This is my experiment, don't expect too much but also anticipate it and please, please give your thoughts. I'm at a point where I don't know how I want my writing to evolve, so I'm toying with new styles and I'm in need of some feedback. This is the latest of my endeavors. My goal? To give you, to the best of my ability, a story with a daily update.
Enjoy~
To the preface of this journal, I would like to first clarify the differences between man and elf. Elves have their magic and their longevity, and of course we humans have our affinity to change and our unquenchable curiosity.
But beyond that, there's not much else. If I were to list our similarities, it would go on endlessly. We share more than just anatomy and sentience with the blessed children—both races have an unparalleled stubbornness to live, prosper and, most importantly, love.
When two powers clash, they will never simply mold together. They will collide and butt heads, trying to force the other to conform to their ways. This is the foundation by which the growing hatred between our races have thrived upon, and if this humble journal could do anything to awaken the eyes of those blinded by this pointless rivalry, then all the better.
~ The Introduction of the historic journal "The History of Her Children" by I.A. Phonot
It was now; her life's splitting branch. Whereas others usually had weeks to choose their destiny, she had about three—now two—seconds to decide.
In the fading light, her eyes darted from left to right, taking in split the paths and calculating rapidly the worn leaves, the filtered light, the trees, the dirt, the air of each way. Stuck in the middle of the fork, a giant wooden post indicated the village at the right, but whatever had been the sign for the left was ripped off the top.
She could not explain it, but she knew deep in her body that this was the choice that would lead the rest of her life. This was her moment foretold.
Thus, she charged right through the middle, vaulting past the sign and into the dense forest behind it.
Blindly, her fingers and hands swatted uselessly at dense branches that scored across her face. Behind her, the men had bellowed commands to each other in deep, resonating voices that seemed to fall apart just before they reached her ears. If she stopped, begged and cried, maybe they would pity her, but the fire in their hands and their abhorrent screams hummed within her fearful heart, forcing her to keep going. She jumped, hoping that she might be at a cliff so to end the pain, but she landed cleanly on solid ground, and so ran off again.
She was not guilty, yet her heart was screaming like a convicted criminal. She was not strong, but her lungs took in air with such clarity that it felt as if she could run forever. She was not brave, but her body plunged into the underbrush unwaveringly.
The shouts behind her were fading. They were tired men after all, exhausted men that been breathing in smoke and terror for three days and nights. She whipped her head back, crashing and clinging to a tree, gripping its bark as if it was her thread out of hell. Her knees knocked together, and her legs nearly gave way to the momentum of her racing mind. The earth felt like it was rocking, as if Mother Earth was also condemning her, shifting the ground under her feet as if it were waves on a stormy sea.
She clung to the tree until she could no longer feel her arms, her eyes squeezed closed and her cheek pressed hard against damp wood. Her blood was roaring, pounding in anarchy as it attempted to oxygenate her aching muscles, but beyond that, her ears strained for the sound of her hunters. She listened, and held her breath, digging into the tree with her nails, and opened her eyes blearily as the torches in the distance began to flicker away, one-by-one. She stayed, silent and still, until there was no more than a whisper in the trees and finally, exhaled, her own pulse thudding rapidly to fill the quiet space.
And, finally, when she released her grip on the tree, she crumpled at its roots, withering down into a sobbing heap where she lay until she fell asleep.
He did not expect to die until much later.
It was shameful, absolutely shameful, that he, the young General of his race, would be stopped by nothing more than a mere sorcerer.
He watched as the man's body fell to the ground, but it made no difference. They had exchanged killing blows, and on himself, he felt the blood seeping through his tunic and onto the grass. He swallowed, and the sharp pain racing through his chest and back told him the damage that had been done. Sloppily, he began to walk away from the clearing, falling against the trees that surrounded him, but fought to move nonetheless.
He was incredible thirsty, and Damn him if he was going to die with a parched throat on top of this.
He fell against the bank, hissing madly as he rolled over so that he was staring at the dappled sunlight that poured in from above. The creek water rushed through his hair, and he reached back with his hand to dip his pale fingers in its gentle flow. He kissed the droplets from his palm, not even managing the energy to turn over and take a sip.
He began laughing, then, at the absurdity of it all.
Three hundred years.
That's all he lived for. The elders told him he would live to at least a millennia, and he's had dreams of the future, but here? Not even half way through his life, and he was dying on a water bed, literally bleeding his heart out. He laughed to the air the ridiculousness of the situation, blatantly ignoring the pain on his chest, because what did it even matter anymore?
The sun was starting to set, and he still had not yet died.
His limbs were stiffening, and his breath was thinning, but he still had both his life and his consciousness. He was aware of everything around him, his hyper-senses in strange clarity since he had not moved in hours. Around him, he heard the earth alive with insects, rodents and flora, and in the distance he listened to the birds and the animals getting ready for the night. From his heart, he sensed the presence of man dotting his forest—he felt them some move restlessly near his borders, moving dangerously inwards. In the back of his mind, the part that was still him, he was disgusted by the thought of a human in his woods, and tracked their presence although he knew he could no longer chase them out.
The more the sun fell, the closer these men were getting. They seemed to be charging in, and they were getting close to the perimeter that was completely off-limits to them. He had compromised with humans long ago, and he had agreed to let them use some acres inside his woods so that they could set a road that led to their villages, but these ruffians were not going to stop for the border, apparently.
He wondered if they were coming for him. To kill him or rob him. Either way, he thought sagely, they were lucky men.
But, as soon as they hit the border, they stopped. Or the majority of them, at least, paused right at the edge of the barrier. One small presence was still barreling into the woods, and despite himself, he laughed at its stupidity.
One human planning to take on an Elven General? Suicidal.
He laughed until he choked and began hiccupping on the pain that followed, spatting blood to the side as black vision began to blot his sight. He coughed, sputtered, and finally closed his eyes, sighing gravely into the ground beside him.
