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[Eurydice]

((Backstory that I wrote from my first evar D&D character-- desperately in need of fixing and cleaning up. Could also use some elimination of typical fanfiction.net omgangst, but we shall see. Posting it now, fixing and cleaning off later))

Prologue: Birth day

His clothes smeared with dirt and blood from a dozen minor wounds, Lord Adas, protector of the Veluna family seal, looked a mess. The wind whipped through his yellow hair as he ran from the stables at the gate of Devarnish towards his home, almost half a mile away. Minutes before, he had been sure that that he had seen the end of the day’s action, but now, racing for home, the ragtag group of orcs and ogres they had been fighting was the last thing on his mind.

Adas sprinted up the somewhat less-than-sturdy wooden stairs outside the house, three at a time. Some woman (her dress would seem to indicate that she was a nurse) stood in front of the door, barring his path. Adas gracelessly stumbled to a halt, struggling to catch his breath.

“Is she alright?”

The nurse didn’t budge. “You’re the husband?”

“No,” he snapped, “I’m the king of the hobgoblins. Yes, I’m the husband, for the love of the gods, let me in!”

“Your wife has just gone through a long and painful labor. She is sleeping now; wait until she wakes.”

Mentally cursing the architect of their home for making the only entrance to the upstairs bedroom outside and, thus, easily blocked, Adas furiously kicked the railing, sending splinters onto the path below.

“If you wake her before she is fully rested,” continued the nurse as if nothing had happened, “you will remain outside still further, unless common sense gets the better of you and you decide to go downstairs and wait. I was instructed not to move from here, and move I shall not.”

“No?” Adas drew his long sword. Normally, he wouldn’t dream of drawing against and unarmed, untrained woman, but he had given up on convention for the moment. “I have just returned from the front lines of battle. I thrust this sword into the bodies of a hundred creatures whose very sight would make your skin crawl. Do not think for a moment that I would hesitate to sink it into yours.”

The nurse paled. “There have been . . . complications . . .” she stammered.

Taking a step forward, Adas lifted the blade; it glittered in the day’s fading light. “There are complications now. I am going to see my wife. My wife is behind you. My sword is in front of you. Can you think of a solution to these . . . complications?”

The woman hesitated only a moment longer before shakily sidling past him and down the stairs.

Furious (not only at the witless nurse but at the fact that so poor a guard had been left at the door), Adas yanked the door open and made his way through the upper entrance hallway, ignoring the frantic doctor and his aide, both of whom spoke over each other so insistently that neither could be clearly understood.

“Chava! Chava!”

He burst through the second door, into the bedroom. Kosta, their oldest, most faithful servant seemed to be in deep conversation with Chava, who was propped up in bed, face white as the sheets and covered in a sheen of sweat. She held the newborn child with total delicacy, almost as if she were afraid to touch it. Kosta’s eyes widened at Adas’ approach, and she held around Chava’s waist even tighter.

Adas dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching his wife’s hand. “Chava, oh gods, I’m sorry a thousand times that I wasn’t here. The order came in middle of last night; the orcs were on the move, and General Chassey said that we had to press the advantage then, couldn’t wait. I didn’t even think that--”

He broke off, fiercely kissing her hand. “Never again, love, never again. Let me see my child.”

Something was wrong. Chava was absolutely rigid. Her pale blond hair clung to her forehead with the beads of perspiration that had formed there, and she was staring at him as if he were a demon.

Adas looked to Kosta, hoping for some sort of explanation, but she would not meet his eyes. Wordlessly, she pushed the child toward Adas. With every ounce of care he could garner, he lifted the child to gaze at it in the last seconds of daylight.

And then he saw.

Pointed elven ears.

He numbly placed the child in Kosta’s arms. He now knew what it had been in Chava’s face when she had her eyes fixed on him before.

It was terror.

Terror of what she knew he would do to her.

The abrupt shift in emotions was so extreme that Adas, at first, wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He rose unsteadily, stumbling backwards as if the floor under him were shifting violently.

He couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t make himself believe it. Not his own, his pure, his sweet, beloved Chava.

“You . . .”

Adas was proud of the purity of his house; Chava had known that from when he had first started courting her. His family had been protectors of the royal house for seven generations; with that came a long tradition, not only of pride in their humanity, but of an intense aversion to outsiders. Especially elves.

More than he loved his family. More than he loved Chava.

“You . . . you betrayed . . .”

Bad enough that she had lain with another, but to lay with an elf?

