CHAPTER SIX - WRITINGS ON THE WALL

Aethaden’s eyelids fluttered open.  He stared up in confusion at the white plaster ceiling lined with dark beams. This was not his bedroom.  He had no idea where he was.  But, oddly, he did not feel alarmed.  For other than having a small blank in his memory, he felt good and safe.

The goodness was especially alluring to him. How long had it been when he had woken up and not still felt exhausted and achy?  He couldn’t remember. But it had not been recently.  He was snuggled beneath a comforter that was scented with lavender.  It rested lightly on his body, light as a cloud. He was comfortably warm, but not overly so.  The bed he rested on was that perfect mixture of softness and firmness. He was cradled essentially.

Warm sunlight fell across the bottom of the bed from windows at the far end of the room. The sunlight was a particular beautiful golden hue.  The wind that streamed in through the partially open windows tasted sweet with the scents of pine and flowers. He stretched his arms above his head and felt his spine stretch deliciously.  He truly felt so good.  Healthy, even.

Aethaden sat up and looked around him.  The room was homey, even a little rustic with its plain walls and simple wooden furnishings.  This might be something he’d seen in a peasant’s cottage except there would have been some Valore style of carving - a delicate, sweeping style - on the backs of chairs or the pattern in the blue and gray rag rug. But there were not.

Human, he realized.  This is a human dwelling.

And this thought brought the night’s events rushing back to him in a torrent.  He put a hand to his forehead as he grew dizzy with the memory of using Nocht to create the portal, of the human defeating three Black Knights with Arthalash without suffering any ill effects from the magical blade, and finally, the Violine, whose very presence told him Blades existed in this world.

A Royal Blade exists here.  My Blade.

The human must have brought him here to rest.  Aethaden ran his hands over his body. The human had removed his outer cloak, greaves and boots, but had not undressed him further than was necessary to make him comfortable.  His outer cloak and both weapons were on a nearby chair. The robe had been neatly hung over the back while the weapons were standing upright in the seat. His armor was placed on the ground.  He had not been molested seemingly in any way, but treated with respect.

He likely knows that he would be punished for doing anything untoward, but still, he had me alone, unconscious and unable to fight back. Our lore says that a human would not pass up such an opportunity.  

Aethaden frowned.  This human had been able to wield Arthalash, defeat three Black Knights and had not harmed him. He must be a special human. Perhaps he was the servant of the Royal Blade. A Blade of that strength could civilize a human to this degree.  

Perhaps this is my Blade’s home.  He may have taken to living very simply. He couldn’t have brought much with him when he was exiled and a warrior is not an artisan.

Aethaden’s quick mind began to make up a story about this Royal Blade.  The Elven King pictured him as a great hunter and beneficent ruler of all the humans near and far. He would often be in the woods, protecting these primitive mortals from any dark things that managed to get through the Veil.  He would also bring the game he killed back to the villages and share this bounty with the much lesser skilled human hunters.

Perhaps the young man that had saved Aethaden had been one of these villagers. Perhaps he’d been orphaned when his parents were felled by dread monsters that the Royal Blade later vanquished. Then feeling that this orphan had merit more than the other humans, the Royal Blade had taken the child into his household and trained him! That made a sort of romantic sense to Aethaden, even though he knew it was likely just foolish speculation.

But where is the Royal Blade now? Is he here in this house?  Perhaps that is why I feel so much better.  But would he not be by my side if he was here?

He imagined that his Royal Blade would not want to leave him alone, but perhaps he felt like he had to, because of the Black Knights getting through. The human could have returned to this house, telling his master all that had occurred, and the Royal Blade had felt compelled to go hunt to make sure all was well after he had seen to Aethaden’s welfare. Aethaden’s eyes fell upon a second chair in the room on the opposite side of the bed.  In it was evidence of someone having sat there. Aethaden’s gaze softened.

His Blade had stayed with him, but had had to leave, undoubtedly, to patrol the forest, leaving him to rest.   Perhaps his Blade had removed his armor and settled him down in bed, caring for him so chastely, as a Blade should unless offered more.  Aethaden had been so certain that he would not want anything to do with his Blade when he was young, but now? Now he felt so grateful to this unknown Blade, the one that was saving him from pain and death.

