by JW Baccaro
As usual, Caelestias caught the action. “It is not polite to stare Darshun.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry,” he answered, quickly looking away.
“Ah, it remains descent,” Strizar commented. “Probably wondering the origin of my scars is all. Am I right, Mr. Darshun?”
“Well, I was curious, yes.”
“I suffered them in our war against the Samaeltho, a vicious, brutal race of Dark Elves by Abidan’s will I suffered them.”
“Um, you are going to have to explain that one. I’m at a loss for thinking. I mean, why would Abidan desire that?”
Strizar looked to Athanasius, smiled, then focused back on Darshun. “When it came to disobeying, I was probably the worst case scenario among all Elves ever to be born. Troublesome and foolish, not to mention haughty. One more step below and I would've been wicked enough to be considered a Dark Elf. But during that war I found out what suffering truly felt like, when I battled their lord Ormehthone, and got severely beaten and left for dead.”
“Oh—all right, but what does the battle have to do with wickedness—and why don't you just have Kelarin heal your wounds?”
“I offered Darshun,” Kelarin interrupted, her natural feminine tone like music to Darshun’s ears. “But he declined.”
“I had to,” Strizar defended. “You see Mr. Darshun…Suffering taught me humiliation, something I desperately lacked. Were I to go back to the way I was before the battle, I fear my negative pride would overtake again. These wounds, you see, are not only a chastisement for my behavior, but a reminder of what cruelty does to this world. I feel stronger now that I carry them.”
“Would they not interfere in battle, say—the loss of one eye?”
“No more than my haughtiness might furthermore darken my spirit. I'd rather die physically than to lose my soul to darkness. Besides, I still hold second rank among the Aryeh, and my Forest Magic has greatly increased over the years thanks to my ‘in tune’ spirit with Abidan and the forces of Light. Lord Athanasius has taught me a lot in the ways of Spirit and Grace. I hope that answers your questions Mr. Darshun.”
“Mr. Darshun? Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Just a simple, monotonous respect; that's all, you see."
Darshun wondered what kinds of wickedness this Strizar committed in order to change so. He also recalled his own attitude of conceit prior to facing Abaddon. His unusual Nasharin power went to his head, transcending his arrogant pride to such a high level he thought himself invincible, until Abaddon utterly crushed him. He remembered feeling humbled because of it—what a strange thing to be humbled by an enemy. Not that the Demon Lord meant any good to come about, for as far as Abaddon knows, he died already. But perhaps, as Strizar had spoken, by Abidan's will were the events allowed to transpire, so Darshun could see his faults, and find encouragement in his soul, rising up out of the ashes stronger.
As the evening rolled on, conversations drifted from elvish heroes of the past and elvish history to Minevara telling Darshun about his blood parents.
It became an uplifting time with everyone in good spirits, even Nayland, who from time to time would glance over at Minevara, then turn away when she would catch his eyes.
But one thing Darshun found fascinating—Elves were immortal.
Some would age old if it were in their calling like Athanasius being a priest, but would remain as such forever. In truth, Elves could die, and many have in times past. Except it is only ever from war, murder, natural catastrophes or accidents, in other words by enforced or unnatural death, foreign to their bodies. Other than that, at no time do they see decrepit old age or develop decease, just as Wizards did not. However, unlike Wizards, Elves do not ascend to the Heavens in bodily form, instead they remain living on earth.
“It’s inspiring that Abidan has blessed your race with the gift of immortality,” Darshun noted. “The magic is most interesting.”
“Magic? Such a word spoken in your context calls for superstition,” Athanasius countered.
“Why yes, of course,” Darshun answered, feeling a bit puzzled. “It is, after all, magic—is it not?”
“Our immortality is not mere magic Darshun, at least not in the sense you are thinking. It is part of our makeup, the way we were created. All ‘magic’ has a cause. All creation has an order. A mystery man sees these things as unexplainable without cause, superstitious. Yet, almost all things can be explained were we to have the proper knowledge and understanding.”
