(I painted this in Procreate using the oil paint brushes. - Chaiga T. Cheska)
Somehow, Bran found it difficult to say goodbye to the scribe, even though he felt they were not being told what they needed to hear and that they were still being left behind the time they belonged to. A strange discordant feeling Bran couldn’t shake.
They had come out to see the scribe off, and now they were watching him stride back up the path. Olis was deep in conversation with a tall elderly elvish woman who leaned on a cane and walked with Olis using his arm for extra support. Liv stood slightly apart from the boys, watching the scribe and the older elf, worry on her face. Bran glanced over at Liv and felt a jolt of fear that he and his brothers and cousin were going to spend time with the elves, and that he couldn’t even get to know his own mother. It felt so terribly unfair, so he turned away and pushed between his older brothers, standing with his arms folded, glowering at the retreating scribe and wondering who the older elf was that Olis was talking with.
Oren and Tavik shuffled aside to give Bran space, briefly glancing down to see their brother frowning fiercely, arms tightly folded. Oren reached down and briefly rested his hand on Bran’s shoulder before turning to address Liv. “Would you mind if we cooked something to eat? Can we light a fire?”
Liv pulled her gaze away from her grandmother walking with the scribe and from the worries she’d been ruminating on, and remembered she had guests and that they were probably hungry. Sighing, wishing she could one day be in a more prestigious station in life than looking after guests she didn’t know she’d be in charge of, she turned to the boys. Gesturing for them to follow, she said, “Come, we will break our fasts in the hall, and you can see how elves conduct themselves.”
Tavik’s stomach rumbled, and he wondered whether elves ate insects or leaves, shuddering but following Liv. He reached out and snagged his silent, watchful cousin, pulling him along beside him, trying to distract Nix from the elves who were watching him a little too closely. “I’m worried elves eat spiders and leaves,” he said through the tether to his cousin, half joking, half genuinely worried, having always been a little nervous around spiders.
Nix glanced sideways at Tavik and tried to suppress a small smile before replying through the tether, “They’re warrior elves, Tavik. They’ll most likely have a source of protein… not spiders, hopefully… much too small.”
Behind them, Bran and Oren trailed, and Oren glanced down at his younger brother and nudged him. “Why the glower, Bran?”
Bran unfolded his arms, gesturing around them at the towering, crystal-encrusted trees with winding walkways and the hustle and bustle of a world of elves going about their daily lives. He sighed dramatically, looked up at Oren, and said, “Since we began this adventure with Nix and learned who we are, I’ve dreamed of how incredible it will be to be where we come from, where our heritage lies, to mix with our kind, to learn who we are…” He paused, drew in a deep breath, and sighed despondently, “but… well… it’s just so cruel that we can’t say anything to her, or get to know her… It’s just so cruel!” He ended dejectedly, dragging his feet, trying not to be briefly fascinated by how the paving stones were carved with the same sigils he had seen earlier on the woodland path into the settlement.
Oren smiled down at his younger brother, at Bran’s dramatic flops of anguish, mixed with sudden fascination with the paving stones and found himself reflecting on how much his brother was growing up, yet how much Bran was still holding on to his childhood, particularly in the dramatic flops of expression when he wasn’t happy with something he couldn’t work out.
Oren reached out, ruffled Bran’s hair, and nudged his brother along so they could keep up with the others. “Instead of taking on so much worry, why don’t we just enjoy the moment we have with Liv and the elves?”
Bran looked sidelong at his tall brother and said thoughtfully. “You know, you’re becoming more and more wise these days, Oren! Not at all like you were back home before all this started.”
“What are you implying, little brother?” replied Oren with a mock-offended expression as he lunged for Bran, who laughed and dodged away. Oren snagged Bran around the middle and, with his younger brother held like a sack of potatoes at his waist, strode a few long strides to catch up with the others, then set Bran down, dodging Bran’s swipe as they stopped where Liv waited for them.
