The Elven Art of Falling Gracelessly

Chapter 9: The Antidote Run

“Aelith?”

“Yes?”

“I think I just performed a very successful swap with myself.”

“Eryndor Silvaris, do not drink that wine.”

“I’m really thirsty, though,” he whispered, his eyes wide with panic. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just the existential dread?”

“Put it down. Put it down slowly.”

Eryndor looked at the cup. He looked at Aelith. Then, his hand gave a violent, involuntary twitch, and he gulped the remaining liquid down in one frantic, nervous reflex.

“Oops.”

“Oops? Did you just say oops to a cup of heart-stopping night-shade?” Aelith’s face went from white to a terrifying shade of translucent grey.

“My hand did a thing! You know how my hands do things without asking permission!” Eryndor gasped, clutching his throat. “Wait. It tastes like… blackcurrant and iron? That’s a bold choice for a murder weapon.”

“Eryndor, listen to me. Breathe. Can you breathe?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I feel—actually, I feel kind of tingly. Like my blood is throwing a very small, very rhythmic rave in my veins.”

Aelith grabbed him by the jaw, tilting his head back toward the flickering lantern. “Oh no. Oh, gods. Your face.”

“Is it my eyes? Are they sparkling heroically?”

“No,” Aelith said, her voice trembling. “You’re turning purple. Not a subtle lilac, Eryndor. You look like a very stressed grape.”

“Purple? That’s not a good color on me! It clashes with the server vest!”

“We have sixty minutes,” Aelith hissed, throwing his arm over her shoulder. “The forest shrine. The Elder-Grove well. It’s the only place with the Silver-Seed infusion already brewed for the Solstice ceremonies. We have to run.”

“Run? Aelith, I can barely stand when I’m not a fruit-based disaster!”

They burst through the kitchen’s rear servants' entrance, stumbling into the cool night air of the palace outskirts. Eryndor was already beginning to wobble like a top that was losing its momentum.

“Okay, so the purple is moving to my hands now,” Eryndor remarked, looking at his fingers with genuine fascination. “Look at that. I can see my pulse in three different places on my wrist. Is that normal?”

“Nothing about you is normal!” Aelith grunted, basically carrying sixty percent of his weight as they reached the tree line of the Midnight Grove. “Keep your feet moving. Pick them up. Left, right, left, right.”

“Left, right… wait, which one is left again? The one with the purple toes or the one with the slightly more purple toes?”

“Eryndor, stay with me! Do not start naming your toes!”

“I was just thinking that 'Barnaby' is a good name for a big toe. He feels… substantial. A bit grumpy, though.”

“Focus! Why are you so heavy? Did you eat the entire platter of hors d'oeuvres before the king arrived?”

“I was stressed! High-protocol service makes me hungry!” Eryndor tripped over a familiar root—one he had tripped over in Chapter 4—and nearly sent them both into the moss. “Ouch. Hey, Aelith?”

“What?”

“If I die, can you tell the King I was actually a really talented waiter who was just sabotaged by his own center of gravity?”

“You aren't dying. I am not letting you die while you look like an eggplant. It would be too embarrassing for my records as a mentor.”

“Fair. That’s fair. Self-interest is a great motivator. I admire that about you.”

They veered off the main path, plunging into the deeper, thicker brush where the Silver-Marsh mists began to curl around their ankles. Aelith was moving fast now, her elven speed pushing against the dead weight of a delirious student.

“Talk to me, Eryndor. Tell me something. Anything. Just stay conscious.”

“Uh… once, when I was six, I tried to teach a squirrel to play the harp.”

“What happened?”

“He bit me. And then he stole my lunch. It was a very complex negotiation. I think he’s a landlord now in the lower districts.”

“You’re delirious. That’s definitely the venom talking.”

“Aelith? Your hair looks… really pretty when you’re panicked.”

Aelith’s grip on his waist tightened. She didn't look at him, but her voice lost some of its sharp edge. “Is that right? Even with the twigs stuck in it?”

“Especially with the twigs. It adds… texture. It’s rustic. Very 'outdoorsy warrior queen.'”

“Keep walking, you idiot. We’re almost at the upper ridge. Can you see the light from the shrine?”

“I see several lights. They’re all dancing. One of them looks like my father telling me I have poor posture.”

“Ignore the dancing fathers! Look for the white stone!”

They rounded the final bend, the ancient stone arches of the shrine looming out of the fog like the skeletal ribs of a giant. But as they cleared the brush, Aelith skidded to a dead stop.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered.

Standing in the center of the clearing, surrounded by three armored guards, was Lethielle. She was no longer wearing her banquet finery; she was in sleek, midnight-blue leather, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched the bubbling well of the antidote.

“Well, well,” Lethielle said, her voice echoing through the silent grove. “The disaster and his shadow. I must say, Eryndor, purple is quite a look for you. It matches your sense of timing.”

“Lethielle!” Eryndor shouted, though it came out as more of a rhythmic yelp. “You… you person of questionable moral fiber! Give us the juice!”

