“I will get right to that, mother, I am heading to the market for our breads and pastries anyway,” the Manx daughter delivered a wan smile to her mother, and set her basket of laundry on the vast table of their dining room. She took a white sheet within and began to fold it clumsily, her red hair leaving stark strands on it as she did so.
“You will wash your hair before you go, won’t you?” The Manx mother sat cross-legged in the corner of the room, awash in sunlight and tending to knitting, this time repairing her socks, or someone’s socks. She had mostly lost track of whose underclothing was whose over the years, especially with only females in the house.
“Do you really expect me, a northerner, to just go out and find someone? We’re as good as dead around here, even if we live in a manor.”
“Sorcha, you have had letters from suitors across the southern kingdoms-”
“And all of them men and boys I’ve never met proclaiming some sort of romance as if that could be done by post-”
“I’ll not have you interrupt me while I talk, young lady-”
“And I’ll not entertain the idea of some stranger laying claim to my heart from miles away.”
“You’re supposed to invite them to see you, and allow them to invite you to go see them.”
“Travel? In the southern kingdoms? With my heritage?”
“You do worry too much about that.”
“You weren’t bullied into tears at a young age and had songs about the black tides chanted in your ears until you cried.”
“Sorcha.”
“You can’t just expect it to be so easy, mother.”
“Sorcha.”
“It’s not like I’m all that good-looking anyway.”
“We’re losing the manor, Sorcha.”
In the fray, Sorcha had managed to fold, albeit with a skillful lack of care, at least 4 sheets and a tablecloth. Her mother wasn’t so lucky on the socks.
The ensuing silence filled the air as the red-haired daughter stared down her mother, and the mother did the same in turn. While tensions were high, however, Sorcha did continue her duties with the laundry before finally speaking up.
“Is that why I have to marry?”
“It is.”
“Will that allow us to keep the manor?”
“No.”
Sorcha dramatically threw the pants she had in her hands down, where they undramatically frumped on the table and slid to the floor.
“What do you mean...no?”
“This manor was given to us...given to your father as a gift from his cousin. On your twenty-fourth birthday we are to be turned away so his son may take it in our stead.”
“But what of us?”
“It would hardly be a problem if you married, Sorcha.”
“How would that solve anything?”
“We would live with whoever you married.”
“But what if they didn’t want you to live there?”
“Then I’ll get by on your dowry and being a caretaker...of some sort.”
“‘Of some sort?’”
“I can’t exactly do what I did up north to make money here, can I?”
“I suppose not.”
Both women worked now in an agitated state. While this only helped Sorcha’s mother to speed up her repairs, Sorcha’s folding had descended into a mild chaos. She finished and the pile of clothes on the table looked no different than if she had placed them orderly without bothering to fold them at all. The sheets, however, were at least squared and tight, except for the last one which lay atop them shaming Sorcha.
The two ladies then went about their chores without each other, for Sorcha had gone to put the washing away and get dressed well enough to go out into public. She was quite looking forward to the bread. From her bedroom on the second floor she could look out her arched window to the town a few kilometers away.
Their town was one of those which the plague had run its course and decimated the population. Sorcha and her mother had done their crying for months when the plague first touched the Manx family. Their tears matched the many who became the few who survived. Now the town was mostly elven, and they had already begun imposing their architectural influence on the ruins; trees jutting up from abandoned buildings, intricate carvings over stone buildings, colored glass, and new buildings built with organic shapes in mind.
Sorcha did not mind the change at all. The route to town was safer for the fact that no farmboy rested on the fences to tease her and as far as she was concerned quite a few people got what they deserved. It was an ugly thought but she smiled as she walked down the road all the same. She was always happy to go into town. It felt right. Sorcha felt tall. Most elves were a head beneath her, or shorter. They moved far faster than her, and were far quieter than even the stories gave them credit for, quiet such to the point that as she reached the outer town she could see them going back and forth in the streets, and she could see the crowds of them in the markets, but Sorcha’s ears almost ached just from the strain of trying to hear the crowds.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
This particular trait of the elves unnerved most humans, especially in the woefully superstitious southern kingdoms. Their small stature, bigger eyes, affinity for plants and wildlife, and pointed ears also did them little favours. But as the southern kingdoms had been decimated, they had no qualms ignoring the superstitions of old. Sorcha much agreed.
The bakery was still run by humans, however, and as Sorcha entered she expected the rather large man, a Mr. Braun, to greet her. Instead she was greeted by a fair-haired elven boy...man? Sorcha had no idea how to tell, and this was the first time it gave her pause for thought. At least the elf had patience, his greeting sitting in the air waiting for some sort of response while Sorcha sorted herself out.
“Oh…” Sorcha hummed, “I am here to pick up an order from a few days ago?”
“Manx?” the elf, who Sorcha realised she could only see his head, turned from his post and open the door to look into the oven room. In that opening Sorcha could see, with some relief, Mr. Braun bustling about.
