Of the Birth of Férchén and Falcho, and the Keen Gaze of the Star-Scholar
Férchén and Falcho were elven twins, alike as two droplets of warm rain in the Season of Drought. Their hair was black as raven's wing, and their eyes glimmered blue as the petals of wood forget-me-nots. They came into the world on the first day of the Month of the Cypress, in the year 2223 of the Fifth Age. Their parents were Méra, a needleworker, and Fen, a wandering trader.
In keeping with the custom of the Forest Folk, cypress trees were planted in honor of the boys' birth. Yet the villagers saw the act as but a gesture, for they knew well that the climate of this corner of the Séras Land was ill-suited to such trees, and none had grown here for many a year. But to the wonder of all, the saplings took root. Old Salché, the village seeress — believed by some to know the hidden truths of nature better than any a druid — declared it a portent. She proclaimed that not only would the boys fall under the guardianship of the cypress, but they would also inherit its spirit: steadfastness, charm, and yearning for the everlasting.
But Méra laughed at the words and replied lightly, "I put no faith in such fancies. The Lord of Trees has made trees to be trees, and my sons to be my sons. Each will be what he is, as he was meant to be, and nought more."
Salché shrugged, her pride stung, and muttered under her breath, "What can wanderers of the sea know of trees?"
Perhaps there was some truth in her words, for Méra and Fen hailed from the coast. In their youth, they had dwelt long among the cliffs, dunes, and seaside forests of the tidecomers — a folk who found in the whisper of waves secrets far dearer than those murmured by the trees.
Not long after the boys' birth, Fen decided it was time to move on, for wandering traders never lingered in one place for long — such was the nature of their craft and their way of life. The children were strong, and so Méra agreed with her husband. With the coming of the new month, they left the village at dawn, faring south-west on foot to ensure they reached the warmer regions of Séras ere the snows set in, as was their custom.
Old Salché never learned whether her prophecy had held true, for she never saw the boys again. She passed away several years before the day Méra, Fen and their sons returned to the village, bringing with them a gentle breeze and the scent of herbs.
"Come on, come all - taste, buy, there's plenty for everyone!" Fen cried, spreading out bundles of dried herbs across the trunk of a fallen tree. A group of elves gathered on the other side, sniffing and sampling the wares, jostling and nudging each other in excitement. "Férch, bag these up - quickly now, quickly!"
Beside Fen stood Férchén, no more than a boy of fourteen years*, his gaze wandering upward to the oak leaves trembling faintly on the thick branches high above, rather than to the herbs laid out before him. At his father's sharp prompting, Férch reluctantly snapped out of his daydream. Brushing a strand of black hair from his brow and tucking it beneath his hat, he reached for a linen pouch and began stuffing it with nettle leaves as directed by the first eager customer.
Where, by Likho, is Falcho? Why is it always me helping?, he thought, half in irritation, half in envy at whatever discoveries his brother might already be making in this strange birthplace of theirs — surely far more thrilling than haggling over herbs at a mossy tree trunk.
Such musings were interrupted by a voice from the far side of the tree trunk, addressing his father:
"Fen, is that you?"
Férch lifted his head, curiosity sparking in his keen eyes. Before him stood an aged elf with a gnomish gaze, and a face as cragged and dry as the folds of ancient stone, pallid as bone in the grey light of the overcast evening. The elder was clad in a peculiar deep-navy cloak that reminded Férchén of the druidic robes he had once glimpsed in Sén Serén. Yet, unlike those, which bore the emblem of the Druid Council — interwoven boughs of all the monthly trees — this old man's cloak was exquisitely adorned along its edges with golden embroidery of celestial constellations. They shone with such precision and beauty that they seemed to rival the imagined star-charts of sylphic libraries, which Férchén oft pictured in his mind's eye.
His father's gaze also shifted to the stranger. Recognition lit Fen's face, and he broke into a bright smile.
"Fen!" the old man declared, almost with a chuckle. Skirting the roots of the fallen oak, he stepped to the other side of the trunk, spreading his arms wide to embrace Fen. "It's good to see you again."
He then turned his glimmering, torch-like yellow-gold eyes upon Férchén. "You must be Fen's son, though you seem not to favour him much," he said, his gaze sharp and piercing as it lingered on the boy.
Straightening instinctively with a trace of innate pride, Férch raised a brow and replied, "I am. My name is Férchén."
