My mother told me that when she was young, death was a myth. Even the consideration of never seeing the earth again was lost on our people. Now—now death is a very real reality. An epidemic, she called it. Only the oldest left in the beginning, but the definition of old keeps getting smaller, and smaller. The thread is even being shortened now. Every moment we spend with them, she says, is a moment less to breathe.
My mother hated them.
My mother was a priestess, and I remember we once lived in a temple. How long she was in service, she said she did not remember. Time was treated differently before they came, was what she told me, and even so, there was nothing important to mark the years. It could have been a decade, a century, or even a millennia; but there was nothing to tell her of time passing. Until they came at least. She said that was when everything changed.
She said she thought of them (or rather, you) as curious outsiders at first. She had even liked them a bit. The only other humans –that is the name you call yourself by, right?— she had ever heard of were from long before then, in an age where it was not just your insides that were rancid, but your outsides as well. Your people had attempted to move to the continent. Your ancestors were quickly evacuated—we never liked outsiders.
But these were different, more civilized if you will. They came to trade, and learn, and our people did ever so like to teach. She told me only once the story of a pretty boy who shyly offered her a pair of earrings, made of beaten gold. She appreciated the gift, and she enjoyed their conversations together. She thought he was charming, if not naïve and childish. She did not think much else of him until he died.
She was pregnant with myself at the time. He was still young looking—not as much as before, definitely, but enough so she didn't notice. He was coughing, and she was worried about her tall, shemlen friend. He became sicker, and sicker, until he finally took to bed, unable to stand. She said she was terrified. She had never seen anything like this, never seen someone's body turn on itself.
He died soon after I was born. His whole life but a blink to herself, she left the place as soon as she could carry me out. She'd never truly seen him die, but she had heard of it, and she said that the thought of it spent pangs into the very pits of her stomach. She refused to have something so pure tainted by something so dirty. (Did she mean me I wonder? Or herself?)
Even if one of the gods themselves came down, and told her that human's were as wonderful as she was, she would still refuse to acknowledge even the possibility. I'd be lying if I said she did not convince me of the same at one time.
She hid her, and my child self deeper into Elvhenan. I grew up in the shadow of large, towering mountains, and musty green forests. Pine needles coated the temple like snow, and the high priest would lift me up to the roof to brush them away, and requested I collect the pine cones for wreaths to hang inside. Things were slow, and patience came naturally. But even with my own vast reservoir of serenity, the adults lagging slowness could sometimes become maddening.
Whenever I complained, my mother would purse her lips and stare at me for a long time. Minutes, hours. If I did not leave, she would have probably stood there all day. She would not say anything at all, and I soon learned never to bother my mother. She was neither talkative, nor kind, but she loved me in a strange way, I assume. I cannot comprehend her, or put her into words, and even if I could, I doubt you would understand. If I cannot make sense of something, I am sure a shemlen could not either.
While my mother was distant, I did find a father (or perhaps a brother?) in my friend Marathin. He came from the great city, and brought with him new philosophy and contemplations for my underdeveloped mind. He was much younger then my own mother, and to us, he had barely made it into adulthood. To you, though, I suspect he was ancient. I wish you to remember that a century is the most we could ever expect from you, and he was a bit older than that. Even so, I was not even half his age.
I do not quite remember the exact moment I met him. We did not talk, for a great while. We nodded to each other if we passed in the halls; we sometimes sat together while eating. But one day we finally acknowledged one another's presence.
There is no doubt in my mind that he was the one who started it. I did not realize it at the time, but I was becoming a miniature version of my mother, and I recall not speaking a word for weeks at a time. It was the same for us as it is for you—priests, or people of religious meditation are not known for their chatty nature. There was not another child of the same age as me, and I was a bit of an enigma. I did not know how to react to someone who had not seen everything and knew everything. It was… strange, to say the least.
I think it was in late summer, or early Autumn. The leaves were limp on the trees, but they were still green, and feathery. I was crouched before one of the temples statues—a large bear, curled up within itself, pondering its secrets. My arms wrapped around my legs, and my chin was nestled between my sharp knees. I was the picture of a growing girl. Soon I would be even taller than my mother! But it would be a long while until I filled out my limbs.
"No matter how long you wait, he will not tell what he knows."
That was the longest thing he had ever said to me. His words shook me, for I had not heard him come. Marathin, was of course, jesting, but I allow you to assume humor was not a regular part of my day. I frowned at him, and said as serious as I could, "I do not expect him too, nor do I want him to." Marathin only laughed at my sober answer, and sat down beside me.
"And why would that be?" he asked, "Do you not like to hear secrets, Da'len?"
I replied to him with as much conviction as I could muster: "Secrets are meant to be kept in one's heart, not whispered into the ears of a curious child." He chuckled, and looked deep into the woods. The time lengthened as he sat in thought.
"I suppose they are." Was all he replied.
I might continue this. I kind of like this character. I based her partly off myself when I was a child, and partly off my imagination. There is more to this story. It's just a matter of my putting it down in words :D