some of us are still looking up at the stars

The woods had always been the heart of legends in Egynlief. 

Many deities, many spirits, many heroes had to wander through them, or were literally born there throughout time -- Siegfried had always hated them, because it was a part of his early studies about the country’s culture. His grandfather and granduncle had always insisted on the importance of giving thanks to them, especially the kind spirits that protected the whole country.

And yet, there was more than the fairytale like creatures the elders depicted. 

Siegfried, the ever curious and ambitious young man, had found out about the other spirits that wandered the world, the ones that the Star had always wanted to eradicate or keep hidden, because those were considered deathbringers, horrifying entities and merely mentioning them could be seen as a sin.

Honestly, he always thought that the vision of those spirits was negatively exaggerated, willingly so, to keep people from straying from the way the Star and its adepti dictated. That, or the Shadows were just so powerful that the Star was afraid of the possibility of someone being able to control them.

Such a person hadn’t been born in centuries, according to the legends. Or possibly, even if they had, the Star itself had gotten rid of them immediately. Siegfried thought the latter was the likelier case.

Even so, even knowing the risks, the situation at hand called for desperate measures.

His mother and those damned relatives of hers had been disrupting the balance created by the founders for years and, finally, some weeks ago the country got one step from the civil war. Not considering the conflict arising with the surrounding countries. The situation was already dire. Worst of all, the current king - his father - had done nothing to stop nor slow their plan simply because he wanted to see “how much the spirits would do for them”. 

He was crazy at heart and honestly, the only thing that kept him from destroying everything right away had been Ravenna’s presence. It had been good, while it lasted. 

Siegfried sighed, looking down at the old ruins of the Schwarz Temple, remnants of a past glory that had been erased from existence by the Star and its adepti many decades ago. Thick vines, rich bushes and young trees had been growing all around the forgotten place, almost filling up the places where once the outer walls had stood. 

In any other moment, he’d appreciate the scenery more than what he did at the moment.

Steeling his resolve, Siegfried stepped inside the ruins and began his search. 

Dark, reddish-brown eyes looked all over what had once been corridors and rooms, the ground cracked and marred with purple petaled flowers all over. He spotted a few animals -- lizards, little mice -- hiding here and there, in the cracks of the few fragments of wall building that managed to still stand.

After carefully threading for a few minutes,the young man managed to reach the place where -- technically -- the altar should have been. A shiver of anticipation shook him, before he regained his composure. He started looking around with even more attention, for something -- anything! -- that could have meant a contract or a summoning circle of any sorts. 

It would’ve been a chance he wouldn’t let go for anything, no matter how slim -- non-existent -- his luck should’ve been to succeed.

Fat chance to find it so easily, after decades and a thorough eradication by the Star. 

The same moment the thought crossed his mind, a wave of anger hit him through the chest. Since when he’d been so weak minded to accept defeat with such ease? There was a minuscule possibility -- so what? His stubbornness was still his best trait, something he needed to put to use in that case. 

Crouching down, Siegfried took his time to examine the remnants, spot by spot, diligently.

The first day passed with no result, and so the second and third and fourth -- he had to take long breaks from his study to complete the required schedule set for him by his parents and his title itself, so in the end the search was progressing slower than he hoped.

He didn’t stop, of course, yet he could not find a single trace or hint on how to get in contact with the creatures of the other side in a whole month. 

One day -- the last day, he promised himself, to entertain such dreams and hopes -- the sun had almost been set when frustration hit him in the face and he hit the ground with a punch in return.

Damn it… damn it! Why did those two have to keep such secrecy around these damned spirits!

Damn them too -- his grandfather and granduncle -- who had been telling him and his brothers such pretty tales: why did they tell him and Freyr about the binding contract but not where to find them?! 

Magic did exist in their world, but in such a subtle way that it would have been impossible to easily make a contract with ancient and powerful beings. The Star was an obvious exception, but those bigot bastards would rather turn to the dark arts than mingle directly with politics to maintain their “neutral” façade.

