3.
Boom, boom, boom.
Fintan chirps became something more like cries.
The bombs began raining all around her, the deafening bangs of exploding airships making her ears ring.
The tree writhed beneath her, like a person cringing at a sharp sound.
More and more airships were coming, dropping their deadly loads onto the unnatural forest, as the elves below, visible only by the red light of their eyes, slashed airship after airship. What was she to do? She had an equal chance to get slashed or blown up if she stayed put or if she ran.
The tree shuddered strongly with every bomb, and she decided to climb lower lest the glow from her own eyes give her away to the human bombers. She'd never climbed a tree before. There weren't many trees in the parts of Raidox she was allowed to visit. Climbing trees, however, wasn't very different from climbing towers and besides, wasn't the elven half of her meant for this?
Lotte never had trouble seeing in the darkness with the light emitted from her own eyes. She looked around herself. For a moment, despite the earsplitting explosions near and far, she froze in awe. She had seen photos of Solles trees. Tall as towers, and strong, with thick boughs forking out all along their trunks, creating a type of ladder. The trees stood tall and proud as far as her eyes could see in every direction.
And they were moving.
The shudders and vibrations she felt, it wasn't just the bombs rocking the earth, it was the tree. Certainly, the tree she was on was moving slower than the others—they whisked past at an alarming speed—but when she looked down she could see a trench forming in the earth behind her tree. The forest, with its war, was retreating.
She began to climb lower, closer and closer to the ground. Soon, Lotte and her tree were on the outskirts of the forest and a marvellously ruined plane stretched out before her eyes. She could feel the tree squirm again, as if trying to shake her off.
The second she reached the lowest branch and jumped to the soft, crumbly earth, the tree chased its forest in a mad dash.
And so, the war moved on, leaving Lotte behind. She could still hear the beat of explosions echoing in the distance, and wind whistled in her ears, but the sky above her was so clear she could see stars glinting sharply.
Despite smoke rising from where the bombs had hit, the forest left the air smelling sweet and clean.
Her legs buckled underneath her and she fell to the ground. Her chest almost bursting with emotion, body screaming in exhaustion.
Fintan fluted questioningly.
"Just... just a minute," Lotte said. "Just give me a minute."
She couldn't stay here. Wouldn't the humans come with their tanks to see if the forest had left any elves behind? She had to keep moving, had to find somewhere better to hide. But she... she was so overwhelmed, so tired. Her mind was muddled, her body ached.
Fintan poked her with his beak.
"I know, I know..."
He poked her hand, and then her pack. What did he want from her pack? There was a little bit of money in it as well as her most precious inks and a few select brushes and pens, pieces of wood, leather, cloth, paper and parchment. She had not packed food because, obviously, she hadn't packed. It was her regular city pack, which she took when she worked on her street corner, selling enchantments to humans.
An enchantment! Of course. While the flying enchantment was partially to blame for her current fatigue, she could give herself more energy—or perhaps the illusion of energy—with an enchantment.
She slid her pack off her back and undid the buckle fastening it shut. First, she needed to choose what to enchant. But nothing she had was right. She always enchanted mundane objects, but the power of her enchantments came from her own paints and dedication. The more intricate the design, the less the object it was drawn on mattered. Her flight charm had been crude, but the vellum gave it power. She didn't have enough light and time to achieve anything.
She picked up a bottle of golden ink. Her most prized possession. Mixed with Poe's own blood as well as tiny flecks of real gold. She chose a narrow, fine-tipped brush with firm bristles made of unicorn hair, the only type of brush that could withstand Leilan blood. Then pushed up the leg of her trousers, exposing her pale skin to the sky.
Unlike Yomi elves, who had skin that varied in shades between bronze to onyx, Leilan elves were pale as moonlight, paler than any human. The iron in her own blood made Lotte slightly rosier, which had allowed her to blend among humans most of her life.
She had only the vaguest idea what she was going to do when she uncorked the ink bottle and dipped her brush inside. She winced upon the first stroke, the ink seemingly seeping into her skin. There would be an odd reaction, she had no doubt, but this enchantment could keep for hours.
If she got it right.
She thought carefully before each stroke. There wasn't time for too many details or room for error. It would be simplistic, but—hopefully—accurate.
A burning branch of cedar with an eye peeking out of the flame. The eye was for wisdom, the cedar was strength and the flame would give her energy.
The flame would eat at the cedar, as long as she used it, bringing this enchantment to its end, but the eye—she hoped—would help her decide when to conserve her energy.
The last touch of the brush was the dot at the centre of the iris in the eye within the flame. She pulled her hand away. Her leg burned, the ink glowing an angry red in the dark on her skin.
Trying to ignore the pain, and the slight smell of burnt skin, she corked the ink bottle and wrapped the brush in a strip of leather. The blood in the ink wasn't fresh, otherwise even the small remnants of it would've dissolved the leather.