Adas snatched the baby. “One more death on my sword, by god, before this day is done!”

Kosta’s hand shot out, staying Adas’ hand. “The doctor, nurses, and half a dozen others know that the child is born, my lord,” she said quietly. “They will know something is amiss if you now pronounce it dead. And to shed blood of your own house is a capital offence. Keep her.”

Adas knew that it was true. He stared at the little monster in her arms.

The little monster that Chava had created . . .

He strode over to his wife, eyes dark and furious.

“Get up.”

Chava knew it was useless to try to delay the inevitable, knew what Adas would do, but she could not comply. She tried to move, but her limbs, weary and trembling with effort, would not obey. She tried to tell him, but nothing was coming out of her mouth but wordless sobs.

“I SAID GET UP!”

Ignoring Chava’s cries and pleas for mercy, Adas threw her to the floor and began to beat her savagely. The words of tenderness he had been rehearsing, for months, for the birth of their first child flew out of his head. How dare she? This thing, this impurity . . . coming from his house . . .

The newborn half-elven girl stared at the scene, wide-eyed and fascinated.

[Eurydice]

1: The Gift-giving

It was a full moon, that night: full and glorious. Even with her eyes closed, the half-elven girl could feel it shower her in light, head to toes.

“Tavia?”

She had grown accustomed to being addressed as “You, girl” or any number of slightly less kind titles. After thirteen years, she had accepted it as her lot in life, and it was one of the lesser evils that she dealt with regularly. “Tavia,” though, came from a favorite storybook of her brother’s; he was the only one who referred to her thus, but it was the closest thing she had to a real name. Simultaneously impatient and delighted, she looked around in the foliage behind her. “Shh!”

Avel, leaves and twigs entangled in messy hair, scrambled out from the underbrush. “Thought I couldn’t follow you, eh? Told you I could.” An impish grin crossed his face as he reached into a jacket pocket. “Bet you thought I forgot, too.” He produced a crudely wrapped package, thin, and about a foot long. “Happy birthday.”

Tavia’s face lit up, and she ran to embrace her brother. She was a full year older than he was, but he was still taller, damn him, and she had to reach up to throw her arms about his neck. “Avel, you’re wonderful! How’d you get out?”

“Left some pillows stuffed under the blankets in case Mum and Dad check. Don’t think they will, though; they were both sleeping pretty soundly when I left. Anyway, they’ve never noticed your little midnight outings.”

Adas, under whose roof she had grown up, had never liked the idea of Tavia’s trancing only for a few hours and being fully refreshed, so the door to her room was always locked after bedtime. Of course, it was only a few years before the key started finding its way out of its place on the door and into Tavia’s hands, and she had learned to get in and out of the house swiftly and without disturbing the smallest bit of dust. Being confined to the house during the day was misery, but getting out after dark made up for it. On a good night, she had four or five hours all to herself. Sometimes, if she felt especially adventurous, she would sneak around town and try to pick locks so she could go into the stores and just look at things (she wouldn’t stoop to actually stealing. Most of the time). She sorely wished to see Devarnish in daylight, but for now, this would do nicely.

Most of the time, though, she let herself spend one of those hours for traveling time, walking in the wild, over grassy hills and wooded valleys, until she found a quiet area that she had designated as her own. There, she would read, write, draw, climb trees, try (usually without success) to befriend the bolder wild animals, follow creeks to their sources, or just sit and listen to the night.

He pressed the package into her hands. “Open it!”

Fingers nimbly undoing the hastily tied string, she extracted an exquisite wooden flute, carved at one end to look like the head of a wolf, its painted black eyes glossy and fierce. “Avel . . .” she breathed in wonder. “Are you insane? This must have cost a fortune; you shouldn’t have bought this!”

“In that case, you shouldn’t have mentioned seeing it in Chantry’s shop last month.”

Tavia’s fingers clumsily found their way along the holes of the instrument. “But I can’t play.”

“So you’ll learn. You can figure it out.”

She hugged him, face buried in his shoulder so that he wouldn’t see her embarrassed but very pleased smile. “I was going to be very angry if you came tonight, but I think I’ll let you stay this time. Tonight’s special.”

“’Course it’s special, stupid. It’s your birthday.”

She shook her head. “That flute wasn’t the present I was expecting tonight.” Tavia peered off into the darkness, squinting. “I think he’s going to come here again.”

“Who?”

“Dunno. Some elf. I think he’s a ranger or something, and he’s passed through here at least once every month. I’ve been trying to get up the courage to actually talk to him all this week.”

