The first thing that Áinfean noticed as she emerged from the shadow was the stillness, even though on this side it was late afternoon the silence echoed between the boughs of the ancient woodland; it was the same every time she made this journey, the contrast between the endless buzz of life from the mortal world and the unchanging, moribund nature of faery made her heart ache.

The trees towered above her, their trunks reaching far higher than anything achieved on the human side of the doorway, older even than her father’s twelve thousand years, their leaves barely stirring in the lethargic breeze that Áinfean could hardly feel. The colours were muted, washed out by the thin shafts of sunlight that filtered down through the canopy high above her head.

After several hours of walking through the forest, Áinfean arrived back at her small wooden cabin, smaller even than Alfred’s cottage; it was a single room with a pallet for a bed, a simple, uneven table and an open hearth in which kindling was piled, waiting to be lit. It wasn’t cold enough that she needed the fire, it never was, but she lit it anyway. The orange glow, the wash of colour across the walls, helped to alleviate the heavy weight she felt in her chest. Absent-mindedly eating some of the bread that Alfred had given her - and taking a moment to appreciate the depth of the taste compared to the thin bread produced in Glyndorial - she pulled a battered chest out from underneath the bed. Opening it revealed a number of lumpy packages wrapped in oilskins. Áinfean lifted up the top most package, a long, thin object, and laid it on the table. She hesitated for a moment before carefully unwrapping it, revealing a gleaming sword with a long, double-edged blade. She tentatively reached out a finger, allowing it’s tip to brush ever so slightly against the bare steel.

With a hiss of pain escaping between her teeth she pulled her finger back, wincing not so much at the sting but more at the memories of pain that it brought back. She glanced back at the chest and the iron armour. It had cost her so very much. Had any other victory ever been bought with such a high price, or been more meaningless? For all her efforts, nothing had changed, and perhaps it never could have turned out any differently. She picked up the sword by the leather-bound pommel, careful to keep her bare skin away from the burning metal, and held it out at arm’s length, letting her gaze slide slowly along the keen edge of the blade. Perhaps she had only ever been a doomed warrior fighting for a doomed cause.

Choices had been made but it was pointless to regret them when she could see no way in which the outcome might have changed regardless of the path she took. With a shake of her head, she slotted the sword into the leather scabbard that had lain next to it in the chest and set it on the table. The weapon she would take when she set off for Glyndorial the following day, the armour...no, she would not don that again. The mere thought of doing so made her skin burn where the cold iron had seared her flesh.

Leave the past alone, she reprimanded herself. Eat your bread and think about your blacksmith instead of dwelling on things you can’t change. She smiled as she remember the expression on his face just before she’d passed through the doorway; like a small child deprived of their favourite toy. It led her to remember when she had first seen him; a late evening, she was out hunting near an ancient ruin in the wilds of Faery when she had felt the telltale tingling on her skin that came from the presence of magic. The sensation was a surprise; she had been closed off from magic ever since she had donned the iron armour. Suddenly feeling it after so long had grabbed her attention, making her abandon the rabbit she was stalking and go hunting through the trees for the source, and then, through a gap in the trees she had seen a man’s moonlit face, his expression shocked. She had stared at him for a long time, watching him move slowly through another world as if the air was as thick as honey. He was so different to the elves; tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested where they were shorter and slight. By elven standards she was considered broad, thanks largely to centuries of swinging swords and fighting battles, but he dwarfed her.

Never one to be too cautious, even before the fragile life of a soldier had taught her the value of seizing the moment, Áinfean had shouldered her bow and walked up to the rippling patch of air that hung in the shadow of the ancient ruins. She had paused for a moment then stepped through, and once he had picked himself back up off the ground of the forest clearing in which she now stood, she had introduced herself.

Back in the present, she picked at a loose splinter in the table’s surface, thinking about how different the earthy blacksmith was to the elves, with his ready laugh and twinkling eyes. The whole mortal world was like that; lively, vital. Faery had been like that once upon a time, back when she was a child some three thousand summers ago, not that there was any real difference between summer and winter now; everything had blended together, even the seasons and the weather.

