"I never thought they would look quite so – rotten."

"Hardly surprising, given the stench," a strangled voice through clenched teeth. "Its face is almost completely – eaten away ..." added Idernon, the Wise elf, his lip curled in disgust but his eyes sparkled in curiosity all the same. He'd never seen a Deviant before – none of them had.

"Is it male, do you think?" asked the third member of their group, strange green eyes dancing over the putrid body; disgust, curiosity; pity.

"Probably, I'm not looking though," said Ramien, the Wall of Stone.

"It's hard to believe this was once human. That this was once a man with a wife, a family, children. Is it worth it, I wonder – the promise of immortality. Is it worth the risk of failing and becoming – this?" asked Fel'annár softly, his eyes unfocussed.

"Who can say," said Idernon as he stood, brushing down his brown tunic, eyes still on the carcass of the Deviant. "When you are immortal, it's not easy to imagine mortality – the tragedy of it, I mean," he trailed off.

"Tragedy or no," said Ramien as he stood, towering over Idernon, "I'm not touching it."

Fel'annár snorted as he, too, stood. "Get used to it, Ramien. When we are warriors in the king's militia, we'll have our share of dirty work. Take this as practice. You don't want to lose your lunch before the entire troop."

"Lose my ...,"

"Come on," said Fel'annár, clamping a bristling Ramien on the shoulder and distracting him from what would surely become an indignant rant.

Before long, the Deviant had been burned and the three friends mounted once more, resuming their journey towards the outer city barracks and recruit training.

"Is that how you imagined them to be?" asked Idernon, his eyes still to the fore, a slight crease between his brows.

"They are – worse, I think. They look dead, even though I know they are not – I wonder if they wish to be though ... said Fel'annár quietly.

"Who would blame them," exclaimed Ramien with a scowl. "Well, at least we've actually seen a Deviant now. I wonder what the Sand Lords are like ..."

"I have always hated that expression," said Idernon. "It makes them sound noble and good. Sand Monsters would be a better term."

"They are human, Idernon," said Ramien.

"Then they are human monsters," answered Idernon curtly. "If they are not seeking immortality where it is not given, they are searching for water and taking it where it is not offered, slaughtering our people in the process."

"Perhaps we should take away the 'human' and stick with 'monsters', said Fel'annár.

"Not all humans are monsters, Fel'annár. The rulers of Prairie are on good enough terms with Tar'eastór, save for the odd skirmish, said Idernon.

"Alright, but let us not say they are not prone to brutality. Taking lives does not seem to bother them ..."

"Neither does it bother many elves, Fel'annár. Our own history is proof of that. There are monsters everywhere – it is not a question of race."

Fel'annár's eyes drifted to Idernon for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly.

A while later, when the thick forest had opened and become wooded meadowland, Fel'annár heaved a long, deep breath.

"The air has changed; it is—heavier," he said, almost to himself, his head tipped upwards, eyes dancing over the unknown territory for it was lighter here and the sun felt warmer. It should have comforted him, but it did not.

"Aye, and the trees are fewer, I feel—vulnerable," said Idernon with a scowl, his eyes darting around nervously. As Silvan elves, they were not accustomed to such open spaces, despite the trees that dotted the wooded meadowland they travelled. His horse skittered nervously beneath him, mirroring his own agitation.

"It won't be long now, until we are in the realm of the City Dwellers," said Ramien. We are out of our element, brothers; I feel—small," he said, eyes glancing this way and that, as if he thought perhaps they would be ambushed.

"Small?" chuckled Fel'annár and Idernon smiled for the first time that morning. "Not you, you lumbering oaf! And anyway, who is to say these lands are of the City Dwellers? They belong to us all. I wager many Silvans find a place in the king's halls too, even at his court," speculated Fel'annár, his nervousness momentarily forgotten.

"Silvan numskull!" smiled Idernon. "We Silvans rule the woods, aye, but there, at court," he jabbed southwards with his finger, "it is the High-born Silvans and the Alpine that impose their ways. That, I do wager on," he said sourly.

Fel'annár held his friend's gaze for a moment, a scowl back on his face. "We'll be treated like village idiots, fledgling bumpkins."

