Chapter 9
~ History Lesson ~
~ Thank you all for viewing, reviewing, critiquing, and all the things people do here in general. ~
Journal Excerpt…
It has been three months since I last visited these pages, filled with dreading news I should have forecasted. I was so naïve. I thought I…. could at least try… I can't explain it, not onto a page.
You doubtlessly saw what was coming. Didn't you?
I've written many pages within you, my dear old friend. Enough! I must take control; I must stop feeling sorry for myself.
But the lives, the deaths… so many deaths.
Since my last entry, three months prior – for which I apologize – plenty has happened. I don't want to go into detail, for if you knew the horror which has become the Palace Gardens, you would hurl.
The only thing you need to know at the present is they broke through our defenses—almost every city, town, village, and hamlet have been burned down, leaving few or no survivors. The news I want to tell you is that they are there, in the thousands.
The last I wrote, you heard of Kόpa taking over Port Penn, Port Renn's neighborly harbor. She had ordered an extensive review of the military's goings on, and wanted everything spick-and-span before the dragons attacked. They had just finished tarring the ships when they attacked, with Kόpa on them. Try as she might, she couldn't escape the ship. And with her minimal magic training, she could hardly defend herself.
The whole Port burnt down, down to the ground. Stone to stone and magic to magic, as they say. All hope was lost, with our youngest girl dead—until we found her, facedown in a river, trying to stay conscious as she clung to a few burnt planks.
Her skin was massively burned, and even after numerous healings, her skin peeled away, leaving only a thin layer behind. Her hair was singed, and the remaining tufts were sheared off; she was clothed in the lighted moth-silk we were able to conjure. Conjure—an odd word to say, but none the worse to lead to the next story.
Reona, of course, was in battle against the dragons. Everyone was. No exceptions. The odd part was, she had conjured skeletons, something far beyond the human mind, not to mention an elf's mind; though by the look of her, she had utterly changed.
Her eyes has lost their usual hazel, and made way for crimson red. Her fingernails had lengthened, and her hair, previously silver, had become a dark gray.
She had come to me the night before, claiming she had found a cure for us. She had found a way to channel our ancestor's power. She was right, we could. But it was inhumane, and a very grueling experience to channel them. I told her no, yet she defied me, and began a group of herself and six other hand-maidens, each with this new skill.
They called themselves Shades, for reasons unknown to me. Maybe for the different spirits, which they swore gave off different hues for each emotion, of which they now read.
I left her then, to judge her own fate. Cruel. That's what I am. Stupid. Rash. Fearless. Prideful. Criminal…
And so my Kingdom fell. Nomads are rumored to be traveling to our allies, the Fenskyll, is pursuit of a new life. Others—that is, the ones that remain—and myself have traveled across the vast sea, treading carefully, hoping not to be shipwrecked. The only person we know who was left behind was Rauthr, who cried a hysterical neigh as we drifted across the smooth waters, on our oaken silver ships, the only to survive. The only to survive Elves as well. Rumors are rumors, we had no way on knowing if our kin were alive somewhere father up the coast.
I still don't know why Rauthr stayed behind, but something told me it was to find the Shades.
Kόpa traveled with me, to our new homeland. So did Jor'len, and my father and mother, still in a comatose state. Commander Viladi came as well, among a handful of others. And here we are, in this wonderful place, not littered by any other civilization. Not at the moment, anyway. I've sent scouts into the land, for miles and miles, and each brings the same news, good news. The best news.
Free of enemies, free of alliances, free to do whatever we want. I do not want to act harshly, though. An entire race rests upon my shoulders, and I must treat it with caution.
Tomorrow I start building a palace, built within a forest that I have named Du Weldenvarden, in this land which I call Alagaësia. It shall be built from the very trees which inhabit this land, as we all sing our way through a new destiny.
"Tomorrow I start building a palace, built within a forest that I have named Du Weldenvarden, in this land which I call Alagaësia. It shall be built from the very trees which inhabit this land, as we all sing our way through a new destiny," recited Oromis.
Oromis stored the scrolls away, placing them onto a shelf. Turning around, he studied his young pupil—the youngest, even. She stared back attentively, her bright eyes locked on Oromis with a sort of shock.
Her hair was drawn in a ponytail, and her aura was strong—a born fighter, she would do anything to guard her Kingdom. Literally, her Kingdom. Her name was Arya, Arya Drottningu—princess and heir to the Elven Throne.
She was dressed in simple, durable, breeches and a tunic. A pale blade rested on her hip; and a bow of her possession rested against the frame of the door, the string unstrung.
Oromis stared down at the four-foot tall Princess, waiting for the barrage of questions to spring from her mouth. To his slight dismay, there were hardly any in coming.
"So, my dear, what's your take on the predicament which found itself upon our race, millennia ago?" A slight smirk ranged his mouth, shadowed by his long white hair. He walked across the room, slowly, a slight limp in his left leg. Sitting down, he smoothed out the wrinkles in his embroidered red robe.
She returned his expression with a slight pout, before continuing.
"I believe we were stupid—we should have fled early on. Each time we resettle, the Dragons find us within a millennia. Your generation was the first successful colony, but before? Seven Nations have fallen at some point because of these Dragons, we know that by word of mouth—that scroll there is the only solid, proven, historically accurate document we have."
Settling her case, she waited for Oromis.
"No questions, dramatics; no hysterical outbursts of passion?"
"Only questions."
"Ask away," he replied with a smile.
"What happened to Reona?"
"That," he started, taking down his pipe and lighting it, "is a great question." He paused for a moment, puffing the pipe to get the tobacco lighted. Returning his attention to Arya, he looked directly at her and begun. Brom had obviously learned much from this man, at the very least his story-telling technique.
"We do not know. Eventually, Shades started showing up here; if they originated from Reona herself is unknown. They could have taken instruction from her handmaidens. They could have stumbled upon her Journal. We just can't be certain.'
"Great—another: why doesn't Mother go back, across the sea, to explore the land for friendly allies? They could help us gain the upper hand over the Dark King. We could double, thriple, quadruple our numbers, and crush his Empire."
Oromis smiled at her exuberance. "Triple, my dear," he corrected. "Not thriple." Taking a few silent puffs off his pipe, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. Ready, he continued…
"You must promise me, right here, in the ancient language, to not tell anyone. Only three-fourths of our Kingdom know the truth; find yourself fortune it to be given the knowledge."
"Must I?"
""Yes," Oromis boomed.
"But when I'm Queen, what then? Then can I go across the Sea for help?" she asked, eyes intent on Oromis's composure. This didn't seem a good subject for him.
"Just swear on it, Arya, and lets be done with our lesson."
Finally consenting, Arya spoke the words quickly, then jumped up and challenged her Master with ferocity.
"I accept, youngling!"
With a huff, they both made it across to the training fields, Arya with her pale blade, and Oromis with his firm quarterstaff.
As they went out of sight, the stag, an onlooker, backtracked. Hiding itself behind a tree, it changed its shape—from a stag to a peregrine falcon—then soared upward.
This particular Zave chuckled to herself, as she avoided a strong air gust—Bianca laughed again, soaring even higher, no longer worried with the rumors she had been sent to inspect—she could tell the Generals with truthfulness this time; they wouldn't hear from the Elves in a long, long, time.
Now, it is finished! I thank you all who reviewed, and the silent viewers for keeping me going. Though now that its finished, I ask them to review, and find a voice; aka, I'd like reviews *cheeky grin* anyway, yes, thank you all. You've kept me going till the end!
~ Kalen Bloodstone ~