Avel’s bright blue eyes widened with fascination. “You’re out of your mind; what on earth do you have to discuss with him, anyway?”

“I want to find out who my real father is.”

Her brother smirked. “And you think that any elf, chosen at random, will know? Please. Best case, he’ll pat you on the head and send you home. Worst case, you’ll spook him and he’ll slice your head off.”

Tavia shook her head. “Elves don’t get spooked.”

“How many elves do you know?”

“We don’t! Anyway, he saw me last time. I almost spoke to him then, but I was so scared that I just froze up. Not this time, though. This time I can do it. I told you: tonight’s special.”

A horse’s whinny split the silence; neither of the children had realized how still the night air had been until it was disturbed. Both their heads whipped up at the sound, alert. In the distance, they could hear hoof beats getting closer. Simultaneously, Tavia’s hand met Avel’s and their fingers snaked together as the two got to their feet.

The horse and its graceful rider seemed to glow in the radiant starlight. The elf was slender, with long, dark hair, shimmering eyes, and the presence of a king. Tavia could feel her hands going sweaty and her heartbeat quicken, but she had promised herself that she would not be afraid tonight.

Clasping her brother’s hand, she stood, head held high, and stepped into the moonlight’s glow.

Looking at her, with the moon shining down, Avel couldn’t help but notice how alien she looked. Her pale skin possessed the same luminescence as the rider’s; her plain, stick brown hair seemed to soften, and her eyes, bright as emeralds, were focused straight ahead at the approaching rider. Most of all, though, her bearing was changed. She stood straight and tall, no longer the curled-up form of a child playing at run-away-from-home.

The rider reigned in his steed and dismounted gracefully. “Well met,” he said, and his voice was like music, laughing, tripping off his tongue. “It is a rare sight to see a human and a half-elf alone in the dead of night; rarer still it is to see two such children.” He focused on Tavia. “You, of course, I have seen before, child, many times. Who is your friend?”

“My brother,” she said (to her surprise and relief, her voice was not shaking), “Avel.”

The elf nodded courteously to Avel. “Mae govannen.” He turned his attention back to the girl. “What business have you here? It is plain that you were waiting for me.”

Tavia swallowed a lump in her throat. “My father . . . he was elfkind. Every time I’ve seen you, I’ve gotten the strangest feeling that you know something. Who was he?”

Again, like music, the elf laughed. “I am no fortune teller. I shall need a little more to go on than that.”

“I-- I don’t know any more. My mother never told me--”

“--A little prince.”

The words were out of Avel’s mouth before he realized it.

Tavia was caught completely off guard. “What?”

Avel looked down, embarrassed. “I asked Mum about it once. She said that he was like a little prince, and he had long dark hair, and a long scar across his chest, and eyes like yours, Tavia. And she thinks he was a druid, since that’s how he was dressed.”

The elf rider smiled broadly. “Well, child, if his eyes were like yours, he may well have been a little prince; I can see a light in your eyes like that of the royal house. How many years have you seen?”

“Thirteen. I’m thirteen today.”

“And I think it was summer about thirteen years ago that they were training here,” the elf murmured. “Yes,” he said, more decisively. “I think it would be safe to say that your father is Aranince.”

Something seemed to catch the elf’s attention, and, abruptly, he turned and swung up onto the back of his steed. “The captain of the guard is moving on, and so must I.” Almost as an afterthought, he turned back to meet the girl’s inquisitive gaze. “He called you ‘Tavia.’ That is no elven name.”

“I guess not . . . I don’t really have a name; that’s just what Avel calls me.”

“Then accept this present for your birthday: I name you Tavaril, daughter of Aranince, for you haunt these woods by night, like a spirit. May it be that you find the peace you seek here. Namárië.”

And as quickly as he had arrived, bringing with him a light so brilliant that it seemed to be coming from heaven, the rider was gone.

Tavaril and Avel stood there for a long time, scarcely daring to breathe.

“Happy birthday, Tavaril,” Avel whispered.

[Eurydice]

2: Sicut Cervus

Swift and sure-footed, Tavaril darted through the trees. Normally, she preferred to sit quietly during her nightly outings, but she just felt like running now, so run she did. The rush of wind about her clothes and in her face, the soft padding of her feet against the forest floor, the soft blanket of clouds overhead, the whisper of the trees branches all were positively exhilarating.

She had been in a similar mood on her birthday, going home with Avel. “What’s the big hurry?” he had asked, easily keeping pace with her (Damn humans and their long legs).