If Siegfried had had the power to destroy such an hypocrite organization, he would have done so long ago.

And yet here he was, crouching down on the dirt in the middle of the ruins of a forgotten cult, surrounded by a supposed “magical” forest and looking for demons of all things to make things better for his country and his decided family. His hands hurt from trying to dig out parts of the stone floor, more than one of his nails had almost gotten off too.

He had reached the breaking point.

Probably it would have proven to be a better plan, if he just decided to slit a few throats instead of looking for power. Cowardice, maybe? Not wanting to dirt his hands with the blood of his family? Ah, he should have forgotten such feelings long ago, as his mother taught him to.

Lost in his inner self reflections, the young man didn’t notice immediately. 

Shadows had fallen over the surrounding forest, the last sunlight hitting and creating illusions of autumn colors. Among those trees, silhouettes moved silently -- human looking, with no recognizable signs of identity and a cape kept well down on their faces. Inhuman whispers spread in the silence of the sunset, growing in volumes that not everyone could listen to.

Steps could finally be heard from the moss covered floor. Siegfried stiffened for a moment, his body growing cold for the noise he missed to notice in time: had it been an assassin looking for him, as in the past, he would’ve been sprouting at least an injury. Or worse.

His fingers brushed the sword’s handle discreetly, moving as slow as possible not to alert the coming intruder of his knowledge. Quick, decisive, merciless; someone had described his strikes like so. Siegfried could not deny any of that. When the steps halted, right behind him, he went for the hit, unsheathing his sword and turning his bust around so that he could slash his blade where he measured the throat would be.

Breath died in his throat when his eyes met forest green ones. The tip of his weapon held dangerously close to the delicate neck of his best friend. For some reason, her usually calm expression upset him greatly at the time: how could she keep such a smile on her face, when he was about to cut her down moments before?

“... Xylia. What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, sounding even more tired than he felt, and that was saying something already.

Silence fell on the ruins as he stood back up and sheathed his sword, dusting his clothes off after hours of search. Dark, reddish-brown eyes fell on the pristine uniform the young woman was wearing, his mind distractedly commenting on the contrast their appearances created, while he waited for an answer.

“I was worried. We were worried, Siegfried.” Xylia’s voice began softly, a tinge of worry in every word. “You’ve been disappearing for hours lately. Freyr thinks you’re planning to run away or are having an affair with some girl in town.”

He snorted, an amused note in the reaction. “Freyr reads too many novels. His brain is going to fry at some point.”

“That’s what I told him, too. I know you’re not dating anyone or planning to leave him behind.”

“Oh? What do I owe so much trust from you now?”

Another shiver, an unexpected and confusing one, ran down his spine after he asked that question. While he watched Xylia’s expression, the changes on her features, he didn’t expect to see that in her eyes.

A dark, all consuming glint that threatened to swallow him whole in an instant. 

It lasted for less than a second, but Siegfried was adamant -- he did not imagine it.

Finally, the reply to his sarcasm came in the form of a knowing smile and a feathery touch on his cheek. Xylia’s thumb caressed his skin right below his left eye like she had done so, so many times before; hea leant (shamelessly, for once) to the touch. And yet, none of the usual cheerful affection was there in that moment.

“I know what you’re looking for, because I’ve had it all this time. I am the third Contractor of Arceren, the hidden shadows.” 

The dread that had been building up inside of him exploded right then, like a balloon pierced through with a thousand arrows. His chest felt painful, constricted for some reasons he didn’t want to externate. Still, words that wouldn’t come out from his mouth tried still to do so in another form.

The wind blowing through the forest brought with it the smell of sea and rain. He wondered how the distant places would be -- he could have really seen them, if he did what his brother suspected him to. Not that Siegfried could blame him, after all.

Taking a deep breath and opening his eyes again, taking now notice of the whispers filling the surrounding trees and their shadows. Each and every one stepped out of their hiding places, their supposed faces turned to the two of them. Siegfried felt their hollow stares on him, searching for something -- an opening, a weakness, something they could use to completely and utterly destroy him, should he become an enemy -- and focused even more on the woman in front of him. 

