Very rough draft (PG)

[Flake]

Well, I've had the idea for this story going on ten years now, and although I've tried to put it on paper before, I never really had any sort of vision for a plot. I have one now, it came upon me last night and begged me to stay up on a caffiene binge. It's one of those things where the imaging for it keeps pouring in as I write it.

The world that this exists in is not one that is currently out there, and while it takes bits and pieces from other fantasy worlds, I wanted to make something a little more unique, or just a litte bit Flake-ish.

I started out with the ending, I figure I've tried starting from the beginning so many times, I might as well try something new. I've got a picture for the end, and was simply trying to fill in pieces of the backstory to explain some of it. Half way through, I realized that it was way too. . .umm. . .lame, so I switched it up a bit, replaced some things, so there isn't a real cohesiveness between all my ideas, but the general gist is there.

Oh, and as a note, the race of Elves is simply a placeholder name. The folks in this story are tall, muscular, and about the only thing they have in common with Elves from other fantasy genres is the fact that they have pointed ears and live a loooooong time.

That being said, I hope some of it comes across, but keep in mind there's about 1200 years of backstory that's not included (it's still in my head). Feel free to critique, suggest, whatever, but most of all, enjoy! :)

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He stared into her eyes. They were much shallower than they had seemed before. Devoid of the rich color he had seen, bloodshot, tired, not the Great Sea he had often compared them to. Her eyebrows were piqued, he had never seen this expression from her. Pained. . .tormented. . . Unfamiliar to the confident woman he once knew.

Her hair was strewn in all directions. The flat, black color had replaced her once curly auburn hair that graced her head for so many years. She wrinkled her forehead, pinching the tatoos that bridged across her temples. He had not forgotten whose hands made those markings.

He strained to see the tattoos on her face. They remained, but her skin was considerably darker than he remembered. The eyes of Omech, the branch of Hek'Horare, the fingers of Laesh. They had carried such meaning in their trials and training. The bond that had grown between them was strengthened by the marks of the Miri'Karoh, the lost people.

He surveyed the sides of her face. Her cheekbones still kept their slender shape, leading back, past the scar that he had accidentally inflicted on her while training with the old, rusty swords they collected so many years ago, to her ears. They curved upwards, ever so gently. The peak of her ears were never as pronounced as his, but no one would mistake the fact that she was Elven. He remembered the words that he whispered into those ears, the words she had heard, the language, the meaning. . .Sheh Sheh

She opened her mouth slightly, her lips trembled, and for a moment, it seemed as though she were about to speak, but she closed her mouth, swallowed, and continued to look into his eyes. He wished there was something he could say, but now, he wasn't sure of anything.

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[edited for spelling]

[Flake]

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Steam rose from the thousands who lay now dead upon the fields of Araoth. The dim winter's light sent a diffused glow above the bloody scene, as soldiers of the Peshoan army searched for wounded men and salvageable weapons. The mighty siege weapons lay in shambles around the city's beautiful walls. Most of the fortifications glowed with a haunting blaze, as the charred corpses of the city's defenders hung in precarious positions along the ramparts.

The gates of the glorious Elven city Araoth now lay in splinters, much like they did a thousand years ago, their former glory long forgotten. The few towers that remained intact billowed forth plumes of black smoke, blown south, away from the city itself. The stench of death and smoke filled everyone's nostrils, as many of the soldiers covered their mouths and noses with rags.

The steps leading to the palace were worn from millennia of weather, ancient nobles socializing, armies of great kings marching, children playing upon them, thousands of years ago. The marble pillars that supported the great hall showed the signs of wars past. The palace itself, with the clear blue sky behind it, reflected a dull glow, far from the glory that it once displayed. If it were not for the soldiers scurrying about, one could believe that no one had even seen this once beautiful structure in hundreds of years.

Atop the steps, in front of the palace gates, which were still intact, stood Odov, commander of the Peshoan army. The steel on his boots was covered in mud, his chain and plate leggings had evidence of sword strikes, as did his silver breastplate. His spaulders showed signs of having deflected countless arrows. His helm revealed his slightly peaked ears, but the nose piece was bent beyond practicality, and the red horse hair that had decorated the peak was now simply pathetic tatters. When cleaned, Odov's armor was almost blindingly bright, but, covered with mud and blood, scuffed and scarred from battle, it rendered very little reflection.

