We maintain our breakneck pace as much as possible the following days, not just for Charles’s sake but for our own as well. There are plenty of sharks still left in these waters and we are even less prepared to fight than before. Everyone fears that the bandits will find us again.

“Maker be merciful. Maker be merciful.” Mary says over and over again in our wagon.

I leave that wagon after only two days and resume my role on horseback as a guard of the company. In fact with the death of Darren and Charles’s injury I’m about the only guard left.

But we encounter no resistance as we approach the elven lands. Perhaps the sharks are harassing other travelers, or perhaps word hasn’t gotten out about us, or perhaps (worst of all) word has gotten out.

Maybe they are scared of…me.

Normally I would love to be strong and powerful – I am a knight after all – but when I don’t even understand what that power is…

I think back to the darkness I felt within me and the cool lump that still resides in the pit of my stomach.

Maybe it’s dangerous. Maybe I should be running away from myself at this point.

But I can’t run from myself. In fact I have a tendency to follow me everywhere I go. I remember trying to run from myself in high school. Hiding from all of my problems in class, my problems with parents, my problems with friends. All that hiding does is let the problems fester. Then they fester so long they start molding like some sort of sentient fungus from a JRPG.

Those Dragon Quest games always had the strangest damn monsters.

Finally, on the fifth day after the battle, we see trees again.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see woods,” I say to the king. Which is very true, especially since I never spent any time camping or hiking growing-up. Not only do I hate tripping on tree roots, I also figured the woods were an express trip to Lyme disease hell.

The old king smiles, his spirits lightened by the sight. “I visited the elves often in my youth and have a fondness for their trunks and leaves. Still, these elven woods feel different from our human realm.”

I nod cautiously. “As long as the trees don’t try to eat us or something I’ll be fine.”

The king laughs. “Then you will be quite pleased indeed.”

Ducking into his wagon the king changes into more elegant robes. These are the same threads from the castle keep, perhaps the last of the king’s royal garb. When he emerges he shines like a pearl in the mud. In comparison to his splendor I realize I look pretty shabby, indeed that we all look rather gross. If not for the king we could easily pass as wandering gypsies or something.

We approach a checkpoint.

“Halt,” the elven guard says. She is arrayed in leather armor with a bow slung across her back and a dagger at her belt. A hood covers her hair and ears but I can still see the face. It’s beautiful. I always had a thing for the elves in-game and this one does not disappoint.

There never seems to be a blemish on wood elves. Shielded from the harshest sun they maintain perfect complexions and have naturally athletic builds that seem to require minimal maintenance to their ideal form. “Who are you? Whats your business here?” she askss.

The King tilts his head and reaches toward his head. “Ah, I forgot the crown. My mistake.”

I figure he’s joking but the king shuffles back into the wagon and returns wearing what some might term a bejeweled hat. The thing is so tall and cumbersome that it looks like it could teeter off his brow at any moment. The elf goes slackjawed but I can barely contain my laughter at the gaudy object.

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“Is that really you, majesty?” The sentry asks.

A male elf approaches and narrows his eyes at us. “Where is your retinue, sire? Your escort?”

The king shrugs at the doubt. “Dead mostly. Like much of my Kingdom actually. Or haven’t you heard? The sorceress has stricken my lands and left me a couple wagons and a handful of fools who dumb enough to still follow me.”

I don’t recall that particular pep talk before.

The sentries shuffle in place, clearly unsure of what to do.

“Tell you what,” the king says. “I’ll wait here while you tell the Lord of the Elves that you’re keeping his longtime ally and longer-time friend standing at this stupid gate while a man bleeds out in this very wagon. How about that?”

The elves pause and look at one another. Eventually the leader signal them back and they huddle in conference while we wait.

“Sure are taking their sweet time about it,” the king mutters.

It’s crazy to think they wouldn’t recognize the King of Astria but there really isn’t much to prove it other than our word and the royal accouterments which could have very well been stolen for all they know. It’s not like human nobles have their images all over medieval instagram or something. Hell, these sentries may not even know what many of their own nobbles look like, much less the human king.

One sentry returns and ask permission to look in the wagon.

“Of course,” the king replies. “What took you so long?”

The elf takes a quick look at Charles and balances. After a few more words they wave us though. It seems that whatever misgivings they might have about us they aren’t going to let somebody die before their own eyes while they dither about or send a messenger for instructions. They even give us directions to the nearest healer.

Good for them.

We hurry along the rough path and I get my first look at the elven wood – ‘The Woodland Kingdom of the Elven Realm’ as they say. It’s denser than the human forest in Astria and the trees look…older somehow.

“That’s because they are,” the king says when I ask him about it. “This is the oldest forest in all the realms. Not that the goblins or dwarves are much competition. ”

“Why not?”

The king laughs. “Because there are no trees in their lands, son.”

Soon we start to see elven dwellings. These buildings on the outskirts are little more than huts nestled among mighty trunks. A little disappointing compared to what the elves are capable of. But they still have a certain charm which is endearing and inviting.

One of these huts ends-up being our healer. The building itself is especially unimpressive and doesn’t instill much confidence.

“This is the right place?” I whisper to the king. “This is our healer?”

“Yes, and a good one too, or so the sentries said.”

I point to the structure. “This room is just a shack.”

“We are still on the outskirts,” the king responds. “The elven core will be quite different, just as the Astrian cities are different from the villages. It doesn't mean good people don’t live here. Just as in Astria.”

I nod and feel a little embarrassed. Yes, I guess there are urban and rural dynamics anywhere one turns. Bigger is not always better.

We carry Charles inside and even push through two elves patiently waiting for attention. The space is simple but tidy and clean. There is a certain dignity here that impresses regardless of the plain walls and ordinary furniture.

The healer scowls at us initially as we try to cut in line but softens when he sees the gravity of the situation. The healer looks young, and though I know elves live longer and age more slowly, he still can’t be older than thirty years. He pokes and prods Charles all over and stuffs more herbs into his wound; he even makes him swallow some gallatenous blue goo that looks like the jello cups I loved so much as a kid.

“Will he make it?” the King asks.

The young elf rubs his hands together. His tiredness is mixed with an earnestness that I’ve seen before in some dedicated teachers I had growing-up: people who really believed in what they did and wanted you to believe in it too. “I’ll need to get more supplies, and time to make sure he’s properly attended to. There are a lot of things still left to –”

“Will he make it?” the king asks again.

The elf sighs and pushes his long, dark hair behind his ears. The elves aren’t blondes like legolas but they do have long hair. I hate to admit it but it does add to their elegance. “He’ll make it.”

The king sighs and the tension in the room dissipates, like a huge knot of shoelaces being unwound.

The king puts his hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

The elf bows. “Majesty.”

The king turns to me. “We can go now. He’s in good hands.”

“Go where?” I ask.

“Why to the Lord of the Elves of course.”