Ramien roared in laughter at his friend's petulance. "We are bumpkins, Fel'án!" he mocked good-heartedly. "We are as foreign to these lands as gruel at the king's table."

Fel'annár smiled lopsidedly, shrugging his shoulders as if to excuse his ill humour, but his mind continued to work through their situation.

"Fair. We are bumpkins and we are Silvan," he conceded. "But these are our lands; it is not natural for the Alpine and the High-born Silvan to rule them. What do they know of the forest? of woodcraft?"

"Nothing, I suppose," conceded Idernon. "They wish for power and wealth and well they know that is achieved by those who take the decisions. From their seats of power, they legislate to their own gain, contrive so that everything that is decided upon favours them in some way. It's not good government but it is the only one we have," he finished softly with a hint of sadness.

Fel'annár's face hardened as he turned to the fore once more, anger sharpening his extraordinary features.

"We will be with the majority at the barracks with the warriors though," added Ramien, his eyes darting to Idernon. "The bulk of our king's fighters are Silvan, albeit our commanders rarely are, at least that is what they say."

"It makes no sense unless you look at it for what it is," said Fel'annár, fidgeting in his saddle, "discrimination, racism created to dominate – it is about power," he spat and Ramien nodded his agreement. "I mean, surely our warriors are just as capable. What has colour or heritage to do with being a good leader?"

"Nothing," answered Idernon. "It's as sad as it is true. It was not always this way you know," stated Idernon quietly. "There are many chronicles of the elder days and there is no mention of this, veiled discrimination in any of them. It is a recent thing, I think, one that seems to have taken hold after the death of King Or'Talán." Idernon's eyes had turned to the side, his mind recalling the many books he had read on the history of Ea Uaré, of its colonization by the Alpines of Tar'eastór.

"Well, with luck we will all be assigned to the same training groups," said Ramien, before adding, "mind you, if Fel'án here is mistaken for an Alpine, that may not happen."

Silence stretched out awkwardly between them before Ramien realized he should not have said that. It was a sore spot for his friend, who had always skilfully evaded any mention of his colouring every time the conversation arose.

"Forgive me," was all he said, cringing, wilting almost under Idernon's stern gaze that lingered on him for a little too long, and despite Ramien's considerable bulk, he almost seemed to shrink.

"Don't fret, Ramien. I am well past that," Fel'annár assured his friend, albeit he did not turn to meet his gaze. Ramien's eyes did linger on the profile of his friend, before glancing at Idernon, only to find him staring right back at him.

By midday, their stomachs growled and rumbled louder than any war-bound Elven battalion and the wholesome fare their mothers had packed for them began to weigh just a little more than it had done before. Finding a suitably shady patch, the three friends dismounted and slapped their horses upon the rump, watching as they pranced away in a flurry of swishing manes and bobbing heads. Meanwhile, Ramien set about arranging their food upon his blanket, his head cocked to one side as he pondered on where to place each dish. It was an endearing sight, mused Fel'annár with a smirk, because the elf was so tall and strong it did not quite fit to see him fussing over the details of their lunch.

Before long, they sat cross-legged, eager hands clutching at gravy-filled pies and crusty bread, cheese and cold meat. It was a feast and none of them spoke until there was little left and the sun had passed into the West. Not once did they think of the stinking carcass they had buried just that morning.

On any other day, they would have stayed to nap and then hunt, camp and tell stories. But today was the first day they were truly alone in the world, and their home village of Lan Taria seemed further away than it ever had. They were excited yet apprehensive, eager to impress yet unwilling to draw attention to themselves, for Fel'annár's sake.

Silently now, their playful banter gone, they mounted once more, and continued their journey through the thinning forest, each lost to his own thoughts, of what they had left behind and perhaps more importantly, what was still ahead of them.

A little further along, Fel'annár tilted his face to the sun and listened—a nuthatch was singing in the boughs and he smiled, for these creatures were not easy to come across.

"A nuthatch!" he exclaimed, but contrary to the awe-inspired comments he had expected, Idernon snorted rudely.

"Bumpkin! —'tis not a bird you hear but an elven warrior!" he hissed.

