“Many years ago, when I was but a speck within the womb, my mother was exiled from the Mistmere Isles. Even when I was grown, she used to reminisce of her old home. She told me she lived in a city of crystal and gold, where esteemed libraries held more books the entirety of the rest of the continent. Great spires and grand buildings rose from the ground to form cities that overwhelmed the faculties with their immensity. Save for golden fields of wheat, luscious orchards of fruits, and opal beaches manicured for leisure, the urban sprawl dominated the islands. With no inch of land untamed, they nurtured nature’s bountiful gifts.
“She worked beneath the philosopher-king who wrote an endless stream of treatises and essays about how the metaphysical reality of the world impacted the day-today government. He used his quill and parchment as painters use their brush and canvas to usher a deep and profound truth. Administrators selected from a caste of educated noblemen who showed the greatest humility and morality dutifully read his every word and carried out his will to their best interpretation. Under his leadership, no beggars lined the streets nor hunger ravaged their stomachs. With poverty a memory and advanced infrastructure built, he ensured no trash or waste littered their precious parcels of lands.
“I’ll concede, her recollections were probably exaggerated, but her stories are my heritage.
“For a crime she never told me, perhaps from shame or perhaps she didn’t wish to sully her memory of home, she was exiled. They prepared a small boat with meager provisions and gave her a week to set her affairs in order. Many of those who suffer this punishment simply set sail into the open ocean instead of coming to the continent. Some attempt to live on fish and use alteration magic to desalinate the water, because they refuse to believe they really lost their homes. Some simply die from exposure, so grief-stricken by the exile they’d rather expire than suffer without their homeland. With new life within her, however, she accepted the fate of the continent. She sold her home and every luxury she earned over the years and returned to the harbor to set sail.
“She didn’t tell me much of her time at sea. In truth, I suspect there is little to tell. The ship was barely large enough for one person and employed a single sail to catch the wind. The rudder was manipulated by hand and a simple covering was offered to protect her from the elements. She spent three days on the vessel under fair weather, watching the waves and feeling the sun slowly burn her skin. Perhaps she carried a book with her and spent her time reading. Perhaps she cradled her belly and sung lullabies to comfort the unborn.
“On the fourth day, a tempest erupted. Dark clouds botted out the sun like ink running on parchment. A gale shook her unfurled sail, threatening to capsize the small vessel. She quickly slackened the sail and packed it away. Arrows of small, but painful rain descended from the sky and pelted her thousands of watery stabs. The waves of sea became hostile monsters throwing her boat around its waters like a toy. My mother manned the rudder and tried to navigate the storm, but nature ultimately controlled her destination. She told me she held onto the sides of the vessel until splinters broke loose in her palms and she felt the salty waters intermix with her minor wounds. She couldn’t tell me how long the tempest raged, but she told me on the morning of the fifth day, she washed ashore.
“Once she woke, the boat found itself battered on the sands of some beach. Despite her best endeavor for preservation, the weather tore the sail into tatters and the harsh rocks along the shoreline fractured the hull. Despite initial plans for Sylverest, which is far more accommodating for members of my race, she found herself on the western shores of Rodannia, the human kingdom we serve.
“She abandoned the ship on the beach, of course. She took everything she owned into a leather rucksack and placed it on her back, and she began to wander the countryside in hopes of finding a town or city. She never saw such empty space. The vast arrays of rolling hills topped with nothing but long, untamed grass and wildflowers amazed her. She only knew beauty in architecture and books but began to realize the allure of nature. Instead of a settlement, she found a path overgrown with weeds which only occasionally showed a scar carved in dirt to mark the passing of a wagon wheel. Unfamiliar with terrain, she survived on the few provisions to survive the storm. In days, the last taste of the islands disappeared into her gnawing stomach. By the time she found a village, she survived on the nuts and berries she scavenged from the countryside.
