Part 2: Interlacing Memories & Existing Reality
Flames dancing. Elves singing. Stars shining.
Trudviar playfully twirls his daughter's hair. "Little Viari... You have to eat some meat to grow big!" He teases his daughter who insistently remains sitting on his lap. Viari dares not let go. For such a daddy's girl, she cannot live without her dad's help.
The two, father and daughter, playfully bicker with each other.
"Viari, you have to eat meat!"
"It tastes bad!"
An elf's anatomy is not so different from a human's but there are still differences from here and there. For example, young elves prefer eating vegetables more than meat. They are natural vegetarians who have no problems with even eating grass. Only when they grow into young adolescence will they develop a taste for meat as their body becomes sturdier and increases its metabolism.
"Dad," Viari softly calls to her father. "I had a good dream last night..."
"What is it?" Trudviar happily smiles at his daughter's words.
The little girl smiles ear to ear, her joy is evident on her face, and her excitement is apparent from her squealing. She eagerly shares her story. "I met Mom!" She cries.
To this, Trudviar feels sad and mortified at the same time. Dreams possess great meanings and play a significant role in the culture of the elves. "What do you mean?"
"She welcomed me, embraced me, and said she was taking me." She innocently answers. "But she said, you cannot come with us..." Then her joyous tone shifts to a gloomy cry. "Why? Dad, will you stay with me?"
"Yes," Trudviar promises to his daughter. "I promise that your Dad will always be with you."
"Pinky swear?" Viari stretches her little pinky finger to Trudviar.
It was the fool Art who had spread the ‘pinky swear’ ritual and it appears to have spread among the children. Trudviar inwardly laughed at seeing his daughter raising her pinky finger.
"Yes. Pinky swear!" Trudviar reciprocates, his own pinky finger enclosing Viari's. The two pinky fingers intertwine, and to seal the promise, they shake it. The two share a laugh while the other elves continue to listen to an elderly elf story-telling one of his adventures in his youth.
Then. An arrow comes flying out of nowhere.
It arcs into the air and accurately hits little Viari's chest.
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`Present`
The memories flutter from the recesses of his mind like the flapping of a butterfly's wings, creating a breeze, winds, and a silent storm in his heart.
Trudviar wakes up with a startle as a squirrel passes by him. He wields his hatchet firmly, and with one clean swing, he cleaves the little critter into half. Highly alert, he carefully climbs down the tree while taking a gander at his surroundings through his peripheral vision.
The elves have separated on Art's, no, on Arthram's orders. Their utmost priority is to reconnect with the other elf villages in the Lorekleim Forest and relocate to the Great Anisia River. Trudviar proceeds to walk on foot, heading to the nearest village on his list.
From a distance, he quickly sees the rising smoke which indicates burning. It can only be the aftermath of the human night raids. Trudviar increases his pace by climbing on a tree and resorting to parkouring from one tree to another. He heads to the Nutzen Village with a small prayer in his heart.
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`Memories`
Memories fade in time, but not in nightmares.
There is a human idiom for becoming extremely angry— they call it 'seeing red', and it seems the same is true for an elf.
Trudviar brings his hatchet down with fury. he carries his daughter in one hand and swings his hatchet with the other hand.
The humans surround them with appropriate strategies. They have superior weapons much more advanced than the meager wooden arrows that the elves have.
Iron arrows come flying, what they lack in accuracy, they compensate with numbers. They leave the injured elves to their own suffering, while the humans focus on their task to grab and shackle the elves they reach.
Any form of resistance is met with their iron weapons. Thus, blood flows to the Yoretree Village.
This is no work of brigands.
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`Present`
The memories of that horrible night keep on replaying in Trudviar's mind.
Ash everywhere. Huts and elven flesh are reduced to chars. Pikes with heads of elves stand like decorations on the pathway of the once beautiful village, all of them with looks frozen with various emotions.
Many with fear, few with anger, and a select few with utter despair.
Trudviar crosses the village pathway only to see the overlaying images of his village's ultimate fate to that of the Nutzen Village. Trudviar grits his teeth at the thought of humans, and the destruction of another elven village. The Nutzen Village is no more.
However, it is not the place that decides the Village, but its people.
Arthram emphasizes to them heavily how important it is to centralize the workforce as they are the most valuable resource.
