Richard Baker - Final Gate

She’s spoken for, he reminded himself. Araevin is my friend. Besides, she’s the granddaughter of Elkhazel Miritar. I died five centuries before she was even born. But… if you didn’t count the years that I was in Arvandor, that would make us close to the same age, wouldn’t it? I’ve only lived about a century and a half in this world, even if most of that was hundreds of years ago, before she was born.

Fflar scowled at himself, and decided that it was long past time to redirect his thoughts. “How do you think Araevin and the others are faring?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, a little more sharply than he might have expected. Fflar paused, brush in hand, and waited. After a moment, Ilsevele sighed and looked up to meet his eyes. “He said that he was going to start his search in the ruins of Nar Kerymhoarth. I suppose they’re exploring the Nameless Dungeon even as we speak.”

Fflar sensed something unspoken in her reply. Then he puzzled it out. “You wonder if your place is with Araevin, don’t you?”

“I am concerned for him. And the rest of our companions, too. But I do not doubt my decision, Starbrow.” Ilsevele returned to rubbing down Swiftwind. The small gray mare nickered in pleasure, and nuzzled Ilsevele’s back. “I am certain that we must not fight the humans of these lands, not if there is any chance of making peace.”

“If you are confident in your decision, then what troubles you?”

Ilsevele shook her fine copper hair out of her eyes and arranged her tack and saddle neatly on the ground. Then she looked away across the overgrown fields surrounding the old manor. Glimmers of sunset still played in the clouds high overhead, but the forest shadows were dark and impenetrable in the deepening dusk. “I know I am doing what is right, but… I didn’t want to go with Araevin.”

“Didn’t want to go with him?” Fflar frowned. “There is nothing to trouble you there, Ilsevele. You see your duty differently than he sees his. There is no fault in that.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Starbrow.” Ilsevele glanced over her shoulder at him, and looked away. He thought he saw the glimmer of a tear on her cheek. “Araevin has changed, and I am not speaking of the color of his eyes or the high magic in his heart. The last few months have awakened him from some long Reverie. I think I only really knew him when he was dreaming away his days in Evermeet.”

“Someone had to do what he did,” Fflar said. “It’s a good thing that he was the equal of the challenge, isn’t it? Without Araevin’s skill, his determination, I do not know if we could have beaten the daemonfey at the Lonely Moor.”

“I know. But have you seen how Mooncrescent Tower marked him?” Ilsevele shook her head. “I can’t help but think that it’s dangerous to want to be something other than what you are. You may get exactly what you want.”

Fflar shrugged awkwardly. He was beginning to fear that he might not be the right person to hear out Ilsevele’s heartache, but that was his problem, not hers.

“Give him time, Ilsevele,” he managed. “He will remember himself, when better days are here.”

She gave him a half-hearted smile and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I hope they come swiftly, then,” she said. She gave herself a small shake and fixed her eyes on him. “Enough of my foolish worries. You still haven’t told me who you are, Starbrow. I think it’s time you stopped dodging my questions.”

“Starbrow is good enough.”

“No, it’s not.” Ilsevele faced him, her arms folded across her chest. “You know Cormanthor like the back of your hand. You are one of the most skillful warriors I have ever seen. You carry the last Baneblade of Demron-a sword that my father kept safe for centuries. Where are you from? Do you have a family? How did you come to know my father?”

Fflar shook his head. “I told you once before, you’ll need to ask your father about that.”

“I am not asking him. I am asking you,” Ilsevele retorted. “I trust my father implicitly, but I won’t let you hide behind that blind any longer. We’ve shared deadly danger, and we’ve fought and bled together. I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

He did not try to meet her eyes. “It’s not my tale to tell.”

Ilsevele waited. Then, saying nothing, she turned and left the broken hall. Fflar sighed, and finished tending to his horse-he’d been done for some time, really. Then he brushed his hands together and stood, looking out at the night. Ilsevele had trusted him with the trouble in her heart, but he hadn’t shared anything in return, had he? She was right to be angry with him. He didn’t think that Ilsevele would be awed by his story, or that she would tell anyone else if he asked her not to. It just seemed simpler, easier, to approach this new life of his without any of the encumbrances of the old one.

“Ah, damn it,” he muttered softly. When it came down to it, refusing to speak openly was almost as bad as lying, and he hated falsehoods. Especially ones devised for his own comfort and convenience. She’d said it well enough, hadn’t she? It was dangerous to want to be someone other than who you were.

He checked on the sentries, making sure that the small campsite was secure. Then he went in search of Ilsevele.

He found her sitting by a still pool in what had once been the garden of the old manor. She did not look up as he approached. Without invitation, he sat down next to her and began to speak. “My name is Fflar Starbrow Melruth,” he said. “I was born in Myth Drannor in the Year of the Turning Leaf, a little less than eight hundred years ago.

“I served in the Akh Velar, the city’s guard. When I was eighty, I married Sorenna Alydyrrin, and a few years later, she bore me a son, whom we named Arafel. I loved them more than all the stars in the sky.”

“You are the Fflar of whom the legends speak?” Ilsevele asked softly.

“I don’t know of any legends. But I was captain of the Akh Velar in Myth Drannor’s final days, and I carried Keryvian in many battles that last summer. I died on a summer afternoon, fighting the nycaloth lord Aulmpiter.

“After that… I walked in Arvandor for a time, though I do not now remember much of the Elvenhome. Your father called me back a few months ago, hoping that I could lead his Crusade to victory over the daemonfey.”

Ilsevele stared at him. “My father raised you from the dead?” She grappled with the thought. “But… why? The Seldarine do not give away that magic lightly. How could my father have even known you would be willing to return?”

“Elkhazel Miritar-your grandfather, I suppose-was a good friend in my first life. I think he must have filled Seiveril’s ears with wild tales about me when your father was a young fellow.” Fflar permitted himself a small smile. “So now I am here.”

Ilsevele studied him closely, her brow knit. “But you’re so young,” she managed. “You’re not much older than I am.”

“I was a little more than one hundred and thirty when I died.”

She shook her head. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course. But…”

He patted her knee and stood up. “You asked. That’s all I have to say. I can’t make any more sense of it than you can, though I guess that I must have wanted to come back, or your father could not have called me out of Arvandor.”

Ilsevele managed to shake off her amazement long enough to speak. “Starbrow-Fflar-”

“Starbrow is fine, if you’re used to it.”

“Starbrow, then-What became of your family?”

He hesitated, his heart aching. Strange, that such an innocuous question could hurt so much! “I don’t know for certain. Sorenna escaped Myth Drannor with my son before the city fell. I know she lived for a time in Semberholme. But she is gone now, too. I hope that Arafel lived a long and happy life somewhere.” He tried to laugh without bitterness, and almost succeeded. “I may have grandchildren or great-grandchildren around who are older than I am. That would be hard to explain, wouldn’t it?”