Ramien chuckled as he slapped his thighs and threw his head back, hair flying chaotically about him, but then he almost choked on his own saliva, for in front of him, as if from nowhere, appeared a glaring Alpine warrior, a short bow slung over his back and the intricate pommel of an intimidating sword peaking over his armoured shoulder.

"You boy!" called the warrior. "What is your name?" his sharp, scowling eyes pierced Fel'annár, who hesitated for a moment before answering, resisting a sudden urge to swallow, albeit his mouth had turned as dry the northern sands. When his voice returned, he felt nothing but shame for the weakness in it.

"Fel'annár ar Amareth."

The warrior's scowl deepened and he cocked his head in thought. "I know of no Amaron of Alpine heritage," he said, watching the youth carefully.

"Not Amaron, Sir, but Amareth, and she is Silvan, as am I."

"And what of your father?" A clipped retort.

Ramien and Idernon clenched their jaws and looked to the floor for it would do no good to rile this, admittedly imposing warrior. They were close to the barracks now, and for all they knew, he may be one of their instructors. If only they could find an excuse to help their floundering friend out of the bind he found himself in—again.

"My father died, Sir."

"I meant his name you fool," the warrior said, still staring openly at the pale blond hair and moss green eyes.

"I . . ."

"Well, speak up, boy. You do have a father . . . ?"

Silence was the only answer the warrior received, and understanding lit his sharp grey eyes. "Did he die in battle?" he asked drolly, "or perhaps you are a bastard? That is a pity, Fel'annár. Whoever he was, he was obviously an Alpine."

"I am Silvan," hissed Fel'annár too quickly, his emotions getting the better of him as they always did, the words bubbling out of his mouth quicker than his mind could restrain them.

"Ohhh!" jeered the warrior. "Have something against the Alpine then?" he mocked, his grin twisted and challenging, his own, blond hair as much a declaration of his heritage as any flag.

Fel'annár was mortified at his outburst but he would be damned if he was going to apologize for it. The warrior was an ass, unnecessarily sarcastic and scathing.

"Well, well, Silvan. Proud and impulsive – not good traits in a recruit. You will learn soon enough though," he said, his caustic smile softening a little, even though Fel'annár could not see it, for he simply looked away, annoyed at himself and this pig-headed warrior who had subjected him to impertinent questions and called him an Alpine, no less!

Twin looks of caution from his friends tempered his simmering anger and he schooled himself as best he could. He had been rash despite his best attempts.

He decided then, that he would no longer lie, for that had led his errant emotions astray. He would call himself Fel'annár Ar Amareth, his aunt—his mother—for the rest was true; his real mother was dead and his father had been some, anonymous Alpine who must surely have done something terrible, for why else was he never mentioned? Why else would his own mother cloak him from the truth?

It was of no consequence; he did not care, he told himself.

He did not care at all.

"You three! Clean up and briefing is in one hour. Do not be late," said the Alpine warrior who had guided them to the barracks, still four days' ride from the mighty city fortress of Thargodén King.

It was a dour place. Grey stone and dark wood dominated everything and not one item of decoration graced the walls or any other part of the long dormitory they had been assigned to. Ramien and Idernon were simply depressed but Fel'annár seemed utterly appalled at the lack of nature. He had always had an affinity with the outside world. Back home, his window was always open, even in the thick of winter, as if he could not stand the press of enclosing walls, the separation of his immortal soul from the world outside.

Their beds were basic, and thick woollen blankets lay neatly folded on top. Jugs of water stood on every bedside table and shelving to the other side was sparse but adequate. Idernon sighed and his eyes glanced momentarily at Fel'annár, watching as he sat slowly upon a spare bed at the end of the dormitory, beneath the only window in the room. Idernon's eyes sharpened on one long finger as it brushed softly over a green leaf that had invaded the crack between the stone wall and the wooden shutter. It had always fascinated Idernon, that gesture that was so ingrained on Fel'annár, and he wondered what it was he felt; it was something he did constantly and every time it was accompanied by that strange expression on his face—one that spoke of fascination and perhaps just a hint of confusion.