"Anyone there?" Trudviar carefully angles his hatchet in a way he can easily defend himself from ambushes.
Suddenly, an arrow comes flying his way. With vigor and anger, he strikes at the arrow.
The sneaking arrow suddenly reminds him of his dead daughter. As a result, it sends him into a fit of rage.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He sprints from where the arrow comes from and within several seconds, he makes quick work of the obstacles in front of him.
The thick shrubbery falls down easily from his hatchet. He leaps from his final sprint with his hatchet coming in full swing.
"A-aghk!" Trudviar halts his hatchet at the last moment as he recognizes the long ears peeking out from the young adolescent's long blonde hair. The young elf fumbles as he tries to retaliate with the arrowhead to strike Trudviar down.
"Calm down, I am an elf!" Trudviar shouts at the young elf.
Judging by the youth's whites filling his eyes, he must be blind. That alone makes him impressive as he is able to shoot an arrow accurately from a perfect hiding spot.
Trudviar disarms the elf by holding his arm and placing his knee on his stomach.
"Big brother Varen! He is an elf! An elf!" A little girl starts shouting from behind Varen.
That is the last Varen hears as Trudviar knocks him out cold. Trudviar gazes at the elves behind the fainted Varen. All of them are merely children, not even over 10 years old.
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`Memories & Meetings`
Varen is blind, literally a cripple of the elven society, who has no value to his village.
Despite all of that, he is loved.
In his own little ways, he helps his village as a form of repayment.
With his unique insights, he offers advice to the village chief, and with just his presence alone, he motivates his fellow elves.
He is blind, yet he chops the wood for them to use in their nightly bonfires. Even with the lack of sight, he proves to be capable of doing more than those who are around his age. As he is blind, it is obvious that he will not do well with most chores. Hunting, weaving, and animal rearing are too far from his abilities. The same goes for other minor chores to which more than once he has become a hindrance rather than a help.
However, through repetition, he manages to learn to see through memorization. Senses other than his sight such as smelling, hearing, and touching become his crutch. In time, he is even able to hunt for himself no longer needing the charity of the others.
Though all he sees is darkness since he is born, he can see many ways he can help his village.
He does not wish to be a burden. It is not because he is loved, but simply because he wishes to express love.
Memorizing the smell, touch and even the taste of the breeze and dirt allows him to see— and he realizes— his village is beautiful.
But now, what he is perceiving through his other senses tells him otherwise. The image is strange and indecipherable.
The familiar smell of burning from the bonfire pervades the air, yet they don't smell the same anymore. It is not wood that is burning after all, but something else. The taste of the breeze has become acrid, and the dirt has become bloody. The smell of rust tickles his nose.
Under the comfortable shades of the green eaves, Varen finally wakes up.
There is calm in his heart as he hears his little brothers' and sisters' greetings.
"Big bro~ you awake!"
"Don't die! Varen bro!"
"Sniff* he is dead!"
"Waa~aaaah!"
The young elf's calm is momentary as the little elves make a commotion.
"I... I am alive! Stop it!" Varen feels his face heating up, his cheeks rendering a blush.
"You are finally awake..." At the introduction of a stranger's voice, Varen tenses up.
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`Present`
"I am Trudviar," First, Trudviar introduces himself calmly.
The little elves roam around playing with grass and doing random stuff. From the way they look, a person cannot even imagine that they just escaped from a tragedy. It is a coping mechanism. Trudviar guesses as something tragic as the night raid prior yesternight is something that anyone will never forget.
"I know you! You are Viari's dad!" A little elf boy shouts, laughing as another boy tackles him while they play in the mud.
Trudviar wryly smiles feeling a bit weirded by the kids' enthusiasm. Yet, the thorn in his heart continues to hurt.
"They did not see it." Varen says to Trudviar. "I am out hunting that night. Light doesn't mean anything to me. And hunting at night is far easier as wild beasts are abundant during that time. I witnessed the attack on another village. It took me some time to process that it was a raid, but I still managed to return to my village. We organized a fighting force to resist them, but the chief knows... we will lose..."
Trudviar remains silent allowing Varen to continue with his story.
"The chief had me gather the children. Every one of them. We hide under the burrows from the pit traps we use for the aggressive boars around. We waited until all of the slaughter stops..." He recounts, his voice discernably trembling, yet he resists the very emotion that makes him tremble by not stuttering. "If you may, can your village accept us?"
