Part 4: Inspiring Hope by Embracing for Despair

"We stand here on the brink of oblivion, our homes razed, our kin taken, our spirits tested by the cruel hands of fate," I begin, my voice resonating with determination despite the heavy weight of despair that hangs in the air like a suffocating fog. "But in this moment of darkness, let us not cower in fear, let us not resign ourselves to defeat. No! For we are the children of the forests, the heirs of ancient wisdom, the guardians of nature's secrets."

It is almost funny to me how much confidence and deceit I can project with sheer willpower.

I raise my hand, gesturing toward the horizon where the sun hangs low, casting long shadows that seem to stretch toward the very heart of our sorrow. "Our enemies may be numerous, their weapons may be sharp, their horses swift as the wind, but they underestimate the strength that lies within each and every one of us. It is the strength of our unity, the strength of our resolve, the strength of our indomitable will to defy tyranny and reclaim what is rightfully ours!"

I don’t know how much peaching and staring I have been doing, but it must be lots if the sun is almost ready to set.

The elves around me listen intently, their eyes alight with a newfound spark of hope, their hearts stirred by the passion of my words. "We may not have the numbers, we may not have the horses, but we have something far more precious: the spirit of vengeance that burns within us like a beacon in the night. And with that spirit, we shall rise from the ashes of despair, like the phoenix reborn, to wage war against those who would seek to oppress us!"

Phoenix is an unfamiliar word to them, but it should be fine to throw mysterious-sounding words at them once in a while. I am playing a long con here, playing the self-proclaimed King with no army, no throne, no crown, and no walls.

I clench my fist, my gaze sweeping across the faces of my fellow elves, each one standing straighter as I land my eyes on them. "Tonight, we shall not rest, spread the word. Scatter. Approach the other Groves. Beg them if you have to. Return here with more elves and I shall talk to them. Know that we are not alone in suffering and that even now— plenty of our kin have been grieving without any direction. Let me help you. Let me point the way. Now, go! Proud hunters and trackers, I command you to go! Run! Don’t stop! Because this is just the beginning."

The last rays of sunlight fade behind the distant hills.

More than a dozen elves heed my call, their determination mirrored in the swift, purposeful strides as they depart in different directions, each tasked with the mission of rallying support from neighboring Groves. I watch them vanish into the gathering dusk with mild apprehension, but I don’t let it show on my face.

The cynic part of me fears that they won’t come back, maybe flee to a different forest, never to return.

Turning to those who remain, I issue commands with a sense of urgency. I am too aware that time is of the essence, and each second we dally, the colder the ‘tracks’ of our attackers become. "To those who stand with me, we have work to do," I declare, my voice firm with resolve. "We must build shelters to weather the night and prepare for the trials that lie ahead."

I come to regret I lack ‘skills’ that would have been immensely helpful to our situation.

Thankfully, an average elf’s survival skills are not to be scoffed at.

Every elf I see to an extent shows a level of skill in a certain task and another.

The elves spring into action. Their movements are fluid and coordinated as they gather materials and set to work constructing bivouac shelters from the surrounding foliage and branches. Despite the weariness that lingers in their eyes, there is a sense of purpose that drives them forward— I don’t know if my speech worked as intended. But there is a considerable decrease of gloom and dread in my fellow elves’ eyes.

At this time of day, the Great Anisia River beside us comes to a quiet pace like a song. From what I recall of the Lorekleim Forest’s folklore, Anisia is an elven woman of great beauty and an immensely enchanting voice who loves serenading the lost. The name of the river has been named after her for the fact that the river creates a soothing and almost song-sounding tune that melds with the forest every night.

The first stars begin to twinkle in the darkening sky, while the makeshift shelters begin to take shape, providing a semblance of comfort and security. I feel the mild touch of heat as a bonfire is slowly created some distance away from the bivvies. I see Varen, a blind elf, who is feeding more wood to the fire he had created.

I observe Varen who despite his blindness is capable of supernatural perception he doesn’t appear as a blind man. This rouses my interest in the more supernatural side of this world, something I have been dabbling into for the past fifty years but have yet to actualize. It is a dodgy, cagey, and mysterious topic.

Clearly, this world has elements beyond the sciences I have come to know in High School.