“The nectar of the Silver-Seed?” Lethielle smiled coldly. “I think not. It belongs to the state. And since you’ve clearly poisoned yourself in some fit of peasant-like incompetence, I’m afraid I’ll have to report your unfortunate accident to the council.”

“He didn't poison himself, and you know it!” Aelith snapped, drawing her blades. “We have the letter. We have the proof from the tavern.”

“Letters burn, Aelith. And mercenaries don’t make good witnesses when they’re dead. Which they will be, quite soon.” Lethielle gestured to her guards. “Kill the girl. Leave the boy to turn into a raisin. It’ll be more poetic that way.”

The guards stepped forward, their longswords gleaming.

“Eryndor,” Aelith whispered, shifting her stance. “I need you to stay upright for exactly two minutes.”

“I can do… forty-five seconds. Maybe thirty if the ground stays horizontal.”

“I’m picking you up.”

“Wait, what? Aelith, I’m six-foot-two!”

Aelith didn't argue. She stepped into his space, turned her back to him, and pulled his arms over her shoulders in a modified fireman’s carry, but lower, so her hips could rotate. “Grab onto my neck. Tight.”

“This is highly unconventional!” Eryndor squealed as his feet left the ground.

As the first guard lunged, Aelith didn't retreat. She spun. But she didn't spin like a warrior; she utilized the massive, unpredictable pendulum of Eryndor’s swinging legs.

“Whoa! Headroom!” Eryndor yelled as his heavy boots whistled through the air, accidentally connecting with the side of the guard’s helmet with a resounding CLANG*.

“Keep swinging!” Aelith commanded, ducking under a second blade.

“I’m not swinging! Gravity is making decisions for me!”

Aelith parried a strike with her right blade, then used a hip-check that sent Eryndor’s entire purple bulk crashing into the second guard. The weight shift was so sudden and strange that the guard didn't know how to block it—he was literally tackled by 190 pounds of elven server-meat.

“I’m a wrecking ball!” Eryndor screamed, flailing his arms. “I’m a very stylish, lethal wrecking ball!”

“Stay focused!” Aelith panted, her muscles straining. She kicked the third guard in the knee, then spun one last time, using Eryndor’s momentum to hurl him toward the well.

He slid across the stone floor like a greased pig, landing head-first against the lip of the antidote basin.

“Drink!” Aelith yelled, engaging Lethielle, who had finally drawn her own rapier.

Eryndor didn't need to be told twice. He dunked his entire head into the cool, glowing liquid. He gulped it down, the taste of spring rain and bitter herbs washing away the iron-and-current madness in his veins.

Immediately, the vibrating in his bones stopped. The purple hue began to recede from his skin, starting from his neck and flowing downward.

“I… I think I’m regular-colored again!” he yelled, shaking his head like a dog and spraying everyone with the sacred brew.

“The vial!” Lethielle shrieked, lunging past Aelith. “You’ve contaminated the whole well!”

“Good!” Eryndor shouted. He stood up, still a bit shaky, but his eyes were clear. He saw Aelith being pressed back toward a sharp ledge by the superior strength of the remaining guard.

Eryndor didn't think. He didn't have a weapon, but he did have a basin full of holy water and a complete lack of shame. He grabbed a heavy stone ladle nearby, hooked it into his belt, and did exactly what he’d done on the banquet floor—a deliberate, catastrophic stumble.

“Incoming!”

He didn't hit the guard; he hit the ground right in front of him, sliding through the man’s legs and hooking his ankles. It was the most perfect, un-coordinated trip in the history of the Silver Marsh.

The guard went down hard. Aelith didn't miss her chance; she disarmed him with a kick and had her blade at his throat in a heartbeat.

Lethielle skidded to a halt, seeing her guards incapacitated and her plan in ruins. “You… you absolute buffoon. You’ve ruined everything! The council—the eclipse—it was all perfectly aligned!”

“Yeah, well,” Eryndor said, standing up and dusting off his vest. “You forgot the most important variable in politics, Lethielle.”

“And what’s that?” she spat.

“Entropy. Also known as me.”

Aelith stepped over to him, her breathing heavy. She looked him over, from his wet hair to his damp shoes. “You’re okay? No more Barnaby the toe?”

“Barnaby is feeling much better, thank you. A little soggy, but alive.”

Aelith let out a breath she’d been holding for an hour. She did something completely out of character then—she reached out and grabbed his tunic, pulling him into a brief, fierce hug. “You are the most exhausting person I have ever met.”

“I aim to provide a full-body workout for everyone involved,” he whispered into her hair.

But before the moment could linger, the temperature in the grove plummeted.

“Look up,” Lethielle whispered, her eyes wide with terror.

Eryndor and Aelith looked skyward. The moon was still high, but a massive, jagged shadow was eating across the stars. Not a slow creep, but a violent, artificial devouring.

The Solar Convergence was scheduled for dawn. It was currently midnight.

“Wait,” Eryndor said, his levity vanishing as the sky turned a bruised, impossible pitch black. “Is the schedule wrong, or did someone just break the sun?”

“Aelith,” he whispered, reaching for her hand. “Why is it so quiet?”

The shadows on the ground didn't just lengthen—they began to rise.