I watch the two play seeker for many more years by the reckonings of Father and Mother Moon. The most exciting games take place during harvest, where Eily, time as naught, would run through the golden grain fields, Elam stalking behind like a lion. Elam also has more places to hide in that season, though never does so in trees, even after Eily, having a strange gleam in her eye, determined to have Elam chase her through old Elnon’s branches once; he caught her with little difficulty. She, nonetheless undaunted, retried this strategy on several occasions, once falling and leading Elam to lunge in a spectacular dive to save her, catching her in his arms mid-jump and landing on his back in the dirt; she looked into his eyes for a long time after they landed and he felt heat in his face and ears.
Yet for all the games the two play and played, the track to adulthood had many other whiles and challenges, none the least of which found cause in Eily’s blossoming beauty. Oh, a gorgeous young woman she became, bluish emerald eyes fit to steal a heart and wavy blonde hair looking to be spun of gold and starlight. She possesses and shows a smile from which eyes cannot escape, a shy, alluring thing that sets a man’s heart to flame. Yet, while she looks a princess, she plays amidst the rowdiest of boys, no less afraid of getting dirty than a vain woman is of her mirror.
For this beauty, Eily had attracted not only every mother with a heart set on finding her son a fitting wife, but also every traveling drunkard, brigand, and rake who sought a woman’s caress. Elam, though still the quiet sort, had found no qualms with parting several of the cruder mouths with teeth and bloodying any of those who did not heed Eily’s decline of invitation.
Yet to do this Elam had to be strong—and so he became. He became an angler by trade and not the sort to use a net. No, he beset fish half his weight and more with an angling bow and hodging spear, growing into a man of dense, practical muscles and tan, weather-honed skin. Furthermore, backed by his yet undiscovered bloodline, his strength, despite what even his above average size would promise, proves deceptively beyond one might expect. His dirty blonde hair, which now falls a ways past his ears, shines the color of roasted grain, framing a well-chiseled face in its wild, unkempt fashion. He did not, however, grow hair on his face and, though Eily continually tired to remedy this, he found such gruffness uncomfortable and unbecoming. On the whole, he has grown into an attractive youth, setting young women to swoon when they look upon him and scowl at Eily when they see her with him.
The two have also became something nigh on inseparable, growing together and helping each other through their trials. They would take some meals under Elnon, Elam listening to Eily speak regarding the things that concerned her, both day to day trivialities and grand qualms. The two would go on long walks through the Promincian Wood, frequently forsaking the trail and exploring new places. But, most of all, the two would play seeker, even as both neared adulthood and, looking on Elam during his twentieth year and a beautiful harvest day, I see him doing just that.
He hides in a one of the grain fields, wholly and masterfully concealed. Yet, standing with him, I see he still has quite the predicament, as it is not his time to hide in Eily and Elam’s usual game; no, he is on the hunt. Eily, his prize, stands on Jutting Rock, the largest remnant among the Old Promincian ruins and a vestige of a decrepit inner perimeter wall. Yet, decrepit and long past its original design though it is, this place yet commands an inescapable view and he will have to cover some thirty armlengths in order to get to her. What is worse, Eily has elicited the help of four of the village younglings to aid her as sentries. Elam might evade two eyes, but how might he elude a full set? Such is a challenge, indeed! Nevertheless, such challenges exhilarate him and, sure as one’s next breath, he has a plan for besting her. With a large clod of dirt in his hand and speed ready in his feet, he bides the passing moments, waiting for the opportunity’s arrival.
And so that opportunity comes.
As a breeze begins to rustle the far parts of the grain field in a whooshing rush, he, with all his strength, hurls the clod into air, putting it in a wide arc over jutting rock. Just as he had planned, one of the younglings hears the noise when the dirt hits the ground.
“Dem Eily!” the little girl cries. “I heard something over here!”
The other three children come running and Eily stares at the grain field. “Elam,” Eily cries aloud. “We know you’re in there! Come on out!”
Hearing the wind near him, he grins to himself, ready to oblige. As stalks of grain around him began to rustle, he bursts from his hiding place with Elnein speed and the stealth of a Scairdeim, moving with the swift silence of a falcon’s shadow. He reaches Jutting Rock in undetected grace and, climbing, makes the task more a dance than a trial.