“No hurry. Just feel like running.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Just feel sort of... inspired? That’s not the right word. Um. Purposeful? Like I have some sort of direction.”

“Direction towards...?”

“Isn’t obvious? Finding my father.”

He looked incredulous. “Tav... finding that ranger was a fluke. The fact that he knew anything was a fluke. I don’t think you’re going to be able to keep up this lucky streak.”

“Oh, yes,” she had nodded, mock serious. “And it would take up so much time to find him, time which I cannot waste. You know how busy my schedule is: so terribly full.”

Smirking, Avel shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I really don’t think this will be as easy as you imagine.”

“Well,” Tavaril replied, “I think differently.”

Of course, here it was, two weeks later, and she had made exactly no progress in her search.

Much as she hated to admit it, her half-brother was right. There wasn’t even any guarantee that this Aranince lived anywhere near Devarnish; the ranger had referred to him training here, indicating that he would naturally live somewhere else. Even if he were nearby, Tavaril only had so much search time in one night. Besides, if anyone were to catch sight of a young half-elven girl, running like a deer through the trees and plains in the dead of night, they would probably think her to be a little mad anyway.

In spite of the lack of progress with the gift of the elven ranger, Tavaril had surprised herself by making considerable progress with Avel’s gift. She was no prodigy, but she had managed to figure out the basic fingering of the notes. Not knowing many songs was also a bit of a hindrance, but she played what she could when she could.

Tavaril stumbled to a halt at a sharp crack of thunder. Her head snapped up; gazing at the sky, she realized belatedly that the clouds were far thicker than she had originally gauged.
Running more swiftly than ever, she was still less than halfway to Devarnish when the downpour really got going. She tossed her head, trying to shake out the rain. The coarse material of her dress had been almost instantly soaked and was quickly beginning to cling to her legs, making it even more difficult to run. Now I remember why I wanted a cloak, she thought bleakly. Stupid. Stupid.

As her path joined with the main road, her footfalls against matted grass became splashes of mud and filthy rainwater, splattering on her already drenched form. Her legs burned with effort, and she knew they’d be sore by morning.

There was no single moment she could pin down, but as she stumbled, exhausted, down the main street, Tavaril became quite certain that she was being watched. The thought disturbed her; night was almost holy to her, and her outings were completely private. She didn’t like the idea of someone unknown to her sharing that.

There was also the slightly more obvious aspect of something being distinctly creepy about being spied on at midnight in the middle of a thunderstorm. It was more than a little disturbing; she kept envisioning the swift flick of a knife in the dark from that unknown someone.

Common sense got a hold of her upon reaching home, and she managed not to tear the door off its hinges in her hurry to get inside (as much as she was inclined to do so). Rain still running off from her clothes, she silently dashed across the house and down the stairs to her room next to the basement. She crouched on her bed, breathing hard.
“Safe at last,” she panted, collapsing into a trance.

* * *

As she woke from the trance, Tavaril had the distinct impression that she was, in fact, not safe at last.

The fact that her arm was being held and twisted, hard, behind her back, probably had something to do with it.

She could feel Lord Adas’ breath on her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “I must admit, I had my suspicions, but I did not think that you would actually--” He punctuated the word with a sharp pressure on her shoulder, and it was all that she could do to keep from crying out at the sudden pain. “--disobey my explicit command that you are to stay indoors, always.”

The pressure increased, and with a whimper, Tavaril felt herself being shoved forward, Adas’ weight crushing her against the mattress.

“You will remember your place.”

She couldn’t answer. Not that she had any need to do so.

The pressure left, and she fell to her side, gasping. Her mind was racing, trying to go through every possibility. The watcher she had sensed as she was coming home: did he work for Adas, one of his servants perhaps? Had it been Adas himself?

And once again, common sense kicked in. Cursing herself for making such an obvious slip-up, Tavaril sat up, massaging her arm, which felt as if it were on fire, and reflected that one didn’t exactly need a spy or magician to discern that someone had been outside when one observed a floor with muddy footprints leading to a girl in a mud-splattered dress.

[Eurydice]

3: Fragile

Tavaril could hear the bells in the town square chiming for the second hour of morning. Wide-awake, this was the third night in a row that she had not dared to go on another midnight run. The last time she had dared, Adas had beaten her so relentlessly that she had been unable to drag herself to the bed and was forced to call Avel for help. Avel had tried to convince her that they should hire a cleric or someone to heal her more quickly or at least administer some pain relief, but she knew that would only invite more punishment from Adas. She’d spent the day cursing herself for clumsiness and stupidity at letting herself be caught and promised herself not to go out again until she could be completely secure.

