One can not engage in debate without first understanding your opponent's exact position.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

The woman who looked back at her through the glass was not the same girl who had left for the Grieving Lands months ago. It felt like centuries to her. They said that time did not touch the First Children, but they, of course, were lying. It was in her eyes, she noted, a shadow within that held the signs of the passage of the years. The truth of time's toll was etched deep within her gaze, a haunted hollow that no sunny day or joyful song could truly fill. Nor could wine for that matter, she mused with a bitter twist of her lips as she put down a goblet encrusted with fine opal.

She toyed with a blonde curl, twirling it absently around her finger, as her handmaidens fussed over her. It was a nervous habit from her childhood that she could never quite grow out of. Her thoughts were snared by what was to come. She had been summoned to stand before the throne, and a summon in the wake of failure could mean only one thing. Punishment.

Lady Arimea of the ancient house of Lostariot was worried. Very worried, indeed.

Arimea entertained the idea of fleeing to the far and deep woods, to truly live with the trees, as her more rustic cousins had a penchant for doing. After all, she could hear the song of Mana. How different could it be from hearing the voice of Wood, the tune of sap and sunlight? Not too different, if her reading of the old texts was correct. But there was a shadow, a long and terrible shadow, that cast itself on such a choice. For if she chose such a path, the Immortals of the Eternal Court, the king’s personal guard and faithful hounds, would pursue her. And should they ever catch her, her end would be a grim one, indeed.

No, fleeing was not an option. As with many of life's quandaries, the solution lay not in running away. Her pride and dignity would not allow her to.

She stood up and spread her arms to allow her ladies to apply the last adjustments to her formal dress. When she saw that they were finished, she shooed them off. The next part was something she wanted to do for herself.

The young elven woman, youthful at least by the standards of her race, took up a finely made sword sheathed in Sea Serpent leather scabbard. She drew it, taking a moment to appreciate the wavey forms that ran along the curved blade. A single-edged blade that ended in a deadly, razor-sharp tip.

Among the lesser races of the world, the art of sword adornment varied greatly. A gold-adorned hilt, a finely decorated scabbard, or the splendor of a jeweled pommel were, more often than not, the most common embellishments. Conversely, the elven artisans devoted their mastery to the blade's inherent beauty. Although held perfectly still in her hand, the blade looked as if it was the perfect metaphor for flow, the temper lines mirroring the waves of a cutting sea.

Arimea never had an affinity for the sword, and the weapon was merely part of her social costume. For most of her life, its solid weight at her hip was nothing more than a reassurance. What use had she of learning how to fight with long bits of sharp metal?

However, she had been taught a lesson in the foreign lands.

“Perhaps I should do the weapon the honor of learning its use someday?” she whispered to herself, hoisting the baldric over her shoulder. In honor of the craftsman’s efforts if nothing else.

Also, if truth be told, she enjoyed the idle titters it caused at court, the martial statement it made at her hip was a contrast to her otherwise very feminine and proper appearance.

Arimea made the last adjustments, tightening a few straps and buckles in the way that Lorsan had taught her years ago.

She had witnessed swordmasters in combat, their movements more akin to a dance than a true battle. The bearers of the Mantis Mark, the mark of one who had truly mastered his weapon, were rare, and to observe two such masters of their craft in a duel was a rarer event still. She had seen Lorsan test a challenger for the Mark once, clashing blades with one of the new generation to see if he was worthy. Even to her, the her who had once looked down at such martial displays, it had been a thing of grace and beauty.

Arima had come back from the Grieving Lands wreathed in shame and failure, for she had been unable to fulfill her holy mission to end the life of an accursed half-blood child. The child’s very existence was an insult to her people, and the prophecies of old and elven society demanded her death. Still, it was a simple quest. How difficult could it be to take the life of a child?

The unexpected had happened. The abomination had had a guardian, a protector of sublime skill and ancient power. Even though she was a mongrel, the Hero had taken the half-blood under his protection.