Suddenly she laughed at herself; what had she just told herself about dwelling on the past and on things she couldn’t change? She should have brought some wine back with her along with the bread, she decided; the buzz from it might have drowned out the echoing emptiness of her world.

It took Áinfean five days to emerge from the forest and look down upon the gleaming spires of Glyndorial. It had been close to a hundred summers since she had last been here, and she could just imagine the look on Alfred’s face if she were to mention something like that; when she had unthinkingly mentioned her age in passing he had all but run away from her. A hundred years is more than a lifetime to most humans, but to a race of immortals a century was little more than the blink of an eye. Even to her it did not seem so very long and she felt the passage of time more keenly than most. Still, she knew the urgency of a mortal heart, that knowledge in the back of one’s head that each beat and each breath was one more subtracted from a limited supply. She set off again, following the winding road that lead to the front gates of the city.

Dressed as she was in simple travelling gear of boots, leggings and a leather jerkin, all beneath a hooded cloak chosen to hide a face that was too well known, Áinfean expected to be challenged as she approached the guards at the gate. A brusque “I have business with the king” and a glare from her slate grey eyes was usually enough to send any soldier or guard in Glyndorial running, but this time they made no move to bar her way, their listless eyes sliding off her as if she was barely there.

She ought to be pleased that she was able to enter with so little hassle but it irked her; no soldier under her command would have been able to get away with such a lacklustre approach to their duty. She told herself that it was no longer her business, hadn’t been her business for three hundred years, and that it didn’t matter anyway, but still, there was such a thing as professional pride.

Áinfean walked on, almost hoping that one of the guards would call her back, but instead she was able to carry on into the city unimpeded, continuing on along the main road that wound back and forth between the rising terraces of the city. People milled about, smiling, talking, their skin flawless, their outfits impeccably tailored, with the perfectly proportioned architecture, all graceful columns and fluted spires, the ideal backdrop, and yet it all looked - Áinfean searched for the right word - thin, somehow. A few curious glances came her way, the elves’ eyes drawn by the travel-stained cloak and the scuffed boots, there was an indifference there that she could not recall from the last time she had visited. No one seemed bothered! Where was the sneering, the distaste for something less than perfect? In spite of her love for her people she had always acknowledged that judgmental vanity was one of their biggest faults but it was entirely absent now. That troubled her, frightened her, because she thought she knew what it meant.

Eventually she arrived at the palace gates and here at least the guards blocked her way, although she was singularly unconvinced that they were in any way capable of stopping her if she actually intended to force her way in.

“State your business,” said the guard, barring the entrance with an ornate pike of silver and blue. His similarly coloured uniform gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Ainfean pushed back her hood. “Former general Sárnait wishes to see her father,” she said, fixing the guard with her coldest gaze, her slate-grey eyes pinning him in place.

“I...uh, yes, milady,” said the now wide-eyed guard, hastily pulling back his pike.

Ainfean nodded and began to walk past, only to pause. “Who is currently in charge of the city guards?”

“Colonel Farian, milady.”

“Thank you, guardsman,” said Ainfean. She saluted him and then walked past, leaving him to gossip with his comrades. No doubt word of her arrival would be around the city by nightfall, though it remained to be seen if there was anyone left with the energy to really care.

Her feet automatically followed the familiar path that led to the family’s chambers. She had run down these passageways as a child, played hide and seek in the nooks and crannies and used them as an escape route when making her getaway from another successful pastry theft in the kitchens. There was still a scar in the otherwise pristine wall just there after she had decided that this was the ideal place to try swinging a full-sized sword; suddenly she became aware of the weight hanging of her left hip, the simple steel blade a far cry from the elaborate weapon of glass and silver that she had embedded in the plaster. She had got a lot better with them, she thought ruefully, still unsure if that had been a good thing or not.

“Lady Ainfean,” said a familiar voice, interrupting her reminiscing.

“Lisariel,” said Ainfean, smiling warmly. “Must I still remind you that you can call me simply Ainfean?”

The older elf - double the age of Ainfean though she did not show it - approached quickly down the corridor, her simple white dress billowing behind her. “I’m afraid you must, my lady,” said Lisariel, embracing her. “It has been far too long.”

