Author’s Note: All right, friends. Welcome to Sylfaen, my attempt at a fantasy story that is not completely ridiculous. The italics in this story indicate a language other than the common speech of the world that the narrator understands. For example, italics in Althea’s chapters will be Elven.

Chapter One: The Rebel Elf

Althea

I have always be fascinated by fire.

The wind through the tops of the trees blows my long, white hair into my face as I lift my eyes from the handful of flame resting in my pale palm, flickering harmlessly in my grasp. My eyes, the red-orange color of the intriguing element I hold, scan over the land of Sylfaen that stretches out in front of me. From my seat in the fork at the top of “my” tree, I can see far beyond the border of my home.

My tree is the tallest, oldest one in a secluded section of the forest I have lived in my entire life. Growing up, I’ve snuck away here many times to escape my lessons or my fellow elves, or sometimes just to dream. The path that winds through the Forest of Silva crawls over the land like a dirt serpent, splitting and stretching off beyond even what my eyes can see. Within my sight, like always, is the human city of Vir, a place I have often watched from my tree as travelers came and went.

They always have patterns, the humans do. Every night when the sun sets, the huge gates of Vir are closed, trapping everyone within inside and everyone else out with the closing of their wall. I don’t particularly understand this behavior, but the elders tell me it that the wall wasn’t always there. They say the humans put up their walls when the great war with Irin was lost, like how the dwarves tunneled deeper into their mountains, like how the dakini flew away to hide, and how we retreated into the great forests of the land. The elders say it is because it is safer for us all this way. Personally, I feel that what is safe is always what is more boring.

I sigh, resting my head against one of the branches of the fork. The sense of what is boring has become more and more important to me lately. I’ve been restless, as if there is something that I need to do that I can’t seem to figure out. Most of the elders attribute it to my age; at twenty-nine, I am only one year away from the age at which my people are considered mature. They say it is this coming of age that has made me so dissatisfied with life in my home. Of course, this was their explanation before the Exchange, which seemed to set the entire world on edge.

The Exchange was a ripple, a shudder really, that ran through the ranks of those enslaved by the sorceress Irin. Irin’s puppets, those not dead and yet not alive existed in silence for one hundred years until the night of the Exchange. On that faithful night about one year ago, for five minutes, she no longer held them on the edge of death. For that short time, their minds were returned to them, paused in time exactly where they should have died. Never healed wounds started to bleed again and it is said that every one of the unwilling soldiers screamed.

I remember hearing those screams. It certainly sounded as if it could have been from an army. I was sitting in this tree at the time, unable to sleep. I rarely left my place here for days after, because once the scream was silenced, the living soldiers of Irin left their posts. I watched those stationed in Vir, dragging the puppets along with them, flow back to the land of Irin. For three days, the people of Sylfaen believe that Irin had died, and her army had withdrawn forever. We were all wrong, for on that third day, every soldier and puppet who did not die from bleeding during the Exchange returned to their posts, as if nothing at all had happened. There was no difference at all save the soldiers bearing a different symbol and a whisper, a whisper of a new master.

I have seen much from my tree, but I never will again. The tree I watch the world from was struck by lighting in a bad storm days ago, and it has died. This is the very last time I will ever look out at the land I’ve never set foot on, or at the city of Vir, or even at the mountains that rise in the distance and the peak among them that is for some reason always shrouded in storm clouds.

I turn my attention back to the fire resting in my hand. Because I am controlling it, it does not hurt me and, as a matter of fact, it almost tickles. I focus on it, and the color slowly shifts from the red it was, to orange, to yellow, and then to a bright white. I tip the fire in my hand onto one of the branches near me, allowing the dead wood to catch before I climb down. I have always been warned against burning the trees in the Forest of Silva, for it has been the home of elves for the longest time of all the woods of the world, but I believe my tree deserves a proper goodbye instead of simply rotting away for years.

I jump down from the last branch, landing in a crouch in the grass, my white tunic and leggings standing out starkly against the deep green. I take a few steps back, away from my tree as the flame made white hot by my control, consumes it. I keep a close eye on the burning, making sure no sparks that fly kindle any new fires. I’m not going to just give the elders reason to be angry with me.