From his back rose the standard of King Her'Avor, king of Peshoah, which briskly flapped in the wind. The black sunrise upon the blood red background of the flag seemed fitting. Today had been a day of action, and Odov's weapons showed the grim reality of the events that unfolded. His curved blades, although the fighting had been over for some time, were held tightly in his hands, the Elven runes that normally glowed blue were now masked in the dried blood of the Trevians.

King Her'Avor walked up the steps towards his commander. His bright red armor, which used to glitter brilliantly beneath the sunlight, was also caked in mud. The king faced the Elf as he removed his helm, and addressed the muscular figure of Odov, "My friend, you are the reason for our success."

The left corner of Odov's mouth raised slightly, a small cut on his cheek opened, and fresh blood coated the insignificant wound. He perused the battlefield, inhaling deeply and releasing a sigh that Avor knew had been waiting for a thousand years to escape. The king perched his hands upon his waist and said, "I always wondered how these walls looked from the inside."

Odov nodded slightly. Avor put his hand understandingly upon his commander's shoulder. Avor was proud to have known this warrior, but something in Odov's carriage of himself suggested that he was not at ease. Avor smiled sympathetically, and said, "You seem troubled, my friend. What is it you wish?"

Odov looked through his helmet at the young king, studying his face. He had served the kings of Peshoah since the unification three hundred years ago, and Avor was no doubt the youngest he had ever served. The youngest, and by far the most tenacious. The Her dynasty was renowned for its warrior-kings, and Avor was by no means any different. Odov had seen the king, along side his own soldiers, fighting for the glory of his kingdom. He is wise, Odov contemplated to himself, He knows where a king should be.

He carefully thought through what he might ask of this man who ruled over the majority of the known world. After a few moments of silence, Odov calmly requested, "I wish to enter the throne room of Araoth alone."

Avor nodded, but as Odov turned around to enter the palace gates, the king said, "Perhaps I could ask why this is all you desire."

King Her'Avor knew precisely why this was his request. He had heard the legends that the only Elves to survive the Trevian invasion over one thousand years ago were members of the royal family, and although Odov was not an Elven name, certainly not one given to royalty, he was the first and only Elf the king had ever seen. Avor assumed that the name was given to him by the same people who gave him the markings on his face and body, the marks of the Miri'Karoh, the lost people.

Truth be told, Avor believed that the Elven kingdoms were simply fairy tales told to young princes, that is, until Odov appeared from seclusion and aided him in conquering numerous nations, as he had before with previous Her kings. He had known Odov for almost ten years, and had spent many nights awake, listening to the stories of his home, those who betrayed his people, and the people that showed him and the other Elven survivors mercy.

But the king knew that Odov was simply trying to, in some way, claim his royal right to the throne of the ancient Elven kingdoms, even if those kingdoms no longer held any power.

Odov paused, turned his head and replied plainly, "It holds a great many memories." A moment passed, and the commander sheathed his swords. His bruised hands reached for the buckles that held the kings flag firmly to his back. The mud and sweat, now dried on Odov's hands, slipped against the worn metal that secured the standard. Avor approached slowly, grabbing hold of the pole behind Odov's back, allowing the Elf to unfasten the standard easier.

The flag's full weight in Avor's hand, Odov acknowledged his king with a nod over his shoulder and continued within the palace gates.

Every step brought back countless images. His first visit to the palace as a young boy, his service to King Tirrous, Lrinn. His footsteps echoed more and more as he strode down the darkened hall to where the great kings had held court.

The bitterly cold wind forced through the hallway, disturbing the tatters that used to cover the windows. He remembered where each torch once burned, their light glinting off the walls and floors that the brilliant stone would reflect when polished. It was obvious the Trevian's hadn't occupied this palace since they invaded, as the stones were scuffed, and a good layer of dust coated the floor.

The rustling of the chain mail, the scraping of the soldier's boots as they marched off to battle, the flags of Araoth above their heads. The memories haunted faces of those who went to fend off the Trevian incursion. Vaus, Inaret, Eruve'Mah. The long corridor lit up with their somber faces as they marched to their deaths. Orethis, Resheth, Lagemot. Men who went to war, who were but a few years older than Odov, marched to their destiny.

At the end of the corridor, Odov could see the doorway to the throne room. Where he and Lrinn had advised Tirrous. He passed a room where they had laughed, another where they had slept. Each room sent more images and memories flooding through his head.