“It has. I have missed you.” Ainfean leaned back in the embrace, gently moving a lock of blond hair out of Lisariel’s eyes.

“And I you. But you look well, despite your absence, or perhaps because of it.”

“Maybe mortality agrees with me,” said Ainfean, then she winced as she saw a look of pain cross Lisariel’s eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Ainfean. I just don’t like thinking about...that.” She shook her head. “I still don’t understand how you can be so...accepting. I’m sure I would rage, and you always had a worse temper than me!”

“I wish I could deny that, but alas the truth will out.” Ainfean clasped Lisariel’s fingers where they rested on her shoulder. “I was a soldier. You cannot be a soldier if you fear death.”

Lisariel snorted. “That sounds paradoxical.”

Ainfean shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps, but in my experience it was the ones who feared it the most who found it the quickest.”

Lisariel closed her eyes for a moment then vigorously shook her head. “No, I refuse to listen to any more of this morbid talk. Endless summers go by without me seeing you and when you turn up we talk of death? No, I won’t hear of it. I will release you from my embrace, albeit reluctantly, because you must be wanting to go and talk to your mother and father, but we will talk later, promise me.”

Ainfean smiled and nodded. “I promise. I will come round later. I presume you still live in the same rooms.”

Lisariel snorted. “As if I would let anyone drive me away from my view of the city.”

“Of course. Then I look forward to seeing you later.”

Ainfean’s mood was lighter as she approached her family’s rooms; Lisariel had always been able to lift her spirits, even in her darkest times. After Ainfean had at last brought an end to the war with the trolls and returned to the city, blood still dripping from the wounds left by the iron armour, it was Lisariel who had not hesitated to embrace her when even her mother and father had paused, and Lisariel who had tended to those wounds that magic could no longer heal; those endless, pain-wracked nights, as the iron that had entered her blood purged away the magic that was the core of being an elf, would have been unendurable without Lisariel’s arms wrapped around her, trying to soothe the pain away. Finding mortality had been a hard path, one she doubted she could have travelled without Lisariel’s help.

The door to her parent’s chambers was already opening as she approached, her arrival there apparently no longer a surprise. Part of her wondered if perhaps Lisariel had deliberately delayed her to give her mother a chance to prepare herself.

She waited for the door to open and then stepped inside, unsurprised to find her mother and father both sitting expectantly on a well-cushioned couch that matched the simple, elegant style of the other furniture in the room. The last time she had been here, the colours had been gentle lilacs and pinks, but now everything was cream coloured save for the deep warmth of the polished wood, the bright red and green cushions on the couch and the paintings that hung on the walls.

Her mother, queen Gysariel Sárnait, who had been sitting very properly, looking calm and composed, immediately leapt up and rushed over to Ainfean.

“Aini!” she said, flinging her arms around Ainfean and laying her head on her daughter’s chest.

Ainfean wrapped her own arms around her mother’s shoulder, bending her head and kissing the silver hair. “Mother, it’s good to see you,” said Ainfean, trying not to think about how brittle her mother felt in her arms. She looked up and met her father’s smiling eyes. “Father.”

“Ainfean,” said king Algariad. “I’ll wait until your mother relinquishes her hold on you.”

Ainfean sipped at her tea. It had a gentle, fruity, very light taste. It had long been her favourite but, if she was being honest with herself, there was a treacherous voice in the back of her head whispering that she really preferred the thick richness of the tea that Alfred brewed on top of his iron stove.

“How is life out in the wilds?” Gysariel asked, looking at her daughter through the wispy clouds of steam that rose from the brewing pot.

“Peaceful,” said Ainfean. She sipped her tea again. “Perhaps a bit too peaceful. The birdsong is muted, the animals lie hidden in their dens and rarely venture out. Even the trees barely stir.” She looked out of the window at the rolling landscape, green hills disappearing into the vast forest where Ainfean had made her home. It looked like a painting, beautiful but unchanging.

“Does it not get boring?” said her father.