I’ve had a talent for conjuring and controlling fire for as long as I can remember, but although I enjoy it, it makes me stand out among my people as much as my white hair and choice of clothing color does within the forest. I had to teach myself how to use my magic, as no elf now has been gifted with fire magic other than myself. I haven’t asked about the past, because I try not to. More oft than not, I’d rather not know.

I sit in the grass, watching attentively as the wood of the tree that let me see the world falls to ashes. I say a soft goodbye to the tree in the language of my people before falling silent. I wait, losing track of time, until the fire burns itself out. Before I know it, the sun is setting and the breeze through the trees picks up again, swirling the ashes of what was my tree. I stand up, staring at the grey patch in the grass for a moment, before turning my back upon the spot and walking away. Somehow I feel, as I leave it, that I won’t see this place again for a long time. I shake my head. Nonsense.

I wander through the forest in no particular direction, trying to quell my restlessness in vain. I find myself standing on the dusty path that runs through the trees. Nearly all of my kind avoid this human made path, this tunnel through the trees, but not I. I have often stopped travelers here and talked of the news of the world, for what happens outside of my home always seems to be more intriguing than what goes on inside of it. I stare off into the direction of the rest of the world and I feel a strange tugging sensation in the pit of my stomach. Along with it, I get the sudden urge to simply and suddenly leave.

I stand, simply gazing off into the distance, before backing up and disappearing back into the trees. I break into a run, weaving around the trees as I head to my hidden home. My mind races as my feet hit the ground in a quick, steady rhythm. Why didn’t I think of it before? I could leave, leave and actually see the world instead of watching!

In a short time, I reach the grove that houses the elven sanctuary in the Forest of Silva. On the ground, in the middle of the grove, is what appears to be a stone council area. Because there are no other signs of life, however, it could easily be mistaken for a well kept ruin. I know it as the place where the elder elves meet in council, since the line of kings from my home have long been gone, lost to Irin’s war.

I swing myself up onto a low branch and climb up the tree whose boughs hold my home. Like all of the homes in this wood, it is built around the tree, letting all of the tree continue to grow and making it very hard to see them if you are not looking in the correct

places. Some of the houses are even enchanted to put out branches and leaves themselves. The elders say the elves of Silva used to live in palaces in the wood, back when we didn’t feel the need to hide. They’re always dreaming of the past.

I pull myself up onto the wooden ledge in front of my door and look around carefully. No one else seems to be moving nearby, so I duck through the woven door. Inside, the wood of the roughly round room is polished and smooth. I hurry over to my bed, the one closest to the door. Apparently, according to the travelers I have talked to, humans seem to believe elves don’t sleep. This is one of the many things humans are wrong about; we just do not need to sleep nearly as long as they do.

Sitting on the white blanketed bed, I begin to collect what I think I will need to leave, realizing what I am doing only after I begin.

“Leaving us, Althea?” asks a soft male voice as I pull my black traveling cloak out of the basket it rested in. I pause and look up, worried for a moment and ready to snap about how what I am doing is no concern of anyone but myself. I calm down, however, after I see who it is.

Istorel stands there, his long black hair loose and falling down his back. He watches me intently with his grey eyes, a stark contrast to my flame colored ones. In his hands is a old, dusty tome, a different one from the last time I saw him. Wearing cloak of grey a few shades lighter than his eyes and a simple outfit of the same colors underneath, it is no wonder I did not see him right away. He blends into the shadows cast by the sun’s last light.

I nod after a moment of hesitation and he gives a small smile. Turning back, he pulls aside the other door and makes a small gesture. Three other elves climb in through the door: Vanya and Kaima, two females about my age, and Fion, a young male about fifteen years younger than I.

Istorel, Vanya, Kaima, Fion and I share this home and the one next to it. We have grown up watching out for each other, for we share a common factor: we are the Lonely Ones, the elven orphans. Our parents died in the last raid by Irin’s soldiers, as a warning against the elves of Silva sharing information with rebels and sheltering them. The elders have long since decided against doing such things. They are also the only others I have kept as real friends, though that could have more to do with the fact that I have an attitude described by the elders as “abrasive.”

