Page 56 of Bound By Blood
Ellionne.I haven't heard that house spoken aloud in fifteen years, not since the Massacre at Thornbrook where their banner men slaughtered my war-band's wounded under flag of mercy. My hand finds my sword hilt before conscious thought intervenes.
Eirian notices my reaction immediately. "You know that name."
"Old blood. Old betrayal." I force my fingers away from steel, though every instinct screams for violence. "House Ellionne owes the Stoneborn more than words can repay."
But something about this rider's approach gives me pause. No escort. No backup. Just one man on a lathered horse, riding into the heart of enemy territory with nothing but hope and whatever news weighs so heavily on his shoulders.
"Grant him guest-right," Eirian says quietly. "Let him speak before you decide whether to kill him."
Her words carry the authority of someone who's earned the right to counsel war chiefs. More than that, they carry wisdom learned through watching mercy triumph over vengeance. I signal for the honor guard to allow his approach, though they remain ready to cut him down at the first sign of treachery.
The man who dismounts before us bears little resemblance to the proud Ellionne nobles I remember. His clothes, while well-made, show signs of hard travel and harder times. His face carries the gaunt look of someone who's known hunger recently, and his hands shake slightly as he approaches—not with fear, but with exhaustion.
"Chief Drokhan." He stops ten paces away and does something that freezes my blood. He kneels. Not the careful genuflection of diplomatic protocol, but the full submission of someone placing their life in another's hands. "I come before you as Beric of House Ellionne, last son of a fallen name, seeking mercy for crimes committed by those who came before."
The words hit like physical blows. An Ellionne, kneeling in the dirt before an Orc chief, acknowledging debts most humans would die before admitting. Around us, the camp falls silent as warriors process what they're witnessing.
"Rise," I command, my voice rougher than intended. "Guest-right protects you here. Speak your business without groveling."
He stands slowly, meeting my eyes with the steady gaze of someone who's already lost everything worth losing. "My house is broken, Chief. Our lands seized by the Crown for unpaid debts, our people scattered. I come not as noble representative, but as beggar seeking chance to make amends."
"What amends could possibly balance Thornbrook?" The question tears from my throat like a war cry. "Your father's men butchered wounded warriors who'd surrendered under mercy-flag. They burned our funeral pyres and scattered our dead."
"I know." His voice never wavers. "I was fifteen, hiding in the woods while our banner men disgraced everything my grandfather taught me about honor. I've carried that shame for fifteen years, watching it poison everything my family touched."
Eirian steps forward, her healer's instincts apparently extending to reading emotional wounds as clearly as physicalones. "Why come now? Why risk your life for crimes you didn't commit?"
"Because of what you did yesterday." Beric's attention shifts to her, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Word travels fast when ancient magic wakes and saves lives instead of taking them. When Orc and human fight together instead of against each other."
Ah.Understanding dawns like sunrise over mountains. He's not here seeking forgiveness for past sins. He's here hoping to plant seeds for a different future.
"You saw an opportunity," I say.
"I saw hope." His correction carries weight that simple ambition lacks. "House Ellionne is finished, but the name still carries influence among the minor houses. Families who remember when we stood for honor instead of expedience."
"And what would you do with that influence?"
"Broker alliances. Open trade routes. Convince small landholders that peace with the Stoneborn serves their interests better than endless border wars." He pauses, visibly gathering courage for his next words. "Help prove that yesterday's cooperation wasn't an aberration, but the beginning of something larger."
The camp remains silent while I process his proposal. Around the fire-circles, warriors watch with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility. Gorthak's scarred face shows the controlled fury of someone who lost brothers at Thornbrook. Grimjaw grips his staff with white knuckles, probably calculating how many ways he could execute an Ellionne without violating guest-right.
But there's something else in their faces. Something that wasn't there before Eirian joined us, before she proved enemies could become family through choice and sacrifice. Nottrust, exactly, but willingness to consider possibilities beyond perpetual warfare.
"You're asking me to forgive the unforgivable," I tell him.
"I'm asking you to let me earn what my family destroyed." Beric's hands tremble again, though whether from exhaustion or emotion, I can't tell. "Give me chance to prove that Ellionne honor isn't completely dead. Let me spend whatever years remain to me trying to balance the scales."
Eirian touches my arm again, that gentle signal that meanslisten with more than anger. I see the same compassion that saved my lieutenant's life weeks ago, that gentled a war-beast yesterday, that transformed captive into clan-daughter through simple persistence.
"What exactly are you proposing?" I ask.
"Formal alliance between what remains of House Ellionne and the Stoneborn Clan. Trade agreements that benefit both parties. My personal service as liaison to minor houses who might consider similar arrangements." He straightens, finding strength from somewhere deep inside. "And my oath, sworn before your gods and mine, that I'll spend my life making amends for Thornbrook."
The silence stretches like a bowstring drawn to breaking point. Every eye in camp watches for my decision, understanding that this moment will echo through clan memory for generations. Accept his offer and risk appearing weak, vulnerable to manipulation by desperate nobles. Refuse and lose a potentially valuable ally while perpetuating the cycle of vengeance that's defined Orc-human relations for centuries.
"Guest-right protects you through dawn," I tell him finally. "Make camp at the grove's edge. Tomorrow we'll discuss terms, if any exist that could satisfy the dead."
He nods gratefully and withdraws, leading his exhausted horse toward the indicated area. Around us, the campslowly returns to normal activity, though I catch whispered conversations and meaningful glances that suggest tonight's discussions around the cooking fires will be intense.
