A Failure of a High Elf (Book One)

3.5

Written: 8/7/23
Word Count: 1,261

The fog turned thick, my breathing heavy. The daylight was gone, and now only an eerie sheen traveled across the misty land. This was the infamous marsh I'd heard about from travelers and farmers.

Squishy grass, endless chattering of insects. Constantly slapping at my skin for some reprieve from the blazing mongrels.

Yup. This was terrible. And now I couldn't even see.

If I were to choose a random, curvy-trunked tree, would I be eaten alive by these bugs before I woke up? Maybe I wouldn't even be able to sleep and be eaten alive while I was awake.

I sighed.

Settling on a tree without any drooping moss hanging from its skeletal branches, I tried to right my shoulders against the bark. The trunks were all slim, all submerged under mossy earth. I was careful not to step too hard for fear of my boots wedging into the ground, unable to escape.

Aunt Rosetta was a player, then. Rather than an Elf-Ham, she was an Elvara, the more predator-like equivalent. The kind who preyed on elves around them, using their femininity to their advantage, spinning everyone along on some invisible series of strings. All knotted together right where she could control them.

The image didn't fit with my memories of her, but it had been at least ten years since Aunt Rosetta had last visited the Capital.

When my grandparents still lived on the Swanmere estate, in a large garden house next to the lake on the far west of the property, they'd been a thorn in not only Father's side but Aunt Rosetta's, too, whenever she visited. Their constant harping was so annoying, so painful to watch. I'd faced the fires from them so many times, yet it was always more uncomfortable to watch someone else endure it.

But the relief that it wasn't me was too hard to ignore. That relief still lives inside of me, the guilt weighing heavier than that of all the stupid things I've done in public. This guilt was darker, sharper, built to cut like a knife.

It was because of that feeling that I stopped writing my aunt. We used to quill each other often. Nearly every mail delivery brought something new to the Swanmere mansion's embellished doors.

If you don't sharpen their teeth every so often, dragons in care will lose their ability to hunt properly and rip flesh from bone. It's by hunting that they can always sharpen their fangs, so when I have them for over a month, I have to file those suckers.

How could you let a dragon get that close to you!? By the way, are you coming for the Spring Floral? Please say no. I was going to use you as an excuse to not be dragged back there...

Hah! You're so sweet, my diligent little angel. It's Hunting Season for my wee beasties out West, so I won't be leaving this hallowed spot until the last wing shredded by a spear's point makes a full recovery. But please still quill me! I love hearing from my Becky!

The fog-cloaked sky twinkled with vague dots. The Eastern folk liked to say the Western Stars were lazy. That they couldn't be bothered to shine brighter, but that's just an ignorant little elve's tale. One can't see the stars as clearly as the East because of all this fog suffusing the sky.

At least the ground was soft. I untucked my billowy, tan jacket, making sure not to lose anything from my pockets. Unrolling my sleeves, I let the firm collar rise a bit, cocooning my head like an owl settling down into its feathers.

Closing my eyes, I focused on my breathing. Each sound of insects and critters and wind slipped into my ears, daring me to try sleeping. Uncharacteristically, I tried the typical approach. One that every elvantry teacher would preach to elvants and tots.

"Each sound, each noise, is not there to hurt you, Beckett," Lady Primadin had told me once, an overzealous finger always pointed to the sky, a tap in her feet, but no expression on her face. "Our ears can't help but get overwhelmed by all the information it receives from our earthly friends. This is a technique to keep our minds calm while our blessed hearing takes in too many things at once. A way to utilize your powers without shutting out the world. For it is a beautiful world."

I never had much luck with the "catalog-and-shift" method. Catalog the sounds, then shift to the next one. Keep each one locked in a spot in my memory bank, so if I wished to focus a little more on it, my hearing would instantly find and amplify it. A way to use our advanced elven hearing without overstimulating our brains or chaotically meeting each moment with zero preparation.

Instead, I tossed away all the noise without cataloging each of them. Rings, being flicked into the faces of those who would try to unsettle me. They got what they deserved in my head. Literally.

One bird rose above the rest, echoing against the slim, skeletal trees like a haunting echo. That's a nightlarker. I tried just focusing on the one creature trilling a mocking croon that rose in pitch and tempo before hollowing out. Visualizing the speedy black bird with the three cowlicks sticking up from its head, I put a color to the sound. Blue.

Blue sounds go in my blue folder, sparse though they were. It hardly had anything in it, after all these years of my neglect. After Lady Primadin was fired for daring to speak up to Father, I'd been given Mistress Risette Arborshire as a teacher.

One of my father's favorite playthings.

Those were some of the memories I've tried so hard to block out, but unlike the various sounds that used to overwhelm me, I never fully could. Now, it came back as a flashing of snippets. Me, reading an ancient scroll. Unsuccessfully. Niall, standing on top of a horse running full speed outside, a cloud of concerned, screaming servants in his wake. My mother's room door opened, only darkness seeping out from within, but if one looked hard enough, one could see a shoed-foot, unmoving. Dead or passed out, nobody dared check on her.

And then, Father. Father and Mistress Risette, giggling up a storm that echoed throughout the entire mansion. Despite the screaming servants trying to save an idiot elve from killing himself on a horse, despite his unresponsive wife laying in an open, dark room. Despite his youngest, his daughter, falling even more behind than she already was with schooling, simply because she'd lost the only teacher who had actually tried teaching her.

Cauline tried to help me. She tried to help my learning, but I couldn't grasp anything. My maid would give me this look of despair, helplessly repeating the same things over and over again. In different tones, as if that would change how the information leaked into my brain.

Nothing helped, and I never figured out if it was because we were two different kinds of elves or I was just too stupid to learn. My struggles with learning eventually went away, so the puzzle remained unsolved. Why couldn't I figure things out as a tot? And why did I suddenly start being able to a few years later?

I drifted off to sleep, snippets of Mistress Risette's tufty, pastel-colored dress ruffling at the corner of my tot-vision mingling with the nightlarker's arrogant chuff until they merged into one.