She had been made to realize that the test for the Mantis Mark had been nothing more than the playfighting of children aping adults. The old Alchemist Hamsa had taught her such. Of the entourage that had journeyed with her to the Grieving Lands, only Lorsan remained. Humility, ever a bitter draught, had become all the more unpalatable when poured by the hands of one's foes.

Even in this age, the humans, the pitiable day spawn, as they were called by the true elves, still had the foolish habit of spending what little time they were allotted on frustrating her people.

Still, in the end, it was she who had slain the champion of the day spawn, the ancient enemy of her kind. To her knowledge, only he, the sum of all men, had overcome death’s shadow. For him, and him alone, that dark spectre was nothing more than interlude. He was an existence that would come back again and again, like some persistent, loathsome mold. A soul that refused to pass across the Shallow River and into the Long Dream.

It was a feat that none of the First Children had been able to replicate.

To all intents and purposes, it had been the crowning triumph of her life, marred only by her failure to kill the half-blood. She had called to the spirits and they had answered her. She had formed the spirit of winter into a spear of ice, smashing through his frail heart and ending the day spawn’s life. Almost as if answering a terrible blasphemy, the Alchemist's shop erupted in a massive explosion that blasted her off her feet.

But for all of her efforts, if the legends were true, were for naught. The human Hero would return.

She touched the burn marks along her bare left arm, her marble skin blemished in several places with ugly scars that no amount of Elven sorcery could heal. Damn the humans and their pointless defiance. Could they not see that the First Children worked to stop another Cataclysm?

Ever since that fateful day, and for mysterious reasons unknown, she felt that her connection to the elemental spirits of the land had grown stronger. She could summon the spirits faster and guide and direct them with even greater precision. Through this communion, she felt that she had come closer to finding the true meaning behind the song of the spirits, the song of Mana, or simply ‘magic’ as the lesser races called it. It gave some credence to the old theory that the gods rewarded great deeds.

But these were old complaints and best left for another time. She could delay the direct summons no longer and she needed to focus on the now.

She departed her chambers, making her way through the summer palace, the train of her formal dress unfurling a crimson wake behind her. Sunlight filtered through high-arched windows, acting almost like beacons that guided her steps. No one would meet her gaze, not Lady nor Lord, nor master or servant. All eyes were downcast in her presence. They all had, of course, had heard of her. The chittering whispers exchanged behind delicate fans that followed her passage were proof of that.

Finally, she reached the oaken doors that led to the Court of the Ancestor Trees. Trees, as she had been told when she was young, by one of her tutors, were the only things that elves had any real affinity for. For only the stoic giants of the forest could hope to last as long as the First Children.

But why not then the long-lived Dragons, why do the elves feel no affinity for the scaled tyrants of the skies? Why was their mark not on any elven design or heraldry?

Her inquiry had earned her a casual slap for her impiety. The elves had no affinity with the dragons, and that was that. Further pursuit of the subject was met with cold stony silence at best and violent deflection at worst.

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She had felt that the answer had been a poor one, and the delivery poorer still, in its lack of respect for her station. Years later she had set matters right.

Arimea smiled at the memory, savoring it like fine wine. Her vengeance had been a subtle one. A few well-placed rumors here, and a few pieces of ‘evidence’ placed there, resulted in her former teacher being accused and then judged guilty of trading in Witchwood with the humans. A most cardinal sin and crime. She had enjoyed watching him break under exquisite torture.

As to breaking, it seemed the insolent guards lining the door to the Court were in dire need of it. They regarded her with disdain, their eyes passing over her as though she were naught but a fleck of dust, utterly unworthy of even a modicum of respect befitting her station. A woman of high birth such as herself should have been met with bows and deferential gestures, yet they stood unmoved, defying the very order and decorum upon which elven society thrived. It was yet another insult she was forced to bear.

