The sword sliced through the air with a whisper, coming to an abrupt halt at a precise point and angle. There was a moment of stillness as the currents of air swirled around the tip of the magically reinforced glass blade, the standard equipment for an elven soldier, and then the sword was dragged away in a sweeping strike that would have left a diagonal slash across the chest of an attacker. Continuing the movement, Ainfean let the sword’s momentum pull her into a spin that ended in an upward slash.

One motion flowed into another and then into another, smooth and sinuous and hypnotic; this was how Ainfean calmed her mind, clearing it of the anger that clouded her thoughts. And, at least on this occasion, helping her ignore the hangover that had come from Lisariel’s insistence that she have fun. Pragmatic to a fault, she did not look back with regret on the decisions that had made her who she was, but she had to admit she did miss the elves’ innate magical ability to heal and soothe aches and pains; hangovers had taken some getting used to and she still wasn’t convinced that whatever you did the previous night was worth the headache you got the next day.

Parrying a thrust from her imaginary opponent, she launched a flurry of quick strikes, moving forward before she launched herself into a spinning downward strike that could - and indeed had - cut an opponent in half if they weren’t quick enough to block or dodge it. Taking a moment to get her breath back, she rubbed at her head and decided that the spin at the end had been a mistake.

“Aunt Ainfean!” shouted someone from the entrance to the practice field. Looking round, Ainfean saw Lanferean hurrying towards her across the beautifully manicured grass; apparently Lisariel had not been mistaken in her assertion that the young elf would want to spar, judging by the sheathed sword that was hanging on his hips.

“Lanferean,” she said, nodding in greeting as he got closer.

“May I spar with you, Aunt Ainfean?” he said, coming to a halt in front of her.

“Have you checked with your mother?” said Ainfean.

He nodded enthusiastically. “She said it was fine.”

Ainfean’s eyebrows rose, her expression sceptical. “Really?” Elanderiel had never been that keen on martial practice sessions when they were both younger. The first time Ainfean had returned from the battlefront, the scar running down the right hand side of her face still relatively fresh, Elanderiel hadn’t spoken to her for several days.

“Yes. Eventually.” Lanferean had the grace to look away in embarrassment.

Ainfean nodded, wondering how much of Lanferean’s pestering Elanderiel had managed to put up with before she finally caved. A suspicion entered the back of her mind and she diverted her gaze up to the windows of the palace that overlooked the practice grounds. She smiled at the faint movement she had just caught on one of the upper floors. “Fine, let me see your sword,” she said, holding out her hand.

Lanferean unsheathed his blade and handed it over. Ainfean looked over it with a well-practiced eye, looking for the tiny cracks which would signify that the magic strengthening the glass was starting to weaken; the glass swords were strong and kept their edge very well, but if the magic in them failed they could shatter. This one seemed to be in useable condition; the last thing she needed was Elanderiel shouting at her because Lanferean had glass splinters embedded in his face. She briefly considered the idea of telling him to go and get one of the wooden swords that novices used but the young elf would almost certainly take it as an insult to his skill. “Good enough,” she said, flipping the blade over and handing it back. “Show me some of your forms.” The forms were the standard exercises that every elf learned; even Elanderiel had done them, albeit reluctantly and with the occasional tantrum.

Lenferean was decent enough, though his movements lacked the crispness and fluidity of someone who practiced with any kind of real dedication.

“Not too bad. Your stance is all right but you’re over extending on the thrust. And the rising parry needs to be higher.” She demonstrated what she meant, bringing her own blade up in a move intended to deflect an opponent’s downward strike. “Now you.” This time his efforts were closer to what Ainfean would hope to see. “All right. Now simple strikes on one another’s swords. Don’t try and do anything fancy or I’ll have you on the ground faster than you can blink, understand?”

“Yes, aunty.”

“That’s general aunty to you, elfling. Raise your blade.”

The practice ground echoed to the distinctive dink-dink-dink of the glass blades connecting, but it wasn’t long before Ainfean could see that her nephew’s arm was starting to tire.