"..."
Trudviar's silence can mean anything, and Varen dreads it for the worse. There is a law among the elves as their forefathers decree that there can be no more than a hundred elves in a single village. Few villages on average only maintain a population of fifty to ninety so that they can allow more leeway for their newborns, and not to over-exhaust their resources.
There are many laws that allow the elves to be able to survive for a long time. The 100-population law is so that the elves will not starve. Population density for elves can cause a lot of problems. Unlike humans who suffer from the increased rate of crimes at the increase of their population, elves severely suffer more directly from a lack of food, and lack of living space.
The forest is a big place, but there are not enough livable patches for elves where they can easily access water. The more apparent problem is the limited prey from the hunting grounds around their villages. This is why the elves need to scatter.
"If..." Varen, unsure whether Trudviar can take them, asks for an alternative. "If it is not possible for your village, then can you put a good word for us on other villages?"
Contrary to Varen's thoughts, Trudviar is thinking something else. The King who swears vengeance has declared himself as King. That means a Kingdom. Even now, Trudviar is feeling rage over the death of his daughter, but facing the more urgent problem makes him realize a bit of reason.
The Yoretree Village is now gone. Their water source is bloodied, and their huts are turned to ash. Not to mention that their working force is crippled. Revenge? It sounds unlikely for that to happen. Still, the psychological vulnerability holds sway in his heart.
Trudviar utters with confidence. "There is no need... I believe my village can accept you.
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`My Existing Reality`
I toss around the debris of my home, and my family's hut, and from under the stacked-up debris of charred wood, I find the chest containing all of my treasures— maps, rewritten knowledge from my past life, and accumulated knowledge in this life.
In terms of physical aspects, I am extremely lacking. However, what I lack in physical abilities, I make up with my stock of knowledge from my past life and this life. Knowledge is power. It is an absolute truth that has allowed humans to reign over the continent.
As a species, humans are able to raise themselves at the peak with the power of such knowledge.
Look at my past life. From simple cavemen whose humble start with the discovery of fire have managed to rise to a massive civilization that is able to conquer the world— land, seas, ocean, and even the sky! They are so arrogant that they dare conquer outer space.
But in this world, humanity has not conquered everything yet. As a minor species, I feel insignificant at the might the humans wield. That's why since my birth to this world, I have made it my own personal goal to live a quiet and slow life.
It has been working very well for me in the past century. I am happy. With my little tics, I contribute to the village with what knowledge I have. Pulley. Wells. Furnace technology. A lot. They are things I am able to recreate through my impression of them from my past life.
I am not an engineer, and heck, I have no degree to my name. If there is something I have, then it is the wealth of information of the 21st Century in my head and various know-how I am able to accumulate as a Neet.
With my weak twig-like limbs, I drag the heavy-fucking chest. The others are doing what I tell them to do, to gather what is left of the elf survivors. The night raid's scale is immense. Big enough to alert the other villages. I don't want to assume for the worse, but I can only be prepared.
"Ah, fuck... This is heavy..." I cuss at my own weakness.
I am sweating hard, and am already out of breath, but I am still not making distance. I regret not putting in the necessary exercise in the past hundred years. I am an elf, and I live in a fantasy world, yet this place doesn't have anything like mana, prana, super martial arts, or whatever.
If I am to make a comparison, this world resembles a low-fantasy world that is barely showing signs of the start of civilization. I am proud to say I am a history buff with regards to this world. With the lack of entertainment I usually enjoy, I have no choice but to redirect my energy to reading and writing and some stuff.
Huff... puff...
My breathing is haggard, and my ashen silver hair continues to block my eyesight, but I manage just fine. An interesting thing about elves is that they have roughly three times the length of a human's lifespan about 225 to 300 years old. It also makes their metabolism about twice or 1.5 times better than humans. It is simply my observation of them, and they are not quite accurate as I don't really know the right formulas to implement except by directly comparing data.
With the line of thought that my metabolism is better than humans, I should be able to lose a lot of my body fat and gain a more functional vessel.
Huff... puff...
I drag the wooden chest to the Great Anisia River before nightfall arrives. Heck, even if nightfall does come before I finish this, I won’t be stopping anytime soon… I need this chest, and gosh… it might be heavier than I imagined.