The Loneliest Traid

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  • Published: 2 Apr 2017
  • Updated: 13 May 2017
  • Status: Complete
Love and death and war and Gods and blood and magic and dancing and rest and revenge and kings and fate.
Don't worry, within these three stories you'll know yourself,
And I will put you back together again.


58. Skin a Sheep and You Have a Lamb, Skin a Shepherd, and You Have the Flock

Gomez sat on the fishing island and played his lyre and Chene slept.  Chene had not slept so sound in so long, and Gomez had not played so sweetly.  The island was of course abandoned, between it being blustery and the war, of course.  Fish that had not migrated just yet made a neat pile to Gomez’s left, and although he winced at the sight of them, he said no more about it.  Chene would make both himself and Onyx apples if he asked nicely.  

“Chene?” he said, poking him with his instrument.  The end of the piece was enough to rouse Chene from his sleep.


“Can I ask something about this war?”

“Your father is raging it, I am but a humble worker to your wishes,” he joked.

Gomez chuckled, drowning, tied.  He heard his siblings find their tongues - he will always leave you and fight until his untimely death, that is all that is sure - “How do you think it will end?”

“Don’t I have to say that Jinn will win, of course?”

“Will they?”

Chene sighed, and rolled onto his back, lying on one hand.  The sky was a constant setting grey into black where Mavros lured them in.  Though they weren’t there just yet,

they were close, and Gomez swore that he saw a siren titter at the two who walked into her lake as if the war could touch creatures such as herself.  She would be right, they couldn’t.

He thought for a moment longer, and said, “I think that the Jinn will win, yes.  And wizards and witches will rise within Cardeni but always stick by the sides of elves for the balance they keep in the forest lands.”

“Quite a prediction,”

Chene hummed, and finally said, in softer words, “But so many of us will die, the war might end before a winner is declared, because the loss would be so great the word victor would seem like an insult.”

Nona fawned.  Ever since the death of his mother she had taken to Chene, and how he always knew our plan.

“I think that the death will stop soon, my people lost enough when their history died.  The gold, the tattoos - no, we haven’t lost who we are.”

Morta’s heart belonged to Gomez, his blissful naïvety to her ways.

Chene sat up beside him, “Why do you ask?  We’ve left that place.”

“And you don’t think that the war will follow up into the mountains with us?”

He rubbed his hands, lines of dirt and dry mud forming within his clasp, “You’re right.  So where do we go?”

“Where can we go?”

“Wherever you bring me, I’ll stay, and if you don’t know how we’ll reach it, I’ll find a way to get there,” he closed his eyes, falling back into his endless sleep, “I don’t care for this war, as long as you’re there.”

When you go, he’ll return, and kill, and kill, and kill, and your legacy will wash away with the blood he sheds, they said.


He mumbled what Gomez took to be a yes.

“Have you ever heard of Philotes’ Ballad?”

Me, I loved them both.  Everything was falling into place.

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