In the years spent chasing Eily, he had focused the magic in his blood toward coordination, unconsciously bending the considerable flexibility within his lineage toward becoming a better seeker.
Reaching the top and finding himself distanced from Eily by only a few armlengths and a heavy wooden door in its frame, he lunges toward her. Just as he would have taken her, the door slams. Despite the years that sought to rust it out of its frame, the remnant door possesses enchanted hinges and Eily, having turned but a moment before in order to bar his path, does so successfully. As he collides with the door with a loud thud, he hears the lock slip into place; then he stills, sighing aloud.
Eily, after all and despite Elam’s own great skill, is a master of being chased.
The iron door hatch opens, and Elam peers through it, his sight met with smug, sparkling eyes; seeing the way they curve, he knows she smiles, even without seeing her mouth. “I knew you would come this way.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you; no, you were very quiet.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Nor did I see you—or smell you—if you wish to know.” She pauses, smile in her eyes growing. “You see, Elam, I know you better than you know yourself and, hearing a noise before me how could I not immediately realize you would seek to sneak up on me from behind.”
Even still, he has a plan, snaking his hand up the door, just beneath the viewing hatch. After a pause, Elam speaks in an amused murmur, “So obvious, was I?”
Her eyes grow surprised. “Oh, he speaks?”
He laughs.
She leans in close and whispers though the hatch, “You can never surprise me, say Vaer.”
Just then, he reaches his hand through the hatch and tries to grasp at her.
He catches nothing.
A laugh trills from behind the door, Elam feeling a rush of semi-amused frustration.
“Elam. That won’t work.”
He removes his arm and peers at her through the hatch, seeing self-satisfaction in her viper eyes.
“No shortcuts. You are going to have to catch me good and proper, Dom Elam,” she says, voice quite playful. They look into each other’s eyes once more, one pair smug and the other determined. “Goodbye,” she says, disappearing.
Forced to make a swift decision, Elam resolves it will be faster to scale the door and the little bit of rock frame that remains above rather than attempt to finesse the lock or go around. Leaping toward a jut of wall, he plants a foot on the face and uses the force to spring himself high into the air, easily having enough energy to overtake the ledge and almost enough to jump clean over top. He swings himself over the frame and lands where Eily had stood several moments before.
Looking out, he sees Eily running a ways off, though not at full speed and with the younglings trailing behind. She twirls once as she runs, winking at him; such a taunt will cost her, he resolves. He sprints from Jutting Rock with all the speed he has; Eily shrieks in excitement and begins running with true intent, entering the grain field. He follows her, panther-like in his stride as they leave the younger villagers behind. He plunges into the grain and flies through the stalks, speed turning the golds, yellows, and browns to a streaking blur. Soon he catches sight of her and makes chase, gaining ground.
Thirty armlengths.
Twenty.
Ten.
Then, just as he reached out for her, they departs the grain fields and, with a snap-fast strike of her hand, Eily catches the trunk of a stout young tree, using it to change her course abruptly in a small swing and setting her new path toward the village. Elam, too late to replicate the maneuver, takes a wider turn, rectifying his course.
He chases her through an orchard, weaving in and out of trees; it proves a poor place to gain ground, he thinks, though pursues her nonetheless, making sure he does not trip on stray roots or give her any other opportunity to surprise him. Eily then exits the reserve, slamming the gate closed as she leaves; Elam, expecting this, leaps clean over it and follows her around the orchard’s storehouse.
As he rounds the corner, he collides with a cart there, not having the time to react properly. Trying to avoid causing damage, he makes a sprawling dive, knocking a couple frinns and apples from the cart as he does, but preserving the greater pile. He tumbles a little, but recovers, and begins picking up the fruit. Not particularly wanting to talk, he nonetheless feels he has to do so. “My apologies, Dem Huranna, I—”
“Oh, go on, Elam,” she interrupts him. “Say Vaer, she needs more catchen’ than I need helpen’.”
He looks at her, needing reassurance.
“That was a cruel trick of Eily’s and I’ll have her caught, if you can manage—now, get off with ye’.”
Elam offers her a small bow of the head and scrambles to his feet. Looking for Eily, he sees her; she has a smile on her face so grand that his world stops for a moment, she on the brink of hearty laughter. He shakes his head in disbelief and glares at her; Eily’s smile only grows. In an instant Elam is off and Eily, caught unprepared, shrieks, losing a moment or two before running again.