Ainfean smiled at him. “I have had more than enough excitement. I enjoy not having to do anything beyond finding food and reading.”

Algariad reached out and pulled back the sleeve of the shirt Ainfean was wearing beneath her leather jerkin on the arm that was holding her cup of tea. The thick lines of muscle were clearly visible. “Doesn’t look as if you’ve abandoned your training,” he said.

Ainfean rolled her eyes. “I try to stay active,” she said. “We could have a playfight if you want, like we used to when you were teaching me how to use a sword.”

Algariad laughed. “I think your learning has far exceeded my own. If you are planning to stay for a while you could spar with some of your nieces and nephews; they would jump at the chance to spar with their legendary aunt Ironheart.”

Ainfean shook her head. “I am not sure by brothers and sisters would appreciate that so much.”

Gysariel, who was sitting next to Ainfean on the couch, patted her arm. “Don’t be too hard on them. They were just shocked, they understand now.” A shadow passed over the older elf’s face. “We all do.”

“Ainfean, it is hard for an ancient race such as ours to realise that their world is changing. We react with fear and denial, and when we are confronted with irrefutable proof we become angry and push it away.”

The door banged open before Ainfean could reply and a blur of blond hair and bright eyes came windmilling into the room. “Aunty Ainfean!”

Ainfean fended off her nephew long enough to put her cup of tea down on to the table out of harm’s way. “Lanferean,” she said, as he enthusiastically hugged her. “Calm down, please.”

“Are you here to stay, aunty?” said the boy.

Boy, thought Ainfean, he’s ten times as old as Alfred. “I don’t know, Lanf, we’ll see.” She looked over the young elf’s head at the slender figure who had followed Lanferean into the room and smiled fondly at her sister. “Elanderiel.”

“It is good to see you again, Ainfean,” she said with a smile.

“And you too,” replied Ainfean. Her heart lifted at the warmth in her sister’s smile; when last they had spoken it had not been so long after Ainfean had sacrificed her immortality and their exchange had been terse, as if a barrier had been erected between the two sisters who had once been so close.

(author’s note: this scene got kinda sucky. This is gonna be one of the ones that gets a big rewrite when it’s 2nd draft time. And I know I’ve stopped using the accent on Ainfean’s name - I’ll change it in one big search/replace later. It’s just easier that way).

Later, despite Ainfean’s protestations, her family and close friends decided to have a small but lively get together. Soft music drifted across the terrace in the warm night air, the notes plucked from a beautifully sculpted harp by Elanderiel, her eyes closed as she floated with the tune. Above them, stars shone in a clear night sky; Ainfean wondered if they were the same stars as the ones in the mortal realm. She would have to remember to look the next time she crossed over. The thought reminded her that it would likely be the last time she crossed over as well, and there was a swell of sadness and anger in her chest; she looked around her at those she loved the most in this world, the people for whom she had fought and battled for almost two thousand years, and found herself asking the same questions she had asked countless times before: how could this happen, how could she stop it?

“Ainfean, are you all right?” It was Lisariel, looking at Ainfean with a concerned expression on her face. She had changed into a long blue dress that glittered when she moved, “To match the sky,” she had declared.

Ainfean had changed into a different set of leggings, a plain cloth shirt that hadn’t looked too badly creased and a worn pair of her boots that had still been in her old rooms. She had at least left the sword behind in her rooms, much to the disappointment of Lanferean and her other nieces and nephews. “I’m fine, Lis, I promise you. I was just thinking.”

“Sad thoughts, judging from the look on your face,” said Lisariel. “I won’t permit such things at any party I am attending, young elf.”

Ainfean smiled at that; it had been a very long time since she had felt in any way young. “As if anyone could be sad in your presence, Lis.”

“Precisely. Now have some wine and eat some of the food - take advantage of the fact that you get to eat something you didn’t scavenge out of a forest.”

The food was both beautiful and delicious - unsurprising given the renowned skill of the palace’s chef - but there was, again, something missing. It was empty, as if Ainfean was eating nothing but air. Feeling the sadness creep over her again and not wanting to spread it to the others, Ainfean took refuge in the shadows at the edge of the terrace, looking down on to the city below, its glowing lights almost a mirror for the stars overhead.

