Heroes of Myrm
King Haldis sat upon a gilded throne carved from the trunk of a palm tree and bamboo. Balin knew of the elven races’ longevity, but he was still surprised to see not a sign of age upon the king’s face. His eyes told another story, though. They were a deep well of wisdom, and they bored into Balin with a knowledge he would never come to understand.
“
Farv
,” Øyavind said in Eldronic, approaching the throne and going down on one knee. The ancient tongue was not unfamiliar to Balin, though he was far from fluent in the elvish language. Compared to All-Speak, Eldronic was a spoken song of the angels, the melodic murmur of streams, wind, and life.
“
Står meina følev
,” King Haldis said, his voice a soft whisper that resonated with the force of a sword clashing in a deep cavern. Øyavind rose to his feet. In All-Speak, King Haldis asked, “Tell me, what is the status of Myrm?”
“Much has been destroyed and many lost,” Øyavind answered, his words steady, despite the ache that resonated in his eyes. Øyavind gestured to Balin. “This man and his companions were the ones to kill Tamesis.”
King Haldis raised a narrow blond brow, the only sign of surprise Balin could see on the king’s face. He was a sharp king in every sense of the word, dressed in blue silks and with a crown of coral upon his head.
“You, a human, defeated Tamesis? What is your name?”
Balin bristled at the words but bit his tongue. “Yes, my companions and I did. My name is Balin Lionborne.”
He would not expose Damir or Israel, and he could only hope that King Haldis did not ask for the details of the battle. King Haldis dropped his frosty gaze to the sword in Balin’s hand. “You wield Magiertøter.”
Balin looked at the sword, taking the time to finally notice the intricate details in the weapon. It was crafted from lunamant, a long, thick blade with a hooked end and two holes drilled down the lower center. A woven design was carved into the blue stone, mirroring the interlocking gilding that covered the guard. Two golden crescent moons were set in the middle of the guard, an opalescent stone inlaid in it. The pommel was a similar stone cupped within the grip of a third crescent, giving the fleeting illusion of a full moon.
“That sword has been held by King Elyvaen for nearly three hundred years,” King Haldis stated.
Balin couldn’t tell whether the king was upset, amused, or indifferent to the fact that he held the ancient sword. “We kind of broke the statue,” Balin stated unapologetically.
“Kind of?” King Haldis asked, looking at his son.
“Destroyed by Tamesis,” Øyavind offered.
King Haldis nodded. “It is a legendary weapon, forged with lunamant. When the moon strikes the blade, it erupts with paleflames. Saint Able was bestowed Magiertøter by my father, King Eirian. It was the very blade he used to kill Virdi Mage Mort in the Astral Battles.”
Balin lifted the sword, turning it in the fading sunlight. King Haldis shifted in his throne, the first signs of fatigue beginning to show.
“Something has come upon us, something that Zoria is not prepared to face. I fear it is time for Magiertøter to once more taste the blood of war.”
Balin lowered the sword and met King Haldis’s gaze. He nodded, an understanding passing between them. “Thank you.”
“I do not know what this is. I have sought council with the stars, but they only scream in terror. Before Myrm was caught in Tamesis’s web, I had sent a messenger to King Auric, explaining our plight. I prayed it would reach him fast enough, but I was wrong.”
“Do you have any idea where she came from?” Balin asked.
“No, but I know she is only the beginning. She is merely a pawn in a much greater scheme,” King Haldis replied, his words the low dirge of the lost souls of Myrm.
“My men and I need to rest and resupply. We know you have much to do to rebuild your city, but we ask that you allow us to stay, if only for the night,” Balin requested.
“Of course. Øyavind will give you all we can, but we are limited in our supplies,” King Haldis said, then turned to his son. “Care for Sir Balin and his men, see that they are well taken care of.”
“Yes, Father.” Øyavind bowed his head.
“You may go. We will discuss further matters later,” King Haldis said.
Øyavind gave a final bow, bent elegantly at the waist. Without a word, he led Balin to the east wing. Guards and servants continued to pick themselves off the floor, blinking with bleary eyes like newborn colts, their legs wobbly as they took their first steps.
“What will you do now?” Balin asked.