Trudviar approaches me, his steps are cautious yet purposeful. His eyes reflect the flickering flames of the bonfire, a glint of concern shimmering within them. He remarks, “The boy has good fighting instinct despite being blind. Almost nicked me with an arrow. The boy has a good heart, protecting some cubs when I encountered him yesterday.”

Only now do I notice the small group of elven children huddled close to Varen, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and awe. Their body language suggests idolization and worship of Varen.

Varen’s movements are precise, guided by instincts honed through years of experience and perhaps something more, something beyond the ordinary senses of sight. I feel a pang of admiration mixed with curiosity as I observe him.

“Before you build your army,” Trudviar warily adds, dragging for a second or two. He nonetheless continues regardless of the hesitation that momentarily flickers in his eyes. “I wish to inform you that even a blind elf like him can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”

His words are filled with implications.

“That idiom, you heard that from me,” I say as a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Trudviar nods solemnly, acknowledging my jest with a slight tilt of his head.

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Realizing he won’t hear my answer in full, he turns around.

I add, “Organize a small search party. There were a few dead raiders from the Yoretree Village. Strip them off their equipment. Bring them here, don’t leave anything behind— boots, armor, tunic, helms, and weapons. Even their accessories.”

Trudviar simply nods without looking back, “I’ll do that, but be reminded— you are a King now. Don’t disappoint us.” And then he leaves.

I congregate with a bunch of elves and do my earnest to be useful.

The night deepens, while the bonfire casts long shadows that dance among the trees like spectral figures. The air is filled with the sound of quiet conversation, the rustling of leaves, and the gentle murmur of the Great Anisia River.

I find a lull in my sleep, the tiredness that has been claiming parts of me, claims me in full.

In the morning, as the first light of dawn breaks through the canopy above, I find myself waking up to a commotion… An altercation is occurring between the influxes of elves that must have arrived throughout the night.

I observe from a bystander’s point of view and surmise the problem in an instant.

My study of ‘elves’ is an unexpectedly very academic research that I have become overly fond of over the decades. There is a reason why I am sleeping under the canopy, instead of forcing my way and having my own safe resting place. After all, living space is a difficult thing to manage especially if displaced and unstable elves are involved.

The reason why elven villages have a law that a single village’s population must not exceed a hundred is not just because as a ‘survival strategy’ to scatter the population and avoid the humans.

Another fundamental reason for the 100-elf-law is to avoid reaching a critical point for emphatic congestion that occurs because of the empathetic inclinations of the elven species. I don’t know how to put it elegantly and more eloquently, but I have come to understand that every race in this world has some kind of racial ability that allows them to connect with each other on a deeper level, and for the elves, this ability can sometimes lead to overwhelming emotions when too many of their kind are gathered in one place.

For the human race, I think it is adrenaline, accelerated growth, and social cohesion.

“Fuck you,” shouts the shorter elf, someone I recognize from the Clearwater Village. “I built this shelter here so that the kids can have a safer place to stay!”

At the mention of ‘kids’, I realize that the elven children that have been with Varen are among the ‘kids’ in question. I inwardly applaud the initiative of looking out for the kids.

“I don’t want to throw my weight around, so I will try to be reasonable. The kids are small and don’t occupy much space. We can just build another one… I need my wife rested. I have boar fur here that we can use as tarps. I am willing to share. If we are going to raise a village here, then we should make plans in advance on how to enact the ‘scattering’ rites since the attack.” Standing over six feet tall, have brown hair and a few greying hair is none other than Bolen. Besides him is his wife, she has typical blonde hair and the much rarer elven emerald eyes.

Bolen is the village chief of Hunterworks Village. He is a formidable fighter and someone I wish to invite to my army. I don’t feel confident in convincing him though, considering the Chieftainship is filled with hardliners of the old traditions.

Kimsky is a woman of short height with short blonde hair. She is fairly young, but has that unmistakable fire in her eyes— though she is just a teen by elf standards, I see potential in her. She admonishes Bolen, “I am the last of Clearwater Lake. I’ve seen much and survived it all. My village has been strong, and as its last survivor, I have to be strong. I won’t cave in to your requests no matter how reasonable. If you cannot take a ‘no’ for an answer, then you better kill me. These kids here needed this, and you won’t take it away from them.”