The old man chuckled under his breath, as though Férch's words struck him as particularly amusing, yet the gravity in his eyes did not fade.
"And where is thy reflection in the mirror, Férchén, the Stormslayer?"
Even if the usually sharp-witted elf-boy understood the true meaning behind this queer question, he was too struck by the presence of the elder — and bewildered by the peculiar title bestowed upon him — to answer at once. He glanced toward his father, who swiftly came to his aid.
"You've not changed a bit, Wélrod! Still confusing elven children with celestial bodies," Fen said with a laugh, though his face soon grew thoughtful as Wélrod replied, "Have I mistaken you, then?"
This elder remembers Father from his childhood, Férch mused with growing curiosity. Was Father here as a boy? And what star or planet did Wélrod liken him to? What of me? Oh, why did Falcho and I never find any star map — why?
"I wasn't exactly hard to get right," Fen merely said, ere turning to his son. "Where's Falcho? You two are usually inseparable, but when it comes to it... My word!"
Férch shrugged dramatically, trying to show that he neither knew Falcho's whereabouts nor why his brother had vanished — and that he wished he did. Sometimes Falcho didn't bother explaining himself, not even to Férch, which always stung and angered him. Yet he had never spoken of it to his brother, unsure even within himself why it mattered so much. Perhaps it was because Falcho's secrecy stirred some vague unease, even fear.
Most of the time, Férchén felt as though he and Falcho were as inseparable as twins could be, knowing everything about one another. But on days like this, it was quite the opposite. On days like this, Férch was certain he knew nothing of Falcho at all, and trying to understand him was like attempting to catch the wind in one's hand.
Férchén hated those days. He feared them, though he knew not why.
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Falcho did not return until nightfall, when the evening clouds had scattered across the sky and the moons began shining like lighthouses in Sén Serén. Their silver light bathed the clearing in the oakwood, where much of the village had gathered, bright enough that fireflies could take a well-earned rest from their work within the lanterns. The warm evening, typical of the Season of Drought, had tempted the Forest Folk to settle themselves upon roots and forest litter, listening intently to Wélrod’s marvellous tales while nibbling on dried moss pancakes.
True to his nature, Falcho apologised politely to his father for his absence. Fen raised a stern brow at first but soon waved his hand dismissively, knowing — as always — that anger would accomplish nothing. Méra, however, the wandering boy charmed easily with a cornflower blossom, small yet large still in the hand of an elf-boy. With a graceful smile, he tucked it gently into her dark hair.
He then perched himself on an oak root beside Férchén, nodding toward Wélrod, who sat higher than anyone else upon the same fallen tree that Fen had earlier used as his trading post.
"Who’s that?" Falcho asked his brother, brushing yellow specks from the sleeve of his tunic. Férch recognised it at once as plantain pollen, the sort that overgrew the roadside.
"If you hadn’t been off wandering the thickets alone, you’d know," Férchén retorted with a touch of scorn, raising his brow in a manner remarkably reminiscent of their father. "Where were you? What were you looking for by the road?"
"This and that," Falcho replied lazily, leaning back on the sturdy oak branch behind him and gazing up into the dark depths of the leafy crown aloft. After a moment, however, he glanced back at Férch, amusement flickering in his eyes as he noticed his brother’s still-sullen expression.
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"Oh, don’t sulk now. Perhaps I’ll tell you later... Is he a gnome?" He nodded towards Wélrod with renewed curiosity.
"Stop your chatter," Férch muttered impatiently. "Wélrod’s about to begin his tale."
Indeed, the old man was already gesturing for silence, straightening up and settling himself more comfortably on the fallen tree trunk. His long, sleek hair, gleaming like true silver, fell softly against the deep blue of his robe, whilst his gnomish eyes burned like gold in a forge. The subtle light of night embraced him, suiting him better than anything else, for he seemed as much a part of it as the moons and stars themselves.
The night sharpened Wélrod’s features, imbuing them with a grace and enchantment absent in the daylight — and absent too from every other gathered soul on the forest glade. Now, more than ever, he reminded Férchén of the druids of Sén Serén, dignified and steeped in mystery.
As near-total silence fell over the glade, broken only by the gentle song of crickets, Wélrod began his tale:
Long, long ago, at the dawn of time, Master Oak had two children: a son and a daughter. The son’s hair was woven from oak leaves, but unlike the trees, he shunned the brightness of the sun’s rays. Pale and taciturn, he spent his days in the half-light of a goldsmith’s workshop, melting gold and glass in his crucibles. His sister, utterly unlike him, was sometimes called Meadow, for she carried within her all the life and joy of that verdant realm. She danced across it from dawn till dusk, her eyes gleaming with the hues of wildflowers, and she wore a gown fashioned from their petals.