I will greet him when he returns.  I will meet him at the front door and show him that, though he refused to the bond before, that now he has another chance. There is no harshness or bad feelings in my heart towards him.  We will go forward together.

Aethaden carefully swung his feet out of bed and placed them on the honey-colored wood floor. The floor was warm from the sun. He flexed his toes with pleasure.  When he stood up, there was no weakness, no swaying. He felt light on his feet. He actually took a few steps and spun around.  He laughed as no weakness - other than the usual kind - assailed him from this simple act.  Before it would have tired him out terribly but not now.

He went to the windows and looked out.  He could see a small field filled with wild flowers and long grass. The forest surrounded it.  He saw Anam grazing in the field. The golden sunlight poured down upon his trusty steed and Aethaden smiled. Anam looked to be quite content with all the sweet flowers and green grass to munch.  The human world was not at all as terrible as he had thought it would be.

As he went over to slide on his boots, he considered his own beliefs about the human world. He had imagined a place where, if the sun shone at all, it gave only paltry, weak light. He thought that there would be vile, dark pools where twisted animals drank the poisoned water.  He imagined humans as wild as those animals, killing each other and anything else they could get their hands on. But the scene outside this rustic, yet comfortable room told another story. The human world was actually beautiful.

After he’d pulled up his boots, he stood up. He contemplated whether to take his cloak or not and also what to do with his weapons.  It would be an insult to have weapons on his person when he greeted his Blade. He checked the level of magic within him to see if he could protect himself against any humans. It was still very low. It would take time for him to recover from using Nocht.  But without being in his Blade’s home, he likely would have been devastated by the use of it. This was just a normal level of magic loss.  Even without bonding with his Blade, he was already recovering.  

I will treat my Blade’s home with respect and trust I will not need my weapons here.

The cloak he also chose to leave where it was. If he went outside to wait for his Blade he could always have one of the servants go fetch it.  He assumed there were servants.  Humans would long to be in the Blade’s presence and would wish to serve him. He was surprised that they were not right outside the door when he opened it, but the hallway was empty.  Yet he heard someone talking and laughing seemingly to themselves.  Not to mention there were delicious smells wafting up the stairs.  His stomach grumbled.

He recognized the human’s voice from the night before though he had no idea what he was saying.  Not that it mattered. He and his Blade would not be staying here for long. Though his Blade would be loathe to leave the humans he had protected so long, he would understand that his first duty was to the Valore.  And also, he would be grateful to go home. His exile would have taught him to long for home.

Aethaden frowned then.  How had the Blade survived so long without being bonded? But then an answer came to him. His parents had said that some Blades were meant to be with certain Undriels. Aethaden and this Royal Blade must be one of those rare bonded pairs.  And since, Aethaden hadn’t yet turned 1000 until recently, the Blade must have suffered no ill consequences. But after that he would have been as weakened as Aethaden had been.

We are both recovering now that we are together.

With that thought, Aethaden walked down the stairs to the sounds of human singing.

***

Ciaran belted out “Feel So Good” into the back of the spoon he was using to stir the eggs. Twig watched his performance from the kitchen island where she was eating her ration of bacon.  He finished up the song with a flourish of the spoon that caused bits of egg to splatter the top of the island. He didn’t need to worry about cleaning it up, because Twig took care of that for him with her tongue.

“So how do they taste?  Good enough that a certain pointy-eared someone will like them?” he asked Twig who smiled at him in response.  He frowned. “Elves do eat eggs, don’t they? And bacon?  Or what if he’s a vegetarian? I did make some toast, but that’s not enough.  Maybe I should see what else Mrs. Gallifrey brought for us.”

He went to the refrigerator to check out the bounty that she’d bought and carefully put away for them. There were butcher paper covered steaks, slabs of ribs, whole chickens, pork chops and tenderloins, all ready for the grill or oven. The crisper was full of vegetables from red peppers to green onions.  He saw fresh butter, cream and more eggs likely from her own chickens. There were plastic wrapped wedges of sharp cheddar and oozing brie. Bright oranges, dark purple plums, and sweet nectarines filled bowls on the counter and tables. There were plenty of dry and canned staples in the pantry as well. Truly, he, Twig and his unnamed Elf could eat for a month without going to the store!