“That’s enough for now,” she said, stepping back out of range just in case he wasn’t quick enough to stop swinging. “Your arm’s getting tired and your strikes are getting sloppy. If I wear you out now you won’t be able to practice tomorrow.” His expression, which had become crestfallen, brightened considerably. “Assuming your mother wasn’t too traumatised by what she just watched, anyway.”

“She was watching?”

Ainfean laughed. “Of course! As if she’d let you clash swords with me and not keep an eye on you. It’s a mother’s prerogative.” A light blush appeared on Lanferean’s cheeks but he seemed otherwise undaunted.

“Is that your real sword?” he asked, pointing to a sheathed blade that was lying in the grass next to a practice dummy.

Ainfean snorted and held up the glass sword in her hand. “You think these ones are fake? They’ll separate your head from your shoulders just as effectively,” she said. “But if you’re asking if that’s the steel sword, then yes, it is. And no,” she continued, seeing his mouth start to open, “you may not hold it. Your mother would kill me if I let you anywhere near it.”

“Aunty…”

“No.”

Lanferean’s face fell and he looked longingly at the sheathed weapon. “Can I look at it?”

Ainfean sighed and looked again at the windows of the palace; Elandriel was making no effort to hide now and was openly glaring down at her sister. “Don’t worry,” shouted Ainfean, “I won’t let him touch it.” She jabbed the glass sword point first into the ground and walked over to wear she had placed her own. It was heavier than the glass blades, and even though it was made by the best dwarven smiths it would never acquire an edge quite as keen, but it was a far more devastating weapon. She grasped the pommel and then, with a single smooth movement, she drew it, the metallic note ringing in the air for seconds afterwards.

Lanferean was watching it like a hawk, his eyes drawn to the gleaming metal.

“It looks so simple,” he said. It was true enough; compared the ornate carvings and runes and crystals that made up the glass swords, even the standard practice blades they had been using, the steel sword was unadorned, a single length of folded metal save for a single rune inscribed into the base of the blade.

“In my experience, the fancier the weapon, the less likely the wielder is to know how to use it,” said Ainfean.

Lanferean nodded, though Ainfean wasn’t convinced he was listening to anything she was saying. “What does the rune mean?” he asked. “I don’t recognise it.”

“It’s dwarvish,” said Ainfean with a grimace. “It means ‘Ironheart’. Not my idea, by the way.”

“How does it work?”

“I don’t follow, Lanf. It’s a sword, you hit your opponent with it or try to insert into them.”

He shook his head, blushing slightly. “No no, I meant with the magic. What does it do?”

Ainfean walked over to the practice sword she had left sticking out of the ground and picked it up with her left hand. “Stand back,” she said, noticing that her nephew had started to approach for a closer look. She waited until he had reluctantly retreated a few paces then held the glass sword well away from her face. With a single, short swipe she brought the steel sword down, bringing the two blades together edge against edge. There was a sharp, bright sound and the air was filled with glittering light and swirling blue light that glowed brightly for a brief moment and then disappeared. In her left hand, Ainfean now held only the cracked and ruined remnants of the practice sword; in her right hand, the steel sword was unchanged.

Lanferean’s eyes had grown wide. “It just shattered. You didn’t even hit it that hard.”

“I didn’t need to,” said Ainfean, resheathing the sword. “The magic giving the sword its strength is destroyed by contact with the iron in my blade; it is nothing but glass after that.”

“And that’s how you won against the trolls?” He was still staring down at the splinters of glass that lay on the grass.

“Not just me, Lanferean, I had almost a hundred soldiers with me, each armed as I was. And it is debateable that anyone truly won. But yes, that is how we ended the war.” The trolls had been at least as surprised as Lanferean as their weapons - made from magically enhanced wood and stone rather than the glass the elves favoured - came apart, their magical shields collapsed and their spells fizzled harmlessly against the elves’ iron armour. They had looked on in blank incomprehension as Ainfean and her legion had cut them down.

“Almost a hundred? I thought the Iron Legion was exactly one hundred soldiers. That’s what the stories say.”

Ainfean shook her head, remembering the moments before the final battle when they had donned the armour. “Not all of us survived the iron’s touch,” she said, her voice distant. “In the end, eighty nine took the field. Eleven fell before we even reached the battle.” She could still recite each of their names, could still see them screaming, blood running from the wounds, from their eyes and mouths; it was a small mercy that she hadn’t been able to hear their howls of pain over the dreadful ringing in her own ears.