Despite their differences, the brother dearly loved his sister, and she him. In the evenings, they would sit together upon a great stone at the edge of the meadow and forest, content and entwined, while the gentle light of the Darksome Sage watched over their tranquil souls.
But one day, wicked Likho seized the girl, intent on robbing her of both joy and life. She fled into the shadowy depths of the ferns, unwilling to see anyone — not her father, nor her beloved brother. Her colourful skirt was replaced by the somber fronds of the ferns.
Unable to bear her sorrow, the brother toiled day and night in his workshop until he crafted a crystal that captured the very light of life for his sister. It was a work of greatness — unmatched before or since — but also of arrogance and folly. For no being save the Lord of Trees himself holds dominion over the light of life, and none can wield it. The brother did not return life to his sister but instead trapped it in her reflection within a mirror. There it became a thing both mighty and strange, but cold and lifeless as ice.
When he realised the error of his creation, and that he could do nothing more for her, despair and fury overtook him. In his madness, he shattered the mirror into five shards and cursed all life, transforming himself into Likho.
In time, Master Oak discovered four fragments of the mirror in the workshop. Recognising their perilous power, he entrusted each to the vigilant care of the Elemental Wardens. The tidecomers were to mingle theirs with the foam of the sea, the sylphs to scatter theirs upon mountain winds, the gnomes to hide theirs deep within underground labyrinths, and the dragons to melt theirs in volcanic lava. Master Oak warned them never to dare wield such power.
As for the fifth shard, no one knows what became of it. For a time, whispers rustled through the trees that the girl had taken the shard, pressed it to her heart, and returned with it to the shadow of the ferns. That tale, however, soon faded into legend — like the whole of this story. Yet some still believe that the girl may be seen wandering amidst the fern thickets, beautiful as a flower.
And so, to this very day, she is called the Fern Flower.
When Wélrod finished his tale, no one spoke for a while. At last, Falcho voiced the very question that had been circling in Férchén’s mind:
"What would happen if someone were to reunite those shards? Would he uncover the secret of the light that the brother discovered?"
The old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he fixed Falcho with his piercing gaze, sharp as that of a bird of prey. Férch thought that he himself would have already squirmed under the searing weight of such a stare, but Falcho remained completely unshaken. He met it with serene composure, his pale, porcelain face — made even paler by the moonlight — glimmering like a flawless diamond, adorned with a subtle, captivating smile.
He’s always perfect, Férch thought suddenly. Perfect Falcho.
"Not impossible," Wélrod at last replied. "Though no one knows for certain. Druid Nyre, one of the most esteemed sylph scholars, once believed that whoever reunites the shards of the mirror would not only possess the secret of the light of life but also gain dominion over the elements. Yet woe betide the one who dares to achieve such a thing."
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The crickets were still playing their songs in the grasses, filling the warm, dry night air, as Férchén leaned his elbows against the windowsill of the house they had taken for their short stay in the village. He rested his chin on his hands, smiling as he gazed into the darkness of the oak wood, listening to that strange, enchanting music of insects. Tendrils of forest plants creeping into the room brushed his face now and then.
Their father never liked living high up in the trees like most of the Forest Folk. Wherever they travelled, he always chose hollowed-out trunks near the base of trees or dwellings carved beneath sprawling roots. Mother oft laughed at this peculiar, gnomish habit of his to live close to the earth, though she never opposed him. And so now they slept in the hollowed-out trunk of a great oak, Méra and Fen below, whilst Férch and Falcho had their quarters on an inner floor built higher inside the tree.
At last, Férch tore his gaze from the night-shrouded forest and turned towards Falcho. The dim glow of a candle in its holder cast flickering light over his brother's lean figure. Falcho sat comfortably against the inner wall of the tree, arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out on his bed, which was draped with a blanket woven from oak leaves. His eyes were blissfully half-closed, and a smile lingered on his lips — his thoughts must have been dwelling on something pleasant.
"What are you thinking about?" Férchén asked.
"The same as you, sweet brother," Falcho replied without opening his eyes or moving an inch.
