Artrus wasn’t certain how long it had taken him to find a suitable stick to lean on, but it certainly took even longer to find one of similar length.

Without full use of his arms and legs it had taken him forever to get any sort of realistic movement back towards Stormheim.

It was hard to eat. It was hard to catch the things that he ate. It was hard to stand, it was hard to relieve himself without making a mess. He couldn’t stand correctly because his toes had been cut off. He could barely use his hands because his fingers were gone. Walking was an abominable torture of getting upright, taking a few wobbling steps with the help of his makeshift crutches, followed by his limbs just giving up and him falling down, usually on his face.

It had taken him a month to realize that he’d been dragging himself in a circle.

That bitch of a Wildling Elf had known exactly where to cut.

He wobbled out of the forest into a clearing next to a magnificent stone spire that was carved with all sorts of strange hieroglyphs. If he hadn’t been so intent on either finding the bitch that did this to him, or returning to Stormheim and the compassionate embrace of his wife, he’d have loved to study them. What did they mean?

A human came around a nearby boulder, tall with black hair, an intense raptor’s glare, wearing some sort of leather outfit.

“Human.” He gasped. “Help me.”

The human blinked a couple of times, but nodded. “Here, have some water.” the man handed him a canteen; Artrus didn’t care about water, he had his own canteen, but he’d take this idiot’s water anyway.

“What are you even doing out this way, anyway?” the human asked him in a badly accented Stormheim.

Artrus gave him a look and kept drinking. Once he had had his fill, he passed the canteen back. “Trying to get to Stormheim.” He complained.

“Doesn’t look like you’re having a good go at it; Stormheim’s that way.” the human pointed in a completely different direction.

“Fuck.” Artrus cursed in elvish. “Fuck that Wildling bitch for doing this to me!” He shouted.

“An Elf did that to you?” the human asked in Elvish, astonished.

Artrus stared at him like he was some strange creature.

“You speak Elvish?” He hazarded.

“Only civilized men can speak the elvish tongue. Anyone that can’t, well...” the human trailed off. Of course, it was obvious.

“My name is Artrus, human. I was on a mission and some bitch of an elf cut me up like a dog.”

“You said a Wildling? A Wildling Elf did this? To You? By the Trinity, what barbarism.” The human replied, and pulled out some ration bars. He passed one to the elf, who struggled to eat it.

“The fuck is a Wilding Elf doing all the way out here?” The human asked, mystified and shaking his head in wonder.

“The fuck is a human that can speak elvish doing out here?” Artrus asked.

The man smiled. “Well, it has been a long time since I was in Songstree.” The man replied. He leaned back against the boulder comfortably and stared at the sky. “You know, when you talk about Songstree, everyone always talks about the tree.” He paused, “Oh, the tree, the tree, the tree is so magnificent!” He mocked in a light falsetto, and then leaned conspiratorily towards the Dark Elf.

“Don’t get me wrong, the tree is magnificent, stretching to the sky and scraping the clouds. Beautiful. But for me though?” He asked. “It was the warbird races. That was a thing of beauty. That was a thing I could relate to. Brilliant savagery and skill. Those beasts were fast, too.” The man shook his head. “Oh, how I wish- I keep wishing, keep kicking myself, even now, decades now, for not bringing my warbird over here with me.”

Artrus had watched the human as he’d spoken- and the man truly spoke as if he’d been there in Songstree. He sighed regretfully.

“It wouldn’t have worked, you know.” Artrus remarked in a low voice. “Warbirds die for some reason when they’re put on a boat. It’d never make the trip.”

The human sighed regretfully, and Artrus patted the man’s arm sympathetically. The man was a human, but he spoke elvish, had been to Songstree, had known about the passion of the warbird races that were held just out of town. He wasn’t so bad.

“Seriously, human: Without art or malice, what is a cultured man like you doing out in the middle of nowhere?” He asked honestly.

“It’s no major thing.” The human replied. “A youthful whim- I just wanted to see the world. Circumstances brought me to Songtree, a broken mast sent me to the Giant Steppes...” He paused, “where I had to beat an extremely hasty retreat, -those giants do not fuck around- and I found myself in ‘Westland’. I picked up the Stormheim tongue, but... even now, I dream like a foolish little boy about seeing the world- all of it, seeing all of its wonders spread out before me like my wife’s-” He cut himself off and offered a modest chuckle.

“You’re married?” Artrus asked.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

“That’s right.”

“To an elf?” Artrus asked curiously.

The man barked a laugh. “You truly think an elf woman would look at me that way?” He asked.

Artrus blinked a couple of times. “Some might.” He decided, and then nodded. “Yeah. My wife’s own sister would. She is the same as you- someone that dreams of traveling the world, discovering treasures and seeing unseen horizons. You are a good man, despite your human disadvantage. It wouldn’t be strange to see you with an elven bride.” He sighed. “But be careful: An elven woman’s rage is a terrifying thing.”

The human laughed. “Aren’t all women that way?” the man asked with a knowing grin.

Artrus shook his head. “There are rages and then there are elvish rages. Some of the-” He paused. “Well, the scholars have all but agreed that elven women are all hopelessly insane.” He offered with a wan smile. “It’s only your good fortune when she turns that insanity into love... but beware that temper. It will burn you.”