They soon reach Promincia, Elam having gained significant ground. He would have caught her, if not for a stunt she pulled with a burgon, startling the normally mild-mannered creature; Elam, though he indeed wanted to catch Eily, did not fancy meeting any of the creature’s four horns, or the immense muscled body behind them.
They enter the town, Elam trailing Eily carefully as she weaves through the crowd. Once more he has found himself in a place where speed will be of little use. As he runs, he watches her dodge and maneuver gracefully, looking as though she runs a well-known path or had done this very course—people and all—many times before. How can he not be amazed by her prowess—her skill at knowing when and where to move?
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
What a master at being chased Eily is.
With a last moment’s turn, Eily juts down a road, causing Elam, he already having committed to go down an adjacent alleyway, to slow greatly before continuing the chase. He makes his correction, kicking some dust into the air as he does, and sees her run toward the market, it the only place to go other than the little gaps between the close built building near the core of the town, which would be more of an advantage to him than her. Seizing the opportunity for haste, he rushes forward with all his swiftness and makes chase, eager to gain lost ground despite knowing he will not yet catch her. But then Eily stops, and Elam does likewise, seeing her stand before the entryway to the market some twenty armlengths away.
Is something the matter, he wonders.
Yet as she turns and smiles, he knows nothing had gone amiss. She simply wants to savor the moment, he guesses, and she predicted he would stop if she did. She then enters the market, disappearing into dim light and light din. Knowing there can be no time to strategize, the market liable and likely to change by the day, Elam enters.
As he moves though the main tent, hunting for Eily, he smells the sweet scent of frinn, then the smooth smell of nir, catching ciraisis and vulnes as he walks. While glimpsing nothing of Eily, he does see bundles of tealeaves and pipe weed, herbs and spices. He sees vegetables and fruits in large piles, some colorful as exotic birds, while others see fit to show a loamier brown or dusty maroon, among other rich colors. He passed a table of Alorancian potatoes, large brown tubers, and the sweet red ones beside; oh, how he loves the potatoes, especially with a bit of spice and after wedged, baked, and set for a time over a broil. He also notices a table with a particularly large stock of heavy woven bags, presumably rice stalk from Anu Dris Yaredey; such grain goes well with the fish he and his crew catch and they thusly have a wonderful trade agreement with the far-off city. As he walks, searching for Eily, he sees other foods, many of them strange and savory; part of him wishes to resign his search and simply content himself with asking the grocer questions about the wares and the places whence they came. But no, thatwill not do; he will come back later and after finding Eily.
As he enters the next section, the grumblings and rumblings within remind him that he has not eaten since firsts; after he finds Eily he will insist they take a meal before doing anything else and, if she refuses and wished him to hide, he would do so, though in a locked room with a meal. Looking about, he sees bags of spices, most of which have emblems of one trading company or another on them. He also sees a display of jars with spices whirling about within them; these are enchanted, he knows, and quite apt at making their flavors permeate a meal, even if they were a trifle difficult to handle before one gets the knack of it. He had not tried all of these—enchanted or no—though had hopes of doing so in time and the money he earns angling means he will be able to do so soon. Remembering Eily once more, he resolves to leave the place before the wells within his mouth flood the town and grumbling of his angry stomach shakes the world and collapses the market.
The next tent Elam enters contained oddities and he lifts a short prayer of thanks when he realizes of these are apt to keep encouraging his stomach to continue its begging. Within this tent of strangeness, he sees bottles filled with odd colored sands; small rocks that twinkle in the dim light; bones, big and small; stones with El’ambravian markings; beads, though not the kind used for money; tools he had never seen before; and other peculiarities. He thinks the place queer, though certainly worthy of several days exploring, and, perhaps, a measure beads parting.
He then sees a strange black orb and his mind latches to it, senses enamored. The black sphere looks—no, feels—powerful. It holds an unchallenged blackness, yet other colors also— colors he cannot so much see as sense, strange as that is.
This thing is called a tapstone and, though Elam does not yet know it, such a magical object will become a very common sight to him. But alas, this will not be so for another pass of Father Moon and he has yet another harvest before he discovers the more magical elements within himself.