But it hurt. Not just the bruises but the separation from her beloved forest. What the Elven ranger had said when he named her was right: she was a spirit of the woods, and being cut off from that home made her die a little each day. She had not seen daylight for those same three days, and she could almost feel herself fading away in to nothing more than a shadow herself.

It was amazing how the time stretched out. The passage of a few minutes turned into millennia, and there was absolutely nothing she could do. Sympathetic, Avel visited her makeshift prison cell several times daily, bringing news of the outside world. He did it in the best spirit, but these tales only made her hunger for escape all the more keen. No description of a bright, cold afternoon on the plains could take the place of the experience. She occasionally practiced her wooden flute, but she had to keep it muffled by playing into a pillow or a blanket.

She was lying awake, staring at the ceiling when the second bell chimed that night. Two in the morning. And she was so sick of lying there.

The ache inside wasn’t letting up.

Wincing slightly as she slid to her feet (she’d almost forgotten the feeling. Had it really been three days?), she tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to it, biting her lip and holding her breath.

That was another thing she hated about being cooped up in the house. When you’re stuck alone in a house for too long, you start to notice all of the little noises it makes: the creaks, the sighs, the whispers of long-forgotten inhabitants and spirits. Tavaril had spent so many hours listening to silence that even the scratching of mice within the walls seemed as plain and obvious as an explosion. She shivered as she listened now and wrapped her blanket close about her, but there were no sounds in the house other than the moans of the wind and the walls.

Stumbling slightly as she made her way across her room in the dark, Tavaril wriggled into a heavy, coarse dress, glad for its familiar feel close against her skin. Smoothing the cloth down over her body, her hand paused at her sternum. She had no desire to look, but she was sure that the brilliant purple-red mark there had still not faded, and every breath she took still hurt, though the pain had been reduced to a background hum: noticeable, but not unbearable.

The stairs creaked under her, and she could have kicked herself for forgetting to skip the loose board which seemed painfully loud to her. As she reached the dark space at the top of the staircase, Tavaril was surprised, if not outright shocked, to see her mother seated at the dining table, staring blankly at something that Tavaril could not make out.

She’s so beautiful, Tavaril thought. She was surprised at herself for thinking it, but it was true. Her mother looked like a golden goddess.

Chava’s slim figure pressed against the hard line of the chair; the contrast of her soft, white flesh against the hard back of the wooden chair looked uncomfortable, somehow, and the two didn’t seem to look quite right next to each other. Twin pools gazed out at the empty planks of the table in front of her, searching for something that was not there. But her eyes were clear and almost empty. Pale yellow hair cascaded down her back like a bolt of the finest silk.

Tavaril ran a hand through her long tangle of stick-brown hair.

Her mother was moving almost as though she were in a trance. Well, perhaps moving was too strong, but she was very definitely, very slowly moving back and forth, as if to some unheard music off in the distance.

She has to be asleep, Tavaril thought. And yet, her eyes were open.

Knowing that it might full well be a very stupid move, Tavaril stepped out of the shadow and quietly padded over to the table. “Mummy?”

The pale face turned up to meet Tavaril’s inquisitive gaze. For a moment, the gaze held, and Tavaril was shocked to see that the eyes were still as empty as they had seemed initially but possessed such depth that would put the deepest fathoms of the ocean to shame. There was so much lost in those eyes.

And then the moment was broken; Chava let out an unearthly wail that chilled Tavaril to the bone. Rushing forward, she tried to clamp a hand over her mother’s mouth, but the sound continued, thin and high like the shriek of a ghost. Chava’s eyes never left Tavaril’s face.

A light went on upstairs. Tavaril darted about the room, hopelessly looking for somewhere to hide and eventually diving under a low-placed cabinet. Flesh and bone screamed in protest as she flattened herself between the wall and the floor, but she could rest later. Stop looking at me, she mentally begged Chava. Please, anything, just don’t look at me...

Clatter of footsteps, clumsy in the middle of the night. Adas’ voice (Tavaril was so accustomed to hearing its harsh, biting commands) was unexpectedly gentle, concerned. “Chava? Chava, love, what’s wrong?”

The screams continued.

Footsteps across the floor now (Don’t look down here, please, please) going over to Chava. Looked like he was trying to hold her. “Hush, my love, a dream, it’s just a dream...”