“Her arrival in the village marked the first time she ever a human. A burly man, she said she was surprised his beard, which apparently enveloped the entirety of the lower half of his face. Elves rarely grow facial hair and for those who do meticulously shave it. This man, however, had wild locks all along her chin, cheeks, and lips. The thousands of curly hairs wept down to his chest. He made no attempt to groom his mane, but let it roam unkept. At his first sight, she mistook him for some sort of animal, but when she showed intelligence in eyes and voice, she knew his mistake and attempted to plead with him for help. When he looked at my mother with her clothes as nothing more than rags, her skin a series of blisters and scabs, her ribs poking above her pregnant stomach, he spit in her face and told her to leave. The village was filled with nice, respectable people, he said, and did not deserve a poor elf who might thieve and prostitute herself.
“She fell to her knees on the road and sobbed. The man walked away.
“Despite his warning, she found an inn and took a job as a housekeeper. The owner offered her a room, which from her description sounded like nothing more than a closet with a bed. She rarely interacted with customers at the instruction of the owner, but when she did, she found the travelers more friendly than the villagers. While the former offered some worldly experience and often treated her with civility, the latter saw her as an enigma and gave her nothing but ill will.
“On the third month of her employment, a local rented a room. Apparently raging drunk from the pub, his wife refused him entry into their home. Instead, he burst into the inn and demanded a room. For hours, my mother heard him screaming into the night air along with crashes of furniture. She begged the innkeeper to remove him, but he refused. He did not want to start a fight with a belligerent lowlife and would rather bill him for the destruction the next day instead of confronting him. My mother disagreed, but there was little she could do.
“The next morning, the innkeeper bid my mother to check the room. She protested on the grounds that her job only involved cleaning and general maintenance rather than wellness checks. The innkeeper threatened her employment and, reluctantly, she accepted. With the lightest step, she pushed the door to find a scene of debauched destruction. Sheets were torn and strewn about the room. A wooden chair was smashed to splinters. The glimmer of the early sun reflected off shards of broken glass scattered across the floor. The mattress gutted of its stuffing pinned against the wall with a knife. Bricks loosened from the wall found themselves reduced to rocks and dust powdering the floor. In the middle of the destruction, its occupant slept. As my mother tried to silently close the door, a piece of glass caught her foot and yelp escaped her lips.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“This single noise awoke the slumbering beast. He looked around in a dazed confusion before he caught sight of my mother. A certain fury arose within his pupils once he saw an elf. Like a bull, he stood, nose snarling, and charged her. She tried to shut the door, but his meaty arm seized her and dragged her into his den. The screaming resumed as he flung her around like a cheap rag doll. Once pinned to the floor, he broke off a piece of the bed frame and stuck her. She held onto her stomach with tears streaming down her face, trying to protect the only hint of hope that remained.”
Mirus stopped for a moment. “She didn’t like to talk about what happened next.”
“It’s alright,” Syma comforted. “I don’t need to know every detail.”
“The innkeeper found my mother half-dead in the room. Its occupant escaped hours ago. Years later, I tried to locate the assailant, but the records of the inn are sparse, and nobody claims to remember the event. I’ve been to other villages and they always remember the crimes of unruly men against women, provided they’re human, but once an elf becomes the victim, the event manifests itself as collective amnesia. After some time to rest, the innkeeper escorted my mother to the village healer.
“She worked in the inn for a few more months, meticulously saving every piece of gold and silver her employment offered. She often despaired about the world she would bring her child. On the best days, she found humankind negligent of our race, and on the worst days, hostile. Towards the end of her time there, she encountered a rare sight: an elven merchant who stayed in the inn. He was the first elf she had seen in Rodannia. Together they bonded over the things they missed in the Mistmere Isles and the habits of humans which they thought disgusting. After many hours of conversation, she confided her fears. The merchant understood and reassured her, telling her that she may join him on his caravan to Ravenspire. She asked if they treated elves much better, to which he replied that all humans shared a disdain for their kind, but the elves lived in their own neighborhood within the city and looked out for one another. She packed her belongings and departed that night.
“They moved quickly through the country as I was due to join the world in two weeks. Despite her swollen feet and bulging stomach, my mother offered no dead weight on the journey. She and merchant spoke at length on their trip and as she admitted her anxieties about her soon-to-be child, he stopped unexpectedly at a crossroads. My mother objected, but he remained steadfast. He gathered a chest from the back of his wagon and dug through its contents before he retrieved a grimoire of daegon magic.