They both fell silent again. Férch smiled to himself, wider this time, and turned back to the window. About finding those shards and putting them back together, he mused dreamily.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and a faint breeze carried the hollow sound into their room. Férchén started. If it hoots again, we’ll succeed, a sudden, whimsical thought crossed his mind. He waited with growing impatience, straining to hear. Whenas the owl called out once more, his heart fluttered with innocent, childlike joy.
Yet Férch had something else on his mind that warm night — both in that moment and later, when he lay in bed, long after even the crickets had fallen silent. He kept thinking how much he wanted to speak with Wélrod once more ere they set off on their journey again. The thought clung stubbornly to his mind, refusing to let go, and because of it, Férchén might not sleep. In the stillness of the room, he listened to the breathing — his own and Falcho’s — equally restless and quickened, that meant his brother was awake as well. Yet they said nought to each other until morning.
Wélrod didn’t appear in the village for several days, and though Férch learned where the elder lived, he lacked the courage to visit without a proper reason. Eventually, however, the Tree Masters granted the young elf's wish, and an opportunity arose. On the eve of their departure, Fen asked Férchén to take a small pouch of farewell gifts to Wélrod that evening. Férch eagerly agreed, and as soon as they had finished supper and the sun slipped behind the treetops, beginning its slow descent westward, he grabbed the pouch and dashed through the oak wood towards its edge, beyond the village.
There, at the border where forest met meadow, birches stood tall, their bases encircled by lupins and slender wild grasses. Wooden steps spiralled upwards around the thickest and tallest of the birches. Férch raced up them, skipping two or three at a time, and only paused when he reached the balcony outside Wélrod’s home, partially bathed in the fading light of the setting sun.
Yet Wélrod was not home, and disappointment tugged at Férch’s heart as he imagined the elder might have wandered far from his tree for the entire night, leaving no chance for the boy to see him before their departure. His gloom lifted, however, whenas he glanced upwards through the curtain of delicate birch branches and spotted a wooden platform several limbs above. His sharp elven ears caught the faint sound of footsteps on it.
Looking around and finding no further staircase, Férch began climbing the trunk itself, marvelling inwardly at the elder’s nimbleness, for surely Wélrod must have reached the terrace the very same way.
When he reached the top, Wélrod sat upon the edge of the terrace, his legs dangling in the air, his back turned to the boy. Férch was thus taken aback as the elder greeted him by name.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked.
Wélrod chuckled softly and, without turning around, replied, “I knew you by your steps. Every pair of footsteps is different. You and your brother are so alike, yet your steps couldn’t be more unlike. Falcho’s tread is strong and sure, while yours is quick and restless, as though you are ever uncertain which way to go.”
Férch frowned; Wélrod’s words did not sit well with him. After all, he knew what he wanted just as much as Falcho did. His pride urged him to say as much, but he held his tongue.
“Father asked me to bring you a parting gift,” he said instead.
“Thank your father for me,” Wélrod replied. “Now set the gift on the table and come here.”
Tucking a stray lock of hair beneath his hat, Férch laid the pouch where the elder had bid him, then made his way to Wélrod’s side. He sat down beside him, letting his legs hang freely over the edge.
From this perch ‘mongst the branches, a wondrous view unfolded — one where the deep blue of twilight mingled with the golden-orange glow of the setting sun.
Soon the stars shall kindle like the flames of candles, thought Férchén, gazing up at the heavens in silent wonder. The thought stirred a sudden question within him.
“They say in the village that you read the future in the stars almost as well as the sylph scholars. Is it true? Can you truly do that?” He turned his gaze to Wélrod, a feverish curiosity now gleaming in his eyes.
The elder laughed once more.
“Even a fool may read the stars if he stares at them long enough over the course of many decades.”
Férch looked back up at the sky, pondering his next question. For a while, he hesitated, then surprised himself by not asking the thing that had consumed his thoughts for days — his own future. He had longed so desperately for Wélrod to speak of it, yet now, a sudden trepidation took hold of him. He realised he had no wish to know his fate ere it came to pass. So instead, he asked something else entirely:
“Is everything written in stars bound to come true?”
“Nay,” Wélrod replied, his smile enigmatic. “For nought is certain in the stars. From them, one may glean nought but murky inklings, as hazy as morning mist. It is not the stars, but we ourselves who shape our destinies, young Férchén. You shall come to know this for yourself one day.”
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*The elves of this tale live for nigh a thousand years, their age reckoned differently from that of humans. They come of age more slowly than humankind.