Before he has more time to inspect the tapstone, Elam senses an odd gaze upon him and turns, seeing an old woman smile from behind a stand in another pavilion. He peers at the woman, noticing her grey-white eyes. A familiar feeling of inscrutable discomfort washes over him, causing gooseflesh to prickle his skin. Though he has seen the woman nigh on a hundred times, the feeling never becomes less uncomfortable; he believes she might be concealing something—and something magical. Yet, and even considering this feeling, he has looked at the woman and she at him; it will be rude to not at least peruse her offerings.
As he entered the pavilion where she sells her wares—her pavilion—it seems, as no others are with her. Yet Elam gets the strange feeling that Eily is near. He scrutinizes the place and sees stack upon stack of wicker containers, woven both tight for the holding of small seeds and loose for carrying of fruit and storing of goods. Some were small, while others had enough space to fit a small horse, or, more likely, enough hay to feed one for a time. Yet all of these baskets look—no feel—empty—oddly empty—and, even if the closed baskets were full, he gets the sense he would know what they contain. This gives him a most strange feeling.
“Hello young master Elam,” she says, obviously amused.
“Dem Azoleile,” he replies, plainly not recalling his reading of that name nor associating the text with this smiling ancient.
She chuckles. “I take it you are looking for young Eily?”
Elam nods, still bewildered; he finds it strange how a woman so old can be so beautiful, she having a haunting presence about her.
“Hmm…,” she muses. “Perhaps it is time you looked with something other than your eyes, young man.”
This confuses him, of course, though he yet feels Eily’s proximity somehow. He stares at the woman, inquisition in his eyes.
She laughs again and smiles. “Oh, young man, I am afraid that is all you will get from me.”
Elam bows his head a little, acknowledging the favor she has already shown him, but wishing he knew where his Eily hid. Nevertheless, he feels as though having to find her might be acceptable, so long as he does not have to talk to the discomforting old woman again. He peers around, though only sees—only feels—empty baskets. Yet, as he looks, he begins to know—for he has not another word for describing the feeling—what is meant to be placed in each of the containers. One speaks to him of dirty clothes needing wash; it is a thick woven thing with hardy handles. Another is to hold some spherical orange fruit he had never before seen; it is cylindrical, thin, and will hang well… a fruit dispenser of sorts? Then he comes to a shallow oval basin; this one will hold a baby, and a baby he seems to recognize, strange though such a familiarity is to him.
He turns around, more than willing to break his normal quietness if only this odd, ill-confronting sensation can be explained, though, before he has the chance to speak, he feels an overwhelming rush of knowledge when he stares at a particular basket; the old woman smiles.
Just as surely as Elam stands, he knows—knows—Eily hides in that basket. He takes pause and stares at the thing; he cannot see into it, as the wicker weave proves tight and the lid has been securely placed. Nonetheless, he knows. He looks up to the old woman, not needing reassurance, though welcoming it; she smiles and nods.
He takes a step toward the basket and, in an instant, a bit of brewing chaos comes to boil.
Eily explods from the container in a mania, evidently not wanting to be caught; this sets Elam to stagger back in surprise, knocking over a stack of baskets as he does. As Eily seeks to escape, though before she manages to leave the basket, one of her feet catches on the container’s handle and she begins to fall, flailing as she did; Elam seeing this as it happened and catching his wits, forgets all about seeking and focuses on catching her; the falling stacks of baskets, meanwhile, collide with another and set that pile to falling as well. Eily, falling, finds course to stare at Elam; Elam seeing that look in her eyes and feeling it in his heart, lunges to catch her; more baskets fell. Eily, finding catch in Elam’s arms, looks into his eyes, becoming calm as she does; Elam, kneeling as he holds her, gazes at her with a the look of a man having come back from a great fear; the last of the baskets began falling. The two looks at one another for a long time, silent and still, attentions unbidden by the growing mess of strewn containers about them.
As I watch, I felt a familiar presence beside me; without turning, I speak, “Love.”
“Fate,” Love answers.
“What brings you here?”
“Oh, just admiring my handiwork.” Love peers over at me. “And I was thinking of you.”
I chuckle.
“What?” Love asks.
I turn and smile. “That is kind of you and this—” I motion to Eily and Elam. “—this is very good work, indeed.”