“Unlike humankind, who vilifies The Abyss and daegons who live within its caverns, elves viewed it as simply another realm whose climate is inhospitable to us. Most of our kind understand terra abyssa on a casual level, but we’re under no illusion that it offers anything other than suffering. Regardless, this merchant left the book with my mother as he decided to sleep for the night. What my mother did, he said, was to her discretion. She spent most of the evening scouring its pages and contemplating the ramifications of dealing with deagons. When the sun set and the stars began to fill the sky, she made the decision.
“As much as the academic side of me wishes to know the specifics of the spell she used, she left no details on how the ritual was performed. I can only conjecture the machinations required, but in the end, she summoned a daegon in the middle of the crossroads under the light of a full moon. She said the creature appeared as human but lacked humanity as if some monster simply wore a coat of human skin in attempt to fool a less trained eye. It walked on two legs, but in jagged, menacing motions. The black of its eyes burned like smoldering coal and as it extended its hand to my mother, joints cracked, and skin barely contained whatever lay underneath. It spoke at first in an abyssal tongue before it corrected itself, but a sinister, otherworldly undertone accompanied its voice. My mother recoiled. It offered its assistance.
“A sense of dread ran through her veins and she tried to banish the beast, but it only laughed in a tone which reminded her of metal scraping against porcelain. The strange being explained that once summoned, it may only leave our realm with a contract signed by a mortal. It pressed my mother for her with the typical follies of those within our realm. It offered her enough wealth to ensure she would never see financial ruin. Once she refused, it spoke of a fame so profound nobody would forget her name. Again, she declined. Upon seeing her stomach, however, it bid the wellbeing of her child.
“She attempted to resist, but ultimately the need for safety overrides any rational thought. She begged the monster to allow her child to succeed to the greatest degree in the land. The daegon thought about her request and procured a piece of parchment. It wrote a contract promising her that her child would be born healthy and would eventually ascend to the highest office an elf could in a land of humans. In exchange, she promised her soul upon her death. It signed his portion and offered her a quill. With hesitation, she took it and etched her name in ink. The bargain was made. The daegon disappeared. She was left in the middle of the road, looking at the stars, thinking about the deal she struck.
“Shortly after this affair, the merchant and my mother arrived in Ravenspire. She found an elven midwife and I was born, to the daegon’s words, happy and healthy, despite the trauma she endured. I quickly grew, found a way to attend school, and practiced magic on my own. With much study and work, I was accepted into the University of Ravenspire and eventually graduated with top honors. I worked in various courts under various noblemen until the king of Rodannia advertised a competition to earn a position as his primary court mage. I applied, competed, and impressed the king with my skill and earned his trust with my honesty and sincerity. After a few weeks, he sent a messenger to offer me the job. When I pressed my quill to the parchment, I accepted the highest office an elf could earn. The moment it occurred my mother fell gravely ill and died shortly thereafter.
“Ever year since, on her birthday, I attempt to rescue her soul from The Abyss. Every year since, I have failed. You witnessed the aftermath of my tenth attempt.”
After completing his story, Mirus sat at desk in silence.
“There must be something more we can do,” Syma pled.
“Do?” he replied with a sudden streak of anger. “I have tried for a decade, putting my health and profession at risk by partaking in forbidden magic. I’ve done everything I can and every year my mother suffers because of my failure.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“I mean, isn’t there somebody who can help?”
“No,” he spoke with finality, paused, and released a sigh. “During my years at the University of Ravenspire, I learned much from a mage named Cynna. She is considered one of the world’s experts in the realms and their interconnections. I’ve read every book she wrote and much of my research is built on her work.”
“Then perhaps she can- ”
“No. What we are discussing could ruin everything my mother sacrificed. Please, Syma, dismiss this thought and leave me.”
Wordlessly, the apprentice complied. She left the office as Mirus continued to drink another glass of wine as grief engrossed his heart. Syma, however, crept through the halls in the night. Once in her chambers, she procured her inkwell and began to compose a letter to Cynna.