The pain on her leg grew even sharper and she zipped her pack with trembling hands as a bead of sweat ran from her hair down her cheek along with stray tears.
She wanted to put her pack on her back, but the pain mounted even higher, leaving her frozen.
She whimpered as Fintan settled on her shoulder, making an odd clicking sound with his beak.
"I think I..."—she managed to say in the loosest of whispers— "...made a mistake."
***
10 YEARS BEFORE THE WAR
From the day Lotte had drawn the apple, there was nothing in this world she wanted to do other than to draw.
And drew she did.
In the wet sand in the courtyard, in the steam on the mirrors in the bathroom, inside her stew with her spoon and in the classroom when the other children practised writing words.
She drew what she saw at first, and then she drew things she had never seen. Whatever pleased her, whatever her mind created.
Sometimes her drawings looked real, like a window into the world around her, while other times they were abstract, shapes swirling in mist and yet, more often than not, her drawings were a little bit of both; reality, fantasy, form and formless, nothing and everything.
She had trouble finding the edges of her dreams.
Bit by bit, the tension she always felt in her head and chest began to ease. Breathing became simpler and a budding feeling blossomed inside her. She was on the cusp of a grand revelation. Things were about to change.
It had been during writing class, on a rare sunny day. Slanting yellow rays of sunlight fell into the classroom and across Lotte's page and a face came unbidden into her mind.
As always happened when she drew, she had only blurry memories of ever doing anything and when her mind came back into focus, on the page there was a boy. A young Yomi elven boy, with skin as dark as night and fissures of juniper running like veins through it. The points of his ears were so high, they curled over his head that was crowded with plaits. He looked wary and tired, but ready to spring out of the page.
And he did spring.
He leapt forward, straining against the confines of paper, until he tore a hole in her picture, peeking his head out.
He blinked up at her. He was the size she had drawn him in, so only large enough to fit on her palm, but he watched her with shrewd eyes that seemed many years older than he looked.
Lotte wasn't sure if this was truly happening. It felt quite real, but life among humans had taught her that drawings did not come to life.
The miniature elf turned to stare at the room around, eyes wide with curiosity. Lotte noticed that he could turn his head a lot farther than any human could, a little bit like her.
"Mnala nalet ra?" the apparition asked in a tiny voice.
He was speaking elven...maybe. She shook her head and pressed her finger to her lips, nodding towards the front of the classroom where Mrs. Hummund sat correcting quiz papers.
The little elf seemed to understand. He slouched slightly, walking to the edge of her desk to whisper, "Suni Maloru." He pointed at his chest with his thumb when he said that.
Maloru? Was that his name? Lotte, of course, didn't have a name. Not a proper one. All 'Lotte' meant was 'half' in elven. While the Lord General tolerated Lottes well enough so they could live in certain parts of Raidox, they were forbidden access to the rest of the country and weren't even allowed to have actual names.
She touched her hand to her own chest and tried to mouth the word 'Lotte'. She had often tried to speak without voice, just with her lips, but that had never worked.
Until that day.
The little apparition elf understood. She could see it in the slight widening of his eyes and how his lips parted. He looked at her with new interest and then said, "Leilan lotte?"
That much elven she could understand. She nodded her head.
"E'lour!" he cried in amazement. "Suni dal balanro! Leilan lotte—"
"Mrs. Hummund!" called Amun, his whiney voice right at her ear.l "Lotte's brought a toy to class... and it's talking."
Lotte snatched up the tiny apparition. She didn't know what to do with him, so she did the only thing she could do.
She stuffed him back into the drawing.
Mrs. Hummund stalked to the back of the class up to Lotte's desk. "What's this, Lotte?"
Lotte was sitting, frozen, with her palms flat over her drawing.
"Up," said Mrs. Hummund. "Hands up."
Lotte stalled for as long as she could before slowly removing her hands from the paper.
She let out a sigh of relief when all that was there was a drawing of a young elven boy.
Mrs. Hummund's nose wrinkled in disgust. She had never been unkind to Lotte, not until that moment. She snatched up the drawing. "You are not," she roared, "to ever draw such creatures."
She thrust the sheet of paper into Lotte's face. "YOU WILL NOT BRING DIRTY ELVES INTO MY CLASSROOM," she bellowed.
And then, she tore the drawing.
"Ah!" a sound came from Lotte. It had come out of her throat. Windy yet scratchy, it was the sound of her voice. The little elven boy, did Mrs. Hummund hurt him?
Something snapped inside Lotte's head, jerking her body backwards so powerfully against her chair she was knocked to the floor. Her limbs were convulsing out of her control.
Mrs. Hummund stared down at her, anger replaced by shock.
When Lotte awoke to find herself in the infirmary, House Mistress, shaking with fury, had informed her that she was forbidden to draw anything ever again.