Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Valiant Knights and Fair Ladies

The air was crisp and fresh after a long night of heavy rainfall. The mood of the village, however, had a certain heaviness to it; a tension only found when a long and gentle peace had been suddenly and rudly broken. Silent worried thoughts swirled as feet, hesitant and fearful, stepped on the rain soaked dirt and onto the needs of the new day.

Illeandir slung his heavy pack over his arm and ducked out the door. Thrilo followed shortly after with his own leather pack and axe strapped across that. Ithilwen was still inside putting together the last of their supplies.

Earlier that morning, when the sun had just barely ascended above the horizon, Thrilo had approached Illeandir with a poor, but heartfelt apology for his outburst the night before. Knowing the dwarf wouldn't rest until an apology was tried, Illeandir sat patiently until it was finished. Thrilo had rambled himself into silence and, with nothing left to say, grunted, his honor restored.

The two stood in silence for a short time watching the going-ons of the morning. Children raced by, paused, and oggled at the two vastly different strangers. They whispered and giggled, daring each other to get as close as possible. A brave lad of no more than eight or nine years, with freckles so thick they darkened his skin, tiptoed within a few yards of Illeandir. He clutched a roughly hewn wood sword with both freckled hands and shuffled forward.

Illeandir turned to face him and the boy jumped back, glancing at his friends. They egged him on eagerly. Courage bolstered, he puffed out his little chest.

"I, Sir Grand, challenge you to a duel!" he proclaimed. The other children chattered excitedly. Thrilo choked on his breath, but a beaming smile split his face.

"Ai!" Illeandir exclaimed. "What misfortune has befallen me, Sir Grand. For I am weaponless." He hung his head in shame.

"What's that at your side?" the boy asked, gesturing with his sword.

"This?" Illeandir asked, holding up his own sword that was nearly as long as the child was tall. "This is but a stick compared to your great sword, Sir Grand."

"I'll not have that!" the boy said. He turned pompously on his heel and marched purposefully toward his friends.

"My enemy, Sir..." the boy faltered and turned to Illeandir. "What is your name, sir?"

"My name is Elstan," Illeandir answered.

"My enemy, Sir Elstan, requires a sword!" Sir Grand demanded. "Sir Forest, give your sword to him."

"But it's my sword, Jerret," Sir Forest whined.  "He can get his own."

"C'mon, Lenny, he'll give it back. He's a grownup. They always give our stuff back," Jerret said. Lenny harrumphed and thrust his sword into Jerret's hand.

"Fine."

Jerret, Sir Grand, marched back to Illeandir, struggling a little with the awkward weight of two swords. He handed Lenny's sword, blade first, to Illeandir and stepped back.

"Now we fight like men!"

"Aye, good sir. May I have the honor of knowing what we fight for?"

Jerret grinned and looked around sheepishly. He gestured for Illeandir to come close. Illeandir knelt down. Jerret pointed to a young girl, perhaps a few years older than him, sweeping off her front porch. Illeandir nodded seriously.

"May the best man win," he said.

"To arms!" Jerret shouted. He attacked Illeandir with all the force his skinny arms could muster. Illeandir held out long enough for the girl Jerret was trying to impress to look up from her work and watch the playful fight. She shook her head and smiled. Illeandir pretended to slip on the grass and lose his balance. Jerret tackled him and sent the elf crashing to the ground.