Just as she thought of launching a scathing verbal attack, the guards, clad in intricately crafted armor of spelled bronze, finally parted the heavy oaken doors. Ignoring them completely, she stepped forward into the king’s court.

It almost seemed as though she had stepped into a great glade of an ancient forest. The elven court spread out before her, a space that dwarfed even the grandest of human cathedrals. At the far edges of the glade, giants stood sentinel, their bark and trunks conjoining to form the boundaries of the elven court. They were of the Witchwood, ancient magical trees, that seemed to almost bleed Mana, infusing the air with their pure energies. Above her, great leafy boughs arched and formed a canopy. Adorned with a mosaic of vivid fabrics, they cast dappled shadows upon the assembly below. Long banners hung from the lower branches, each representing one of the noble families. The very roots of the Witchwood twisted into seats for the court's esteemed members, while between them, a lush carpet of emerald grass sprawled.

A mixture of naturally and patiently guided growth, the heart of her people’s realm, never failed to impress her.

Then a great hush fell upon the court as the assembly noticed her presence, snuffing out any lingering murmurs of gossip. She was like a gust of wind, extinguishing a feeble candle's flame.

A man was waiting for her. A man who once had been straight, tall, and unblemished. Now he was scarred and hunched. Lorsan, the once-swordmaster of the court and former tutor of the king’s children himself, hobbled towards her on a cane, ostensibly to give her support. He, who had once been a living legend, had been reduced to this.

“Lady Arimea,” he offered in greeting, giving her a small deferential nod of his head. A weak escort, but an escort nonetheless. She would take any support she could get in this den of vipers.

“Lorsan,” she returned curtly, for her attention was arrested by the sight before her. It was as spectacular now as it was when she first had the honor to be presented here.

Moving deeper into the court, Arimea could hear the Witchwood’s song. It was a steady symphony born from the trees, more felt than truly heard, as the trees gathered the melody of sunlight, turning it into life and energy. But how exactly the trees drew sustenance from the light was a process that, to this day, confounded the wisest of Elven sages.

A shaft of sunlight shone on a raised dais, focusing Arimea’s attention to a grand structure that overlooked all before it. The eternal seat of power of the elves, the Peacock Throne.

It looked to be carved from the Witchwood, but no metal blades had been allowed to touch the sacred wood. Instead, it had been coaxed into being, shaped by the ancient songs of elven craftsmen who once wielded the arcane words of creation. Formed into the shape of a peacock's splendid fan, its myriad eyes seemed ever vigilant, eternally on the watch for the faintest whisper of treachery.

And upon that throne sat their king, a being that commanded no small modicum of respect. All feared the king and his vitriol. He was quick to anger and slow to forget, for the years upon the throne had lent him great power. Through his long reign, his list of achievements almost rivaled the list of his former, now broken, enemies.

He was a being filled with an almost raw masculine energy, yet surprisingly slight and supple of form. His hair and eyes were the iron gray of storm clouds, a sign of his great and venerable age. A proud and unlined face, taught with a tapestry of long-buried emotions and memories, looked coldly down at all before him. Watching for signs only he knew to look for.

Like all the elves, Arimea feared their king.

A herald announced her presence, listing off the meaningless titles that she had acquired over the years, ripping her away from her observations. The elf’s monotone voice somehow seemed to make all of her achievements seem so small and mundane.

With Lorsan at her side, she made her way to pay her obeisance before the Peacock throne. With each step, the air grew heavier with an ominous, almost palpable pressure. It felt like a funeral procession, or the final steps to the headsman’s gallows. Finally, she reached the foot of the throne and, together with Lorsan, planted her head on the floor.

“Lady Arimea, Lorsan, you may rise,” boomed the voice from the throne. If she was not mistaken, there was a hint of something odd in his tone.

Slowly, she looked up to gaze upon her king. Yes, it was not just imagination, his voice tinged with something other than expected anger. There was a note of… amusement and his ancient ageless face had hints of a boyish smile. It was disturbing.

