Chapter 3

Humans are a race which, like a virus, attacks its host until it has consumed all its natural resources. And there's only one way to fight a virus. For all the destruction they were guilty of, humans were equally responsible for the art their kind had produced throughout time. Only for the latter Prince Nuada would consider a bit of mercy for them. Along the eons of self-imposed exile of his five thousand years of age, the Prince had been witness to a handful of extraordinary humans who had burned their name into the history of this planet. Philosophers, writers, artists, musicians. They all shared a higher sensitivity than that of their fellow ordinary humans. A sensitivity for the world and life, a capability of vision and the gift to translate it into works which have forever stayed in the milestones of the Earth.

Of all the art forms, the one which moved the Prince the most was music. The Elven culture had also produced memorable artists, musicians and singers, but as he abandoned Bethmoora, the Prince had also abandoned all contact with his own origin, for outside the Elven kingdom there was no way of being up-to-date with its news. During the eons of solitude he assumed somewhere in himself that his sister Nuala could feel his wish to return, and his nostalgia for family life before the Great War against humans had exploded. When melancholy took the best of him and broke his heart, the Prince used to seek shelter in the darkness and heights of the attics of the world. Cathedrals and their majestic echo side by side with barn owls who, like him, also found shelter there. Attics of watchtowers belonging to human empires. Some abandoned after the battle, others too tall even for the very humans who had built them. Throughout centuries, the structures of cathedrals resounded the music of human creation. Songs of adoration to their gods, improvised instruments with which they tried to play harmonically. Palaces and castles of the leaders of human societies also had been, for centuries, witness of the artistic expression of their employees. Music was, for hundreds of years, a luxury only accessible to the ruling and wealthy class. Greed, pettiness, and lack of human empathy always prevented them from living in egalitarian societies.

The last four hundred years saw the birth of human musicians of extraordinary talent and gift. After cathedrals, humans began building theaters to better serve the musical expression. They decorated them with dignity and elevated the stage above the audience to display the artist status and their position proportionate to others. The Prince had always managed to climb up to the tallest attic of such buildings without being discovered. Perhaps it was because of that senseless fear humans have to darkness, or their many unimportant tasks which prevented them from venturing to the tallest spot in theaters and check the shadows. The few times they discovered him, a quick and accurate strike in the nape silenced his witnesses with no trace of his whereabouts, nor the risk of death. Above all things, the Prince was a noble warrior. He wouldn't stab in the back without reason, nor would he face an inexperienced or unarmed opponent.

Now, sitting upon the wooden and concrete floor of the New York Grand Theater's attic, the Prince made himself comfortable, leaning his back against the concrete wall. The small window was at floor level and looked directly to the stage. Here, high above, humans stored endless boxes piled with tools, costumes, lights and other devices whose usage the Prince knew not, nor did he wish to know. In the almost pitch-black darkness, the stench of humidity penetrated his nose. He fixed his gaze ahead, where a weak halo of light crossed the dust through the window, coming from the candle lamps hanging above the audience. The collective public mumble sounded clearly in his ears. They were uneasy. He eavesdropped comments about the underground impact produced by the Elemental as he broke from the sewers to the surface. They speculated, teasing. Finally, the lights dimmed, and the people awaited in silence. He heard the applause like a tide. The piano started its tale. A soft melody, like a caress. And her voice. The Prince closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He took a deep breath and sighed, exhausted, and relieved in equal measure. Loreto Clair. Her singing reminded him of Ella Fitzgerald. The Prince used to climb up this very attic when the Afro-American singer used to mesmerize rich and poor alike with her voice, back in 1940.

The Prince first listened to the sweet balm that was the voice of Loreto Clair back in 1999, reminiscing of days long gone. The world fell at her feet. There was no corner of this urban metropolis, or across the globe which didn't promote her concerts, expectant of having her among them. Promotional billboards with her face and name advertising her performances, the sound of her voice coming from electronic devices from human houses and stores, and the transversal admiration of rich and poor, old and young for her gift. That was almost ten years ago. The Prince laid on his belly on the attic floor, crossed his arms under his head and supported his chin on his fists. He was face to face with the small window. He focused his gaze. At that height the singer barely looked like a doll moving in slow motion on stage. Something in her voice didn't sound like before. A glimpse of fear crept through her vibrato. She looked tired. Sick. Immediately his core lined up with her. The alarm activated from his loins with the certainty of being right. He continued to focus on her. The audience awarded her after every song with generous ovations and applause. For them it was of no importance whether Loreto Clair was at all feeling well. They wanted to listen to her and had paid good money for it. Such was the worth humans laid in even the most noble of things.

At the end of the concert, the Prince descended through the same place through which he had climbed. It was the furthest edge from the many admirers of Loreto Clair, who were already grouping up at the secondary exit of the theater. He reached ground level and was preparing to go down to the sewers below the Brooklyn bridge as he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Rarely in his life had he ever felt something remotely close to empathy or closeness for a human. This was different. It was a connection and came right from the pit of his stomach, went up to his chest and tickled his limbs and even the tips of his fingers. And like a magnet, was calling him to her. He went around the back perimeter of the theater and stayed glued to the wall until he saw from behind the corner the side exit. A sea of people sang a song by Loreto Clair, waiting to spot her for at least a few seconds. Against his better judgement, he wore the hood of his robe to blend in with the crowd. He mingled in the mass of people. Suddenly the side door opened, and the singer appeared, guarded by two large bouncers. The Prince approached and tried to catch some halo of her energy. He opened his way among her admirers and made it to the vehicle awaiting her. Loreto Clair entered it, and though the window was dark, he felt her eyes on him. It lasted a second. Despite the metal and glass separating them, the signal the Prince felt was loud and clear: Loreto Clair was dying.