Chapter Text
Blood-spattered but triumphant, the generals of mighty Elvhenan returned from the warfront to celebrate their success among the gold and marble spires of Arlathan. To the victors go the spoils, it’s said, and the festivities proved a testament to that: rich meals prepared over months, bottomless casks of wine, lively dancing and song, unreserved coupling—debauched days and nights that went on for centuries.
The greatest of the generals, who would play at being gods, gathered at Elgar’nan’s table: Andruil, Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Ghilan’nain, Sylaise, June, and Mythal. Amongst themselves, they partook of every delight—food, drink, fine fabrics, and bare skin—thriving on extravagance. Only one stood apart from the furor: Fen’Harel, who saw in their indulgence the makings of corruption.
When he voiced his wise warnings to Mythal, she disregarded them, bidding him join her at table regardless. He did, for he was a loyal friend, but only to face ridicule from the others for what they called his prudishness, reserve, and melancholy.
“Are you so proud, Dread Wolf, that you will not take one drink, or a lover from among your friends?” asked Elgar’nan. “It is not for want of offers. Are the pleasures of your spirit-made-flesh so far beneath you?”
“I did not seek to be made flesh,” Fen’Harel replied, “but as such, I have not neglected the needs or nature of this form.”
“Yet you will not deign to enjoy them with us?” said Andruil, who had offered for him before.
“Or any other?” said June.
“As you dally with your slaves?” said Fen’Harel. “No.”
Elgar’nan laughed, a grating boom through the hall. “Perhaps he lacks the skill to please. Unless he serves you as more than a lap dog, Mythal.”
Fen’Harel snarled, but it was Mythal’s icy regard that struck Elgar’nan silent. Bold and arrogant as he was becoming, he knew when to restrain himself against her displeasure.
“His affections are of a higher form,” said Sylaise, edged with derision. “He would not lower himself to carnality.”
Fen’Harel said bitterly, “I am not above such reproach. I can be carnal, as I can be savage. Ask the titans—what’s left of them.” He looked to Mythal and, finding her as pale and unmoved as alabaster, continued, “But I will not destroy myself in pursuit of pleasure—or power.”
Ghilan’nain dismissed him with a gesture. “Spare us your tedious protests, Wolf. If you will not enjoy the evening with us, then go. We have no desire to have the mood spoiled by your moaning.”
“See, the only moans he elicits are his own,” said Falon’Din, toasting with an overfull wine cup to the accompaniment of laughter from the others.
Fen’Harel, head held high, said, “I am master of my passions; yours will be your undoing,” and went through the eluvian, leaving them to their indulgences.
A tale of Fen’Harel, as recounted by General Felassan to fellows at the Lighthouse, in the time of rebellion