The laughter of the Elven nobles danced about, still echoing in his helm after a thousand years. Young princes and future dukes screaming in joy as they trotted down the hallway, wooden swords in hand. Soldiers, the king's guard, standing dutifully at their posts, their elegant chain mail rustling gently.

The majestic wooden doors to the king's hall were still closed, but devoid of care. The hinges were rusty, some of the wood was rotting near the bottom. He stood, looking at the old seal of the great Elven kings. While covered in dust, Odov could see the where golden ring used to be around the silver center. The runic script around the edges was still legible. Vesthol, Ce vi ce 1.

With one step, he pushed the door open, the hinges complained, but yielded under his strength. The large doors creaked all the way open before being stopped with a loud thud that reverberated across the domed throne room as they hit the wall.

Odov could see the extent to which the palace had been looted. The roof that had priceless jewels imbedded in the golden artwork years ago was stripped of anything valuable. A little light trickled in from the light ports at the top of the dome, it appeared that the south side of it had been damaged either in the attack, or simply from neglect.

The dust kicked up by the doors created an eerie glow about the throne room when it crossed paths with the light, and although Odov's eyes were still adjusting, he could see that the shields from all of the tribes, nations, and kingdoms that were represented in the court that used to surround the perimeter of the hall were all gone. Anything that could have been considered valuable was removed, even the gold-lined patterns on the floor had been ripped out.

The three steps leading up to the majestic wooden throne were worn, most likely from the invaders scurrying around trying to find the king's chambers and looting whatever valuables were left. A stream of light painted itself across the great wooden seat. It's engravings still visible. It had been made from the finest wood in the world, and was decorated with gold. This gold had since been removed, as well as the crimson cushion that the noble kings used to rest upon.

Odov's nose was irritated by the dust, and, hoping it would rise through the light ports in the roof, looked to where the little amount of light was coming from.

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1. "Above all, honor"

[edited for spelling]

[Flake]

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He saw Lrinn's face, smiling.

The summer sun pouring in through the thin drapes lit her hair, and he almost saw a halo above her head. The silhouette of her body against the bright sunlight. She laughed, grabbed his hand and pressed it against hers, examining them together. She interlaced their fingers, and brought his hand to her lips. She looked at him with those eyes of hers.

"Those eyes. I could spend eternity just staring into those eyes. If they were the Great Sea, I would beg her to let me drown," he thought.

Behind her hand, a devious grin appeared across her face. She threw the covers of their bed over his head as she pounced on him. He reached his arms around her, trying to reach the spot he knew she was the most ticklish. She weakly protested, then burst into laughter as he found it.

That laugh. He heard the summer wind rustling the window drapes, the birds chirping cheerily in the warm air. He heard her laughter. The sound of the air going out of her nose as she laughed always intrigued him. Every little sound she made flooded his mind with haunting vividry. The sound her hands made when she would rub them together when she was nervous, the sound her hair made in a light breeze. Her laughter, her voice. He remembered the way she would slur her "r"s when trying to imitate the Troll language, and how she would click her tongue out of boredom. Her breathing, her voice.

In an instant, the world around him took presedence. He gripped his swords and quickly unsheathed them. He could only see what was illuminated by the little light that was dripping in through, and what wasn't obstructed by his war helm, but he heard something. He closed his eyes and moved his head about, trying to focus on where it was coming from. And he heard it, the release of the bow string, the creaking of the bow shaft as it straightened, the whistling of the arrowhead. He ducked to the right as the arrow nearly missed his head. He heard another shortly following the first as he ran in the vicinity of where he heard it come from, dodging the incoming arrows and attempting to pinpoint the exact location of his assailant.

As soon as he had almost an exact location, he heard swords being drawn and the assailant leaped down in front of him. The attacker lunged, he parried, moving around to get a better view, but the attacker was in the dark, so he closed his eyes again, relying on his hearing.

They tore across the hall in a flurry of light as they moved through the pools that were created on the floor, for every attack the assailant gave, he parried, for every attack he gave, the assailant parried. This assassin is perfect, he thought. He opened his eyes, hoping they were adjusted to the light, and caught a brief glimpse of the assailant as they ran through a stream of light. A female form, light leather armor, masked, with two curved blades.

He continued to fight with his ears, all the while glancing around, trying to find a place where he could hold an advantage. Volley after volley of the attacker's swords sped towards him. She was adapting to his movements, and he to hers.