Sorcha spoke up; “Mr. Braun!”
He turned and offered the Manx a smile, “Sorcha, I see you’ve met Quilin, I have your order ready.”
Quilin shut the door, cutting off sight between the two, and went back to his spot. This was all well and good, Mr. Braun and Sorcha did not need eye contact for the baker to ready the order to be taken up the road. Sorcha did not take it to mean anything, elves were well known for their idiosyncrasies, and she was by far the most rude person she’s ever met. Quilin looked at Sorcha from his place behind the counter.
“I like your hair.”
“Thanks, it’s how most know I’m a northerner.”
“Red hair?”
“And curly.”
“Everyone from the north has red curly hair?”
“No, not really, but we are all mighty pale, run around in the snow like it’s summer, and run around in the summer like we’re in an oven.”
Quilin blinked and offered her a contemplative face, “how do you really tell each other apart?”
“Well, I don’t know, how do elves tell each other apart?”
“We’re wood elves, so we’re short with big eyes, and we’ll have plants or critters live in our hair as we get older. High elves are taller, but not by much, but they’re really...really creepy.”
“Creepy?”
“Creepy. They like all sorts of weird things and they don’t like people, or other elves.”
“I’ve never heard about high elves, except...maybe in a story or two.”
“They don’t like to be a part of things.”
“A part of things?”
“You know, everyone has their place in the world.”
“Well I would disagree with that.”
“That’s because you’re human.”
Sorcha shot Quilin a look, and in return received a mischievous smile.
“What do high elves do then?”
“I-” Quilin was cut short by Mr. Braun bursting from the room wielding six fresh loaves of dark bread.
Sorcha instantly forgot the line of questioning for the warmth of the bread. The smell of it. It encompassed her and made her whole. It reminded her of times when the manor was not so empty and without. The Manx stood with her hand in her satchel for a moment as her eyes tried to well up in tears, but she was quick to shut them out, and quicker still to pay the elf. Mr. Braun wished her goodbye and Sorcha stood alone on the street amongst short people who made no noise as they rushed about doing whatever it was they did. Sorcha did not really know.
What she did know is that she didn’t want to return home just this moment, as it was rare that she stepped away from the manor towards civilisation. Mostly she spent her times in the woods around the house, the fields around the woods, or in the manor itself. She considered herself to be rather outdoorsy, but the wood elves who took over the town would prove her quite wrong.
This was especially apparent as she walked through the town square. What was once a broad open field used for many occasions, seemed now to be a tiered garden made mostly of trees that had been bent into being terraces and flower boxes, and benches, and a fountain. That was new enough to attract Sorcha to it, wondering how a fountain made from what seemed to be different trees especially shaped to be this way would even work, until she noticed that it was a stone fountain, and in fact the fountain that used to be in the churchyard before the church was destroyed.
This caused Sorcha to laugh as she thought of rather muscular diminutive elves taking the fountain from the churchyard and putting it here. She sat beside it and ran her hands in the clear waters, which were cold and refreshing on her hands. Her brow furrowed, the was late spring, and the heat of the day should have rendered the fountain’s water rather warm. Even now, as the clock struck midday, the fountain’s water was as cold as if it were winter.
Sorcha took a drink, and she drank deeply. Cold water was as much a pleasure as fresh, warm bread, but for that sensation she had no real explanation. It just caused her a simple but powerful happiness that put a spring in her step. Another drink and she was positively giddy, standing up and making her way through town noisily as she returned home. The elves paid her no mind, and she in turn paid them no heed. The few humans out and about still followed her with their gazes and pursed lips, but Sorcha had long since learned that she could dress in her finest and gain scowls. Today she had drank cold water that chilled her to her core, and felt great.
It cleared her mind, and she thought of little but the feelings of the moment. At least until the release of thought allowed the other thoughts to descend upon her. Marriage. Losing the Manor. Not having anywhere to go. Not being accepted in the south but by elves. Elves who were as foreign to her as southern peoples thought she was foreign to them. She huffed as she put the bread down on the kitchen’s island, and huffed herself out of the room and up the stairs and onto her bed. She was twenty-three years old, as educated as they would allow a woman in the southern kingdoms, and single. She didn’t much care to change the first part or the last part, but she did lament that her schooling ended before the more advanced subjects men seemed to be entitled to learn. Her father greatly disagreed, but had no power to change it. Her mother told her of the north being rather different in their values. But there was no “north” to return to...or..?
Sorcha sat up in a hurry, the idea so new in her head it was still wet from the womb. There was a way to get out of this situation, as more than enough time had passed. Surely she did not have to get married or continue to live in the southern kingdoms to have a good life. Her mother could live comfortably on her own, Sorcha was convinced, if her daughter sent things back from far away for her to sell. Something else could be done.