“You aren’t planning to stay, are you?” said a voice behind her.

Ainfean glanced back to see her father approaching. The expression on his face looked as if it would be a match for her own. She shook her head. “Not for long. I don’t think this is my world any more,” she said.

Algariad leaned on the balustrade next to her. “Try not to be angry with us, Ainfean,” he said after a few moments.

“Angry with you?” she said. “Don’t be foolish, I could never be angry with any of you.” She saw his eyebrows raise, the look in his eyes sceptical. “Irritated and frustrated sometimes, yes, but I would never be angry. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because we failed you,” said Algariad. “You led where we were too afraid to follow. What do you see when you look at us?”

“I see my family, laughing and dancing and singing. Apart from my father, who seems to have taken it upon himself to make his perpetually grumpy daughter even more ill-tempered than normal.”

“But how do we look to you? Do we look pale, thin, colourful, lively?”

Ainfean turned away from him and returned to looking at the city. “Everything looks washed out, but that’s probably just because it’s been a long time since I was last here.”

“You know that isn’t the case, Ainfean. Your honesty is one of your finest, and most infuriating, traits - don’t abandon it now.” Algariad looked fondly at the revellers; his wife was dancing with Lanferean, correcting him when he got a step wrong. “It is easy to fool ourselves into thinking that all is well, even though deep down in our hearts we know it isn’t. We laugh and dance and throw lavish banquets and convince one another that life will go on forever - we are immortals, after all, how could it be any other way?

“But then you walk in the room.” He glanced at his daughter with a sad smile. “And everyone else fades into the background. You seem so real, so solid, that the world bends around you. Our illusions are stripped away and we see that we are diminished. That is why some were hostile to you, and some looked at you with fear and turned away. It was not because of what you wore armour of iron and burned away your immortality, but because you remind us that we are ghosts, and ghosts do not like to be shown what they have become.”

“Then change it!” said Ainfean, and her voice snapped with anger. “Your hearts still beat, do they not? Your blood still pumps, you still draw breath, you aren’t bloody ghosts. Leave here, head to the north or the west.”

Algariad shook his head. “It would make no difference. The whole of faery is like this; the trolls, the dark elves, the goblins, even the dwarves who forged your armour retreat deep into their mountain stronghold, becoming like the rock from which they carved their home. I think that even if we had acted when you first came to me we would not have been able to change it.”

“That was almost a thousand years ago,” said Ainfean in a low growl. “At least you could have tried.”

“The senate would never have agreed and nor would the people. A tangible threat - a troll, a dark elf - they understand that. Something vague and invisible that creeps up on you and they won’t care enough to do anything about it.” He paused for a moment. “Especially elves,” he finished off with a rueful shrug. “Do you not remember how they - how I - reacted when you revealed what you’d found?”

“Are you referring to the condescending way you dismissed a report from your top general? Yes I remember. Did you ever fix the desk I smashed?”

“Ha! No, that was far beyond the skills of even the best artisans,” Algariad said with a light chuckle. “I believe I recall feeling a twinge of sympathy for the trolls after seeing that.”

Ainfean laughed softly, remembering the frustration. Such a small thing it had been, she thought, stumbled upon as her forces were scouting the edge of the area the elves were fighting with the trolls over. An unassuming piece of land that had become wilder and the normal flow of magic had distorted, becoming chaotic, unformed and unfocused. Her lieutenants had ignored it, or dismissed it as a trap set by the trolls, but it had niggled at the back of her mind, setting her instincts ringing; she had learned to listen to those feelings a long time previously and they had kept both her and the soldiers she had come to lead alive more times than any of them could remember. And, just as her father said, her concerns had been roundly ignored. Even when the patch - the Blight as Ainfean had taken to call it in an attempt to get anyone to take an interest - had grown and shown signs of further disrupting the flow of magic, no one had cared. The trolls were the immediate threat. Defeat them and maybe then they could do something about an odd patch of ground. It had taken several hundred years before Ainfean had gambled everything and broken the deadlock, and by that point the land they’d been fighting over in the first place had vanished into the Blight completely.

