Chapter 29: Where Rowan Dreams

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After the celebrations had begun, Rowan made her way to an outpost, to where the Fae warriors were standing watch. She had thought of this as an opportunity to seek information, to suss out potential numbers. It was so hard to tell how many Fae there were at Tara, how many fighters, how many this clan could summon from other Fae communities. Rowan needed more information.

One particular warrior Fae had caught her eye upon arrival. The one who appeared to be a captain. They were muscled and tough, wearing hide armour laced with silver braids of metal, a thick silver short sword hanging from their hip. Nythander was the name the leader had used for them. They had silver eyes, sharp feline features. Scars, claw gouges they'd never bothered to heal, ripped across their visage like a badge of past violence endured and dolled out. A scar they'd chosen to wear, so unlike Rowan's own scars that she would have wished away. Nythander had an air of gravitas unique to them, a seriousness uncharacteristic for the playful Fae. Rowan sought them out not simply due to rank, but also due to a feeling of comradery.

"Princess," they had said, when she'd sought an audience alone.

"Is it Nythander?"

They nodded. "Nyth is fine. How may I assist you?" They spoke formally, watching the dark around them for threats.

Rowan wondered how to approach this -- what to give away and what to keep close to her chest.

"I was hoping you could tell me more of Fae politics."

Nyth's head cocked to the side, assessing. Cunning behind the quicksilver in the warm torchlight.

"Strange party conversation, Princess. I would have thought you'd want to be part of the festivities."

"I'm not a party girl," Rowan admitted, chagrined. "I just wanted to know more about the Fae. Your leader, Finvarra, is leader of the Tara elves, but also the head of all the twelve tribes of the Tuath De Danaan, is that correct?"

Nyth nodded. "Which is why, Princess, it may be wise to indulge Finvarra. Attending the party will go a long way to garnering you favour for the request you intend to make."

Rowan gawked at the Elven warrior. "What request?"

"The one where you ask us to join your war against the Empire." Nyth was sitting on a stump beside the flickering torch, sharpening a knife on a handheld whetstone as they talked and kept guard.

"And what are the chances you'll join us?" Rowan had not expected to get this far, this quickly. She had not expected the Fae to see each play before they made it. She certainly hadn't predicted Nyth would be so blunt.

"A scrawny beech tree," answered Nyth.

Rowan looked blank. She hunkered down on the stump next to Nyth.

"Slim chance," they explained. "The Fae are a long-lived folk. We do not procreate easily. Life is precious and long. We have not involved ourselves in a human war for thousands of years." Nyth stopped sharpening the knife, leaned elbows onto splayed knees, thinking.

"But this is different. The Empire is a threat to all of us, to your way of existence as well. She could be the end of all of this." Rowan's arms spread out, gesturing at the forest around her as she tried to explain.

Nyth looked somber. "I know. I've argued as much. If it were up to me, we would fight with you. But it is not." Nyth looked sad, like there was more to say that they simply couldn't voice. "But Finvarra knows that you want something desperately. Knows what you want. You and your demi-God have put yourselves at the mercy of impulsive folk."

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