“Well, Twig, I think we’ll have plenty to offer our guest,” he said as he shut the door.  “I’m hoping that the smell of bacon and eggs will draw him down though he was sleeping pretty deeply when we left him.”

The night before, Ciaran had carefully carried the unconscious Elf to the room his parents had normally slept in. He’d tucked him into bed after stripping off his armor, cloak and boots before covering him with a comforter. He’d almost lit a fire in the fireplace, but it was too warm for that.  The Gallifreys had even put kindling and wood in the fireplaces for him in every room.

He’d made sure all the doors and windows were locked securely before he bedded down in a chair by the Elf’s side with Twig curled on his chest.  He’d slept more deeply than he’d had in years. He’d woken up fully refreshed as well just as the sun was coming up.  He’d looked over at the Elf’s sleeping face and felt such a sense of peace.  He’d also been relieved, because with the Elf still there, that meant he hadn’t hallucinated the night before. He’d been fascinated by the pale, perfect features and the waterfall of silken hair.  

He’d been surprised by how energized he’d felt, even though the sun had barely touched the horizon. Not wanting to rouse the Elf, he had crept out with Twig around his neck and the two of them had gone out on the deck to watch the sunrise.  Then he’d made coffee he was only drinking for the taste as he felt brilliantly awake. They’d let Anam - at least he thought that was the horse’s name from what the Elf had called him the night before - out into the field. The intelligent animal hadn’t strayed far from the house so he felt secure in letting it remain free rather than in the fenced garden.

Then he’d begun breakfast.  A big breakfast. He’d hardly been hungry for days, but now he was ravenous.  Twig was, too. They’d missed supper last night and he’d been too exhausted to cook when they got in. It wasn’t the exhaustion of illness, but of simply having fought a battle.

A literal battle!

He grinned as he thought back to it.  He’d re-enacted the whole thing with Twig twice already that morning, but the fox seemed no less excited to hear it every time. After all she had played quite the role against those crazy knight things, too.  Both of them had been heroes.

He was about to launch into it a third time, when he heard a light footfall on the stairs.  His head snapped towards the sound and he saw the person he’d hoped to. The Elf paused in mid step and looked more luminous in sunlight than he had the night before.  Ciaran’s mouth went dry. One of the Elf’s hands self-consciously moved to his long hair that fell in long, luscious waves and glittered like starlight. Upon seeing that Ciaran saw his nervous movement, the Elf’s hand shot back down to his side and he stood up, proud and tall and regal.  

“Good morning,” Ciaran said, making sure his tone was friendly and welcoming since it was clear that the Elf did not understand him, but was also frightened of him.  

He raised the spoon in greeting, too, but quickly lowered it, feeling a bit like an idiot to be waving utensils about. A single droplet of egg flew across the room and landed on the floor. Both he and the Elf watched it land.  Twig had been watching, too. She dashed from the island and raced to the spot of egg. It quickly disappeared as her tongue slid out and lapped it up.

“Uhm, that wasn’t intended, but it's definitely a reason for keeping Twig around.” He grinned, again hoping tone and body language would cause the Elf to know that he meant no harm.

“Violine,” the Elf said softly as, after making absolutely sure there was no more egg on the floor, Twig had dashed over to him.

The Elf leaned down and Twig leaped into his arms. The Elf straightened and brought the fox to his chest, kissing and cuddling Twig until she looked like she was drunk on Elf love.  Once more, Ciaran was struck with how much Twig seemed to like the Elf. Maybe she did enjoy him as much as she did Ciaran. He wasn’t jealous. He told himself he really wasn’t. But when Twig laid back completely in the Elf’s arms, exposing her soft tummy to be scratched, he frowned a little. Just a little.  As this was something she had only done with him before.

“Her name is Twig,” he said a little stiffly.