As the three friends inspected their new room, Calenar made his way toward the commanding officer's quarters. He knew how overwhelmed these Silvan village boys could be when traveling to the outer city for the first time. Life here shared few similarities with their routines back home, and these three, by the looks of them, were no different save for one, surprising thing; one of them was an Alpine . . .

Calenar himself was a mountain elf, and if there was one thing he could always be sure about, it was recognizing another of his race. True his name, Fel'annár, he recalled, was clearly Silvan. He snorted then for only the Forest Dwellers would name their children after a plant.

Nay he was Alpine, however much it seemed to rile the youth. Youth, he snorted, he was barely out of swaddling cloths, and yet he had been the leader of the three, or so it had seemed to Calenar. The others protected him and the warrior realized he was intrigued with the strange boy. An orphan, or a bastard with no father to call his own, the boy's face was simply extraordinary. He would be popular with the lasses—and with the lads he added with a sardonic smile. Yet it would not be easy for him. Turion would soon knock him into shape, and a few of the other recruits too, he wagered, for envy was an ugly thing indeed.

'Poor boy,' he shook his head to clear his thoughts for he stood now, at Lieutenant Turion's door. Reaching out for the knob, he had just enough time to chuckle, for Calenar had been called many things in his life as an instructor, most of them unpalatable—but never had he been likened to something as innocent and endearing as a nuthatch!

The number of new recruits steadily rose until the noise in the common room was almost unbearable; too many Silvans in one, confined space was never easy on the ears, smirked Fel'annár to himself.

"How do I look?" asked Ramien as he held his arms out to the side, showing his friends his new uniform.

Fel'annár guffawed and Idernon smirked playfully.

"These fabrics were not designed for Walls of Stone, my friend. The sleeves are too short and the breeches too tight!" exclaimed Idernon, before Fel'annár continued with the light-hearted banter.

"Aye, and look at this," he laughed harder now— "the buttons on this tunic are straining so hard they will surely pop open no sooner you sneeze!"

Ramien's scowl deepened as he turned to the voice of Idernon once more.

"Oh, oh, and what's this!" said Idernon as he lifted the back of his friend's tunic and flapped it around, revealing his taut backside. "One fart and you will be the laughing stock of the barracks!" he exclaimed, sending Fel'annár off into a wheeze of laughter, which only worsened as he watched Ramien dance out of the way, batting Idernon's hands from the hem of his tunic. The other recruits laughed as they watched the three friends, until a mighty yell from the open doorway shot through them, and they stood to mortified attention. The time for briefing had crept upon them unawares and their superior officer stood akimbo, face grim and eyes twinkling in hidden mirth.

"You! Shut your mouths and get to the briefing—you're late!"

Red-faced and duly chastised, the three friends marched towards their first briefing together with the other village boys, all of them Silvan, noticed Fel'annár, just as Idernon had predicted they would be, indeed he was the only one with pale, silvery-blond hair. Even the commanders were mostly dark blond or even auburn-haired. He still stuck out awkwardly, involuntarily drawing unwanted attention to himself. Any hope he had held to that his appearance would be less striking the further they travelled towards the city had been utterly dashed.

Elant, the Alpine warrior who had caught them fooling around, stood before the bewildered Silvan lads in the main hall, and revealed himself as their drill instructor.

Calenar, also known as Nuthatch, was their strategy tutor, and when Elant introduced the only Silvan on the training team, a tracker by the name of Faunon, the new recruits looked on in interest and no small amount of respect. This Faunon must be good, they reckoned, to be the only Silvan amongst the Alpine tutors.

There had been no mention of weapons training though. One recruit had dared ask why that was and Elant explained that they could not yet be trusted to hold a blade in their hands. Alpine warriors were brave, but not that much, he had added with a smirk.

By the end of their first week as recruits, their muscles ached ferociously, and Ramien was provided with a new set of clothing to accommodate his ever-growing bulk, triggering a round of light-hearted mockery which the Wall of Stone took with a rueful smile, earning for himself the respect of their fellow recruits.

