( takes place in the good!Gal and evil!Morgron route. The elves have returned to the Eldar Wood. Galathil has stripped Morgron of his dark magic and for the most part the years since then have been peaceful.)
Galathil smiled fondly when he heard footsteps once more behind him.
“Thor, I thought you were headed to—bed..” Galathil’s voice trailed off when he saw who really was standing behind him. It was not his grandson returning for one last story. He was met with a shock of red hair and a face he thought he had far more time to avoid. “Morgron.”
“Brother.” Morgron greeted, pressing his lips together after the word. Guilt lived in his eyes.
Galathil was known for his warmth. The songs spoke of sad, yet kind eyes and a soft, fatherly voice. The king beloved by the wood was described often as the very essence of how grace could dwell within mourning. Galathil had become known as “The Merciful” for his actions. Some meant it as an honorific and some meant it as an insult. Despite all these descriptions, Galathil’s gentle expression hardened into murderous intent at the sight of his brother.
“You dare call me that?” Galathil hissed, rising to his feet. He stood at his full height. It was rare for him in these times, but he would afford Morgron no weakness. His grief was not for his brother to see.
“You called me brother when you purified me.” Morgron replied, wringing his bony hands together.
“Did you call me brother when you tried to bring my family and your people to ruin?” Galathil asked. “Did you call me brother when you command Gongoras to invade your homeland? Or when you tried to have me killed? Or when your armies tore through your kin and your nephew was slaughtered?”
Morgron was at a lost for words. He had not expected this from Galathil. The last time he saw his brother he had been recovering from the removal of Malice. They had rarely spoken then, mainly because Morgron was too weak, but Galathil had meticulously cared for him. For a moment, as his older brother dabbed a cold cloth against his head, he thought they were elflings once more. He thought he was in that blissful time of their lives. Morgron had broken his ankle once. No matter how much the nurses chased him off Galathil always returned to make sure he was okay, that he had books he enjoyed, and sang songs to amuse him. That was the Galathil Morgron had expected to meet when he returned to the Eldar Wood.
Nonetheless, Galathil was enraged by his presence. He dare say he looked vengeful.
“I’ve never regretted anything more.” Morgron admitted. “I’m sorry.” Galathil’s eyes widened, but not with surprise. If anything he grew even angrier than he had been before.
“You think that means anything to me?” Galathil asked, a mirthless laugh trailing on his words. “You think I want your worthless apology?”
Suddenly, newborn trunks of trees emerged from the ground. The branches lengthened and wrapped themselves around Morgron’s wrists and pulled his arms a part. He gave a painful cry as his feet left the ground and he was left to dangle there in the clearing. The moonlight did little to mask the powerful magic of the wood burning in Galathil’s aura. Morgron had always known his brother was the wood’s chosen protector and now all the anger and grief both the trees and the king felt was pouring into him. The whites of Galathil’s eyes had nearly disappeared and become consumed with the gold color of his bloodline.
“I don’t want your regret.” Galathil hissed. “I want my son back!”
Terror flooded into Morgron’s eyes as he saw branches from the Grand Oak reach down around his brother. They shot forward with the intent to impale Morgron. He had shut his eyes tight as he waited for death to come, but there was no pain or much a sound. Just before they pierced his skin, they halted. Morgron forced his eyes open and saw his brother had his hand outstretched. He was shaking and tears were streaming down his cheeks without pause.
“I want to kill you so badly.” Galathil admitted, his voice cracking. “You’re the source of my worst suffering. Nothing father ever did compared to the hell you put me through—and I had thought you were the one person I knew who would never abandon me. Mother left, but you never did. Not until—not until I failed you.”
“Galathil..” Morgron whispered.
The branches released his arms with care so that his feet met the ground with ease. Galathil fell upon his knees and palms as sobs wracked his form. The Grand Oak withdrew its threatening branches, but Morgron could hear its deep, weathered voice ringing in its head. He was not beloved by the woods so when a tree spoke to him he knew it was important.
“Have care, son of stone. Vengeance may not be in my nature, but protection is.”
Morgron nodded to the Grand Oak before he knelt down in front of his brother. He placed a hand on Galathil’s shoulder, but his brother flinched away and fell back.
“Don’t touch me!” Galathil exclaimed, shoving himself back across the ground. “Don’t think because I can’t bring myself to kill you that I forgive you.”
“I don’t expect your forgiveness.” Morgron said.
“Then why are you here?” Galathil asked, casting back his haunted gaze. “What possible reason could you have to torment me on such a perfect night as this?”
“I—I didn’t know when I decided to come…” Morgron sighed, using the back of his hand to push unyielding tears from his eyes. “Your grandchildren are beautiful.”
Galathil said nothing. He turned his eyes back to the ground as his hands shook in his lap.
“Galathil.” Morgron began. “I know my apology means nothing to you. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I needed you to know that there is nothing I regret more than Halthin’s death.”
“I do not care-“
“I loved him.” Morgron interjected. “You know I did. I love them all.”
“Oh, yes. That is why you kidnapped Hawthorne and erased everything he knew of his family. You turned him into your puppet and made him believe he was unwanted by his father. I will never forget the hate in his eyes when I woke to him holding a knife to my throat. I had thought I had my son back, but you turned him into someone else. Your armies murdered his beloved.” Galathil said. Morgron listened intently. “You loved your niece when you allowed for Gongoras to send an assassin to kill me? You loved Illyria when said assassin shot her mother? You loved her when you stole her childhood!” He was screaming now. “She never got to be an elfling! She witnessed winter within her first century! Her mother was gone and her father a shell of his former self! So now if you’re going to apologize then I want to hear an explanation. So let me hear it? Did Ramsey’s death really drive you so far to destroy my happiness so thoroughly?”
