(I own nothing and I hope you enjoy. Good day and God bless.)
The kingdom of man had known an era of peace this past decade so unfamiliar that the cautious nature ingrained in their very bones was inclined to not savor freedom and its sweet taste while they still had it.
It was only the dawn of a golden era. They had only just won a war against a great race of noble creatures and mankind was still reaping the benefits of such a victory and yet they still remained restless, seemingly not content, seemingly still waiting for some unknown enemy to arise from the dry grasses and attack them while they slept.
Such is the nature of such a great race, and as such they would remain. It was simply who they were, claiming everything in their path with the hunger and rage of a forest fire, leaving nothing living behind and yet still giving a hand of mercy to the meek and passing food to those that couldn't afford it.
In many ways, humanity was a beautiful and terrible race, but in the end, it was this that made them powerful.
It was because of this reason that they won the war.
The elves and the human race had not been living side by side for long, so it made sense that they there would be a great deal of discord and hatred between the two races.
The great war between man and the elves kingdom of Yggdrasil was still fresh in the miners of all. They still recalled everything that was lost in the many vicious battles and even if it was the humans that reigned victorious in the end, they still could not find it in themselves to put past battles behind them and let go.
Do not misunderstand, the remains of the once noble race of elves were no saints either. The elvish immigrants were still so very determined to remain in that warlike mindset despite the years and the destruction of their homeland.
None the less, they had nowhere to go and the human king made to he ever unpopular decision to allow them safety in the land of man.
That one decision would change the lives of common men and elves alike perhaps for the better.
Lavi Bookman did his best to forget. He really did. The mindset that made him such an effective warrior on the battlefield gave him the same privilege in modern life.
He didn't dwell on the mistakes, on what was lost and what he would never again, but rather he remained progressive and thought only of what he could do with the prices in his hands.
He let old muscles gained for killing go and gained new habits.
He became a poet, having always had a love for art and rhymes since he was a little boy. It didn't bring him much money but what he did reap, made it all worth it. No longer were his dreams haunted with the sounds of gunshots and screams. Bookman gained a new piece of mind and serenity he never thought he had before.
No longer did he sweat and shake just by being in the same room as an elf. He could carry a short conversation with ease bad treat them without judgment.
The once soldier thought he might be on the path to full recover.
But of course, life was never fair. War taught him that well enough.
Not everyone shared his mindset and someone was always there to make him slip up and it all began one night when Bookman woke up and quickly registered the familiar sound of a child crying out in pain.
He was up and out his front doors with the speed of a tiger.
It came from an alleyway near his house and even in the shadows of night, Bookman could still make out the hideous scene.
Two elves. One a child, the other an adult. Defenseless, beaten, cornered against a wall by three young human men with crowbars.
It made no sense. He could see by the lack of runes on their arms that neither were mages and neither had been causing trouble before. They even paid respect to the culture of man by wearing traditional human clothing so there was surely no reason why they should be attacked.
Unless.
Unless it was just an unreasonable grudge.
Bookman felt sick. The man was disgusted, utterly enraged with his own kind to think that they would attack a child and his guardian simply on account of their race.
This was not the people he took pride in. This was not the people he fought for. This was not the people he killed to protect.
These were not the same. These were but mindless monsters, minions to greed, hatred, and grudges from a past best left dead and forgotten.
These people were young men. They did not fight in that brutal, wretched, costly war. More likely, they just lost their fathers in the bloodbath and were taking out years of anger and grief on those whose hands were innocent, who held no piece of blame for the tragedy.
What right did they have to attack innocent elves.
The adult had clearly taken the worst, Bookman could see through the having black hood, probably to protect the child, but soon he could hardly stand and the child, just a boy, had placed himself in between him and the attackers, even after the first blow across his head still not backing down.
But there was no telling how much either could take and the three attackers showed no sign of stopping.
So Bookman the poet had no choice but to do what he had to do and protect the people of this kingdom, elf or not.
He did not kill them. He did not kill them even though he could have. Rather he gave them exactly what they gave those elves and just as they had beaten those elves, no one was around to hear their screams.
Soon the morning came and shed light upon his actions and Bookman found he did not regret a thing.
Come the golden light of the fresh morning on the bustling city horizon, the elf rested in his house, in two separate beds in the guest rooms.
He couldn't just leave him there in the alleyways so he took him in and cared for either one's injuries the whole night.
The child didn't speak a word of English, but Bookman didn't need to speak the language to know he didn't want him laying a hand on the adult elf. Perhaps he was his older brother or guardian. Nonetheless, the child let him do what he had to do, albeit begrudgingly and with one eye open.
He didn't trust him. It made sense. He had just been attack for no reason by a pack of human men. There was no way he could trust the next one he met.
But even though Bookman was a soldier intended for killing, he would help the elf the child clearly treasured recover because, in the end, protection was a soldier's job.
He just sat by as Bookman tended to the other, holding his hand, occasionally whispering elvish phrases under his breath.
That's when he was given the chance to examine his patient.
Like any elf, the ears came to a sharp point but depending on which area of yggdrasil the elf was born, the ears were either very long or short like a humans with the difference of a few inches. His patients ears were shorter than most but much longer than a humans, which must have meant he was mixed.
This was unfortunate as elves often treated mixes or even mildly impure members of their own race, even those with any kind of relations with mixed ones, or mutts as the elves liked to call them, as lower. Just because of their heritage, their blooded was thought to be soiled and impure. Most were kept as slaves so it made sense if his patient was a bodyguard for the child, unfortunately it implied it wasn't by choice.
Bookman thought it sad. It was sad that there must be so much unhappiness and cruelty in the world especially to creatures so shockingly beautiful and distinguishability mesmerizing as his patient.
It was the truth, as odd as it sounded. Bookman was certain in thinking that, beyond that new lens of racist overshadowing the humans suddenly found themselves blinded by, the rest if the human race agreed with him, as much as they hated to admit it. It was a well known fact among humans that both male and female elves possessed a beauty well beyond that of any human being could even hope to accomplish but it was still so shocking to see up close. It was almost hard to believe his eyes, to believe he was actually perceiving something so perfect in his own eyes.
If any free humans looked this way, he was sure they could have anything they ever wanted simply by asking for it, but because of his birth status, a narrow minded race of creatures like the elves took someone like this for granted and the subject of their disgust, whoever he was, had absolutely no hope of escaping this fate.
It was cruel and wrong. Such a thing made Bookman's heart heavy.
Even through the heavy veil of silky silver hair and mask of bruises and injuries, Bookman found himself in awe because the face could be described as nothing short of unearthly beautiful.
The lips were vividly pink naturally like the petals of a cherry blossom, perfectly shaped, ends coming to a slight frown which Bookman found almost cute. He felt bashful and unusual for thinking such a thing, especially since he was a victim of street violence, but Bookman, having been ever genuine since childhood, could not deny how he felt.
The nose was thin, small, and came to a sharp attractive point at the end. The bridge led to a sharp and well shaped brow, perfectly carved even when covered in sweat. The eyebrows themselves were thin and a far more shimmering silver than the hair itself.
The cheekbones were well defined which would have been attractive in addition but Bookman knew it was only from starvation. Such a beautiful creature hadn't eaten in so long that he had grown deathly thin, his body boney and weak. Had he been at his full strength, he probably could have held off the attackers.
But as the elf was Bookman's patient, it was his responsibility to fix that issue and return him to his proper strength and beauty which Bookman could only imagine would be amplified upon his returning to consciousness.
He could only wait and see and, when the time eventually passed, Bookman found that even in his exhausted daze, he was proven right.