Øyavind stopped in front of a sturdy oak door, his hand resting against the grain. He stared down the long stone corridor. Balin could hear the shuffle of feet, groans of pain, and wails of sorrow. From a window a red blade of sinking sunlight warmed the cold stone floor. Øyavind closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.
“Rebuild.”
He dropped his hand and turned to face Balin. “You’ll find your companions here with the medicus; rooms will be prepared in the west wing. A servant can lead you to them.”
Balin laid his hand on Øyavind’s shoulder in silent thank-you. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the elf to the shambles of his kingdom. Israel was laid across a dusty table, Zephyr beside him, already bandaged. Damir was nowhere to be seen.
“How is he?” Balin asked.
“He’ll be all right, once he gets some rest,” Zephyr murmured, brushing some bangs from Israel’s forehead.
The fair-haired elf finished wrapping the bandages around Israel’s shoulder. “He’ll need sleep, but the wounds weren’t extensive. I’ve applied some salve to them.”
“Where is Damir?” Balin asked.
“Your friend retired to his room,” the medicus said. “I will show you when I finish.”
Balin allowed the elf to look over his own minor wounds, who murmured his wonder at the minimal damage Balin had acquired. The elven medicus did not use magic to heal but organic salves. The elven race was known for its lack of magic, relying not on aether but on Zoria herself.
Zephyr waved Balin off when he asked if he would like company, never taking his eyes off Israel. Balin anxiously followed the elf medicus to the west wing, where they took a flight of spiraling stairs up to the second floor.
The elder stopped in front of a similar wooden door as the one outside the medicus. “This is where you’ll be staying.”
Balin sidestepped the elf and pushed the door open, saying as he passed, “Thank you.”
He didn’t wait to see if the elf left. He set Magiertøter down and turned to Damir, who lay sprawled across a large bed. Balin wrapped a hand around one of the tall wooden bed posts and watched as he slumbered, content to remain there for the rest of his days. The sheer curtains in the corner of the room billowed out as a warm sea breeze blew in. Balin inhaled the briny air, and Damir moaned softly, drawing his knees in close to his chest.
He’d stripped down to his breeches. A bandage had been wrapped around his left bicep and right shoulder, but he seemed to have walked away otherwise unscathed. It was a relief to Balin, who had feared that the majority of the blood coating Damir had been his own.
“You’ll want to wash up,” Balin finally said.
Damir grunted. “Must I?”
“‘Fraid so, unless you want to sleep in mucked-up sheets. Come; I’ll help.” His own skin had begun to itch from the dried blood caking it. An adjacent door led to a washroom, where water ducts had been directed to supply purified water in a pool carved into the floor. Balin pulled a lever, and with a groan and a clank, water poured in.
DAMIR DRAGGED HIS tired limbs off the bed and lethargically stumbled into the bathing chamber. Balin turned to an assortment of oils and salts displayed on a stone shelf and selected one. He poured the oil into the bath and set the bottle aside. The rich scent of eucalyptus and mint filled the air.
Sluggishly Damir stripped out of his pants and bandages and dipped a toe into the water, testing its temperature. He was pleasantly surprised to find it warm. He would have liked to ponder the wonderment of the bathing house, but he was far too exhausted to do more than sink into the water.
Balin stripped out of his soiled clothes, grabbed two washcloths resting on another shelf, and followed Damir into the bath. They remained silent as they washed away the gore, their hands ghosting over arms and chests, faces, and through hair. Damir took his time to touch, to feel that Balin was real and that he hadn’t evaporated into smoke.
The water grew murky, the dingy pink of diluted life. When they finished cleaning, they stepped out and took two awaiting towels from the shelf and dried off, leaving their clothes discarded on the floor. Balin helped Damir re-dress his wounds before guiding him to the bed. He drew back the slightly rumpled blankets and threw the stained comforter to the floor.
Damir collapsed onto the plush mattress and burrowed into the downy pillows. He stared at the wall as Balin lay down beside him, an arm coiling around his waist. Warmth swaddled Damir, reminding him he was alive.
Balin’s heart thumped against Damir’s back, and he counted the moments between each beat. Damir tangled his hand with Balin’s, fingers interlocking until they looked as if they could never be unwound.
“My faith has been shaken,” Damir whispered into the twilight. He closed his eyes and drew Balin’s arms tighter around him, as if they could protect him from the world. “I once prided myself as a pious man, believing in the virtue of the Child-God. I believe…
believed
he was salvation, that shall I ask, he would lead me. But now, seeing a world painted in blood, fallen to discord, I just don’t know anymore.”
