Doran nodded along, noting the small group of king’s guard that held back, closer to the main camp. “Ye’ve worn yer crown well, yer Grace,” he replied, his tone as low as his spirits.
“Crowns don’t make kings,” Vighon said reflectively, his own gaze set to the horizon now. “Nor do words, no matter how heroic they sound. We’re all forged by our actions, regardless of whether we succeed or not.”
Doran glanced up at the king, wondering if the latter was specifically directed at him. “How did ye do it?” he asked quietly, his words barely reaching Vighon. “How did ye come back an’… face it all?”
Vighon took a breath, a hint of shame and guilt still lingering in his demeanour. “Leaders, whatever their role, don’t set an example by being perfect. They set an example by getting back up. My judgment faltered and I made a mistake. In the end, I had to accept that and rise above it, whatever the punishment. And, like you, it helps that I have loyal supporters who believe in me.”
Doran half chuckled to himself when considering his own loyal supporters. “Ye’re well loved an’ yer past deeds well remembered. I wouldn’ put me in yer camp, yer Grace.”
“You sell yourself short,” Vighon argued, before noticing the dwarf’s raised eyebrow. “I meant no offence,” he quickly added with some amusement.
“Hmm. I’d say ye’ve spent too much time around Asher,” Doran remarked, his skin far too thick to take any real offence.
Vighon stifled his laugh. “What I meant to say is: you have plenty of supporters here, and back in The Black Wood. You haven’t just been fighting for The Rebellion all this time, Doran; you’ve been liberating your people. In just a couple of years you’ve broken down clan lines that have separated dwarves for thousands of years.”
The son of Dorain looked down at his boots, his mouth contorted to match the turmoil within. “When I left for Qamnaran, I made a promise to return with that wretch’s blade. Without it, I’ve done nothin’ to change Dakmund’s fate. An’ what o’ me Ma? How will I look her in the eye after he’s gone? I’ve failed to save the last king o’ Dhenaheim. How am I to return? Ye say I ’ave supporters, but who could support me when I can’ even protect me own brother?”
“I spent a year with questions like those,” the northman began. “They preyed on me every time I strayed too far from a bottle. They kept me prisoner, trapped in a cycle of fear. They held me back and stopped me from doing the one thing I should have been doing.”
Doran furrowed his brow and looked up at the king. “An’ what was that?”
Vighon smiled to himself and turned his head to look back down at the dwarf. “Fighting for what’s in my heart instead of what’s on my shoulders. But the questions that haunted me are not those that haunt you. Only you know what you must face to put them to rest. There can be no peace for you until you do.”
Doran absorbed every word; no easy task for a stubborn dwarf. And, right at that moment, he knew what he needed to face if he was ever to move forward, along with his kin.
A light chortle escaped his lips. “Ye’re nothin’ like the young pup I remember,” he shared. “I used to see ye in The Pick-Axe, when ye weren’ out runnin’ around with Alijah that is. The two o’ ye would come in, young, dumb, an’ full o’ yerselves. Nothin’ could bring ye down; ye were invincible.” The son of Dorain laughed again before growing serious. “Now look at ye. Ye’ve got the wisdom o’ an elf, the strength o’ a dwarf, an’ the heart o’ a good man.”
Vighon bowed his head by way of thanks. “I hope you remember me that way five hundred years from now.”
“I’ll be lucky if I remember me own name five hundred years from now,” Doran quipped.
“Your Grace!” one of the knights called, after dismissing a messenger. “The council is ready.”
Vighon stepped aside and gestured at the camp. “There can be no council without Doran Heavybelly.”
The dwarf grinned. “Too right.”
Unlike the rest of his kin, Doran was more attuned to humans and elves after so much time living amongst them. He picked up on their subtle cues, be it in their facial expressions or body language. Elves, naturally still and poised creatures, were often more animated when irritated. And, it seemed, they could say a lot more with their eyes than their mouth. Humans, on the other hand, went rigid and cold, usually a precursor to an explosion of energy. Looking around the tent now, Doran’s experience informed him that calmer heads had prevailed after a night’s sleep.
Naturally, all eyes fell on Vighon as he invariably led these kinds of meetings. The king, however, directed them to Adan’Karth at the other end of the table. “It was Adan who requested we meet again,” he explained.
The Drake bowed his head in thanks before addressing the council. “Thank you for gathering again; I know there are many out there who look to you all for guidance now. We discussed many things yesterday. We disagreed on many things yesterday,” he added, clearly uncomfortable with any kind of conflict. “You are all within your rights to remain here and continue discussing your next steps, but I have already decided on mine.”
“Adan…” Asher’s tone had just an edge of pleading to it.
“I have accompanied you across the sea and back,” Adan replied, meeting the ranger’s blue eyes. “I made your path my own.” The Drake glanced down at Avandriell. “But I cannot follow you - you belong in the sky now. It is time I walked my own path. I will journey to The Evermoore and
