A Failure of a High Elf (Book One)

2.2

Written: 7/31/23
Word Count: 1,019

I skipped a step, nearly pinwheeling onto the floor and gouging myself on a few nails that had pried out of the woodwork over the years. After many, many scrapes and gouges on my delicate child arms and feet, I had become conditioned for this, too, to be careful.

Ending up in the center of my room should have been impossible. Four weeks ago, this spot was adorned by the edge of a large, fluffy bed. The only thing I truly loved in all this world.

Not only were the bed and table gone, but the rest of the room had taken a leave, as well. Was my dresser on vacation? Firnty thing didn't even warn me! My eyes nearly popping from their sockets, I regarded the sun's light piercing unperturbed into the lone, two-paned window at the far edge of the space.

"And the drapes?" I muttered, my hands gripping the faded leather strap of my bag, folding the soft material in half, then flattening it. Folding it. Flattening it. "Did they leave me for vacation, too? The nerve of those blazing fools."

"What in the naga are you doing here?" Niall's voice echoed loud in this empty space.

Dust. I eyed the ground. Dust had already settled into the floorboards. Not empty cutouts where the bed and dresser had been. My life had been removed a while ago.

I tottered on my feet, the bare walls giving me a dizziness of sorts.

Wordlessly, I pointed at where the beautiful pillow-top bed with its pink and yellow sheets had held me in its arms for years upon years. "Where."

Niall twitched up an eyebrow. The cadsome fool stood leaning against my doorway, thick, useless arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. My brother was not beautiful. Elves were meant to be thin and graceful, not some thundering boar haplessly ravaging the countryside. I mean, who in blazes got so thick over playing a ridiculous game like Pickleven? The foam bats weighed a literal pound. Maybe. If they were doused in rain.

Niall would have trouble finding himself one wife, let alone two or three. Or four or five.

Good. My hands balled into fists at my side, tears brimming a burning wash in my eyes. I swore I could actually see red. This...this was not good.

"Hah?" Niall cocked his head. "Was that a tone you just took with me, you vile Elvaniac?"

"Where!" My voice rose, and I widened my stance, waiting for the hit to come.

I didn't have to wait long. In three strides, Niall crossed the room, his lazy posture on the wall a cruel lie to make him seem like some sort of gentle giant.

He held my chin within one hand, his nails digging into my skin so hard, I could feel the edges where a couple of them had chipped. My hands that had been folding and refolding my bag strap followed his strike, grabbing onto his wrist. I squeezed for all I was worth as shouts of alarm echoed from the hallway.

"Young Master! Oh, Great Goddess!" Cauline fretted, a Wood Elf with a greenish cast to her dark-bronze-colored skin. "Please, stop! Please, stop! Stop fighting!"

"This is a family matter, Cauline." Niall turned his business voice on, sparing half a glance and half a smile at the fretting maid. Blond tendrils fell onto his forehead, brushing against the tips of his peach-colored ears. I struggled in his grip, revulsion at his dual personality gripping me like an actual hand squeezing my organs. "We won't be long. Return to your duties."

Cauline didn't return to her duties. Folding her hands into some interlocked praying shape, she continued, "Young Master, Lady Charlotte has received her next orders. She must have stopped by to finish packing. Isn't that right, dear?"

Tears burned the corners of my eyes as I glared up at my brother. He knew how much I loathed him. How much I utterly despised him. As far as I was concerned, Niall was at his best when chasing after the Elfsbane that had thrown our mother into rehab.

His pitiful addiction was his only likable trait.

"What. Did you do. To my stuff?" My jaw bones grinded against Niall's hand as I pushed the words out, each movement sending ripples of pain moving through the top joint. I had an injury when I was 12 that still made my jaw lock up out of nowhere; I couldn't even open my mouth all the way. After years of unsuccessful dentistry spells and several more years of somewhat alright night guards, here was Niall, willing to fuck it up.

Was I willing to let him?

"Just. Tell. Me. Where. The. Portrait. Is." I enunciated carefully, my jaw already ringing sore from the unrelenting pressure of his hand.

Niall leaned in even closer, his green-flecked hazel eyes the first true lie about him. That rich hazelnut color mixed all into a putty with accents of fudge brown. Tranquil. Serene. Peaceful. But then there were those little flecks of green, like falling leaves. They disrupted the picture, and made it look like he had two lazy eyes pointing two different directions.

The tranquil serenity of his High Elf-esque beauty was offset by the truth.

"What's the big deal?" Niall asked, his words slow and humiliating. Despite everything inside of me, pulsing, pounding, hatred in every beat, there was still that shame that trickled down my back like drops falling from my wet hair. Few but dousing, waking chills in their path. "You're going to be seeing the real thing soon enough, so what the hell does it matter? You'll be following Mother after dealing with Aunt Rosetta's estate. Beckett, have you been taking your meds?"

And just like that, the anger was gone. I relaxed in Niall's grip, the hatred that had been so easy to grasp before, so easy to hold and feel and touch—just vanishing.

"Niall," I cried, the words striking harshly through my throat. "Why couldn't he disown me himself? Why wasn't I at least told? Am I not even worth that much?"