Balin remained silent, his nose nestled in Damir’s damp hair. Damir could hear the sound of a kingdom come undone, and in the depths of his mind, he could hear the sound of sword striking flesh and a dove’s coo. He shuddered and whispered, “Am I supposed to believe this was my destined path? A world without Elina? One that is filled with misery at every turn?”
Balin gently turned Damir over, cradled his cheek, and brushed their noses together. Damir pressed his hand against Balin’s, desperate for guidance. “What do you believe in? If not Lar, then what?”
“I believe in you,” Balin whispered. Damir lowered his gaze. Balin tipped Damir’s head up, forcing Damir to meet his stare. “Whether it is the Child-God or the sun, whether it is man or beast, I believe in you. I believe in our life, and it gives me strength. Heroes may be just fables and existence just a grain of sand, but I know when I stare into your eyes that I will fight.”
Warmth spread through Damir, chasing away the icy clutches of despair. He stared up at Balin, breath held, world spinning out of control, and knew he wanted to be nowhere else but next to Balin.
“You have been thrust from your home, your world shattered into pieces. Like this kingdom, you watched all that you know scattered. Fear is only inevitable, but in your battered heart, you know the truth. And should you find that there is nothing left to believe in, then believe in me,” Balin whispered. His words ghosted over Damir in a comforting breath.
Damir kissed Balin, his emotions uncapped and overflowing. Balin wrapped his arms around Damir’s waist, held him close as their lips pressed together. Damir whispered against Balin’s mouth, “I will always believe in you. Never doubt that.”
Balin ran the back of his hand down the line of Damir’s jaw. Damir may not know where he stood with the Child-God. He may be questioning the Scriptures. But when the world fell away and he was left with nothing else, Damir knew he would always turn to Balin.
They moved slowly, not rushed by heady desire. Balin nipped gently at Damir’s bottom lip. His fingers mirrored Damir’s as they danced down his hip, tracing the sharp bone and strong muscle. Damir buried his face in the curve of Balin’s neck, moaning weakly as Balin’s touch dipped lower and tickled over his hardening cock. He was too exhausted to do more than rock into Balin’s hand.
Balin curled his hand around Damir’s shaft and gave a couple languid pumps, then released him and pressed a kiss to his temple.
“Stay put.”
He got up and vanished into the bathroom, only to return to the bed seconds later. He uncapped a vial of gralui oil and poured a small amount into his hand. He sealed the oil and set it aside. Damir remained lying on his side, burning with need.
Balin drew Damir into the circle of his arms and wrapped his lubricated hand around both of their cocks. Damir pressed a kiss to his exposed throat and nibbled at his pulse as Balin began to fist them together. Neither pushed for more, to move faster or lose themselves in the building pleasure. Damir basked in it, watched each flicker of emotion play across Balin’s face.
Damir moaned, his hips canting into Balin’s touch. Incoherently he murmured encouragements, struggled to keep his mind from losing itself in the haze. Every touch was a reminder that they were alive, that they had to keep going. Damir pressed his forehead against Balin’s.
Their gazes met, locked as they ascended to nefl. Balin grunted, his lips parting with each short breath. He began to alternate speeds, squeezing after every few pumps.
He released his grip and wrapped a hand around Damir’s waist, sliding a well-oiled finger down Damir’s crack. Balin gently breached Damir and worked his anus until he could fit two fingers inside.
Damir brushed his mouth against Balin’s, a whine building in the back of his throat. He could feel his stomach begin to clench in anticipation, a familiar tingle rushing over his balls and spine.
“Turn around,” Balin whispered, his voice barely a breath that ghosted over Damir’s lips.
Damir rolled over, his back against Balin’s chest, and closed his eyes, shuddering beneath Balin’s touch. Fear had driven them throughout the day, had brought them close to the cusp of death and abandon, and now, surrounded by Damir’s dimly shimmering glow, they would chase away the darkness.
Balin glided his hand down Damir’s side to his thigh and lifted his leg. He lined up the head of his flushed cock to Damir’s entrance, and with his mouth pressed against the crook of Damir’s neck, Balin pushed in.