Istorel, Vanya, and Kaima are all around my age, with Istorel being the youngest at twenty-seven. He’s also the quietest and most scholarly of all of us. Istorel will read everything he has access to and has even started to teach himself languages. I think he’s starting to learn the language of the dragons of Sylfaen, and even spells in that speech. He always was the most magically inclined of all of us, other than me with my fire.

Kaima is the one of us with whom I get along with the least, even though she is exactly my age. I find her to be boring and typical. She always wears her hair in an ornate, braided mess that contrasts my long loose style, although her light blond is the closest to my white I have ever seen. Her clothes are always luxurious, and in my own opinion, completely impractical. For someone like her content not to learn how to fight and who keeps with the normal perception of the calm, helpful elf, it’s fine, but it’s not for me. For all our differences, she will keep quiet when asked to, and I’ll help her when she needs it.

Vanya is the other female and with black hair and ice blue eyes, she is about as opposite of me as is possible in color. Add to that the fact that she is one of the best archers being taught right now, and we could be considered completely polar opposites in skill as well. I myself, unusually for an elf as I have been told over and over growing up, have horrible aim. I cannot hit any mark with an arrow, no matter how large or how close.

Vanya and Istorel also have piercings in their ears, like I do, though not nearly as many. It got us in trouble with some of the elders, because they used to be the marks of elven warriors but is now just associated with humans who do not know what it meant, and gnomes who think it is interesting to the eye. We knew the history of it, of course, as Istorel had found descriptions of the practice in old tomes. Vanya has one pair at the bottom of her ears and Istorel has three pairs, two at the tops and one at the bottoms of his. I myself have seven silver hoops in each ear with a pair of red ruby drops at the bottom that I bartered off a gnome who passed through the forest. Kaima didn’t want anything to do with us for a while after we got them, but it brought the three of us a little closer in a small, trouble-making way.

Fion, the young male I will always see as a kind of little brother, looks up at me out of shining blue eyes. His golden blond hair is tucked back behind his ears. “Why are you going?” Fion was only a baby when our parents died, so the four of us have become surrogate siblings to him, as none of us have real ones. He clings to a muted green blanket and looks tired; I assume they woke him up to say goodbye to me.

“ I’m tired of just watching everything, I suppose.” I say, walking over to him and bending down a bit to smile at him. “It’s time for me to go see it.”

“And to think,” replies Vanya, her black hair loosely pulled back out of her face, a bow grasped in her hand and a quiver of arrows on her green clothed back. “I was coming to tell you that the instructor threatened not to teach you swordplay anymore if you did not start learning archery.”

I smile a little, because I have heard that repetitively from all my instructors. It hasn’t stopped my tendency to simply ignore archery. I feel if I need to defend myself, I will fight face to face with whatever decided to threaten me, with a blade. Kaima looks at me, “I do not see why you would leave, but you have always been odd,” the last part of her sentence is lighthearted. She has always been acutely aware that I did not fit in, and it is a reoccurring comment of hers.

“Better than fitting in all too well.” I quip back in normal fashion, as is our usual pattern. It’s almost a personal joke, our bickering. I continue to collect what I need in a black pack: a few more sets clothes (nearly all of them white or red), an glass bottle I enchanted against breaking when practicing cross-elemental magic with Istorel, a dark grey blanket tied up in a roll with a cord, a ball of white cloth bandages, and a pair of soft leather boots as an alternative to the light cloth shoes I now wear. I attach a small pouch containing a white cloth for cleaning blades and the few silver coins I have to my belt, as well as the sheaths for a thin, light sword and a dagger of my people’s make. My instructor let me keep them, and now I am glad he did. I now get to go see if all that talk of the post war world being dangerous is true.

I wrap my long black traveling cloak around my shoulders and it trails the ground a little around my feet. I recognize that I stand out, with my nearly all white colors, so I appreciate the usefulness of a good cloak. I step up to the four of my old friends, surveying them, amazed that I’m only slightly sad to leave and that odd pulling feeling in my stomach is stronger than ever.