“‘Unseen horizons’. I like that.” The human replied, returning to something Artrus said earlier. “It sounds even better in elvish. There’s a poetic flow.”

The man looked over at Artrus. “So, you’re heading to Stormheim, eh?”

Artrus nodded.

“Well, you can’t go like that.” the human urged. “Here, hand over those ... sticks. I’ll turn ‘em into some real good crutches for you.”

Artrus passed them over, and the human produced a truly gigantic knife, trimmed down the sticks with a couple of casual flicks of his knife, tied some cross pieces with leather thongs so he could tuck them under his armpits.

“You wanna... well, I’d suggest you take off your coat, shred up your shirt and wrap them around these for padding. It’ll be a lot more comfortable for you. Means you can travel faster.” the human suggested. “Well, after you put your coat back on. Don’t want to get soaked if it rains.”

Artrus nodded, struggled to get out of his coat. The human peeled off Artrus’ shirt, cut it into strips and tied them for cushioning on the crutches.

The human silently eyed the scar on Artrus’ back and smiled; he recognized that sigil. He’d have to tell Fialla’s father what his daughter had done. He’d definitely be proud of her.

After Artrus was ready to leave, he turned to the human.

“You’re not bad, for a human. If you ever find your way to Songstree again, look me up. I’ll introduce you to my wife’s sister.”

The human nodded. “It’s not impossible.” He agreed.

“I think I’d like to come back out this way and see you again, human.” Artrus decided. “You’re well-spoken.”

Davian shook his head. “I only stopped here for water and to admire that.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the spire- and coincidentally, the boulder that Sheilah and Fialla had carved their sigils on. “In a few hours, I’ll be gone.”

“A pity.”

“I’m Davian.”

“Artrus.”

Davian got up and gestured to his canteen. “Gotta top up. Good luck getting to Stormheim.”

Artrus sighed, settled his crutches, and began his long trek towards Stormheim, feeling somewhat comforted that even in the middle of nowhere, there was still the light of civilization.

Davian watched the elf struggle off from his vantage. Artrus was unaware that he’d just been given the same sort of crutches that the Wild Elves had to use after they’d been cut up like that.

Fialla marking the Dark Elf with her clan mark. That was hilarious. He’d had to hold back his laughter. That was very similar to how the Dark Elves used to brand the Wild Elves.

After Artrus was long gone, he dug around in the dirt and found the battered metal box that held the correspondence with the King of Stormheim.

War with the elves was coming, it was just a matter of time. Toril had held nothing back, his was a desperate plea for help.

He talked about Sheilah, mentioned how quickly she was learning to live in her new environment, how stubborn she was to hold onto the things she’d learned in the Redstone.

“First you enslave us, and now you want to draft us as proxy soldiers into a war we have zero stake in?” He snarled at the letter. “Just how high and how deep does your arrogance reach?”

He saw a number of additional letters under Toril’s, and so he lifted them out and read them one by one.

“Davian, By now, no doubt you have read Toril’s plea for assistance in the war against the elves. I am quite aware of your feelings regarding Stormheim, but I would implore you to consider his words with an equanimous heart. This is not simply a Stormheim struggle, this is a struggle of human against elf. You are a learned man; inevitability will bring the elves to the Redstone doorstep. Sheilah is doing well in her studies. As a parent speaking with another parent, I thought you should know that she is doing her best. The Queen of Stormheim, Magdalene Stormheim.”

Davian rubbed his face and sighed. “We are not warriors. We are not fighters. We do not have an army to lead into battle, Magdalene.” He muttered in reply.

He opened the next letter, a horrible scrawl of terrible penmanship. There were blots of ink and crossed out words. The wax was marked with Sheilah’s personal mark.

“Father. I am doing good well. I like the food. I don’t like the dresses. I hate trying to write good. It is stupid not fun. I am still not good at reading or numbers. I am trying my best. I miss the sunrise in the Redstone where the air is crisp and clean and sweet. It smells here.” There was a blob of ink and a smear that obscured some of the rest. “-but I am an adult, and I should walk this path alone, because that is what you would do. Sheilah Stormheim.”

Davian grimaced. “Just because you’re an adult, doesn’t mean that-” He paused, “doesn’t mean that you have to walk alone, Sheilah.” He replied to the letter. “Besides, don’t you have Fialla?”

He stared at the smudge of ink, trying to figure out what it said before it was smeared away. He held up the page to the sun, turned it this way and that.

“I am scared of the dragon within me. It wants to be let out and- something something- fire and ash, more smears -but I am an adult, and I should walk this path alone, because that is what you would do.” he read aloud.

“Oh, Sheilah.” Davian whispered.

There was another letter, one marked with Fialla’s mark. He opened the letter anyway; he wasn’t certain Fialla’s father could read Stormheim, and so he might need to read it to her father anyway.

It was written much better, and there weren’t any smears of ink, and the words were simple, but it was completely readable.

“Father, Mother, I am doing well. I am working hard to make you proud. I am sorry if I make you ashamed. I am trying my best. Sheilah is a good sister even if she is a bitch. And stupid. I have to look out for her because no one else will. I am doing my best. Fialla Redstone.”

“She chose ‘Redstone’ as her surname?” Davian asked curiously. “Whatever.”