The chair smashed against the floor, and Chava was now standing as well-- no, kneeling (don’t look under here, God, please), and still sobbing, though now somewhat comprehensible. Tavaril could here her mother whimpering, “Please, for the love of the Gods, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean for it to happen, gods, don’t hurt me, stop hurting me, please! I didn’t mean to have the baby! Stop it, please, oh gods, I can’t breathe, I CAN’T BREATHE!”

Adas seemed paralyzed for a moment, then bent down (don’t see me, please) and picked her up, gently as a child. The sobs subsided somewhat. Tavaril risked a glance out and saw Chava clinging to Adas as if she were drowning. Pausing at the foot of the steps, Adas took one more look around (hurry back into the shadows, he can’t see me, don’t let him see me) before carrying Chava up to their room, murmuring meaningless consolations to her.

It was so bizarre, seeing someone that she only knew as cruel to be so tender, so loving. Breathing hard, Tavaril didn’t dare to move until the light upstairs had gone out and the footsteps and sobs had long since ceased. Slowly pulling herself out from hiding, Tavaril slowly massaged muscles that (she had not realized) had gone tense.

The ache to get out was stronger than ever. Breathless with anticipation, Tavaril slid out through the slit of an opened door. The moon was midway through the sky and it was glorious. Tavaril broke into an open grin; it had been a long time, even before her confinement, since she had seen such a perfect, clear sky. Forgetting the turmoil within the house behind her. Tavaril began to run, fast and lithe as a deer, even if for only a few hours.

She tried to ignore the fact that the eyes of the watcher, the same ones she’d felt several nights earlier, still seemed to follow her every move...

[Eurydice]

4: Wanting Memories

After nearly an hour, on and off, of running, Tavaril threw herself down on the gentle grass and allowed the sweet, cool scent of the fresh night air to fill her lungs. Stars, brighter than any metaphor could have rendered them, peeked gaily though the branches above her head. Tavaril stared up at the beautiful sky and for the first time in three days dared to dream of what might be out there, beyond the borders of Devarnish, or this forest, or the whole world.

Somewhere nearby, a brook sang quietly. Tavaril’s lips curved up in pleasure and listened to its song for a few minutes. She drew the flute out of one of her deep pockets and tried to play, but it seemed so inferior to the night noises of the wood that she gave up and simply listened.

She’d always preferred listening, anyway. She had gotten used to it after years of sitting by a locked door, drinking in every word that could possibly give her news from the outside world.

She had listened to Chava’s friends when they were invited over for lunch, chattering about nothing in particular except what a lovely day it was, oh yes, and the sun so bright and lovely.

She had listened when Adas had brought companions home to meet his family, listened without daring to make a noise that might indicate her presence for fear of what Adas would do if anyone outside the house knew his dirty little secret.

She had listened to Adas shouting at Chava.

She had listened to Adas assuring Chava of his eternal devotion.

She had listened when Adas and Chava oohed and ahhed over Avel’s crude rendering of the Veluna family seal, made as a school project.

She had listened when Avel’s school friends were invited over to celebrate his birthday, trying to ignore the enticing smell of the sweets that Chava bought specially so rarely.

She had heard so much of what other people had to say. Tavaril found herself marveling over the fact that she was always the listener, never the speaker. On those rare occasions when she might speak openly, she could never figure out more than a few sentences to string together. Avel had always told her what a comfort it was to tell her things, as she was such a good listener. What am I, she wondered, if I am only the sum of what other people tell me?

At once, she became infinitely thankful that she was a good listener; she sat bolt upright and cocked her head to one side. She was not alone.

Squinting beyond a cluster of trees a short distance away, she could see what looked to be a freshly lit campfire. Men speaking in rough, low voices moved about the flames.

Tavaril flattened herself against the ground, thanking her lucky stars that she had noticed them this early. She stayed there a moment, breathing shallowly, but she heard no indication that anyone had spotted her.

They’re up to no good, gut instinct advised her. They’re evil people and you want to stay as far away from them as you possibly can.

Tavaril silently crept forward.

The voices around the fire became gradually more and more audible.

“D’ja see that ol’ fella’s face? Nearly wet ‘imself when ‘e saw us!”

“I’ll say. Can’t imagine why an ol’ chap like that would be out so late wi’ a cartload o’ such beauties all by ‘imself.”

“Aye, and we’ll appreciate them beauts more’n ‘e ever could.

A thinner voice piped up from the other side of the fire. “Wot about the ol’ man? Won’t someone come after us when they see he’s dead?”