Idernon earned his own fame as a bookworm and was sometimes looked upon in puzzlement for it was not at all common for one his age to be so learned. But Idernon had an incisive and ironic sense of humour and for all this, he was respected as a scholarly, witty elf and a generous companion.

As for Fel'annár, his corner of the room had turned almost completely green. Light green plants, dark green vines and wild, yellow flowers sprouted here and there, invading his bed and had even stuck to the inner walls. He was a child of nature, they said, a true Silvan despite his looks, and some had even speculated he could speak to the trees, something most had laughed at good-naturedly. He was a tough lad who was sometimes hard to interpret, but he was also strangely noble, generous with his time and his actions and for this, Fel'annár was popular. They had even taken to calling him The Silvan, yet where their tone was light-hearted and well-meant, their instructors were not so benevolent and every time the name was used, their lips would curl and their eyes slant, as if they enjoyed the reaction they garnered from him.

By the end of the second week, the three lads were as popular as they were good, and as the inseparable friends they were, they had soon been baptized as 'The Company'.

With the third week came cramps, dehydration and general exhaustion, for all except those of The Company, for unlike the others, they had subjected themselves to such physical training since they were children, especially Fel'annár, who had always pushed himself to his own limits, his obsessive dream of becoming a captain fuelling them all. Idernon had often mused that such relentless preparation was Fel'annár's way of channelling his frustration over his aunt's refusal to answer his questions, anger at his father for abandoning him, at his mother for dying.

Fel'annár's body was a silent witness to his efforts, for when others stopped, he would continue, push himself to his limits and then some. Idernon and Ramien always found a way to cover for him, yet as time passed and friends were made, their guard slipped, and from time to time, an elf would seek Fel'annár out and observe from afar.

Fel'annár studied his blurry reflection in the window beside his bed, only partially listening to the quiet chat of those around him. It was early evening and they were free to do as they pleased. Some wrote in their journals, or composed letters to their family while others played games or simply chatted quietly. Fel'annár though, had fallen into a strange, contemplative mood, and the urge to walk amongst the trees became too much to resist. With a nod at Ramien and Idernon, he left the barracks and walked out into the waning, autumn light. Finding for himself a shady spot, he sat under a sprawling willow and allowed his mind to wander where it would.

Four of the longest weeks of his life had, paradoxically, flown by and he could not say they had been bad. Yet there was one thing that irked him; his new name—The Silvan. His fellow recruits used it light-heartedly and that was all well and good, but that same name from the lips of his tutors was a veiled insult, as if they threw him bait and waited for him to bite down on it -trip him up purposefully—what was the point? he asked himself in exasperation. Was his commitment not worthy of their respect? Why would his wish to serve be less important than the nature of his origins?

"May I?" came Idernon's soft voice at his side, making Fel'annár jump. "Your tracking skills are progressing," he said defensively as he fidgeted and then settled once more.

"I should hope so," scoffed Idernon. "Faunon is good," he said as he lowered himself to the ground.

There was silence for a while, until Fel'annár understood his friend would not ask him to speak and yet expected him to all the same—there was no escaping Idernon at times like these and so, with a heavy sigh, he gave voice to his thoughts.

"They think I hate them," he began. "Can they not just confront me and be done with it?" he said in mounting irritation. If he had expected Idernon to comment though, he was wrong and he chanced a sideways glance at his friend, who was staring blankly back at him. His heart sank to his boots as he began to understand his friends' silence.

"You agree with them? You think I hate them?" asked Fel'annár, his anger becoming more apparent as realization sunk in.

"Do you?" asked his friend evenly, his eyes searching, "do you hate them?"

"Of course I don't. It is simply that I am Silvan and when I tell them that, they laugh and call me Alpine. I am proud of my origins, Idernon—why should I be pleased they call me Alpine?"

"I believe you miss the point," said Idernon carefully. He had always known this moment would come, the moment in which his friend would need to understand himself.

"And the point is?" asked Fel'annár, his jaw working rhythmically.

"You are not angry because they do not call you Silvan, Fel'annár. You are angry because they call you Alpine. Because your father, was Alpine . . ."

"I don't care!" he hissed, eyes suddenly wide and furious as he scrambled to his feet. "Is it too much to ask that I be called what I am and not what I am not?" The words had escaped him and no sooner had he said them, he closed his eyes in defeat.