Lanferean was looking at her with wide eyes. “What was it like?”

“It was…” The breastplate and legguards had been bad, excruciating, burning her skin even through the thick cloth underclothes she wore; every passing moment they had seemed to increase in weight, trying to drag her to her knees, suffocating her. And then the gauntlets, making every movement of her fingers fire spears of pain into the centre of her chest. She could feel the magic there, writhing and churning as it was slowly being eaten away. The helm had been the worst, though, an iron coffin, as heavy as a mountain range; all sight and sound had disappeared at that moment, there was only searing agony. Yet somehow she had stayed standing on trembling legs that threatened to buckle with every moment, and raised a fist above her head, proof that it could be done, it was possible. Some had called her brave for being the first; she always corrected them. She was ignorant, foolish and bull-headed; it was the ones who saw the bloody tears running down her cheeks and heard the ragged gasping of her breath yet followed her example anyway who were the brave ones.

“It was not pleasant,” said Ainfean. “You were in the palace when I returned, I’m sure you remember what it was like.”

“Oh. Yes.” Lanferean looked away. “It gave me nightmares sometimes.”

“I would be surprised if you were the only one.” She clapped him on the shoulder, almost making him stumble. “Now go and reassure your mother that you are still in one piece. I have something I need to take care of.”

The streets of the city were crowded, but it was a dull sort of life, slow and drowsy, like the soft breeze that dawdled above the crowds, barely stirring the gaily coloured banners and signs that hung limply down from the buildings and the lines stretched across from one side of the street to the other.

Ainfean was dressed as simply and unobtrusively as possible, just like any other elf out shopping or going for a walk, but there was no disguising the scarring on her face and no hood cast a shadow deep enough to hide it from elven eyes. She didn’t pause, ignoring the hushed whispers, hurrying past and leaving them to question whether or not they had seen what they thought they had just seen. Not for the first time, she wished she still had enough of her magic left to cast a glamour on herself; it wasn’t that she felt any desire to hide who she was or the scars she carried, but it did make life easier and Ainfean was all for avoiding pointless distractions.

She turned off the main street, taking to the less populated side streets where she could more easily avoid the curious eyes that turned towards her. It did not take her long to arrive at her destination, a simple, modest house of sandy-coloured stone in a row of similar houses, its door and window frames painted blue, the windows spotlessly clean. She walked up to the door and raised her hand to knock but then hesitated. It had always been a point of pride that she was able to face up to any confrontation; true, that pride had caused her trouble at times but she still thought it was one of her better qualities. Facing that door though… This wasn’t an opponent she could browbeat, or defeat in combat; this was responsibility, the effect of her decisions and her actions. It had never occurred to Ainfean in all her years in the army, from her time as a humble soldier to when she commanded that army, that the hardest thing of all would be paying the cost of the victory. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

It took a few moments before she heard the latch lift and the door swung open, revealing a smiling, green-eyed elf, silver hair flowing in waves down over her shoulders. It took a moment for it to register who was standing at her door, but when it did, the smile faded and the eyes became cold.

“Hello, Ilyasviel,” said Ainfean.

“General,” replied Ilyasviel, spitting the title like a curse.

“You look well, Ilyasviel,” said Ainfean, taking refuge in polite pleasantries.

“What do you want?”

Ainfean sighed. “Can I see him?” she asked at last.

For a long moment Ilyasviel looked as if she was about to slam the door in Ainfean’s face, warring emotions flashing in the angry green eyes, before she finally relented, stepping back and holding the door open. “He’s upstairs,” she said, then turned away, stalking down the corridor and through an open door which she slammed shut behind her.

Ainfean stepped into the house, gently closing the front door then climbing the stairs to the first floor. There was a landing with two doors leading off it, only one of which was open. She pushed it open as quietly as she could and peered inside.

There was a large, low bed in the centre of the room; red, translucent drapes surrounded it, hanging down like spiders’ webs. The room was dark, the curtains partly drawn, and silent but for the sound of someone breathing softly. Ainfean crossed over to the bed and looked down on its occupant, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. ”Olindoir,” she whispered.