Morgron had not expected Galathil to demand his reasoning. Without Malice feeding his worst instincts, he knew that his actions were petty. In their youth, Galathil would often do this to the particularly malicious foes they had faced. He would give them an opportunity to argue their case. Sometimes they elicited pity, but more often Galathil was able to strip them of their righteousness and leave them quaking in their guilt. Morgron never thought to be on the receiving end of this, but it seemed his grief had not changed this part of his brother.
“Where do I begin?” Morgron asked, his voice catching.
“Start with father.” Galathil commanded.
Morgron gave him an incredulous look. “You’re—you’re angry about father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Morgron exclaimed. “Of all the awful things I have done to you, it is father’s death that you demand reasoning for?”
“You asked me where you should begin and I said with father’s death.” Galathil snapped. “Do you really believe you have a right to weigh your sins against each other right now?”
Morgron sat back on his heels, defeated. “You know exactly why I killed father. He executed Ramsey on false charges. He did it because—because we both know I was the one he considered his heir. He was terrified I would marry a human bastard. For as long as I can remember, he manipulated every aspect of my life. He made me into his perfect heir, but when I found love he couldn’t let me have it. That’s why I killed father. I killed him for Ramsey and for everything he’s done to us.”
“Oh poor little princeling.” Galathil jeered. “Your papa was mean to you.”
“Galathil—“
“You don’t realize what you did when you killed father.” Galathil began. “Our father was no good man, but he was a strong king that Gongoras’s father feared. When you cut his throat, you let the humans in on a secret we have kept for centuries. Humans never considered elves engaged in petty political squabbles. They thought we were above that. Only when Gongoras realized we weren’t perfect beings did the idea of conquest hold merit in his ambitions. An assassin would never have entered our wood if father hadn’t been murdered in his bed by his own son. Now…finish the tale. Why did you desire to exact your vengeance upon me so badly?” Galathil asked.
“I did it—because I knew what you had done. Father commanded you to capture Ramsey and you did.” Morgron said.
“The evidence against him as damning.” Galathil argued.
“You were his lapdog and you know it. You only annoyed father in small ways, but ultimately you always obeyed him in your desperate desire to gain his approval. Only after Ramsey’s death did guilt compel you to tell him that he meant nothing to you as a father. But even once you became king—my thirst for revenge wasn’t quenched by father’s death. Malice constantly reminded me that it was you that brought Ramsey back to die. He told me that I would be a better king. He made me believe this kingdom deserved a king like me. Which led to our—our senseless rebellion.
“I had tried to turn Hawthorne against you even then. He was loyal despite the lies I fed him. I made him believe you were disappointed in him as an heir because I wanted you to feel the pain of your first born’s betrayal. I didn’t succeed until after I lost the support of my kin and allied myself with Gongoras. Once I had my perfect heir, the Eldar Wood had been vacated. You know what happens once Hawthorne arrived at the sanctuary.”
“Was it worth it?” Galathil asked. “Did my actions really warrant all this suffering?”
“No..” Morgron confessed. “Galathil, please. Just let me apologize to Illyria and Hawthorne. I will leave you be if you wish it, but I need them to know that I regret what I did.”
“You will not even look at them unless they wish to hear your apology.” Galathil stated. “Morgron…I wish I could forgive you, but I’ve lost so much and despite a century’s passing I cannot bring myself to see you as my brother. But…I will give you the chance to earn my forgiveness.”
Couples receive “parent points”, which they can use to purchase their children. Most parents wait for a few thousand, but you chose to buy the cheaper, 100 point child.
Shane knows what it’s like to be a 100 point child. He knows how it feels to see potential parents–potential families–come through the facilities doors, faces bright with excitement. He knows how it feels to see them reading the little plaques on the nursery doors, scanning the lists there for the right bits of knowledge and etiquette and grace that they want their baby to have.
He knows how it feels to see their faces pinch outside the window before they hurry to the next room.
Shane grew up in a 100 point nursery. They had torn, ratty, books and no teachers, and when snack time came, the tray was pushed through a slat in the door. They were called “unruly” and “damaged” and “stupid.” A lot of the other kids threw tantrums and broke furniture (and sometimes other kids). A lot of the other kids went quiet after the first few years when they realized they’d never be adopted until they were old enough (or pretty enough) to be useful. A lot of the kids cried and didn’t stop until they got taken away or were aged out.
Shane’s grown up a lot since aging out. He put himself through school, got himself a job, shed his 100 points like the torn clothes he’d left the facility in. He’s powerful now, successful, and he’s grown out of the twisted nose, big ears, and gap-toothed smile that had made him one of the less attractive 100 point babies. Or maybe he’s grown into them. Who’s to say?
It’s taken him a long time to get enough Parent Points to do what he wants. Being a man is, for once, somewhat hindering as most of society equates “parental” with “maternal.” He’s lost count of how many social workers have politely hid expressions of surprise when he told them he wanted to adopt stag, that he’s willing to take the classes, get the grades, make the oaths to get even one Parent Point.
