Chapter 5: Tears and Rain Mingle

Spirit awoke several hours later from a fitful sleep. There was no sun shining through the window, only a chunk of the granite-grey sky. Even the weather is unhappy, he thought as he began to get dressed. Belatedly, he noticed Drac had already gotten out of bed. This puzzled Spirit, because Drac normally didn’t get out of bed before Spirit. After dressing, he ambled down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Drac and Aunt Laura sat at the table, half-finished platters of ham and potatoes before them, arguing.

“Why don’t you go see Kevin the fletcher? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having an apprentice.”

“Mum, I’ve told you, I don’t want to be a craftsman.”

“Well then, what do you want to be?”

Drac was about to reply, but stopped when he spotted his cousin in the doorway. “Hey Spirit. You can sit down if you want.”

Spirit obliged, sliding into a chair directly between the two. Drac walked over to the counter and came back with another plate of ham and potatoes. “Here’s your breakfast. Sorry if it’s a bit cold.”

Spirit mutely accepted the dish, then sat and stared into the swirling mound of vegetable as his family resumed their discussion. Although most of their conversation he blocked out as background noise, he perked up a bit when he heard the words “on a farm”. The phrase stirred something in his memory, something he was supposed to tell someone… Ah yes! Colin had wanted him to tell Drac about Cormac. The wizened old man owned one of the biggest farms in the village, and as a result needed plenty of workers.

“Cormac’s looking for another farmhand,” he said casually. It took several moments for the two to notice he said anything.

“What did you say?” Drac asked.

“I said Cormac is looking for another farmhand.”

An astonished look spread over Drac’s face. “Really? Who told you?”

“Mr. Colin. He thought you might want to know, seeing as you would need a job soon.”

“Well, he was certainly right!” Drac’s eyes slid out of focus as he considered the situation. Spirit, his message delivered, finally turned to his stone-cold breakfast and began to eat.

Just as Spirit finished with his plate, Drac nodded to himself, his mind made up. “Mum, I’m going to go to Cormac’s farm. Maybe he’ll have something for me.”

Aunt Laura pursed her lips, then sighed. “Very well. Off you go then.”

Without another word, Drac got up from his seat and departed.

After he left, a deep silence covered the house. Aunt Laura eventually left the kitchen to sit in the den, leaving Spirit alone at the table. Quietly, he finished his plate and put his dish away, then went out and stood in the backyard. It seemed like so long ago that he had been out here with his friends, not a care in the world. But things were different now. He needed information, and he needed it fast. And as far as he knew, there was only one way to get the knowledge he wanted. It was time to go talk to Reorin’s father.

Reorin answered the door, a smile on her face. That smile turned to concern as she took in his tired and careworn visage. “Hello Spirit. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Can I talk to your dad?”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she held the door open wider and gestured to him. “Of course.”

“Thanks.” Spirit stepped over the threshold and into her home.

It was a lively place, full of light and color. Small lamps made of paper and wood hung on strings running all around the walls, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere. A fire burned in the hearth, but as Spirit came in it died down to little more than embers. Reorin’s eyes flickered over to it as she led Spirit over to a chair that faced the fire. In it Jacrith sat reading a book. A pair of glasses perched upon the bridge of nose, and his eyes sped back and forth across the pages.  

“Papa, Spirit wants to talk to you.”

The storm-elf man started at his daughters voice, and looked up in surprise.  

“Greetings to you Spirit. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you sir.” Spirit sat right on the edge of his seat, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Jacrith raised an eyebrow.

“Is there something wrong?”

Spirit attempted a reassuring smile, but didn’t quite pull it off. “No sir, I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Jacrith let the topic go, but continued to look concernedly at Spirit. “Now, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“There’s actually a couple things sir. The first thing is: was Eoin’s story true? The one about the necromancer, Malum?”

 A chill seemed to sweep through the room. Jacrith’s eyes grew dark. “Ah, your first question is the hardest to answer. Many times has that tale been told, but every time something is different. We have no real way of knowing what truly happened during those fateful months save getting the story from someone who was there. But that is impossible, and so we can only speculate. But most of it, yes, it is true.”

“The elves? They existed?”

Jacrith grinned suddenly, and his words assumed the eager tone of an excited teacher. “Yes! They are in fact one of the most constant truths in that whole story. Their civilization was strong, steeped in learning and magic. The people were kind, cultured, and determined. Oh, the stories I could tell you, tales that have been passed down through my family for generations.”