“Almost all things?”
“The existence of Abidan is forever beyond our understanding or comprehension. He is without beginning, without end. Owes his existence to no one. Abidan is true Magic. He creates things with a pattern, guides the chaotic into the orderly, forming complex systems. He knows no limits and is able to do whatever he wishes, even if it goes beyond our common rational knowledge.”
“If that’s not magic than what is? Ha.”
“It is the unexplainable power of Abidan. ‘Logical’ magic is what Wizards, you and I possess. It follows a pattern. While the race of Elves seem magical to some, it is explainable as is the ‘magic’ of the Nasharin race. Like you, being able to transform and unleash Fire. Given enough time, those whom we call ‘Wisemen’ could figure out how these things function and work among you and I, giving all the more glory to our Creator, discovering complexity among such magnificence.”
“Wisemen. Where have I heard that before—oh that’s right, within castle Volborg! There were Wisemen there who created a single capsule supplying all the needs of food for the slaves. Remember Kelarin? You told me that.”
She nodded.
“Though, I say they were evil.”
“Some use their gifts for evil, others good,” Athanasius added. “Some find ways to prolong natural life among mortals everyday. Their knowledge is a gift from Abidan.”
“What of sorcery?”
He sighed. “The power of sorcery comes from the Fallen.”
“The Fallen Angelic?”
“Precisely. How it is accomplished I do not know, but those who obtain such power change forever. The Dark King and Queen of Asgoth both started off with simple unadulterated hearts yet were led by negative forces and influences, leading them to become the most powerful spell casters the earth has seen in a thousand years. Especially Tanarokai, the one who bears the Soul Crusher, a sword forged from unnatural metals, demonic fire and blood.”
“Blood?”
“To increase the sword’s power Tanarokai offered six human sacrifices—three daughters and three sons from holy lines of priests, taken in the night by the King himself. The children's deaths pleased the gods of darkness or as I say the Fallen, and in return they cast additional powers within the black hearted steel. Shortly after, when he was crowned King, he and Talvenya easily conquered the three neighboring lands of Asgoth: Isaw, Burath and Athkel, making them their territory. The Soul Crusher is the deadliest of weapons a creature could wield.”
“I’ve seen what destruction it can do,” Mirabel interjected, “At the Siege of Zithel. But it has limits, where the sword of a Nasharin does not. Its strength depends on how much energy the Nasharin can convert into the Milandrith.”
“Spoken correctly Mirabel. Though unlike the few who possess this kind of unique strength, they who challenge the Dark King always meet death.”
“There will come a time when the Soul Crusher shatters, and the King meets his death.” Clearly Mirabel was thinking about Seth and his loss to Tanarokai, hoping he would get a chance to avenge his brother’s fall.
“We can all hope, for his reign has gone on far enough. He’s committed countless crimes, taken life after life. There is no justice in his heart, no mercy. And there seems to be no end to his horror.”
“The Queen’s past cannot be any different,” Darshun noted.
“Ah…now that is an interesting story.”
“How do you mean?”
“For starters, Queen Talvenya’s origin stretches acr
oss the Great Sea, from a land known as Cyteria. Humans there are gifted with White Magic, a power consisting mainly of healings, enlightenment and telepathy. On rare occasions, some have been known to possess such dramatic energy and strength they have been mistaken for Gods, or as in Talvenya’s case, Goddesses. But the powers of the Dark have turned her into an entity of hatred. Long ago I found her as an infant lying on shore off the eastern bay. Within a hundred feet or so, there were two others, a man and woman, though dead, both had on garments reserved for royalty. Then not too far from the man was a crown only a King of Cyteria would wear, washed up to shore as well. The night before there’d been a terrible storm, catastrophic in its destruction. I suspected these Cyterians were sailing from their homeland when the boat sunk. Why I do not know, I had not been across the Great Sea in almost three thousand years. And how little Talvenya survived was a mystery in itself. Yet there she lied, crying but most assuredly alive, so I took her under my wing naming her Aurora.”
