She glanced sideways at him, his face clear and unconcerned, a faint smirk permanently twisting his mouth. She felt the familiar, burning fury rise through her, spreading heat from her heart to her finger and toes. None of her anger manifested in her face, in tension in her limbs. She looked as calm and emotionless as the object of her fury. She stroked the handle of her warhammer, the familiar sensation of worn leather and cool metal soothing her rage. She itched to wield it, feel its heft in her hand, the satisfying thud of bringing it down on her foe’s skull.
She had been gifted Samryn, her warhammer, from the Dwarves she lived with as a child. Her father, the prince of their elven clan, had sent her there as a child. She had always been different from her kin. Where most elves were serene and cold, inside and out, she only had the appearance of it. Inside, she had a passion, a fire, a fury that no other elf could understand. No other elf, besides her father; the only one who seemed to understand her, who she had practically worshiped. He knew that she would never truly belong with the elves, would grow bored with their dullness and need something more. He had encouraged her energy, teaching her all the skills a warrior would need.
When she was still young, about 80 years old, he sent her to live with the Dwarves, to learn from them the arts of forging and new battle tactics. This is where she had thrived. The rhythm of the forges, the heat of the fires, the weight of hammers, all made more sense to her than the simple bows and leather of her people. The Dwarves were surprised by her interest and aptitude, and once she proved herself, they welcomed her more than her kin had even done. She returned from the mountain, riding proudly in heavy armor, Samryn by her side. She cared not for her kins’ stunned looks. She knew her father would understand.
He welcomed her back, and as her 100th year approached, she knew what her adult name would be – Shava, friend of her father.
All was well.
Until, one night, a messenger arrived at their house. Her father had gone to the human village under their protection, to inspect damage to their walls. She never understood why he insisted on going himself. Still, she took the message to the village. She stayed in the shadows, disdainful of the flimsy houses, the odors. Everything humans did was so fleeting, of such poor quality. She skirted the walls, but could not find her father. Something sparked inside her, putting her on edge. Something was not right.
She was about to enter the village when she heard a door opening nearby. She melded into the shadows, and saw her father emerge from a tiny hut, followed by a plain-looking human woman. As she watched, her father leaned in, and, to her horror, kissed the human. She stood there, frozen, watching as her father lingered, clearly not wanting to leave this pitiful woman. She did not understand. Her father was a proud elf, proud of his lineage and bloodlines, above such things as petty lust for human whores. Rage burned in her as she watched him leave, watched the woman stare longingly after him.
She reached their home before him. She slipped into the entry, trying to remain as quiet as possible, but still, she was found. Her mother appeared before her, as beautiful as the moon, as serene as a still lake. Her anger spiked as she stared at her mother. What was he thinking, to betray her and her mother like this? She made sure her features were clear, but her eyes betrayed her. Her mother knew something was wrong.
“Shava, what-”
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. The sound of her name burned. “I am not Shava anymore.” She stalked past her mother, to her quarters, and gathered her belongings. She hesitated outside her father’s study, then strode in. She placed the message on his desk, the desk she had spent so much time sitting before, talking and laughing and learning from her father. She grasped the pendant around her neck, the one her father had given her during her naming ceremony. It was a smooth black rock, with flecks of gold that made it glow. She paused, then ripped it from her neck, braking the leather strap.
She put it on the desk next to the letter, and left the study. Her mother still stood in the hall, looking, for once, bewildered instead of unfazed. She stopped in front of her mother, and they stared at each other for a full minute in silence. She didn’t have the same relationship with her mother as with her father, but she had always respected her, honored her, and, deep below her anger, she felt pain for the beautiful elf before her, who had been so deeply betrayed.
“I am sorry,” she rasped, looking away from her mother’s clear eyes, “but I can stay here no longer.” She turned, and without looking back, left her home, her life, behind.
She spent the next year wandering, staying away from other civilized peoples. She saved a group of adventurers from a pack of dire wolves, and they convinced her to join them. They were members of the Order of the Moon-Forged Star, and after a few years, she joined them. She told them her name was Advena, but to herself, she had no name. She spent the next 15 years with the Order, never putting down roots, always moving from one campaign to another.
And every night, during her meditation, she fought off the memories of her father, her life before his betrayal. And some nights, she fought off his own mind, trying to search for her, communicate with her. She had nothing to say to him, refused to listen to his pathetic excuses.
One night, she felt his probing, his thoughts trying to speak to her, and he felt… different. Weak, in a way he never had before, weak in a way she didn’t know it was possible for him to be. Even though her rage had never died, she felt faintly worried. He seemed to sense this weakness, and two words slipped through. Cha tan. Half brother. And then he was gone. Not fading away, as he usually did, but abruptly. And she knew, as she woke with a scream ripping through her throat, that her father was dead.
Cha tan. The words haunted her. They slipped into the sound of her horse’s hoof beats, the crackle of the campfire, the screams of her enemies. It was as if her father had cursed her, in his final moments, driving her closer to insanity the more she resisted.
Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She left her party after their latest campaign, slipping away while they drowned themselves in alcohol at a tavern.
She didn’t know where to look, didn’t want to go back to her home, to that village. Instead, she listened to her instinct, the voice of her father in her head, and, after several months, found him. Cha tan. He had been surrounded by hell hounds, who didn’t seem to care too much about the fireballs he kept shooting at them. She watched for a while. He looked nothing like her, nothing like her father.
She had seen dragon-cursed sorcerers before, so the scales on his skin did not faze her. His whore of a mother must have had a dragon somewhere in her lineage; maybe that was why her father was seduced. The boy was doing badly. He looked cheerful, uncaring, but she could see the weariness in his stance, how the fireballs continued to get smaller and smaller. She sighed, then felt the rush of adrenaline from smashing Samryn into the back of the nearest hell hound, snapping its spine.
The little bugger wasn’t even grateful she had saved his life. He started chattering about how he had everything under control, would have been perfectly fine, thank you very much, but you, know, a hammer like yours could be helpful, so I suppose I’ll let you tag along. She remained silent, listening to him natter on, before quietly asking,
“Why do you suppose I would want to stick around?”
Without hesitation, he grinned. “Clearly my charming personality. I can see that you are trying out the whole lone wolf, ‘I work alone,’ figure-of-mystery thing, but come on. Who can resist this?” He wriggled his eyebrows, gesturing to himself.
She raised one eyebrow, sending him a withering look. “Child, you have nothing to offer that I would be interested in.” He was tiny, which surprised her. She and her father were tall for elves, but this boy barely came to her shoulder.
His eyes sharpened, and his lost some of his air of charm. He suddenly looked like their father, a shrewdness gleaming in his eyes. “Well, you want something, otherwise you would have let me get eaten by those mutts.”
She would have to be careful. Underneath all his bravado, he was more intelligent than she had reckoned. She still didn’t know what she was doing here with him, what she intended to do with him, but her father’s voice was finally muted in her head, no longer driving her mad.
She shrugged. “I could have just passed by and let those hounds consume you. Would you have preferred that?”
“I was fine! I had everything under control!” he protested.
She kept her face blank, staring him down.
“Ok,” he mumbled, “maybe not completely under control. But I didn’t need you, I could have gotten out of there just fine.”
She shrugged again, bored with his childishness. What could her father possible want her to do with this runt?
He started rambling again about some herald giving directions for a campaign, promising adventure and gold, and he had been making his way to the rendezvous location when he had been attacked.
And so here they were, riding to a nearby village. She wasn’t entirely sure how he had convinced her to come with, but she had agreed. She had nothing else in her life, besides the thrill of battle, and though her anger still raged against the small boy beside her, curiosity made it impossible to leave.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020