Spirit shrugged and settled back into his chair. “I’m all ears sir.”

Smiling, Jacrith cleared his throat and began.

“Many centuries ago, the world was populated only by men, elves, and the faeires. At this time, the civilization of men had just begun, and they had explored little outside of their own borders. The same was to be said of the elves, who dwelled in the Great Plains. The faeries however, had already built a great empire, even if it was a bit on the small side.

One day, a young faerie was scouting along the edge of the forest when suddenly he was eclipsed in a mammoth shadow! Crying out in fear, he whirled to face this monstrosity. Looming over him was a young elf. “Are you a friend, or a foe?” cried the brave faerie. The elf laughed and replied, “Only if you are a threat to me! But I do not think you are, little man.”

The faerie was insulted! “Little man, you say! I’ll show you!” And he fired a bolt of magic at his face.

The elf cried out in pain and indignation, cupping his nose in his hands. After the pain had subsided, the elf knelt down and bowed his head. “My apologies. I did not suspect one of your stature could be so powerful.”

The faerie’s features softened. “Apology accepted.”

Soon the two became fast friends. After several days, the elf journeyed back to his village, the young faerie accompanying him. When the other elves met the faerie, they were amazed at his weapons and tools, things they had never dreamed of creating. They begged him to teach them all he knew, and he obliged.

Over time, the bond between nations grew so close that it was not uncommon to find faeries and elves living side by side, in either empire. And thanks to the faeries, the elven nation quickly advanced to a sophisticated society.

But a threat loomed, unbeknownst to them. A magical storm was brewing; a titanic storm of such intensity and might that it’s very presence altered that which it passed over.

Oblivious, several towns of elves and faeries gathered together to celebrate their feast of the New Year. They had no idea what a new year it would dawn to be. At one moment it was bright and sunny. The next, immense purple clouds loomed over them, and bolts of magical energy began crashing down to earth. The terrified people scattered, but there was no where to run. Amidst all the horrific noise, a misty rain enveloped everything, smothering the people in a swirling mass of fog colored every color of the rainbow. Then everything grew still, and the fog began to disappear. When the frightened townsfolk came together again, they found they had been changed. The two species had been meshed together by the storm, sealing their bond of friendship forevermore. The people began to make a new life for themselves, and from the point on, they were called the storm elves.”

Spirit sat back in his chair, amazed at what he had just heard. So not only do elves and faeries exist, but the storm elves are descended from them! This is more of a learning experience then I thought it was going to be. Shaking his head, he stole a glance at Jacrith, wondering what his reaction to Spirit’s final question would be.

Finally, his steeled himself and asked hesitantly, “Then I guess my final question is… did Malum really find a way to resurrect the dead?’

An understanding glimmer came into Jacrith’s eyes, and his next words were delivered kindly, almost regretfully. “We can never know. It may be that some bard from ages past though it would sound better if Malum had an army of undead minions rather then just mercenaries and dark creatures. And even if he did, it would be unwise for you to act on that information.” He put a hand on Spirit’s shoulder. “It does not do to dwell in the past.”

Spirit looked at the floor and nodded, fighting back tears. “Yes sir.”

“Are you sure you’re alright Spirit?” Jacrith asked, concern in his voice.

 Spirit sniffled, and then raised his head to look him in the eyes. “Yes sir. I’m fine.”

Abruptly, Spirit stood and said dully, “Thank you for talking to me.”

Jacrith stood as well. “You’re most welcome young man. Please feel free to come back anytime.”

“Thanks.”

As he was making for the door, Reorin touched his shoulder. He turned to face her with a distracted expression, and was startled to see worry and pain written all over her features, eyes brimming with tears. Her mouth worked for several moments, as if she was trying to speak, then she shook her head and threw her arms around him.

Spirit hugged her back, and it was as if she was a sponge, drawing out his pain and worry. Suddenly it was all he could not to sob into her shoulder as his raw emotions burst forth into his mind. His anger and fear at what was happening to him and his hunger to see his family raged in the confines of his soul, battling for supremacy.

After several moments, they broke apart. Tears were silently streaming down Reorin’s face, but she took no notice of them. Spirit swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you.” he croaked. A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she nodded. Drying his suddenly wet eyes, Spirit opened the door and left.