The stubbornness might be unwarranted, but I like her overprotectiveness.

Few elves, many of whom belong to the first batch gathered behind Kimsky.

Most elves here are the ones from Yoretree, but other elves have also found this place by their own means. Even before I gave that speech yesterday, this place had already become a funneling point for the surviving elves.

Jumping from a nearby tree is Varen, though blind, he masterfully inserts himself between Bolen. Varen’s fingers are twitchy and his bow is slung in a way where he can easily load and draw an arrow from it. “Please, don’t cause any more trouble… We… are not rebuilding… The Scattering Rites are to be postponed…”

The Scattering Rites are an old tradition of the elves where they split the population of the village if they reach a critical point. Seeing Varen act like this clues me to his motivations. Like the others, he must also have become ‘deluded’ with revenge. If not as much as I do, then enough for him to confront Bolen like this.

Realizing that public opinion is not playing in his favor, Bolen decides to use intimidation instead. “Your fingers are getting antsy, boy. Don’t draw that bow, it will be bad for you and—”

I quickly step forward before this devolves beyond my control. My voice cuts through the rising tension like a blade. "Enough!" I command, projecting an aura of authority that demands attention. The elves turn towards me, their expressions a mix of confusion and relief at the interruption. "We are not enemies here. We are kin, united by a common cause. Let us remember that and work together to overcome our challenges."

There is a moment of hesitation, but gradually, the tension dissipates as my words sink in.

“I recognize you,” remarks Bolen. “What does the boy mean we are not rebuilding?”

It is time to make another speech. I don’t have much oratory skills, but I have enough source materials in my head to make a convincing argument.

"I understand your confusion," I begin, my voice is calm yet firm. "But let me clarify. We are not here to rebuild in the traditional sense. We are not seeking to recreate what we have lost, for that would be a futile endeavor. What if we rebuild? What if we enact the Scattering Rites? What then? The oppression will only repeat itself. They will track us, hunt us, and claim us for themselves until we are nothing but slaves to a civilization built in the suffering of elves."

The elves listen attentively. Their eyes fixed on me in a similar fashion to yesterday.

Bolen shows a look of certain disdain, so sure of his own beliefs that he doesn’t see the looks of fear and inner conflict of his followers. I count roughly 30 survivors on the Hunterworks Village's side. This is it… These elves are my targets of persuasion. Not Bolen, but the 30 survivors behind him. Since I won't be able to convince Bolen anyway, then I just need to side-track and reprioritize.

Even Bolen’s wife shows a look of promise, her bloody hands gripping what I suspect is an arrow wound. She looks at Bolen and softly touches his shoulder.

"Our goal is not simply to rebuild our homes, but to reclaim our dignity, our autonomy, and our freedom," I continue, my words echoing through the clearing with a sense of purpose. "We have been wronged, yes. But dwelling on the past will not bring us justice. The traditions have stagnated our progress, and there needs to be a change, I look to the future and all I see are possibilities."

“One surely drenched with blood,” interrupts Bolen with hate in his breath.

However, I only see nods of agreement ripple through the crowd, a glimmer of determination igniting in their eyes. They hunger for justice, for retribution, and I must provide them with a vision to rally behind.

“No, not drenched,” I argue, “Drowned. It is a future where we risk drowning in blood. Don’t look down on me. If I have to sharpen my teeth and feed on their flesh myself just to win, then I will. Victory is only for the determined, so those who wish to stay and are determined to see it through and not be cowards— stay.”

Bolen looks behind him and sees the conflicted expressions of the elves he brought with him.

“You are too arrogant, you are a fool! What are you going to kill the humans with?”

“You are scoffing now, but all I hear is barking,” I step forward, and look him in the eyes. He is a head taller than me, but I feel bigger than him. I feel the gazes of the other elves in my back supporting me. “You are barking on the wrong tree, old man. What am I going to kill them with? It is a good question. For now, this is my answer to you— I am going to kill them with my sheer fucking will.”

“Let’s go,” Bolen sighs as he holds his wife’s wrist firmly. “Good luck with your endeavor.”

In the end, Bolen calls to his elves and leaves. Unfortunately, not everyone left with him. More than half of his elves remained with me. This is going to be exhausting. More elves will be coming from the other Groves, and I have to convince them in a similar fashion.