"And so you see," said Idernon calmly, even though his heart was racing. "What is it that you are not Fel'annár? Are you not half Alpine? Are you not as much a part of that race as you are Silvan? Why should it make you angry, if only because your father was Alpine?"

Fel'annár stared back at his friend in disbelief and betrayal and his head shook from side to side as if he would deny the words Idernon had just said but he could not, and for some strange reason it made him even more angry. Taking a deep breath, he stood and after a moment of hesitation, he stalked away towards the training fields, his gait stiff and controlled, anger rolling off him like fog upon the high plains of Prairie.

Idernon knew not to stop him for his friend had an ugly temper when his family was discussed. The unexplained absence of a father and the ensuing years of frustration could not be remedied easily and Idernon damned Amareth for her silence, a silence neither he nor Ramien had ever understood.

Lieutenant Turion sat alone and watched, not for the first time as the lone recruit worked through the basic stances of sword and sabre, seemingly unaware that he was being observed.

Fel'annár, that was his name, he recalled. Green Sun—and he could see why, for the boy's eyes were blazing pools of spring moss, akin to the venerated woodland plant, a flower of such fleeting beauty, one that would only ever bloom once, never to return. Many kept the extraordinary treasure and dried it—indeed Turion's sister had one—she said it brought love and he would always laugh.

Fascinated, the lieutenant watched as one leg slowly slipped back, far behind the other, both arms stretched out in front of him, muscles flexing and cording. He stayed that way for many moments, chest heaving and sweat pouring from his pale skin until one arm reached out behind him and still, the movement was slow, precise and yet strangely intimidating.

He was good—nay he was excellent. But of course, Turion had already known that.

He had obviously been training like this for a long while and Turion, experienced immortal warrior that he was, knew the signs of a troubled heart when he saw them, indeed if he compared today with what he had seen on previous days, there was a sharpness to the boy's movements; slow, simmering anger that was being channelled into his movements. He had seen far too many cases of young warriors who had lost fathers to battle, mothers to the raids of Sand Lords or Deviants—he knew the signs of conflict, could read them on their young, inexperienced faces as easily as he could a child's bedtime story. Understanding them was part of his job, that and to make them the best candidates for warrior hood as he could. He had even turned down the opportunity to become a captain, to enter the venerable Inner Circle of Ea Uaré, because had he accepted, it would have taken him away from all this. It was a simple yet rewarding life, one he had craved for after years of fighting in the field.

The recruit changed position, reaching to pick up his blades which he deftly swirled in both hands and Turion's brow twitched in surprise.

The moves were studied and precise and yet this boy was from Lan Taria—there were no blade masters there—none that could have taught him these things. This elf had learned from books, he realized and his curiosity was irreversibly peaked.

Fel'annár of Lan Taria, what is your secret, child? he asked himself, his head cocking slightly to one side as he watched the entrancing moves of one too young to have been taught such things.

His friend Lainon popped into his mind's eye then and Turion smirked. He still remembered his friend's find, an astonishing young warrior who was now serving in the North. He had boasted for months and Turion had endured it good-naturedly. 'Well, my friend. Perhaps it will be me to brag my own find sooner than you think,' he smiled to himself. He would wait a little longer, wait for one more sign lest he make a fool of himself. Yet time was a luxury he did not have. Just this morning, Turion had received orders from the city. News from the northern fronts was dire and novices were desperately needed. He was therefore required to send along any of this more advanced candidates to the next step of their training—to promote earlier than was normal. It was a sad fact of life in Ea Uaré, one that was all too easily forgotten in these, apparently peaceful parts of the forest. But one only had to look a little further away and towards the main path into the city to see the comings and goings of warriors, supplies, and the arrival of Silvan refugees.

Turion still remembered the days when he had served with Lainon. It had been bad even then but now they were being forced to send novices to the front lines. He closed his eyes in a rare show of emotion and then opened them once more, focusing on Fel'annár as he whirled this way and that. He would speak to the boy, he decided, help him if he could, and then he would send him away—to war.