THE LAST BREATH
When a father loses his divinity in the eyes of his children, he becomes nothing more than an enemy.” — Ancient Inscriptions, Ael’Tharûn Stones
For centuries he had roamed these lands alongside his companions, taken up the sword, and fought against his enemies. Fate, he told himself. On these very lands where he had sworn conquest, he now fled from enemies born of his own blood. The Elvanûrien meadows — known to future generations as the Tharûvalen Plains — had turned crimson red. Fathers had slain their sons, brothers their brothers. This was something he could never have imagined since the first day he had awakened. Had the gods created him for this? Was he not told to unite the divided? He had rushed tirelessly from front to front, fought countless wars and forged countless treaties to bring a fractured humanity together. He had crushed every clan and lineage that refused to submit to his rule, and had quieted the chaos that plagued these lands. Nearly two centuries had passed in this way. He had neglected his home, his children, their children, his wives. The life he had sacrificed was not meant for this. His steps grew heavy as whispers echoed in his ears.
“Aruvenis! Aruvenis!” He turned and saw that the voice belonged to Ulmavareth, leader of the Ulnivarissei House — one of the few who had remained loyal. “We are trapped, Your Great King. They have surrounded us. There is nowhere left to run.” Aruvenis understood, standing there with only a dozen soldiers at his side, that the end was near. As the crowd closed in, they stopped. This would be the last time — and perhaps never again in these lands would the clash of swords ring out so boldly.
“Show yourself, Ilyevar!” Aruvenis roared. “When have I ever hidden that I should hide now, you withered old man!” came the reply. Ilyevar — his second son, his most beloved. He had always intended to name him heir, but knowing that the betrayal had begun with him had shattered his weary soul.
“The story the gods wrote for you ends here, Aruvenis. The story of me and my lineage begins now.” With those words, Ilyevar drew his sword and lunged at his father. His father repelled him with ease. No matter what he did, he could not so much as wound that towering, powerful man. “The story the gods wrote for me ends only when I will it, my son. Do you truly believe the gods would choose treacherous rebels like you? You have been deceived.” As he charged into the crowd with his remaining soldiers, a vision appeared before him like a ghost — his mother — pulling Aruvenis’s heart deep into the recesses of his childhood. For just a moment, he was only a son, only a child. His mother’s apparition made him falter, and in that instant the blow came without warning. Ulmavareth drove his spear into his legs and brought him down. The Varethûn Aegiras rushed to protect him, but it was already too late. Ilyevar and his soldiers, aided by Ulmavareth, had pressed their spears and swords to their throats. What had begun with blood would end with blood.
The mighty Aruvenis was paraded among the soldiers, a chain fastened around his neck. As the soldiers gathered the bodies, they lowered their heads and could not look him in the face. As he was led through their ranks, the soldiers turned their backs. Some out of respect, some out of disgust. The great and mighty king had fallen. They threw him like a sack into a tent, to await whatever judgment would be passed.