“Wot about ‘im?” One of the first speakers took over. “He keeled over soon as ‘e saw us. They’ll say sumpin spooked him to death. And if he ain’t died, who’d believe an old fool wand’rin round at that hour anyway?”

Peeping through the cover of a thick, old pine, Tavaril counted about nine in all, of mixed races; some were eating some sort of red meat, barely cooked, while others sharpened weapons, quietly conversed, or glanced about for signs of obvious approachers. Towards the center of the crowd sat a stout cart, loaded with finely made chests and silk holding bags.

One of the deep voices spoke up; it looked to be a half-orc. “Some sort o’ message ‘ere.” He brandished a bit of parchment.

A dwarf leapt up, snatching it. Greedy eyes, bright as the stolen jewels, ran back and forth over the page. The others in the band clustered round. “Wotsit say, Rurik?” one of them hissed.

The dwarf called Rurik looked up with a devilish grin. “Lookee ‘ere! Says this ‘ere cart’s regular tribute to some king fella. Next payment’ll come through these same parts in ‘bout two months!”

Noises of general approval rippled around the crowd. “Damn straight! We can easily make it back then.”

“Easily. Gonna be livin’ good fer years t’come, wi’ all this loot.”

“Right, boys. First watch take up positions here and here. Ev’ryone else, catch a few winks so we can move out fast t’morrow.”

Tavaril flinched as one of the watchmen started in her general direction. This is my cue to leave, she told herself, turning as quietly as she could...

...and found herself facing a pair of yellow eyes.

It took every inch of self-control that she had for her not to scream. Her eyes adjusted; a lean, gray wolf stood nose-to-nose with her, eyeing her, unblinking.

Tavaril’s sharp intake of breath was caught in her throat; half of her wanted to release that breath with relief, but the other half knew full well that this did not necessarily help matters any. Neither she or the wolf had moved since that initial shock, and still neither seemed sure of how to react.

Behind them, the sounds of the camp were fast dying out. Tavaril didn’t dare to turn around to see if the sentry was still standing there, trapping her between a rock and a hard place. The wolf peered at her a moment longer and then seemed to nod and back up a few steps, though barely far enough for her to get by it without trouble. Your move, the creature seemed to be silently telling her. If I don’t like what you’re doing, I will snap you like a twig and keep you around for breakfast.

Steadying her trembling body against the tree trunk, Tavaril extended her hand, palm first, to the creature. It sniffed carefully at the dirty, rough flesh, and Tavaril stiffened; the wet nose against her bare skin tickled, but she was too scared to laugh or pull away. After what seemed like an eternity, the wolf pulled away, scrutinized the girl again, and abruptly trotted off into the underbrush.

Not knowing what compelled her to do so, Tavaril followed.

The traveled like that, wild girl following wild animal, for almost a mile, stopping at a small cave near the source of the brook. The wolf nosed at something on the ground and turned back to face Tavaril.

She cautiously approached the spot that the wolf had indicated; it looked like a miniature avalanche had recently blocked off part of the cave’s entrance. The wolf pushed at the rocks again, insistent. The girl knelt, pushing aside some of the rocks.

Beneath the rubble lay the still, bloodied forms of half a dozen wolf pups.

Tavaril sat back, hard. She stared at the wolf, the wolf gazing right back into her eyes.

They did not move for some time.

* * *

She was not sure if it had been minutes or hours, but the wolf’s ears suddenly pricked up. The animal sniffed the air. Tavaril rose and looked around. She could see nothing.

The wolf had backed into the cave; Tavaril took an alternate form of escape, swinging herself up into the arms of the first tree whose branches she could reach. Hand over hand, she ascended until she had a clear view through the canopy.

About fifty feet away from the base of her tree, she beheld a wondrous sight: three Elven riders, their hoods thrown back so their faces soaked up the starlight. The middle rider she recognized, for he was the Elven ranger that she had last seen many months ago. The other two, were strangers. One was dark-haired and bore a strong resemblance to the center figure; like him, she was dressed in the garb of a ranger. The third figure had blond hair and bright eyes, and he wrapped himself tightly in a brilliant teal cape.

Even from a distance, Tavaril could sense a certain synergy between them. She felt a pang of envy, looking down on them; what a wonderful thing it must have been for those three to share happy times together. How perfect the three of them looked there, framed in a border of branches.

Tavaril closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in a family like that, with Elves instead of humans, not locked up amid the filthy and uncouth but free to run wild in the beautiful night, in the company the fair, the full-of-life, the most fortunate creatures in all the world.

