A Gift Unto the King

The Pendulum Swings

"Al." A timid voice rang through the quiet.

Alistair whipped back towards his sister, who found her wide eyes fixed on the trees, her body rigid. Following her eye-line, he caught the shimmering silver glimmer of a sharpened arrow-head, aimed directly at them. The more he scanned the trees, the more arrows appeared.

Instinctively, Alistair raised his hands, hoping they'd understand. A small group of elves, all wearing similarly modest attire, cautiously approached the young witches, weapons still drawn. Alistair could sense his sister's unease, though she maintained her composure.

The elves spoke to them in a language they'd never heard before. A language that flowed smoother than sand through an hourglass, with a melody no bird could ever dream of imitating. It was beauty captured in words. The expressions on their faces, however, proved that those words were not an extension of welcomed invitation.

"They wish to know why we're here." Angelique whispered.

"How do you know that?" Alistair whispered back through the side of his mouth.

"I don't." She explained. "It's their energy. They're on guard, but haven't moved to kill us yet. So, I think that's what they're asking us about."

"And how am I supposed to answer?" He shot back with a forceful whisper, attempting not to alarm the armed elves before them.

"How should I know?! I don't speak elvish!"

Alistair rolled his eyes, refocusing on the elves, and a silver-tipped spear that was approaching a little too close for his personal comfort.

"We're healers." Alistair spoke after a moment. "We've come to learn."

The elves anxiously glanced at each other.

Of course. Alistair thought to himself, sarcastically. "I'm very open to suggestions, Angel." He whispered.

Angelique sighed, and slowly slid off of the mule's back, gingerly landing on the ground, ensuring not to place weight on her injured foot. She lifted her empty hands, then gestured to the saddlebag, before slowly slipping her hand into one of the pockets. Gently, she removed a small leather pouch, and dumped a small pile of seeds into her other hand. Cupping her hands together, she pulled them to her lips, and slowly blew into them. Then, she removed her hands from her lips, and slowly unclasped them. As her hand rose upwards, the seeds began to sprout. Roots draped over her fingers as small green stalks emerged from the seed shells. Within a few moments, small purple flowers began to bloom, the fresh lavender scent filling the air.

Taking a careful step forward, Angelique joined her brother, extending her arm to present the freshly grown flowers. She swallowed hard, giving her brother an apprehensive glance.

After a few moments, the spear aimed at them cautiously lowered, and the elf accepted the plants, handing them to another elf at their side. Given an approving nod, the witches both released the tense breaths they were unaware they'd been holding, and their bodies began to relax.

The elf that had accepted the flowers, raised their arm, and with two fingers, beckoned an elf behind them to approach. Reaching into their robes, they produced four iron binding cuffs. They resembled rounded shackles without chains, but with a much more refined execution, almost as though they could be genuine jewelry.

Swinging them open on their hinges, the elf slapped them onto each of the witches' wrists, magically welding them shut. Immediately, Angelique and Alistair sensed the overwhelming fatigue expanding throughout their bodies as the cuffs suppressed their magical abilities. Angelique gave her older brother a worried glance, which he tried to reassure, to little avail.