War of the Seasons, book one: The Human

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Ailes

“Sorry. Please keep going.”

He frowned at her across the flames. “Look, it's a rather long story, and the truth is, I'm not even sure I believe it, so I won’t bother trying to tell it if you're just going to interrupt me with questions every few seconds.”

Story almost pointed out that he’d had no compunctions about interrupting her with dozens of new questions while she was answering his endless queries about her world. But she was truly curious about the “Change,” so she mimed zipping her mouth shut, and looked at him expectantly.

He quirked a puzzled eyebrow at her.

Right, probably no zippers in Ailionora. “Um, that means I’ll be quiet.”

“How could that possibly… never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “As I said before, all the creatures of Ailionora have magic, and the faerie folk have the most. But it’s said that this wasn’t always the case. Before the Change, the elves were the most magical. They were the ‘guardians’ of the realm, so to speak.” His voice was changing, taking on a storyteller’s lilting speech pattern.

“The fey were wont to do as faeries do. Peace never sits well with them, and they hungered for mischief and mayhem. The Faerie Prince was the worst of them all. He had long been jealous of the elves and our power, for we were the only ones who could call the cold iron from the depths of the earth. Not even the dwarves could mine the iron, so deeply was it buried. So it fell to us to use our magic and forge the iron into weapons of defense or amulets of protection from the faerie magic and the Chaos they threatened to release.”

Story heard another capital “C” and wanted desperately to interrupt again, but sat on her hands—literally—instead.  

“But the fey were not the only creatures with a weakness—we elves had one too.” He restrung his bow, set it back with his kit, and stood up to get more firewood. “Our magic was the strongest, but it was tied to one source: a great silver tree in the center of our capital city. It was called The Ailes, for it alone was the source of our immortality and magic. If anything happened to the tree, we would lose both. Of course, that knowledge was a closely guarded secret. To outsiders, it was only one of many beautiful trees that grew on our islands.”

“Hold on, this tree…” Story bit her lip, thinking. “Did it… did it happen to have silver leaves too?”

“Yes?” He dragged out the word, turning it into a question.

“And did they all fall off with the Change? When it happened?” Her heart rate picked up; why was this suddenly so important to her?

“Supposedly.” He sat back down across from her. “How do you know so much?”

“I saw a cave painting when I first got here. I was just wondering.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure that’s it? That’s all you’ve seen?”

She didn’t understand his question or why it mattered; she just wanted to hear more about the tree and what happened to it. “Yes, I’m sure. So, what happened? I’m assuming the fey figured out your weakness?”

“Aye, that they did. Through treachery and seduction, the Faerie Prince tricked a naïve elf maiden from one of the mage clans into revealing all. He cursed the The Ailes to never bloom again, condemning us to extinction.” 

Story was so completely wrapped up in the tale Eirnin was spinning that she nearly missed that last sentence. “Wait… how did he do that? Not curse the tree, but condemn you to extinction?”

She half-expected him to bite her head off for interrupting him again, but surprisingly he didn’t. Perhaps he’d finally recalled that she was, in fact, from another world.

“Ah. Each elf male can only father one child, with the occasional rare set of twins. That’s not really a problem when your race is immortal—in fact, it keeps you from overpopulating. But if you are mortal, it will lead to extinction.” His voice was flat, emotionless, much as hers was when she spoke of her family.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“Thanks, but we don’t need your sympathy,” he bit out, flinging her own words back at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. Had she sounded that rude?

He leaned forward to gaze into the fire, pale, blue sparks flashing in his silver eyes.

Questions and thoughts swirled through Story’s mind. Who was the Faerie Prince? Could he be Morrigann’s ancestor? The golden boy from her dreams was clearly not a normal faerie. But, most importantly, why did she feel such a connection to the tree? 

“You said you’re not sure if you believe in the legends. Why?”

Eirnin shrugged, keeping his eyes on the fire. “They’ve always seemed like an excuse, I suppose. Something for us to lay all our problems on and avoid taking responsibility for our actions. Or rather, inaction.” He poked at the fire with a stick, sending up a scattering of sparks. “The legends say that once upon a time we were a benevolent and wise race. The protectors of the realm. Now you’re lucky to see an elf outside of our city, and when you do, they’re afraid of everything and everyone—leaving the few of us who do care to risk our lives and die alone.” 

“Did you know someone… who died, protecting the realm?”

“Aye.” He jabbed the fire savagely, dislodging a burning stick.

Story didn’t ask him any more questions. Eirnin didn’t seem ready to talk about it, and he never pressed her when she did the same. Instead, she stretched out on the ground and pillowed her head in her arms. As her eyes drifted shut, she watched the fire slowly die in the fallen stick and tried not to wonder about the death that had scarred Eirnin even more deeply than the Troll wounds on his arm.