She couldn’t picture it.

The dark-haired figure drew her steed to a halt and began to look about, brow slightly furrowed. At almost the same time, the fair-haired one lifted a hand, and at once, he was holding a mass of flame. A wizard? Tavaril wondered.

“Izaleos,” the fair-haired Elf whispered, “we’re being watched.”

Tavaril backed up as close as she could to the trunk of her perch.

The center figure, Izaleos, didn’t move. “I know. But fear not.” He turned to the other figure. “What can you tell me, daughter?”

The Elf maiden gracefully dismounted and crouched over a patch of ground, eyes and fingers probing the area carefully, methodically. At last, she straightened. “Half-human,” she said briskly, as if giving a report. “A young female. She had been running a while, following a she-wolf to that cave.”

Izaleos smiled. “Correct, my child. And I have seen her in this area before.” He raised his voice slightly, and it carried easily on the wind. “Can you hear me, little friend? How goes your search?”

She didn’t say anything.

The daughter looked up. “Do you want us to find her, take her home?”

Izaleos shook his head. “She knows the way. And I think perhaps she would like to be alone tonight.” He raised his voice again. “Get yourself to bed, child; there are wicked men abroad tonight. Nai hiruvalyë sérëlya; namárië.”

Tavaril waited until she was sure that they had gone before climbing down. The wolf was waiting for her at the base of the tree. The girl settled down, her back to the tree trunk, and the wolf, docile as a kitten, curled up beside her.

Night slowly crept on.

[Eurydice]

5: Turnabout is Fair Play

The days went by like shadows,

The minutes wheeled like stars,

And in two months’ time, Tavaril found herself running through the woods again. She had increased the length and frequency of her nightly visits for the past week. The idea of finding her father with her limited resources, she thought, in retrospect, was foolish, and she was glad that she had found a more definite, concrete purpose that she actually had some hope of fulfilling.

The purpose was this:

Avel’s birthday was rapidly approaching. In past years, he had usually smuggled in a bit of cake or candy at midnight, and the two would have a private celebration, capped with a gift from Tavaril, either stolen from town or crudely constructed from something she found in the woods. But this year, Avel had gone out of his way to get her something special for her birthday, and she wanted to return the favor. And, as she had overheard previously, there would be a cartload of valuables passing through the woods sometime within this timeframe...

She knew it wasn’t right to steal. She’d always berated herself when she’d stooped to doing so, in the past.

But she was robbing robbers. The motley gang that had snatched the loot last time would doubtlessly succeed again; this time, however, she would happen upon them by choice, not chance. She’d spent the last three nights formulating a plan; the plan was still rough, but rough or not, if she got a chance, she would have to take it. One thing she had decided early on, though: despite her extensive knowledge of the woods, it would be impossible to carry out this plan alone. That meant securing some backup.

That backup, the female wolf of the night two months previous (She didn’t need a name. Tavaril hadn’t given her one. Animals were smart; they didn’t need to deal with something as trivial as names), now trotted effortlessly beside her. In the evenings of the past two months, the girl and wolf had become almost inseparable. A weird empathy existed between them, the kind of closeness that Tavaril had only ever known through her love for Avel, and some sort of rudimentary communication constantly linked these two creatures of twilight.

Taking a moment to glance at the position of the fading moon, Tavaril judged it to be about four in the morning; she’d give herself another hour or so before returning to Devarnish. There was no point in pressing her luck tonight if her target didn’t appear soon.
Something subtle in the air changed. There was a shift in the wolf’s bearing; her ears flicked back, nostrils flared, and she trotted to a halt. Tavaril slowed as well, watching her companion sniff the ground intently, precisely. A mild breeze whistled through the branches. Dry leaves sighed, dancing across the ground. Birds twittered. Insects clicked and hummed. Tavaril could practically taste the change in the night, but she couldn’t pinpoint that taste. She knew the looters were somewhere nearby.

The wolf looked up and started off again, taking a path leading slightly to the left of their previous trail; Tavaril followed, having long since learned to trust the creatures instincts and abilities. As the half-elf ran, every leaf and twig seemed absolutely bent on finding its way under her foot, and she winced at each of her all-too-audible footfalls. They sounded like little explosions in her ears. The wolf glanced back for half a second, looking annoyed, and then turned back to the trail. She would figure out this problem of humanoid incompetence some other time.


((...aaaaaaand I never finished it. Big surprise.))