“Aurora!” Darshun exclaimed, shocked.
“Yes, the elvish word meaning ‘heavenly dawn.’ For the morning was beautiful, and I thought of her as a gift from Abidan.”
“Did she have violet eyes, or raven hair as she does in the present?”
“Oh no, not at all, her eyes were sparkling blue and hair strawberry-blond. Although, she changed her appearance once converting to the Dark.”
Darshun lowered his head, sighing deeply. “I saw her in true form,” he muttered, trying to find the courage to gaze back up. When he did…he found them all staring at him.
“We know that my son,” Mirabel soothed. “There is no reason on dwelling in the past. At the time, none of us knew who she was, not even I.”
“You warned me of her, not to get too close because of my calling. I did not listen, now Uncle Seth and hundreds of others are dead.”
“Not by your hand. Dwell no longer upon this, please.”
He smiled, his father's words reminding him of what Aruelius had spoken also, about letting go. He did, and then focused his attention back on Athanasius. “So—what happened to her?”
“I raised the child for ten years, teaching her our history, our morals, the ways of the Light. She showed promise, very wise indeed, the most intelligent individual I’d ever known, and kind at heart. A great power flowed through her too. I sensed it growing every day. The child was gifted. But on July 14th, 1710, during the middle of the night Ashhaven was surprise attacked by a secret group of Samaeltho—the worst kind of Dark Elves, thought to be extinct. Ashhaven had nearly wiped them out eight hundred years prior. With vengeance on their minds they struck hard and fierce, slaughtering many, burning down trees, kidnapping children. In the end, we won the bloody battle, thank Abidan but Aurora had been taken. It was later discovered that the Samaeltho crept up to our city by digging tunnels through the ground for miles upon miles and by the time we began to track them they were long gone. It was the last I ever saw of her. I searched high and low—everywhere I could; always nothing. Rumors were she was being raised to deny the Light and follow the Dark, the Samaelthos’ main reason for abducting children. She was taught the deadliest of spells by sorcery and a most brutal and ancient form of martial arts. Most strange though was that she murdered the entire Samaeltho race save only one.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Their leader, Ormehthone, is more wicked they say than the darkest Demon. One can only imagine the horrors he did to little Aurora. I also think the on-going struggle within her heart between the Light and the Dark caused her to snap, deluding her mind with anger taking control. Or perhaps for another reason? But in moments of rage one is capable of immense destruction, especially her. As legend goes Talvenya let him live, some even claimed to have seen him over the years, secretly wandering the wilderness. Regarding her, as another decade of years passed word was that she changed her appearance, worst of all she'd become the new Queen of Asgoth. How she moved herself up to that position I did not know. Nonetheless, at that moment all hope within me died. For one does not become a ruler of Asgoth unless evil rules their every thought, word and deed.”
“Incredible!” Darshun exclaimed. “I kind of feel—sorry for the woman. It seems there’s many unanswered questions about her origin. Who she really is and why she’d gotten shipped away, only to become the most ruthless of Queens. Makes me ponder. I now understand why she possesses such terrible power, calling herself a Goddess. It’s the Cyterian in her, as you say.”
“Partly, though most of the attitude derives from the Dark.”
"Interesting…"
As time passed, fellowship drifted from one topic to another until Athanasius called it a night. All took their beds and welcomed sleep—all except Darshun who lay tossing and turning, pondering many things, Talvenya’s past. Then especially his parents, dearly wishing he could’ve known them at least seen what they looked like. Finally, after what seemed to be hours he too, fell asleep and entered dreamland…
Sometime later, it did appear to Darshun to be a beautiful summer day and the forest couldn’t have looked greener or the sun shine brighter. Sitting on a large rock, he rested his feet in the cool river, watching the water ripples, listening to the currents, giggling at the poor fishes getting plucked out of the water by the hungry cranes only to rest in their bellies. Then on the other side, a woman in white caught his attention. It was—her! The Lady of Light from his dream at Castle Volborg. In the dream, she saved him from a serpent’s bite, and stopped him from ending his own life due to Talvenya's dark spell of sorrow inflicted into his soul. When all hope seemed forgotten, life meaningless—there she came, encouraging his heart like no one ever did. Her with that warm touch, immaculate beauty her enchanting voice and wondrous spirit. Yet, why had he forgotten this upon awakening? Only now did the memory resurface. He stood up and called to her, “Lady of light, you’ve come back.”