“You have failed us,” came the immediate judgment from the ancient elf. There was sound as the whole court drew an intake of breath. She would have laughed had the matter not been so serious.

“Yes, my king,” she answered honestly, doing her best to keep her voice steady. Excuses and other social machinations would not work before him. The eyes of the throne knew all.

“Yet, in a completely different matter, you have succeeded beyond expectations. To slay the Hwanda Heveni, the sum of all men, is no small achievement. Humans and their ridiculous titles. The wiles of fate and destiny are as capricious as they are cruel, are they not Lorsan? To think that the greatest sword master of our generation crossed blades with the Dragon Slayer, and prevailed no less.”

The king turned the full force of his gaze upon Arimea.

“Surely, you would think that Lorsan would look a bit happier, despite being somewhat diminished,” the leader of the elven nation commented wryly in a clear voice that both expected and demanded agreement.

Nervously Arimea looked to Lorsan, meeting his eyes and giving him a small nod.

“It is as you say, my king,” the elven swordmaster responded neutrally in Arimea’s stead, his eyes firmly fixed on the living carpet of green before the throne.

“So, it would seem that I must both reward and punish you? And Lorsan too, by association. That is what they would have done in times of old, no?” the ancient king stated, the mirth coloring his voice plainer for her ears to see.

Still, the feeling of dread did not leave her. The pressure both within and without grew. This was a crossroads, an intersection of a planned fate. She could feel it in the song of Mana.

“My king? What is it that you wish of us?” croaked Arimea, failing finally to keep an even keel.

“Still, not even a hint of an apology? You will not beg forgiveness from us? You are proud Arimea, like your mother, and her mother’s mother. Too proud by far. Shame Lorsan could not impart upon you a fraction of his humility,” the ancient one rejoined without answering her question.

“We have begun the rite of the Summoning. We will call forth our own Hero from the Distant World. We will have an Elven Champion of our own. Like in the times of yore,” announced the King with great aplomb.

Like a wave rippling across a tranquil lake, a great gasp took the assembly. A gasp that soon turned into panicked natterings. As the gathered nobles reached a crescendo of worry, the king raised a single hand and the court fell once again into silence.

“Our seers will call forth one that they have seen in their visions. He will come from the Kingdom of the Lonely Star and his soul shines as one of the mightiest of warriors and generals of his world,” the old one announced to the gathered elves.

“And I have chosen the pair of you to be his guide. You will show him our ways. You will instruct him to fight, using only our ways. You will be the bond that glues him to the First Children. Especially you, Arimea. Flawed as your beauty might be, you will serve him in both body and soul. Your remaining charm will have to serve to bind him to us,” the ancient King stated with an almost lecherous smile.

“But I am promised to another! I will be no…” Arimea protested. She looked around for her promised one. She caught his eyes for a moment, but in that moment he looked down, guiltily. Of course, with her reputation in tatters, she was damaged goods now.

The king looked down at her as if she was just a cross child. “You will serve your people and you will thank us for the honor of it,” he declared simply, silencing her.

"But your Majesty," Lorsan asked, clearly puzzled, "teaching someone our ways takes centuries. Just as trees cannot be forced to grow, can a worthy warrior truly be made in such a short time?”

A laugh resounded from up on the throne. “Lorsan, I have been told that a Champion, when summoned to our world, will learn very quickly. It is simply about preparing the correct… conditions for growth.” The King’s words were like a river, washing away all chance and challenge of a response.

“By your will,” they both acquiesced with nothing to add, pressing their heads to soft green. Any further comment in such a public arena would only serve as a direct insult to the throne’s authority. Stoic as she had thought she had become, Arimea could not help but to allow a single hidden tear to track its way down her face. Soon it was lost into countless green blades beneath her.

“And when he is ready, we will sail once more across the seas with our armies. We will call our satrapies to war and claim what belongs to us,” stated the King, as cheers took the court like a rapturous fire.