The hall Liv led them to was an ornate, ancient, crystal-encrusted tree that rose like a sentinel into a canopy so high that Bran nearly fell backwards trying to see how far it reached. Oren steadied him as they climbed the steps and passed through two doors so tall that even Liv had to strain to push them open. She held the creaking doors open wide enough for the four boys to pass through, then closed them carefully behind them. The hall was circular and vast, but mostly vast upwards rather than outwards, Bran thought as he turned in a circle and had to be steadied again by Oren, who steered him to a table Liv was leading them to, weaving through noisy crowds of tall elves, all eating, drinking, and laughing. Some elves fell silent and stopped to watch them pass through, but most had already seen the boys and only briefly offered half-hearted smiles of greeting before returning to their meal or conversation.
Bran felt tiny and stayed as close as he could to Oren without getting underfoot. Some of these elves were taller than Liv, which felt like walking between towering trees to Bran, his brothers, and Nix. Even Oren felt slightly uncomfortable and reached out, resting both hands on his youngest brothers’ shoulders, afraid Bran would be trodden on by accident. They reached the table, which was round and surrounded by at least ten high-backed chairs lined with a soft material that felt gloriously comfortable when they all sat down. Nix and Bran were so short that they had to climb into the chairs, caught each other’s eye in the midst of climbing, and both struggled not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Nothing like this would happen in human settlements, but Elvish chairs were huge, wide, and not guest-friendly, especially for guests under seven feet tall. Bran scaled his chair and found himself with a view of the underside of the table, as the table itself seemed even taller than the chairs. He sighed and wondered if he would have to stand up to eat.
Tavik snorted with laughter at how short Bran was, seeing only Bran’s forehead peeking above the tabletop. He suppressed a giggle when he sat down and found his own chin just above the table. Either the table needed to be their size, or they might be safer eating their meal under the table instead.
Liv regarded her guests and their short stature, then reached over to Bran, who was nearest to her. She touched the chair’s cloth, and immediately it seemed to inflate beneath Bran, and he found himself rising until he was level with the table, his legs dangling over a strange sort of inflated cushion that didn’t feel very stable.
“You can adjust your chairs’ height; just push the thread weave near the joint,” Liv said, pointing to Tavik and Nix. They looked around, found what she meant, and rose to sit more comfortably at the table. Oren found the joint on his chair and adjusted his seat, but was glad his feet stayed on the floor.
Bran looked over from his elevated position, holding on to the table’s edge for support. “I wish I was taller! If we’re half Crystalsong elves, why aren’t we taller?!”
Liv looked at the boy beside her and said flatly, “Half-elves do not inherit all the sacred traits of pure-bloods; surely you know this?”
Bran blinked back at Liv, shook his head, and looked down at his hands, vowing not to say anything else that sounded ridiculous. Her tone was abrasive, and Bran felt the animosity radiating from the elf, understanding that, in her eyes, being a half-elf was not a good thing.
Tavik eyed his younger brother across the table, protective of Bran, then looked at Liv. “We don’t know our heritage. We were never taught it. We only learned this year that we were half-elves.”
Oren interrupted whatever Liv was about to say, sensing they were in dangerous territory. “What do Crystalsong elves eat, then? Admittedly, I am quite hungry!”
In response, Liv smiled, placed both her hands, palms down, on the tabletop in front of her, closed her eyes, and spoke softly, “Mother Tree, please, I desire hearth cakes with wild Emberpork and honeyed walnuts, and a goblet of Jarrowese.”
There was a strange, rhythmic drumming from far overhead, and then a shimmer of light fell over Liv’s hands. Within that light, a series of plates and a goblet appeared, holding the most delicious-looking food the others had ever seen. As the light faded, the aroma of roasted meat with herbs and spices wafted around, mingling with the sweet-bitter tang of the green-gold liquid in a silver and glass goblet, which beaded with condensation on the outside, as if the liquid were cool and quenching. The little collection of hearth cakes steamed gently, making Bran’s mouth water as he stared, eyes wide with wonder. Liv opened her eyes, smiled at each of them, and nodded. “Try it, but do as I do and begin by addressing Mother Tree, for she is our great mother who nourishes this land and all in it. It is for her that we thrive. She will create anything you desire, even, I suspect, delicacies you may have from your own lands.”
Unable to wait to see what they each manifested, and suddenly too hungry to consider manners, all four boys copied Liv, closing their eyes and murmuring their culinary desires to Mother Tree as the elf watched, raising an eyebrow at their collective impulsiveness and wondering whether this was a trait of Lightweavers.