Love smiles again. “You are watching Elam’s path now, yes?”
“Correct.”
Love’s smile grows. “Well this should be exciting, then.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh,” Love says, voice becoming playful, “just that there is a little something ahead that you might find amusing.”
“Oh?”
“Something is brewing in that one’s mind,” Love says, pointing to Eily.
“Is it now?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“But I must leave that to her story, my dear.”
“Oh, I know,” Love says with a sigh. “You and your rules.” But then her joy renews. “But, that is not to say you will not catch hints of it before nightfall.”
I chuckle. “Very well then; you have most surely caught my interest.”
Love smiles and looked at me.
I look back, glad to see Love once more.
“Goodbye Fate.”
“Goodbye, Love.”
With that, Love disappears.
I return my attention to the two, seeing Elam has helped Eily from the ground. Presently, Elam turns and sees all the baskets strewn about. “Dem Azoleile,” he says, troubled heart overriding his quietness. “My apologies regarding the baskets; I—.”
“Pardon?”
Elam looks at her, confused. “I have—,” he says and this is the only thing he manages as, when he turns to gesture toward the fallen baskets, he sees the containers have reordered themselves, precarious stacks standing once more, exuding their empty feeling.
He turns back to her, dumbstruck.
“Now go on, you two. Your hearts are young and needing of joy; let not this old woman keep you.”
Eily gives Azoleile a smile, seemingly unaware of the baskets, and, taking Elam’s hand, leads him out; he follows, still a bit bewildered. Yet, as he walks, a pull on him grows—a need to go back—an inescapable longing within him begs his return.
He looks at the old woman over his shoulder and she returns his gaze. Unable to walk any further, he turns to Eily. “Wait for me a moment?” She, like always, looks at him and savors his words as if they are springs of water found in the hottest wastes of the Purrian desert and he, likewise, feels a near overwhelming flush of coyness at such a gaze. “I….” He looks away, overcome. “I’ll be back.”
Not giving Eily an opportunity to intensify her look and crush him with nervous discomfort in doing so, he turns and makes his way back to Azoleile.
He approaches her and prepares to speak, yet knows not what to say. Yet he is saved from this as, before his words comes, she places something in his hand, though lookes into his eyes. He peers down and, seeing a leather pouch, opens it, overcome with contemplative curiosity. Inside there are two bottles.
Immediately he knew the thing drawing him back had not come from a need to speak with Azoleile, but rather to get these trinkets.
He looks at one of the identical pieces with careful eyes, seeing the beauty its demure simplicity. The bottle is wrought of a fine crystal and looks like inverted teardrops, thick at the top, though curving down to points where each meet a small, spherical ball. On the neck, there is a ring fashioned of a fine metal, though the material looks more strong than beautiful—perhaps wrought of dris relou? Certainly not Veusrel, which is to say, ow elrel, but not iron or steel. A similar ring rests at the bottom where the bottle meets the bulb. From these two rings there issue a series of interwoven cords which create a latticework about the surface; also fashioned within the top rings are two loops for setting the treasures on necklaces and presently a thick leather cord is used.
Elam looks at Azoleile and she smiled, closing his hand upon the treasures. “I believe these will assist you in several ways, though will present a burden as well.” Yet at this, the woman’s eyes became cautionary, and voice serious. “It will contain the thing you put within, though no longer that it must; heed this well, child.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice coming of its own will. He reaches for his purse.
“That is not necessary,” she says, and he looks at her. “These were made for you,” she replies and the weight of the statement suddenly makes him feel… something. Heavier? Realer? Suddenly outside of time for a moment?
It is as though she had emphasized every word without muddying the meaning. The words… they meant something.
He does not understand this, yet somehow knows she will not speak more on the matter. Something like this, he knew, is wrapped up in Fate and, I, being Fate, concur.
Sensing the time for words had passed, Elam nods in a light bow and makes toward Eily, slipping each of the bottles into a deep pocket of his trousers. He then takes pause, thinking for a moment. Coming to a decision, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pebble that he always kept there for luck. He turns and places it on the table for Azoleile, who, nodding and smiling with a genuineness he had never seen before, takes it.
He returns to Eily and they begin walking.
Eily takes Elam’s hand as they go.