Elf Life: Revenge of the Elfbride

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If my letters seem a bit shaky on this page, it’s because I have just scraped past a death more certain than when I was plummetting off that cold and craggy cliff.

Last night, I joined Glynhial in our room at the Robber’s Inn. Technically it’s my room, because I am the only member of our trio who can pay, even though what’s left in my pouch is a paltry sum. Luckily I always keep a substantial cache of emergency loot in my left shoe for such emergencies, one of the benefits of having large feet. The baby dragon, which the faerie named Grafingle, had already curled up in front of the fire. Even though I was paying, Glynhial was to take the bed, and I would sleep in the chair. It wasn’t my idea; as far as I’m concerned, the bed should have been mine, but she insisted that I must learn my place in the new order. But just then she was restless and sleepy and dreamy, and couldn’t help mooning out our second story window at the stars.

This appeared to be the moment I was waiting for. With the book in my hands, this very book, I crept up behind her, held it open, and snapped it shut. Just as I had as a child, when once before I had trapped her in a book.

It didn’t work. She yawned and stretched. Panicking, I opened and shut the book at her again. And again. She turned.

“Funny little elf, what are you—”

Her eyes turned fiery red at the sight of the book. I’m sure I saw flames briefly spurt out of her tiny nostrils.

“You…dare…”

The next few moments were a blur of wind and lightning, and I caught a glimpse of the frightened dragon scampering under the bed. The book flew out of my hands and after bouncing against the ceiling a few times, my posterior end skidded along the floor until it made contact with the wall. My hair was slightly singed from the lightning, and my glasses had finally abandoned me.

I crawled—painfully—to where my glasses had clattered to the floor and put them back on. The wind had apparently blown the book right into Glynhial’s hand, and her curiosity over its contents was probably the only thing saving me from being finished off.

“You are mistaken,” the faerie said, as she continued studying the book, “if you think I don’t remember you. Just because I haven’t mentioned it doesn’t mean that Glynhial has forgiven you. She certainly hasn’t forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” I said, stupidly. I should have kept my big mouth shut.

“That you were the one who shut us away in a book many years ago. Glynhial has been lenient because the funny little elf was but a child at the time, and presumed to be protecting his little friend.” She looked directly at me, for one moment. “It is but for the sake of that friend that I allow you to live.”

She returned to studying the book, and I gulped very hard. The baby dragon poked its nose out from under the sheets, wondering if the storm had passed. I could hear the innkeeper walking back and forth the hallway outside; he had probably been badgered into “doing something about” all the noise, and was relieved to hear that it seemed to be over with already. Glynhial was a small, naked faerie, but she had a way of intimidating everyone she met, including humans twice her size.

Then Glynhial did the most dreadful thing yet: she began to laugh. Not just a mere giggle, but a gale of laughter that filled the bedchamber.

“Funny little elf, your words betray you.”

I stammered. “I can explain—you have to understand—I have to write down things as I see them—” I could only guess that Glynhial had found some passage or other honestly evaluating her as a megalomaniac.