Her warm touch, her kindness, the memories they built over the years.

He knew what was about to happen. He hated every part of it.

Xylia was still smiling, sorrow and regret filling her features. Glistening tears threatened to fall from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Siegfried. Please, don’t think this is your fault. I’ve decided to do this on my own.”

A lump formed in his throat, as he leant down on the woman’s shoulder; his red, fiery hair caressing her chin as he touched her shoulder with his forehead. One of her hands went on the back of his head, caressing his hair like a loving touch should do for comfort.

The next word that came out from his mouth felt more like daggers piercing through him. A new vow was formed and the silent woods were the only witness of the Rite of Shadows, the passage of the contract from one to another -- as it always was, as it will always be.

At the end of the day, he felt like a traitor, a real murderer for the first time in his life, and really undeserving.

(he had the power he was looking for. The cost was just a tad more than what he had accounted for)

Una guerra non sarebbe mai dovuta durare così a lungo. Anche ove fosse diventata una necessità, la morte e la distruzione che essa portava non avrebbe dovuto mai diventare una costante nelle vite di nessuno, dai regnanti ai soldati alla nobiltà ed alla plebe.

Molti la vedevano solamente uno scontro di potere, di abilità e soprattutto di risorse, dove sarebbe uscito vincitore chi poteva vantare la maggioranza degli stessi. Non si guardava mai a ciò che essa lasciava, poichè l’obiettivo ed il fine ultimo era la vittoria--un chiaro esempio di quanto gli uomini potessero essere ciechi di fronte alla realtà ed al buonsenso.

Forse era per questo, insieme a tanti altri motivi, che suo padre--il precedente re--era stato deposto. Assassinato, corresse una vocina nella sua mente, anche se a quel punto la semantica aveva ben poco valore.

Quand’era accaduto, oltre allo sconcerto iniziale, la reazione nei due principi fratelli aveva avuto una sfumatura più… tiepida. Niente stupore, niente dolore. Solamente una fredda, razionale (e, che gli dei e la Stella li perdonino, sollevata) accettazione.

Alla veglia funebre, Siegfried e Freyr stavano fianco a fianco, di fronte alle spoglie mortali di loro padre. L’espressione impassibile, degna del titolo regale a loro conferito dalla nascita, e la postura rigida ma perfetta, anch’essa niente meno che un risultato degli anni di lezioni avute in età giovanile. La cerimonia non fu particolarmente degna di nota, se non per la nota meraviglia nell’assistere nel rituale dell’ultimo saluto: tutti sembravano quasi rapiti dai rapidi e precisi movimenti della sacerdotessa del tempio, incaricata di “guidare” l’anima del defunto verso l’aldilà con le armoniche note del suo qin.

Per lunghi momenti, Freyr aveva temuto di sentire la fanciulla annunciare che lo spirito di suo padre si rifiutava di abbandonare quella terra. L’insensato terrore che quell’idea, fattasi strada nelle sue ossa come il gelo invernale, aveva instillato in lui l’aveva irrigidito come le corde dello strumento più sacro agli dei--qualcosa che, lo sapeva, non poteva essere passato inosservato al fratello maggiore.

Fortunatamente, Siegfried non era tipo da fare domande. O curarsi di lui, per quel che ne sapeva.

*

“Una cerimonia adorabile, mio signore. Non ne convenite?”

Di tutte le cose a cui Freyr avrebbe dovuto abituarsi, quella--era sicuro--sarebbe stata la più difficile. Sobbalzato all’apparizione della creatura, quasi rischiò di rovesciare l’inchiostro del calamaio sulla lettera che stava terminando di scrivere momenti prima da tant’era la foga con cui si era mosso. Gli occhi castani dell’uomo vagarono febbrilmente per la stanza, fino a posarsi sulla poco familiare figura incappucciata vicino al finestrone della sua camera. Solo allora, nel riconoscere la sua mortale alleata, riuscì a calmare in parte il battito frenetico del cuore, che minacciava di balzargli fuori dal petto.