Her old second in command was not the powerful elf he had once been. The figure beneath the silken sheets was thin, almost skeletal, and the once prominent cheekbones had become grotesque, standing proud from sunken, withered cheeks. Even his hair, black in a beautiful contrast to the silver of his partner’s, looked thin and brittle, it’s lustre gone. Like everything else in the realm, she thought.

The iron’s touch was cruel and heartless, eating away at the elf’s magic like a parasite.

Olindoir’s eyes cracked open, thin slits that let him look up at Ainfean with pain-clouded eyes. “General,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Ainfean, please,” said Ainfean, leaning closer and smiling at him. “You of all elves do not need to give me any titles.”

He smiled slightly, pausing for a moment before speaking again as if he needed to build up enough energy to talk. “Feels wrong…” The smile broadened, crinkling the parchment like skin of his cheeks. “... general.”

Ainfean snorted. “You always were an ass.” She pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, reaching out to take his hand in her own; it was like holding something as delicate and fragile as a butterfly wing, as if it would crumble to dust if she exerted even the tiniest amount of pressure.

There was another pause before he spoke again, his words halting and quiet. “I had a feeling it was you from the way Ilyasviel slammed the door. I’m sorry.”

Ainfean shook her head. “You have no need to be sorry, old friend. She has every right to be angry with me.”

“It has not been easy for her,” he said. “But at least it will be over soon.”

Ainfean’s eyes narrowed in mock anger. “That had better not be the sound of someone giving up, soldier. You know what I do to anyone who gives in.”

He smiled again. “Good luck getting me to run around a camp, general.” The pauses between words were getting longer each time and Ainfean could see that he was struggling to keep his eyes open. “General?”

“If you will insist on not using my name then I suppose I will answer to that. What do you need, Olindoir?”

“When…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment Ainfean thought he had fallen to sleep. “When the time comes,” he continued at last, “will you sing?”

Ainfean looked at him for a long moment then bowed her head. “Of course. I am not sure Ilyasviel will want me there, however.”

“She will understand,” he whispered, his voice little more than a breath on the wind. “In the end, she will understand.”

Ainfean left him slumbering, his chest barely moving with each faint and shallow breath, and went back downstairs.

“Are you happy?” hissed a voice as she neared the bottom. Looking over her shoulder, Ainfean could see Ilyasviel standing at the end of the hallway, glaring at her.

“No, Ilyasviel, I’m not happy,” said Ainfean. She suddenly felt incredibly weary. “For whatever it’s worth, I am sorry.” She moved towards the front door but before she could take more than a couple of steps something grabbed her from behind and slammed her backwards into the wall.

“Why you?” snarled Ilyasviel, her eyes flashing with anger; it was perhaps the most alive that Ainfean had seen anyone look since she had entered the city. “Why do you get to walk around like nothing’s wrong while my love crumbles away? Why aren’t you getting torn apart from the inside out?” She drew her hand back.

Ainfean saw it coming but made no attempt to dodge it, choosing instead to grit her teeth against the impact. The blow sent her head thudding back into the wall and drew a torrent of blood out of her nose.

Ilyasviel yelped in surprise at the sudden spray of red and stepped back, letting Ainfean drop to one knee.

Oh yeah, thought Ainfean, trying to staunch the flow of blood, you forgot that as an elf her magic increases her strength and you don’t have that any more. Idiot.

“Ow, that stings!” said Ilyasviel, hastily wiping the blood from her knuckles. “Is this something to do with your magic?”

“No magic,” replied Ainfean, her voice thick and indistinct. “Do you perhaps have a tissue or a cloth I could use soak this up with before I ruin the rest of your carpet?” She had borrowed this shirt from Lisariel; she suspected her friend was not going to appreciate have her shirt returned to her covered in bloodstains.

“What? Just make the bleeding stop.”

Ainfean tilted her head back but it didn’t seem to help very much; she hadn’t had her nose bust like this since the old inter-legion fights back before she became an officer and had to stop doing fun things like beating up soldiers from rival squads. Of course, back then she had still had access to magic that would stop the bleeding. “I can’t. Just a towel or an old shirt or something.”