The Elf looked up at him.  Ciaran pointed at the fox.

“Twig,” he said slowly and clearly.

The Elf’s beautiful mouth turned down. He said just as slowly and clearly, “Violine.”

“No, no, she’s a fox and her name is Twig,” he explained again.

The Elf carefully pointed to the fox again and mouthed very clearly, “Violine.”

“Okay, fine, call her what you want, but she won’t answer to that,” Ciaran muttered. But as he continued to see the Elf pet Twig and the tension bleed out of that beautiful being, his momentary burst of jealousy faded to nothing. “I’m making breakfast.”

The Elf looked over at him again and then to the stove behind him. At that moment, he smelled something burning and spun around.

“Shit!” he cried.

The bacon was nearly fried to a crisp, but he managed to save it.  He quickly took the very crispy pieces out of the cast iron pan and onto paper towels to drain the fat away. The eggs were perfectly scrambled, not too wet or dry, but instead creamy and rich.

“I don’t know what you like so I thought I’d just make something basic,” he said over his shoulder to the Elf.

The Elf had come all the way down the stairs now and was lingering, uncertainty,  between there and the kitchen table which was set with two place settings. Ciaran had squeezed some of the oranges so there was fresh squeezed orange juice in a pitcher. There was also an assortment of teas and a pot of hot water.

“Help yourself to whatever you’d like to drink,” he said.

But the Elf remained where he was, petting Twig - or Violine - by the stairs.  

He has no idea what I’m saying.  This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

Ciaran plated the bacon and eggs for both of them. He buttered a bunch of toast and put slices of it on both plates as well. There was jam already set out on the table. He set both plates down and gestured for the Elf to be seated. He then took a spot himself. He thought that maybe if he started eating that the Elf would follow suit.  So he poured himself some orange juice and tucked into the eggs.

He had been right.  The Elf sat down gingerly on the chair opposite him.  The table was a rectangular rustic affair that had at one time been a barn door.  It was sanded smooth yet still had traces of the rich, red paint on its surface in places.  Everything in the house had, at one time, been something else. His mother told him it had been the way her family kept the past alive.  He’d always loved that idea. Now though seeing an Elf eating off a barn door, he couldn’t help but feel that it was the strangest contrast: the elegant Elf and the very worn door.

Twig lightly leaped out of the Elf’s arms and settled herself on the table between them.  She looked longingly at their plates. She’d definitely cage a few bites of eggs, bacon and toast from him before the meal was done. He wondered if the Elf would be as generous.

The Elf watched him eat for long silent moments. He then reached for a fork and put a small amount of eggs on the tines.  His delicate pink tongue slipped out and tasted them. Ciaran found himself holding his breath to see what the result of that tasting was.  The Elf’s expression immediately brightened and he slid the entire forkful into his mouth. He then attacked a piece of bacon before biting into the buttered toast.  

Ciaran had stopped eating just to watch the Elf do so.  The Elf was both delicate and voracious in his eating. He put the tiniest bit of jam on an edge of the toast to taste.  When he discovered it was delicious, he put tons of the red raspberry stuff all over the slice and then devoured it. Crumbs and a smear of jam was on his face.  He caught Ciaran looking at him and blushed scarlet as Ciaran motioned to his own cheek to show something was on the Elf’s face. The Elf quickly wiped himself clean with the napkin.

“It’s okay.  Don’t be self-conscious.  You’re hungry and you like how everything tastes. That’s good. I’ll make you some more,” Ciaran offered after the Elf scraped his fork over the now empty plate.   “Here, have my toast while you wait.”

He put the remaining slice on the Elf’s plate.  The Elf’s purple eyes - they were actually, purple, another sign he wasn’t normal  - looked up into his and he said something that Ciaran was pretty sure was “thank you”.

“You’re welcome.”  Ciaran rose and gave Twig a warning look. “Don’t filch my bacon. You get to eat at the end.”

Twig gave him a smile, which he didn’t altogether trust.  But he wanted to make sure the Elf had plenty to eat so he had to hope that Twig didn’t let her base nature lead her. He headed over to the stove and turned on the burner beneath the cast iron skillet. It heated in no time and he put in a knob of butter before getting more eggs to crack and scramble.

