Heirs of the Gods

Ch 58.2: Callan the Cruel

Warnings: Blood, strong language, mentions of death and violence.

Change of POV chapter! Heads up to avoid confusion.

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Torin stretched back into his seat, arms wide, lazily hanging on the arms of the chair. His dark hair, spilling down his back like a cascade, flicked to the side.

"Shame on you, Aeron," Torin tutted. "It's ungentlemanly to bring women to meetings such as these. You know better. They belong elsewhere, not hearing tales of war and violence. They aren't made to handle such stress." He shook his head condescendingly. "I don't know why you insist on having them in your retinue. You and your odd ideas."

Callan said nothing. He only smiled dryly. "If I've come here, it is because I wish to help you."

"Do you really?" Torin's inky brows arched. "Because what I see is a man who's filled with ideas of false peace, of hope. Of union," he spat the word as something unpleasant. "You've grown faint of heart, Aeron. I know Finnian's death took a toll on you, and I understand. I too lost one of my own blood," he stared at his cup briefly, before lifting his gaze back to Callan. "It's all the more reason to fight. To prevent more unavoidable deaths."

Unavoidable death. Callan could have laughed himself hoarse. Finnian's death had been tragic, and the grief had nearly done Callan in, but to compare it to Áine's death was heinous. Finnian had been an adult, he'd lived his life to the fullest, and whilst his death had been untimely, it had been honourable at least. But Áine...

The poor girl had been afforded anything but an honourable end. Perhaps that's what most pained Aedion. What had driven him to such maddening despair. Her youth, the avoidability of her death, the horror she'd lived through in the end.

Callan still remembered those early years with a pang in his chest. No, he could never bring himself to compare the situations. He couldn't understand how Torin could bear to speak of his daughter as something so trivial. How he would dare cheapen her death by using it to justify his want of vile slaughter.

Callan was only glad Aedion hadn't come. He'd have snapped, and Callan wouldn't have held it against him.

For the first time since the beginning of the meeting, he struggled to control his temper. "It is because of my people that I come to speak to you, to appeal to your reason. You say you want to avoid deaths, yet you plan on walking straight into an obvious trap."

"A trap?" Larkin scoffed. "You give them too much credit. Their ilk is only good for fucking, breeding and killing each other. If we stopped providing them with security at the borders, they wouldn't even be alive. Humans are frail and weak, that's all they've ever been."

"Perhaps," Callan hummed. "But what they lack in physical strength, they make up for in cunning. Or do you forget the reason we need provide them with security? We almost lost a war once. We may believe ourselves to be stronger and faster, but to underestimate the enemy is the single most dangerous thing one can do."

"You speak of them so highly," Ciaran said. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you admire them."

Callan turned to him, tilting his head in consideration. Once upon a time, he'd also been much like the men in front of him--arrogant and narrow-minded. So blind with pride, he couldn't reason to see more than what he thought he knew. He'd been proven wrong again and again.

Humans could be exceptional. Bright and giving and so full of life. They lacked that aloof nature faeries had. Elves grew arrogant and cold and unimpressed with life. Bored by anything that wasn't extreme. Death became trivial. Gold became useless. Time was merely a concept.