“Fine, if you won’t do it yourself,” snapped Ilyasviel. She stepped forward and made a gesture with her hand; a faint green glow surrounded her fingers.

“It won’t work,” muttered Ainfean. Sure enough, nothing happened.

Ilyasviel glared at her fingers, as if it was their fault that blood was still pooling on the floor of her hallway. “But it even works on Olindoir a bit. I don’t understand.”

“No magic,” said Ainfean. “Just get me a bloody towel.” Alfred would have been proud of the bit of Anglo-Saxon slipping in there; as melodious and beautiful as the elven language was it couldn’t hold a candle to English when it came to vehemently expressing a feeling.

It took a couple of minutes of holding the towel up to her face before Ainfean’s nose finally stopped bleeding. She poked at it cautiously but it didn’t appear to be broken. Next time she would move out of the way, she decided, looking around the small kitchen. It reminded her of Alfred’s, with its wooden counters and stone floor, but there was no iron stove in here.

Ilyasviel walked in, staring at her fingers again. “I can’t get the stain out,” she muttered. “I think my magic must be failing.” Her irritation at the blood’s stubborn persistence had, at least temporarily, abated some of her anger at Ainfean.

“Won’t work,” said Ainfean. “Not on my blood. You’ll need cold water and soap.”

“Don’t be absurd. Did I hit you harder than I thought?”

Ainfean shook her head. “No, though it was a decent punch. It won’t work for the same reason you couldn’t stop the bleeding - there’s too much iron in my blood. Cold water and soap.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Ilyasviel.

“You asked ‘why you?’. That’s why. There is no magic left in my body, there’s nothing left to react with the iron. That’s why I can still walk around like this, and why your hallway carpet has been so thoroughly decorated.”

Ilyasviel gaped at her. “But...how?”

(author’s note: this is a bit too exposition-tastic but it’ll have to do for now since I’m explaining it as much to myself as to anyone else! Yes, I am making this up as I go, no I didn’t plot this bit out properly. Huzzah for winging it in first drafts!)

“I wore the armour for too long,” said Ainfean with a wry smile. “Kept it on during the negotiations for the troll’s surrender to keep them in line and stop some of the more enthusiastic elven senator’s pushing for outright genocide. I thought the others might survive because they’d taken it all off but that I was probably going to die - one last noble self-sacrifice.” Ainfean shook her head. “I can be an insufferably pompous and self-righteous idiot at times.” She took a deep breath. “It transpired that the opposite of what we thought was true - keeping it on for so long did such a thorough job of stripping out my magic that there wasn’t enough left inside for the iron I’d absorbed to have much effect. A couple of the legion did try to copy me, putting their armour back on, but their bodies were too weakened from the first time that the shock of it killed them.”

“So it doesn’t hurt?” asked Ilyasviel. “Olindoir said it was like his blood was burning.”

“Oh no, it still hurts. His description is an accurate one, I’m sorry to say. My body still tries to generate the magic but there’s just too much iron; the magic gets burned away almost instantly. Touching iron still hurts as well, for some reason, though it’s not quite as bad as it was. Who could have predicted that stupid nickname would be so prophetic.”

Ilyasviel nodded slowly, but her mind was on something else. “Did you know, when you did it, that the wind wouldn’t blow?”

“No,” said Ainfean with a heavy sigh. “No, that came as an unpleasant surprise.” A tent on the edge of the now quiet battlefield for the fallen soldiers, the surviving elves voices raised in the Song of Homecoming, but the air didn’t stir, the candle flames didn’t flicker and no wind came to carry the fallen home. Even thinking about it now made Ainfean’s stomach clench. “We knew the price was going to be high, but…” She rubbed at her temples. “Olindoir has asked me to sing when the time comes. I will if you would have me but I won’t intrude if you’d prefer I stay away. If there’s anything you need then please let me know. Or anyone at the palace, it doesn’t have to be me.” Ainfean rose and left Ilyasviel sitting alone at the table. Walking to the front door she noticed the large bloodstain on what had been a beautifully patterned carpet. “Don’t forget,” she called back over her shoulder, “cold water and soap.”

“Are you sure it’s not broken?” said Lisariel, peering at Ainfean’s swollen, bright red nose.

