A Failure of a High Elf (Book One)

2.1

Written: 7/29/23
Word Count: 937

The residence of the illustrious 11th Ring Head's family was the same disgusting color as the 11th Ring's seal: burning, baby-puke orange.

I walked up the long drive, a single deerskin bag hanging at my side with five months' worth of busywork from the few professors I'd had the misfortune of running into on my way off campus.

"I'm not finishing my education," I'd told them, but it was as if I hadn't spoken at all. As if a passing flight of honeybees had drowned out my words in a single happenstance of misfortune.

"Sure," Professor Rorendalf had replied, shoving three overflowing brown folders at me, leaf-print scrolls and bark interlaces nearly spilling out, "but take these."

The same thing had happened with my Herbology professor. And my Physiology professor.

Somewhat careful not to spill a single delicate, green-veined scrying sheet—so fragile as to be see-through—I'd walked straight off campus. The dorms were on the way out, their boxy, white stucco walls a refreshing sight after being assaulted by the vibrant colors of the 13 buildings behind me.

One step into the humid lobby of the one appropriated to elvas, and the keeper had greeted with me a smile. Then, she'd sent me right back the way I'd come.

"Beckett! Good to see you! Head on home, dearie, the 11th Head has already requested your personal belongings to follow after you."

Standing with three piles of homework nobody asked for, I'd stood in the doorway for a long, long minute. A clock patterned like the glittering purple scales of a truly impressive dragon was offset by the cuteness of the lizards acting as numbers. By the looks of it, it was almost watermelon-hatted-clown-lizard o' clock.

"Can I—at least grab a bag?" I'd asked Bellentia helplessly. "I won't make it far carrying all of this."

"Ooh, what's that I see? Some special attention from the professors who've caught you under their nets?"

Yeah, right. Special torture, more like.

The smile I'd given the beaming, berthsome Wood Elf was more of a widening of my lips until I felt I'd turned myself into something like a frog.

Ah, well.

Now here I was, walking up the overgrown, gravel drive to reach the yewing monstrosity where I grew up.

The orders, "You leave immediately," could wait, blazing hell. If I was going to be shipped off to the Western Sector, I'd need all the creature comforts I could hold in my arms. How was I even supposed to get there? I doubted Father would waste fare for a transportation spell. So that left a horse. I nearly shuddered at the thought.

I was a terrible rider. Terrible. Granted I didn't fall off the first cliff I came across, could horses travel over volcanoes? How was I supposed to get around the one that took up the heart of the Goddess's Femur?

Disastra—Disastraveritous, was it? Eh, I could never remember its blasted name.

"Young—Young Mistress?"

I glanced at Cauline, not uttering a single word as I trudged past her, taking the wooden stairs dangerously overlaid by a silky middle rug. Too many memories of slipping on the smooth material changed my steps. Instead of moving quickly, these stairs needed to be navigated with caution.

Inside the Great 11th Ring Head's mansion, it was like the architects had finished building their masterpiece, but then the decorator had up and vanished. Sturdy walls, impressive rooms for meetings and grandiose balls, and yet, it was almost entirely unfurnished. I didn't know the story of what had truly happened when it was built, but Father's solution had been to just cover it all up.

Hence, the rugs covering the plain, splintery wood on the stairs. Hence, the giant family portraits of Swanmere after Swanmere taking up nearly the entire blankness of the white it was hiding. If anything could be seen from the windows outside, it was gaudily-dressed. For an elve unmoved by even the most gut-wrenching story of tragedy, living in an unadorned mansion was too much for the 11th Head's ego to take. He had to make sure passersby—of which there were none—would be fooled.

"Lady Charlotte!" Another familiar face nearly fell over the balcony to the ground floor when she saw me.

This time, I tipped my head to the maid, then to the one behind her. "Ogra. Inmetia."

The Wood Elf and Ice Elf stared at me, clutching their cream-colored bonnets detailed with spiraling, decorative loops of that disgusting burnt orange. Their uniforms were of a similar pattern; different from the elve workers on the estate, who were forced to always wear a thicker, carpet-like material. All burnt orange. If one slid their hand up one of the elve's sleeves, then a rippling darkness spread. The only way to undo it was to smooth it down the other way, like the fur on a cat.

Unbothered, I walked to my room, ignoring the hallway of pure mirrors adorning the lime-green seals stamped on the builder's wallpaper. The 3rd Ring was responsible for all construction allocated to them from rings higher up the line of importance. Their insulation was colored seals of that god-awful lime color. The upper floors of the mansion had apparently not been important enough for them to cover the walls in white plaster, like the main floor.

Up here, it was a game of Spot the Lime-green Seal from amidst the random dustery littering the walls.

Reaching my pale, unpainted door, I pushed my way inside, ready to drop my heavy bag from my shoulder on the table beside the doorway in habit.

But the table was gone.