Within moments, a gentle, rhythmic drumming and knocking was heard from far above, and then four shimmers of light beamed down to each. Bran wrestled with himself, dearly wanting to open his eyes to watch the food manifest, yet feeling that, somehow, it would be better to exercise patience for once. Then the smells of honey cakes and rich, smoky root stews filled the air, and Bran opened his eyes and stared in wonder at the meal before him. He’d made a wish for a dish he’d only had once when he was much younger, a fond memory of his father’s root and mutton stew with a rich, smoky gravy, a warm, small loaf of dark seed bread, and a small honey cake, with a tart drink of elderberry juice. Bran smiled fondly at the memory and wiped a tear before looking up, astonished to see that his older brothers had both chosen the same foods he’d chosen, while Nix had a rather concerning bowl of raw eggs, a bit of dry bread, and a cup of water.
Tavik glanced at Nix beside him and grimaced. “Did your request go wrong, Nix?”
Nix looked up, startled by the question, and shook his head, smiling. “I used to eat this all the time in the Sentinel Forest, and I’ve missed it. The bread used to be what Ulfgar threw out because it was too stale, and the eggs I used to find in birds’ nests. I think it did go a bit wrong, though, as I did ask for whole eggs, but these are the insides of the eggs instead of the shells. It’s alright. Still delicious.”
Oren and his brothers exchanged a sad look before turning to their own meals. Soon they were eating and savouring the flavours, listening to the scattered conversations from other tables. Tavik tried hard not to look at Nix eating his raw eggs, and occasionally winced when Nix slurped too loudly and wetly.
Occasionally, Liv would turn to speak softly to a passing elf between bites of her own meal. At one point, a tall, regal-looking female elf sat down beside Liv and spoke in a language none of the boys could understand. Nix’s ears twitched, but not a single word of this elvish tongue meant anything to him. The regal-looking elf finished speaking with Liv, glanced briefly around the table, then stood and walked quickly away. Oren wondered at the worried expressions on both elves’ faces. Having finished eating, he put his spoon down and focused on Liv, who was picking at her meal, her mind clearly elsewhere.
“Who was she? That other elf? Why are you so worried?” he asked, half aware that his brothers were looking up at him, then at the elf.
Liv paused eating, looked at Oren, and studied the boy for a long moment before answering very carefully, remembering her whispered conversations with the scribe. “That was my older sister, Thea, Queen of our people.” Liv watched Oren and his brothers for a reaction before continuing. “The scribe told me to be honest with you, though I cannot understand why you are important enough to know what ails our kind.” She paused again, seemed to make a decision, put her spoon down, and leaned back, her gaze on the four boys fierce and calculating. “Galena used to be a settlement of harmony and balance. It was the axis under the skies that holds all things in place, but a hundred years ago something came from beyond the sky and brought a different kind of magic into our world, sending ripples of discord across our lands, forests, and waterways. It caused our world to shift so that we could not find the balance and harmony that kept us whole, and many of our people, creatures, and plant life faded and died. That is why there has been a ban across the kingdom to halt the birthing of new elves, to keep the balance with what we can control. Now there has been a ripple of unease coming from the sky temples east of here, where the Caelvarae reside, and we are worried about what this means.”
The four boys shifted, sensing her unease. Nix’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he sat rigid, studying the elf.
“Your people are frightened of me,” whispered Nix as he watched Liv intently. His ears slowly flattened against his head, and his storm-red hair stirred as the air around him shifted, his storm magic murmuring in response the his growing anxiety. Tavik reached out and rested a hand on Nix’s shoulder, and the storm magic eased and faded.
Liv regarded the strange blue-skinned boy and found herself fascinated by the green runic patterns that flickered and glowed beneath his skin, along his neck and forearms, revealing his anxiety and fear. She lowered her voice and spoke carefully, aware that others around them were probably listening in. “If you were full Caelvarae, my Watchers would have killed you on sight in the forest,” she winced as she realised belatedly that this was what the scribe had told her not to do. Oren and Tavik had leaned closer to their cousin and were looking daggers at her. “But because you are only half sky god, we waited, and now I have learned that you are not our enemy, but a boy with unusual heritage, so yes, we are wary of you.”
