

Mey put his hand behind him and took the sword from the table, handing it to Vilyánur like a squire.

Vil froze at the sight of it; his eyes went up and down the hilt, as if even through the black leather he could see the blade. He saw its hilt: a blue stripe with a silver pommel carved into the shape of a serpent with a ruby in its mouth, the cross-guard was two silver serpents with smaller rubies in their mouths.

With a swift draw of his hand he removed the scabbard, only to feast his eyes upon the white glinting metal of the silver sword: a weapon unlike any he had ever received. There was something strange about it, it was ancient yet incomprehensibly powerful, the spirit of a god lay within the sword.

"Vil," Mey stood by him, "that doesn't look like the sword of a legate; it's too silvery and too ornate."

"Because it is not," Vil replied, his eyes moving up and down the runes on the blade, reading the inscriptions in the Old Tongue:

ᚨᚤᚨ ᚾᚨᚾᚤᛖ ᚨᛗᛟᛚᚱᛁᛖ ᛁ ᛗᚨᚲᛁᛚ ᛞᚨᚱᛁᚨᚾᛟ ᛗᛟᚱᛁᚾᛖᚺᛏᚨᚱ ᚲᚨᚱᚾᛖᚱᛟᚾ ᚨᛚᛁᛗᚨᚱᛟᛏᛖᛋᛖ ᛚᚨᚱᛖᚨᚲᛖᚾ

"It is an artifact: a weapon of the ancient age. In Quali'i it says here: 'Aiya! Nányë Amolrië, i macil Darriano, morinehtar, carnéron Alímarotesse lárëacén.' – Lo! Amolrië am I, blade of Darrian, bane of shadows, forged in Alímar rich in soil."

"You seem familiar with the sword."

"Familiar? I've read about it, and played as a child with a wooden imitation of it. This is the sword that slew Necróvlir and his legions of numberless minions, daemons cower at the sight of the blade, dragons bow at the glint of the jewel."

Indeed, there was something magical about the sword. As he swung it about, it seemed to sing with glory as it sliced the air. "Who gifted it to me?"

"Glarion said 'someone special'," Mey replied, "I think we should go and ask him."

...

"Glarion," Vil warped out with haste, screaming like a cat as he wet himself. Mey laughed, but Vil continued on anyway.

"Glarion," he rushed into the tavern, Glarion and his brothers there drinking and feasting together. "Who gifted the sword to me?"

"I cannot tell," Glarion replied, "he was a stranger draped in a cloak of black astride a pale horse, but he had golden curls and fair skin, that much I can tell, and he had an emanating aura like a star."

Vil looked up, "Lord Darrian, did you...?"

"Whoever did wants you to win, you should be happy about it," Glarion reassured him.

Vil stopped to sit and glance at the blade, wondering how it was that now this blade was his. He loved it more than anything else in the world, as if it was a gift from the gods. So obsessed he was with the sword, he didn't even notice his lover next to him.

"No, I did notice you," Vil said to Mey, "just didn't bother to observe how you responded."

"Sure you did," Mey said, placing his cloak on Vil's head, drying his hair out. "Keep doing it and you'll fall sick."

"I don't fall sick, you know that," Vil replied.

"Yeah, sure, and then you won't get to enjoy my other gift for you."

"Other gift?" Vil sprang up in joy, "what other gift?"

Mey smiled, "the week after the next we'll have our Union Day, we'll have parades. My father sent messengers; he said he'll like it if we both turn up for it."

"Excellent," Vil smiled, "I'll most definitely go."