He knows me, Inara explained. But I fear I do not know myself. She walked out onto a plateau of varying types of long grass, their colours more vibrant than anything possible in the real world. I know what I want to say, she continued.
Then say it, Athis advised, gliding down to join her in the grasses. You need not fear yourself. You must learn to embrace who you are, who you really are.
Inara sighed, torn between angst and excitement. If I take this path, if I marry Vighon, I will be giving my heart to a mortal. I will have to watch him fade away until death finally claims him. And what of children? They would have some elven blood, but it might not grant them everlasting life. It didn’t for Alijah. I would live on only to watch my entire line eventually die. I would have to say farewell to them all.
Athis lowered his head, angling it at a slight tilt. Inara, you have already given your heart to Vighon. Even now I can feel it beating for him. I sensed your love for him when we first met and it has never faltered. I simply prevented you from feeling it.
None of that changes my future, Inara countered. If I say yes, I will know only—
Love, Athis interjected. You will know the love of a family. The companionship of a husband. The joy of children. They are unique experiences that no Dragorn has ever known. Yes, there will be pain. But there will also be happiness. I know you, Inara. If you deny your feelings now, you will live with regret for the rest of your days. Even if your time with Vighon is a spark in your lifetime, let it be a spark so bright that it lives in you for all time.
Inara reached up and ran a loving hand along her companion’s jaw. What will it mean for us?
We will find a way, Athis promised. Though I see children on my back in the future, he quipped.
Inara smiled, blinked once, and returned to the same moment she had inhabited standing before Vighon. “Yes,” she replied to his question. As she witnessed a wave of joy overcome Vighon, she felt the same thing cross her bond from Athis.
The northman leapt to his feet and pulled her in to a tight embrace and a passionate kiss. “You have made me the happiest man alive,” he exclaimed before kissing her again.
“We are such fools,” Inara said through a giddy smile. “Tomorrow, we go into battle.”
“Now I have something more to fight for,” Vighon uttered, his expression locked in a moment of joy.
Hand in hand, they made their way back to the camp and returned to the gathered council. A drink was waiting for them both and more than a few questioning faces. The couple, however, offered tight smiles in response and kept their engagement to themselves. The night was about someone else.
55
The Valley of Death
“They’re waiting for you,” Drelda said, her voice hoarse from days of weeping.
Seated beside his brother’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees, and his head hung low, Doran nodded absently. He had taken note of the quiet beyond the royal tent as the camp’s anticipation reached its apex.
Doran looked up and cast his eye over the empty bed. Once upon a time, long before he exiled himself to Illian, the son of Dorain had imagined the day he would be crowned the king of Grimwhal. On that day, he had always envisioned his brother standing beside him.
“Your father would never have stood for this,” the queen mother continued in the absence of a response. “A king should be crowned by the Iron Priest, not some lowly cleric. And it certainly wouldn’t be done in a forest.”
Doran let her vent it all, aware that she was only trying to busy her mind and keep the grief at bay. “The Iron Priest was killed when the Reavers invaded Grimwhal, Mother. A lowly cleric will do the job just fine - all he has to do is place a damned crown on my head. And we have no mountain to call home right now, so The Black Wood will have to do. Soldiers always do better when they have someone to follow.”
As he stood up, his mother was right in front of him, a stern look on her face. “That damned crown you’re so loath to wear means something. From King Thorgen’s head to yours it has brought power to our family.” Doran wanted to remind her that it was not the same crown worn by their ancestor - the original lost over two thousand years ago during a clan war - but he didn’t dare interrupt her right now. “Your father didn’t know what to do with that power. He had no ambition for the Heavybellys nor our people as a whole. Your brother…”
Drelda caught herself before new tears escaped. “Your brother wanted to change everything. He wanted peace across all of Dhenaheim. He wanted prosperity for all dwarves. But for all his wants and desires, such a future was beyond him, beyond any dwarf, even King Uthrad Battleborn.” The queen mother gripped Doran’s arms. “But you, my son, have found yourself at a very precious point in history. What you do here and now will shape the children of the mountain for generations. Only Grarfath and Yamnomora have done more for our people.”
Doran considered the declaration he was minutes away from making. “It’s bold,” he said. “There will be those who oppose my taking of Grimwhal, let alone Dhenaheim.”
“They might oppose you, but none can oppose your deeds. Kings are always defined by their actions—”
“Exactly,” Doran interrupted. “You’re talking to the dwarf who abandoned his post, his family, his home. My actions speak only of—”
“A hero,” Drelda stated, cutting him short. “You have proven yourself to be worthy of Thorgen’s blood. This