“Quite sure,” replied Ainfean. At least she wasn’t sounding quite as nasal as she had been before but it was still sore. “I’ve had broken noses before - several times, in fact - this is just bruised.”

“It looks painful.” Lisariel started reaching out a finger as if she intended to poke at the nose.

Ainfean batted her friend’s hand away. “It is. Leave it alone or it’ll start bleeding again.”

Lisariel sat back with a huff. “I could have warned you she would do that if you’d told me where you were going.”

“I didn’t need the warning. Ilyasviel’s reaction was pretty much exactly what I expected. Sorry about your shirt.”

Lisariel waved away her apology. “I have plenty of shirts. I may have that one framed and hang it on the wall. A shirt stained with the very blood of the legendary Ironheart.” She smiled brightly at Ainfean’s glare, not in the least bit abashed. She leaned forward. “You were going to tell me what you’ve been doing, and why you seem less miserable. When you last left the city you didn’t do much smiling. It’s nice to see you happier but I’m very curious as to what brought it about. What exactly have you been up to in your little cabin in the woods? I didn’t think there was anything up there but deer and the occasional bear, and even you’re not that open-minded.”

“Lisariel!” said Ainfean, jabbing the other elf with her finger. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Not a bear then.”

Ainfean thought of her burly blacksmith. “You’re not as far off as you think,” she said, smiling at the confused frown that creased her friend’s brow.

“A human.”

Ainfean rolled her eyes. “Yes, for the third time, a human. I swear you found the idea of the bear easier to cope with. It’s not as if this is the first time in elven history that this has ever happened.”

“I know, but still. A mortal.”

Ainfean valiantly resisted the urge to clip Lisariel around the back of the head. “Yes, a mortal. As am I, if the state of my nose isn’t enough of a reminder. A charming, honest, lovely mortal.”

Lisariel tilted her head back so it was resting on the cushions of the couch she was sharing with Ainfean and stared at the ceiling. “I will say this for you, milady, you are nothing if not unpredictable. I think I might need to abandon my tea and have some wine instead.” She turned to the side so she was looking at Ainfean. “Is it your plan to grow old with this mortal then?” she asked.

Ainfean looked away, staring out of the open window at the city below; it was glowing a soft orange in the light of the setting sun; here and there the edges of towers and rooftops shone like they were ablaze where they caught the sun’s rays. “I would like to, but I fear my lifespan will still be far longer than his. But even a year with him by my side, filled with all the life and vitality of the mortal world, would be enough.”

Lisariel stared at Ainfean for a long moment then laughed out loud. “Of all the elves I know you are the last I would have picked as such a romantic.”

“Really? But what is more foolishly romantic than fighting for a hopeless cause?” said Ainfean.

“Hopeless?” asked Lisariel. “Are we truly so far gone?”

Ainfean’s smile faded and she sighed. “I...honestly, I don’t know. If there is hope then it exists somewhere that I don’t know how to reach.”

“So you are going to leave for the mortal world and you blacksmith?” Lisariel snorted. “Could you not have found a king, or a prince at least?”

Ainfean’s eyes narrowed. “There is nothing wrong with my blacksmith. And yes, when the doorway next opens. That realm feels more like home now.”

“I will miss you. Even if you didn’t live in the city any more at least I knew you weren’t that far away.”

“You could come with me,” said Ainfean. “Become mortal. There has to be an easier way of doing it than my method.”

“Are you working your way through everyone in the palace?” said Lisariel. She reached over and squeezed Ainfean’s shoulder. “Your sister already mentioned it.”

Ainfean muttered a curse, but there was no spite in it. “And you have the same infuriatingly resigned look on your face that she did. And that my father and mother had.”

“This is our home, Ainfean, and these are our people. As tempting as it is to meet this humble blacksmith who has stolen away my love, I think perhaps general Ironheart is just going to have to surrender on this one. Have you heard that word before? I can find a definition of it in one of my texts if you want.”

“Have you ever had a broken nose?” asked Ainfean, directing her most threatening glare at Lisariel; whole legions had quaked with fear in the past when faced with it.

Lisariel gently patted her on the cheek. “Is there something wrong with your eyes now?”