“... Non apparire dal nulla in questo modo.” la redarguì, aggrottando le sopracciglia in un modo che sperava essere almeno la metà contrariato e severo di quanto desiderava. Speranza vana, considerata l’ilarità causata nella creatura stessa da quella reazione.

“Perdono, perdono. Purtroppo, tendiamo a dimenticare la fragilità dell’animo mortale, a volte, poichè un’Ombra non soffre di tali limitazioni.” 

Il clan delle Ombre, una leggenda tramandata ormai per spaventare i bambini più che per ricordare il loro passato di terrore seminato nelle lande. Creature indubbiamente non umane, in grado di esistere nel mondo mortale così come nell’Aldilà--non vive, ma mai veramente morte--e di commettere i più spregevoli atti senza la minima remora, se il loro signore così desiderasse. 

Quella stessa leggenda aveva giurato fedeltà a lui e lui soltanto.

Era stato un azzardo dato dalla disperazione e dal desiderio che tutto finisse, una volta per tutte. Quando aveva trovato il libro del rituale nella biblioteca privata di suo padre, non aveva pensato due volte prima di fare un tentativo: un patto con quegli esseri avrebbe potuto rappresentare l’unica speranza per il loro paese, per porre fine alla guerra che dilaniava le loro terre. 

Quando la cacofonia di voci, che solamente lui poteva sentire per via del patto, gli avevano risposto ed offerto l’aiuto che tanto desiderava, il giovane vi si era lanciato come un uomo affamato su un pezzo di carne.

Egoisticamente, altruisticamente, Freyr aveva agito--contro i paesi limitrofi, nemici della sua patria. Contro suo padre, tiranno del suo stesso popolo. Per suo espresso ordine, le Ombre avevano eliminato gli oppressori che da solo non sarebbe mai riuscito ad eliminare.

Era diventato un assassino, per quanto le sue mani non fossero macchiate di sangue.

Tale presa di coscienza, insieme alla certezza di quali sarebbero state le conseguenze se qualcuno avesse scoperto c’era arrivato a fare, avevano fatto sì che le sue passate notti fossero trascorse nella completa incapacità a prender sonno. Il concetto di riposo suonava più come un sogno distante, irraggiungibile, con il terrore che lo travolgeva come un fiume in piena.

L’avrebbero condannato per eresia, la chiesa ed il popolo al tempo stesso. L’immaginava già, la sua fine, indegnamente segnata dalla moralità collettiva, ma sperava in cuor suo--con un frammento di assoluta, deliziosa innocenza che gli era rimasta dalla fanciullezza--che almeno qualcuno vedesse che le sue azioni erano state votate al bene comune.

Sperava, pregava.

“Mio signore”, richiamò la voce di un’Ombra, molto più vicina di prima; era diversa dalla precedente, notò Freyr, più dolce ma ugualmente familiare alle sue orecchie. Questi sobbalzò nuovamente, strappato dai suoi pensieri ancora una volta, e si voltò verso la figura al suo fianco. “E’ tempo che riposiate, ora. Penseremo noi a vegliare su di voi durante il vostro ristoro.”

Freyr avrebbe voluto rifiutare, per terminare ciò che aveva cominciato prima di coricarsi, ma il modo in cui le mani gelide dell’Ombra lo guidarono dalla scrivania al letto e la delicata melodia che mormorava riuscirono a strappargli uno sbadiglio. Colto da un’improvvisa stanchezza, si trascinò sotto le coperte e poggiò la testa sul morbido guanciale.

“Solo un paio d’ore, allora…” mormorò lui, palpebre pesanti e voce già impastata dalla stanchezza.

Dopo giorni di notti insonni, finalmente, il giovane nobile riuscì a chiudere occhio ed avere un riposo privo di sogni, cullato da una melodia antica e da dita delicate ad accarezzargli i capelli.