While Spirit had been inside, it had begun to rain. Water coursed down the cobblestoned streets and poured off house roofs, but Spirit barely noticed the water. All of his energy was concentrated upon not sinking into a dark corner and crying until he could cry no more. Reorin’s simple act of compassion had opened up a well of grief inside himself, a chasm that had been created by the death of his family, of all that he could ever have called home.

For so long he had believed that they were gone forever, and that thought had enabled him to trap the yearning in a cage, keep it docile and hidden. But now that hunger ran rampant across his soul, consuming all other thoughts and feelings in a single desperate desire: to travel to the Forest of Daggerwood, and if he could find the ruin of the necromancer’s tower… maybe he could see his family again.

Dimly, Spirit noticed that he was trudging along High Road. The street was deserted, everyone opting to stay in their warm, dry homes rather then face the torrential downpour. And yet Spirit heard a voice calling out, asking someone to stop. Annoyed at the noise, he ignored the voice and continued on.

He had barely walked another dozen paces when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him roughly around. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, punk.” Spirit looked up with barely controlled rage into the sneering purple face of Rixar. Behind him stood his two friends, Lee and Ross. They were human boys of about eighteen years that shared Rixar’s love of tormenting others, and on more then one occasion had aided the Larcen in beating Spirit up.

But not today.

“Don’t touch me.” Spirit muttered, barely controlling his rage.

Rixar’s sneer widened. “What did you just say, punk?” He shoved Spirit in the chest, laughing.

“I said don’t TOUCH ME!” The last two words Spirit yelled at the top of his lungs. Cocking back his fist, he powered forward and punched the Larcen in the nose.

Something cracked, and Rixar crumpled to his knees, howling and cupping his nose.

He glared up at Spirit, then looked at his friends and gurgled, “Get hib!”

Ross and Lee eagerly obliged, stalking around the kneeling Rixar towards Spirit. Together they raised their fists and began to circle.

Blood rushed in Spirit’s ears as he settled into a fighting stance. Anger coursed through his veins, and as Ross pulled back for a punch, Spirit let out a yell and kicked at his outstretched leg.

Ross pulled back just in time, but was thrown off balance and his punch missed Spirit by a foot.

Spirit grabbed his forearm as it sailed past and spun, throwing Ross’s punch directly at Lee. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, and he sidestepped out of the way, leaving Ross to stumble past. Once he regained his balance, the pair turned and advanced together, glaring all the while. Spirit had drawn blood: now this was personal.

  Spirit threw a punch at Lee, but he dodged and slammed a fist into Spirit’s ribs. Pain exploded from both the new punch and the half-healed injuries from his last beating. Spirit groaned and stumbled back, then set himself and kicked Ross in the chest. The bully doubled over wheezing, but Lee used the opening to land another kick to Spirit’s stomach.

The blow knocked Spirit back against the wall of the house behind him, where he leaned, desperately trying to force air into his unresponsive lungs.

Rixar joined Lee and Ross in a circle around Spirit, undisguised hate written all over his face. Blood dripped from what looked like a broken nose, but the Larcen seemed oblivious to the pain.

“What are you gonna do, krantic?” Rixar spat out the swearword like it was distasteful to him. Without warning he drew two hands back and slapped Spirit in the face, smashing his head into the rock behind him. The orphan boy sagged against the wall, his strength gone.

Rixar leaned closer. “What are ya gonna do?!” Another slap. Small bits of dirt fell off the wall.

Slowly, Spirit looked up at the Larcen boy. An orange film passed over his eyes, and he hissed, “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Rixar only snarled in contempt and lifted his hands for another strike.

But Spirit was faster.

            His hand shot out, smashing Rixar in the chest. A blast of dry heat erupted from the contact, and the Larcen was thrown across the street to land in a heap on the cobblestones.

            Rixar sat up, then gasped as he saw a charred circle in his shirt, directly where Spirit had punched him. He looked up at Spirit in a dazed horror.

            Lee and Ross had turned to watch Rixar soar past their heads, then whirled back around to find a fist flying at each of their faces.

            The water on the road beneath them evaporated from the blast of heat, and the pair joined their ringleader on the ground, moaning and clutching at the fresh burns on their faces.

            A fresh wave of pain coursed through Rixar’s body, and his mind chose to drop into the bliss of unconsciousness rather than face it. The image that stuck in his mind as he spiraled into the black was one of Spirit’s face— with tears and rain pouring mingled down.