Kaima merely smiles and nods at me, softly wishing me a good journey and a safe return. I thank her and she ducks out of the door, leaving. I suppose she realized that all of the Lonely Ones suddenly being unaccountable for would soon cause people to look for us. The rest of my people seem to like to try and keep an eye on the five of us, as if convinced that all of us together for too long out of sight will stir up problems. Not that they don’t have reason.

Vanya embraces me and I return the gesture, “I always thought you’d go off eventually. You or Istorel.” She releases me. “May your feet find your path.”

“And may you yours, Vanya.”

As she steps aside, Fion clutches my hand. I lean down, and the young boy hugs me as well. “I will miss you, ‘Thea.” I ruffle his hair.

“Take care of yourself, little brother.” I respond. He nods, still looking tired. Vanya ushers him out of the door and I assume back to the next tree over so she can put him back to bed. He and Istorel share that house, while I, Vanya, and Kaima share the one we now stand in. I smirk a little as I realize Kaima will finally get the extra space she has wanted for a long time.

Lastly, I turn my eyes to Istorel, who has been calm and quiet this entire time. He finally steps toward me and holds out his hand. I grip his arm by the wrist and he does the same to mine. He smiles at me a little. “Vanya is correct. I always believed one of us would leave, but I always assumed you would before me, for you want to see the world and I only want the knowledge it offers.”

He almost looks disappointed in this, but it has always been hard for me to read him. I say the first thing that comes to my mind before I even realize it. “You could come with me, Istorel.”

He smiles at me. “I appreciate that. But, no.” He looks back at the door the others left through. “I cannot leave this place yet. I don’t know why, but I believe there is more to learn here before I go. Besides,” he looks back at me “I am not like you, Althea. I am a scholar, not a fighter. But, someone needs to show Sylfaen that not all elves are aloof ones who hole themselves away in their forests and hide from the world. Who better to show them the warrior elves of old still exist than you?”

I smile; his words mean to me than Vanya’s embrace did. It is one thing to know you will be missed and completely another to know someone believes your leaving will have reason. Istorel has always believe that elves should be more involved in resisting Irin’s control because, among the four races of elves, dakini, humans, and dwarves, we have the time for it. He believes it reflects badly on us to not do anything. The elders will never agree with him, not those of our home at least. We have been told all our lives that our only responsibilities lie in protecting and preserving our people. Istorel and I agree that the opinion they hold is completely nonsense.

He reaches into the pocket of his grey cloak before the hand grasping my forearm slips to my hand. He holds my hand in both of his, pressing something cool and metallic into my palm. “I know you feel no true attachment to the forest of Silva as a whole, but I feel you should have something to guide you if you ever wish to return. This will guide you not to the forest, but to those who care when you need them. To people like myself and the other Lonely Ones.”

“Thank you, Istorel.” I say, and he nods as he withdraws his hands. I look down into my palm to see a small pendant that appears to be made of spiraling silver strands around a tiny, cloudy white orb attached to a thin silver chain. I put it on and tuck it under my black cloak. Istorel always was very perceptive, and he’s completely right.

“Use it to find me one day. I want to know what becomes of you, Althea,”

“I will, as long as you promise to strike out on your own eventually.”

He laughs softly. “I will.”

We fall into silence for a moment or two, before he steps toward the door. “You best be off, rebel elf, lest the elders catch you.”

I nod and I wait till he leaves to exit the house myself. I feel a pang of sorrow for leaving the orphans, but I can’t help but look forward to what I will see when I finally leave this place. I climb down the familiar tree slowly, so not to make noise and draw attention to myself but the only elves around are a few gathered in the elder’s council area, deeply involved in some discussion or other that I don’t care to pay attention to. I realize, however, that I no longer have to care what they say at all, because they don’t concern me anymore.

I slip off into the trees and as I watch the moon start to rise between the them, I hear singing rise behind me, a male voice starting and two female ones joining in. I recognize the voices too. It’s Istorel, Vanya, and Kaima and they’re singing an ancient song we were taught about an warrior returning home and his tale of how it wasn’t coming home he looked forward too, but the journey in between.

I think I like the notion put forth in their goodbye.