“So, I know you can’t understand me, and I’m not sure how we’re going to work this all out,” Ciaran said, knowing the Elf still wouldn’t understand him, but wanting to speak his thoughts out loud.  He found that he thought more clearly that way. “You came through a portal so it’s not like you have people around here. Or maybe your people use portals all the time and that’s how the myth of Elves came to be.  So the thing is: can you go home? Do you want to go home? Why were those terrible creatures following you? Will more come? What’s your name?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see if the Elf was listening to him.  But the Elf wasn’t even at the table any longer. He was kneeling down in front of a bookshelf on the far wall.  That bookshelf held ancient copies of books by Dickens and Tolstoy, even a copy of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. But that was not what fascinated the Elf.  He had found the old green leather journals that were nearly brown with age on the very bottom shelf. Ciaran paused in his stirring of the eggs as he saw the Elf almost reverentially brushed his fingers down their spines.

These were journals of a long dead ancestor on his mother’s side.  The writing in them was of no known language that he or any of his relatives were able to identify and one of them, at least, had taken it to a university. The language, ironically, reminded him of the Elvish language created by Tolkien. His mother was convinced there was actually a translation between this language and English, French, German, among others in the journals themselves, but it was hard to follow.  

“I used to look at them over and over again as a child,” his mother had said when she’d shown them to him when they had come here.  “I’ve always felt that I should be able to read this language.” Her fingers danced across the faded ink.  Her voice was just a whisper as she said, “It calls to me.”

The Elf pulled out one of the volumes and let it fall open in his hands. He let out a gasp and then covered his mouth with one hand.  Ciaran saw tears in the Elf’s eyes. When the Elf saw him looking over, he extended the book towards him and made a writing gesture with his other hand, he then pointed to the door and then made the writing gesture again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he said gently, lowering himself to his haunches by the Elf.  “What are you asking me?”

He reached for the journal, but the Elf pulled it back and held it tightly against his chest protectively. He clearly thought that Ciaran was going to take it away from him.

But what could be so important about these old journals?

As soon as he thought that though, he had another thought as well. He’d always “joked” that the writing looked Elvish, but what if it really was?  Those terrible black armored creatures had come to these woods before so what about Elves, too? What if this journal was written by an Elf?

But it's one of my ancestors so what am I suggesting? That I’m part Elf?

The idea was ludicrous, but it also wasn’t. Not when he was looking at one of these mythical beings.  At that moment though, he heard the crunch of gravel. He glanced out of the windows and saw the Gallifreys parking their car.  Panic surged through him.

He quickly stood up.  The Elf had turned his head and saw the approaching people, too.  He stiffened, but made no move to hide himself.

“You have to go back upstairs!  You can’t be seen!” Ciaran hissed at the Elf and made a shooing motion with his hands that the Elf stared at stonily.  “Oh, come on! You know what I’m asking you to do, don’t you? Just a little bit?”

The Gallifreys were on the porch. They would be knocking on the screen door any moment.  He went to reach for the Elf, but the Elf lurched back from him, nostrils flared, eyes wide with alarm. He quickly drew back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But you have to go upstairs!” Ciaran begged.

He’d just about lost hope when Twig jumped down from the table and went up to the Elf. She chattered at him and, to his shock, the Elf nodded as if he understood what she was saying. And what was she saying?

The Elf grabbed several more volumes of the journals and immediately headed upstairs.  He made a wide berth around Ciaran and Ciaran did not make a move to go after him. He had things to deal with down here even if the Elf hadn’t made it very clear he didn’t want Ciaran to touch him.

He looked at Twig though, carefully, very carefully. “You told him to go upstairs, didn’t you?”

The fox cocked her head to the side and smiled at him.

He shook his head slowly. “You and I are going to talk about this.  But later … Violine.”

Twig made a chattering, happy noise.  Ciaran stared at her a moment longer before going to the door to greet the Gallifreys. He hadn’t thought that he would have more questions today than he’d had last night, but clearly, he was wrong.

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