“No Darshun, you have come back.”
He turned around and could scarcely breathe, let alone gaze into those ice blue eyes.
Her gaze seemed dominating, but heart-warming, stern—yet lovely.
“…Who are you?” he asked, his body trembling so much he fell to his knees.
She seemed to omit a certain sacredness, like a heavenly perfume. While not for a moment would she take her eyes off him. She raised a hand. “I am someone you should not fear, Darshun. Please, come with me. I’d like to show you something.”
Rising to his feet, he grasped her warm palm.
The lady smiled, squeezed his hand gently, and began leading him deeper into the forest, eventually crossing a shallow creek and arriving at a trail free from all growth, obviously man-made; luscious evergreens on either side. Following the trail, they ventured up a short hillside until the woodland ended, stopping at an embankment that stretched down to a flat meadow.
Within the field stood a gorgeous woman wearing a light blue gown that fell loose from her shoulders and belted at the waist. She also wore a type of headdress, beautifully scarlet that draped over her forehead and down her back like fine long hair.
Darshun felt something familiar about her when he gazed at her dark blue eyes—and pointed ears. She was an Elf. Then the sound of a galloping horse drew near. He turned around and approaching rapidly came a rider on a beastly white stallion. At first, Darshun thought he might get run over, but the rider passed through him as if he were a ghost. Yet the man looked real, even carried a musky sent. Was Darshun the ghost? He stomped on the ground; it felt solid along with his legs and the rest of his body, meaning he too was real. It all made no sense.
The rider made his way to the lady. His hair looked wild and blond his eyes slate. He wore a reddish-brown supertunic, a dark purple cape and thigh high black boots.
The cape made Darshun wonder if he was royalty, but his eyes told otherwise. His aura gave off a sense of a loner, and—something else. Darshun and the lady of light continued to watch.
The man stopped beside the woman, leap
t from his horse and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her high into the air. She hugged him tight; their affection seemed heartwarming, showering one another with kisses and love. Clearly, these two were husband and wife. Then a silver glow encircled the man and he rose up his arms. It must have been the power of telekinesis, for out of a sack tied on the saddle of the horse came an abundant of red roses, levitating on over, above and around them, forming the shape of a heart. They must have been freshly picked, for their smell seemed delightfully overwhelming, even from Darshun’s distance.
Then the woman cast a spell, speaking a word unfamiliar to Darshun but clearly in the elvish tongue. The roses enflamed with a type of majestic fire yet the petals did not consume, nor was there any smoke. Like a magnificent portrait it looked, two lovers standing in the midst of red roses coated in fire, keeping the shape of a heart, symbolizing the passion burning between them. Then they danced and danced and danced; wondrously, seductively and passionately. The gentle sound of the wind and delightful singing of birds was all there needed to be for melody. As the dance came to an end, the fire went out and gently did the man levitate the roses down. They perfectly rested around them onto the grass, still having the shape of a heart and they both lay down side by side holding hands.
“The dance of lovers,” the Lady of Light whispered.
Then it hit Darshun—a man having the power of telekinesis, as his father was said to possess, a lady Elf bearing the power of strange fires, as his mother did—it was them! His parents! Ariel and Meyanna. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you wanted to know something deep and personal about your father and mother, did you not?”
“Yes, but…" He lost his train of thought, overtaken by the lady's smile.
"This is the first time they had this dance," she explained. "Once a month they’d return here and repeat it privately. No one ever knew. It was only for them, a quiet place to share their love and intimacy. Is it not a joy to watch?”