Their combat contained an un-natural cohesiveness, both armed with similar weapons, using different techniques to out maneuver and keep from being over powered. She was far more nimble than the weighted down warrior, but every time she slashed at him, his powerful arms would absorb the impact, sending her weapon away from him. His tired legs struggled to keep him balanced as she danced around him, and she was too quick for him to strike, not in full battle armor, at least.

Their scimitars cut through the air with swift hisses, the contact that was made between the blades often was just a glancing blow, and the finely crafted instruments of war screeched as they parted each other. He could hear her leather as it wrinkled when she contorted her body to dodge his sweeps, and his own boots created a thunderous cacophony within the reverberant chamber.

He felt the blood rushing to his face, not now, I must remain calm, he thought to himself, struggling to keep the uncontrolled berserker within him at bay, I am not defeated yet. But with each of her passes, he felt himself becoming weaker, he could not continue this forever.

He was moving backwards, spinning now and again to deflect the attacks and observe the room around him. It was a stalemate, he needed distance and a chance to move. Looking around, he sought to find something that would pause the attacker long enough for him to get away. He noticed the throne first. If I back myself up against the throne, the attacker should lunge, and give me a chance to spin around it to give me some distance, he thought.

The attacker continued her flurry of metal, constantly being parried by Odov. She kept adapting her technique to adjust to how he was defending, I have never met my equal with the blades, not like this.

As his back hit the throne with a loud thunk, his helmet was jarred loose and fell to the ground. Time seemed to slow as he saw the attacker come into the light surrounding him, her mask drifting away. He gasped as Lrinn's face came into full view. Odov remained motionless as he realized who his assailant was. Everything stopped. Even the dust stood still as both combatants came to a halt.

For what seemed like an eternity, they gazed into each others faces. Surveying that which they had not seen in three hundred years. Assessing what they recognized, trying to find out what wasn't entirely familiar. The marks of the Miri'Karoh were identical, but both looked at the other's to see if there was anything different, they wanted to be certain. The marks were the same, they both stared a moment into each other's eyes. Their faces did not move for a few moments.

Where was she all this time? Where did she go? He blinked, searching inside his mind for something to say, anything at all. He remembered the heated voices, the raised tempers so long ago, but none of that mattered anymore. They were together again.

His mouth opened slowly, but words failed him, and quickly shut. He cursed himself within his mind for not being able to speak. It was her, yet she was different, and it had been so many years. He didn't know what to say.

And then she closed her eyes.

Lrinn stepped back, clutching her abdomen, and Odov's heart sank as he witnessed what he had done. In his outstretched hand he held his scimitar, now gleaming red with Lrinn's blood. He released the hold he had on his weapons, sending them to the floor with a loud clank which echoed throughout the barren hall. She collapsed to the floor. She kept trying to keep herself sitting upright with one hand while clutching her wound with the other. Her legs squirmed to find a foothold to stand, to move, but the floor was slippery with fresh blood.

His eyes darted about her, trying to see if the wound was mortal, if anything could be done. He started to move towards her when he felt something holding him. He glanced down to find that the hilt of her own sword pinned him to the old wooden throne, just below his sternum. At that moment he realized that the pool of blood on the floor was not just hers.

He felt weak, his knees buckled under his own weight. He slumped down with his back against the seat. He tried to push against the throne, struggling to move himself towards her, fighting with everything he had left. His heavy breathing became more rapid, as he searched for some logical explanation for all of this.

Lrinn weakly crawled over to him, each movement seemed to drain more and more life away from her, and he started to hear the world closing in around him. The large throne room seemed to collapse, he could not hear the echoes of anything. The room was dead.

And it was just her. He could not feel, see, or hear anything but her. But everything about her was in searing detail. Her leather pants scraping against the rough stone, a drop of blood from her mouth hitting the floor, her boot moving his sword as she struggled to move towards him, elbow over elbow.

The tips of her hair were bloodstained now, she had two lines from the corners of her mouth where her blood was dripping, and her leather was soaked near solid crimson.

She looked up at him, there was no pain anymore in her expression. There were no tears.

And for that moment, everything was clear. It was just the two of them.

Exhausted of energy, her body fell upon his boot. Her head rested gently against his leg, and she turned, so he could see the side of her face. It was all that was left, it was all he could see. He could hear the breath escaping from her, even his own breath had died from his hearing now.

Her eyes drifted up and met his.

With relief in her voice, she feebly said, Sheh Sheh, Keh Wemoh 2

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1. Beloved, or, the one who is loved
2. We are home


[edited for spelling]