Stairway to Evermore
A/N: So I had this crazy idea… This is most definitely going to be a longer fanfic than I have ever written before, and it's amazing how much work and pre-planning I find myself putting into this, so I sincerely hope it's appreciated. Chapter titles are taken from Led Zeplin song lyrics unless otherwise noted.
Prologue: Time Will Tell Us All
Isn't every war fought between men, between brothers?
-Victor Hugo
"My Lord, Michael, the Prophet Edlund has had a vision."
And that's how it all started. Well, technically, one could argue it all started with El ages ago when he created Michael, first of his many sons and daughters and drew the Tree from the earth for him dwell in. But that story has no conflict, and would not hold interest for long. The conflict, of course, started with Lucifael, youngest of the four High Elves, who recoiled at the idea of peaceful co-existence with the humans—these chaotic, mortal creatures whose very existence no Elf could explain. The High Elf Gabriel saw in them a flicker of the grace El gave unto the Elves and immediately loved them. The High Elf Raphael withheld his opinion, stating simply that he would abide by the decision of El's Steward, whatever that decision might be. Lucifael, however, found the very sight of these strangely Elf-like creatures repugnant, and declared them a vile mockery of El and his creation. It pained the High Elf Michael to see his brothers so at odds, and he spent seven days in seclusion—neither eating, nor drinking, nor resting—seeking the face of his father for guidance. On the evening of the seventh day, he emerged wreathed in renewed glory, the grace of El shining bright in his eyes, and declared the humans were to be cared for and protected, watched over as younger siblings much beloved by El.
It was then that Lucifael did the unthinkable: he refused to accept the Steward's word, declaring that their father would never have guided a High Elf to such folly. He spoke out with bitterness and rage, then fell before his eldest brother and begged that himself or Raphael be allowed to seek El's face for confirmation. Such a breach of protocol had never been seen or imagined, and the entire Elven Host felt the shock. Never had the word of a High Elf—let alone the Eldest of El, his appointed Steward—been questioned. The Host waited in hushed silence for Michael's response. Michael looked upon his brother with pain in his eyes and begged him to reconsider, to submit himself to the will of El who would forgive this transgression. But Lucifael refused again with greater violence, daring even to curse the name of El in his rage. Michael had no choice but to cast him out, and the Elf Azazel and the Elf Alistaiel followed with Lucifael who went to the land that is called today the Land of Loss and built from the stones there the Fortress of Scourge for himself and his followers and it is from there that the blight has spread across the land.
Of this story, the humans know very little. Many, in fact, doubt the truth of the stories of Elves—no human has reported seeing an Elf for many generations, since even before the time of Samuel Colt and the founding of the fortified human village which bears his name. Of the blight they are sure as its poison creeps into their food and water, poisoning their children even from the womb. And of the blight creatures they are sure, as they prowl the nights and dark places, always hungry. So the name of El, they remember, carving it upon their doors and painting it upon the banners hung every ten paces along their walls. It is not required that a hunter believe the origin of the symbol to have it etched into the skin over his heart, marking him as one who fights to protect all others from the blight creatures. The name of El has a significance and an importance far more practical to a hunter as it makes the blood-drinking, flesh-eating creatures of nightmare howl in fear at the sight and hiss in pain at the sound of it. And if this El of legend had indeed set his undying, wise, and powerful children with the task of watching over humans, where were they?
The need became greater with each passing day. With each silent village of blood and ash found by the farthest-ranging scouts, with each butchered band of refugees found mere days from the walls of Colt, with each hunter falling to the claws and the teeth of his opponent, with each failed crop withered in the ground, with each child's cries of gnawing hunger, with each bloody loss of the whispered hope of new life leaving a mother's arms empty. How—the humans asked themselves—could the benevolent creatures of the myth exist and let this continue unchecked?
So it was with the most desperate and painful faith that John Winchester, distant descendant of Samuel Colt and head hunter of the Village of Colt, held onto an irrational hope with the last shreds of himself he had left and asked his eldest son to take what few hunters the village might spare and travel East in search of the Dwelling Tree and the Elves of legend to beg their aid in the battle with the blight. Perhaps it was a fool's errand, but Dean had never been able to say no to his father.