Ainfean closed her eyes for a moment. “If there is no place here, then go to the mortal world. Become mortal,” she opened her eyes and met his gaze with a fragile smile. “I promise it’s not that bad. Gives you a sense of urgency.”

“No, Ainfean, the elves would never agree to that. To surrender their immortality? They wouldn’t be…”

“They wouldn’t be elves any more, is that what you were about say?” Though she was still smiling there was an edge to Ainfean’s words.

“I wish I could say no, Ainfean, but that is how we tend to see ourselves. Most of us haven’t been soldiers, we’ve had no need to become accustomed to the idea of death. We would rather fade away until the west wind carries us home. They know the wind did not come for the soldiers of your Iron Legion, I can’t command them to give that up.” He reached out and took Ainfean’s hand. “When we realised you had become mortal, I remember wishing that I would not have to watch my daughter grow old and die. I did not want to stand by your bed, to sing the Mourning Song, and to have the air remain still. I would not have expected my wish to be granted in such a fashion. I can at least appreciate the irony in my mortal child outliving the race of immortals from which she came.”

“You could come. Mother, Elanderiel, Lanferean, Lisariel, anyone else who might want it. You do not have to just lie down and accept it.” Ainfean had clenched her free hand as she spoke; with an effort she relaxed it and picked up the drink she had set down on the balustrade.

“We have spoken about it,” said Algariad, “but…” He sighed. “The time of the elves, and all the races of faery, is coming to an end, and we will stay with our people until the west wind comes to carry us home. Aside from all of that, we all remember what it cost you and your legion; there is but one of them left, and even he is failing. One hundred of the strongest soldiers in your army and all have fallen.”

“I survived,” declared Ainfean.

“Yes, you did, because you wore the iron for far longer than anyone else and it scoured you clean. Everyone in the palace remembers the months of listening to your screams and the pain you endured. Would you truly ask that of Lisariel or Lanferean?”

Ainfean blinked in surprise. “If it meant survival, of course!”

Algariad laughed, but the look on his face was one of sadness. “And that is why you became the Ironheart, and we stayed here to dance away the long years of our lives.”

“Pah, a foolish nickname that means nothing,” spat Ainfean. “Earned by the simple act of not wanting to die. There were countless soldiers I served with who deserved it just as much, if not more so.”

“And yet they are not here, and they did not clad themselves in iron or wield a steel sword. Regardless of your opinion of it, the name Ironheart will echo around this realm long after we have vanished from it.”

“You are starting to sound infuriatingly like one of the dreadful epic stories that the bards insist on singing. I swear, if I think for a moment that this ridiculous ‘noble surrender to the inevitable’ is just because it’s somehow a poetic end then I will knock you out, clap you in iron chains and drag you to the mortal world myself.”

Algariad laughed loudly, drawing curious glances from the other partygoers. “If it were anyone else who had said that I would think they were saying that in jest but I believe you would actually do it.”

“Absolutely.”

They stood in silence for a short while, watching Lisariel and Lanferean dance together in a whirl of blue and dark-red robes.

“Ainfean,” said Algariad, “I know I have no right to ask this of you, but there will come a time when we will need you to sing us home.”

“Father, you cannot...is it not enough that you will leave me alone, you must have me send you away from me? How can you ask me to endure that?”

“Because there is no one else who could endure it.”

Before Ainfean could retort, a hand inserted itself in the crook of her right arm and started to bodily drag her away.

“I told you,” said Lisariel, ignoring Ainfean’s protestations as she dragged her back into the centre of the terrace, “no sad faces. And I’m not having you vanishing from a party in which you are supposed to be the guest of honour.”

“Lisariel…”

“It’s okay to forget about all the burdens of the realm for a night, Ainfean, they will still be here tomorrow. For tonight, you will eat, drink and be as merry as you ever manage to get.”

A full glass of wine was unceremoniously thrust into Ainfean’s hand. In the face of an adversary more resolute and indomitable than any of the hordes of trolls, goblins and orcs she had faced, Ainfean gave in.