I. A Fleeting Arrow
Exhausted, Flint Loxley and his men retired from hunting wild boar in the countryside of Altessa. Nothing could compare to the sweet dry smell of summer grass mixed with a twitch of horsehair and campfire as the sun rested along the valley. Soft winds carried through the land as fields of gold danced to its silent melody.
Taking a knee next to his only son, Flint watched with wonder as little fingers took an arrow from its quiver. With a touch so delicate, the child ran his fingers over the fletching. Blowing gently over its green feathers, like a wish waiting to be granted before placing it between his bowstring.
Without a single breath, he pulled, forcing the arrow’s head to the body of the bow. Floundering under the power of his weapon. Flint’s son lost his grip and sent the arrow hurling towards the sun, vanishing in the hills of tall grass. As graceful as his execution the boy screamed in frustration, twisting his bow and wanting to snap it.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Sage!” Flint’s eyes widened in shock at his son’s use of language. Overheard and adsorbed by him and his men enduring long days of the road no doubt.
“I missed!” his little voice carried loudly.
“And your justification for such is to curse the heavens?”
“I just wanted to be as good as you.”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Sage wiped the oncoming tears escaping his glassy eyes. Flint sighed, pulling Sage against his chest he extinguished all uncertainty from his son’s heart. “We are of Loxley, the bow is our heart, and the arrows carry our souls, our power…our rage. With what you lack in talent, you will gain with desire.” Reaching over, Flint pulled another arrow from the quiver and handed it to his son. “Try again.”
As Sage took the arrow in his hand Flint proceed to instruct him. Like an instrument of power, Flint moved and adjusted his small structure into great form. “Relax, clear your mind, and pull with all your might.” Sage followed his father’s words and pulled back on the string.
Placing his hand over his sons, Flint steadied the bow. “Both arms must work together, do not spend too long aiming. Sometimes it’s best just to let that arrow fly.”
“How do I know when to let go?” Sage asked.
Resting his head on his shoulder, Flint smiled. “You’ll feel it.”
Slowly bringing his arm down, Flint stepped away as the shadow of his son and watched a miracle in the making. Sage was still, his eyes focused and his tone quiet. He exhaled and released his arrow into the target, piercing the crimson circle in the center.
“A perfect shot,” Flint leaned down and kissed the crown of Sage’s head. Lingering a moment to inhale the precious scent of his firstborn with a mixture of dirt. “Now, go fetch your previous arrow then head back to camp and wash up. We shall dine soon.”
“Yes, father.” Hanging his little bow over his shoulder the boy dashed through the field, entering the layers of tall grass and wheat and he searched for his fleeting arrow.
Satisfied with the outcome, Flint made his way a short distance back to camp where their kill simmered over the open fire. The smell of spiced season on meat and smoked wood created a mouth-watering aroma more than worth waiting for. Flint longed for moments such as this, a decent meal after a long day’s ride under the hot Altessa sun. Once stomachs were adequate with wild boar a well-earned rest under the stars soon followed.
His right-hand hunter, and very good friend, stood close to their catch while the other men tended to work and play. Flint watched as he slowly turned the meat for an equal roast, his eyes were red and tired from flames.
“How goes our feast, Louarn?”
“Could’ve snatched a swine will much more meat on its thighs.” The man proclaimed.
“This boar is the biggest we’ve seen in many seasons throughout Altessa far grounds.” Flint countered, “we were lucky to have made such a harvest.”
“Aye,” Louarn sighed. Taking a stick, he poked at the fire before tossing several chunks of bark into the fire. “The world has grown no kind since the crystals perish…and I do not believe improvement will follow. We are damned.”
“Do not say such things. Yes, the world is dying, but even the damned can still strive in darkness. Just like our ancestors before us.”
“I just can’t help but think about the women, and our children.”
“You worry too much, my friend.” Flint chuckled and patted his friend’s shoulders. “We are but hume men. You should worry about the elves in their stead, it is they whose life never fades within a blink of time.”
“I wonder what it’s like?” Louarn asked, “To live the life of an elf.”
Flint shrugged and placed his hands on his hips, “I’d rather not know. I have existed 39 years on this soil and I’m already tired of it.”
They shared a soft laugh, a social banter among friends when a soft hand pulled at Louarn’s tunic. Turning around Flint smiled at the sight of Louarn’s own flesh and blood. A fair child with the bluest of eyes and hair to envy a raven’s wings. He was a quiet child only three years older than his own, but very kind.
Flint carried an everlasting worry when Louarn announced his child’s attendance on their hunts. He saw him too frail and with no passion for warfare, the boy would be nothing more than a crutch during their travels. Soft as he may be his mark was made in other ways valuable to his guild. He rushed around his father wearing a crown of blue flowers on his head. Taking notice of this first thing, his father smiled and adjusted the floral wreath.
“Oh, Mathis.” his father acted surprised. “What fancy jewels you carry upon your head. A crown fit for a king.”
“They are Nigella blossoms,” The little boast, “They carry a sweet scent that’s good for nightmares when brewed but eat them raw and they’ll kill you by rushing all the blood to your face.”
“Well… that’s educational.” Louarn rubbed his son’s head. “And quite disturbing.”
Flint laughed and looked over his shoulder for his own offspring. “I say, Sage is searching for his arrow. Do me a favor and go fetch the lad.”
Both men watched as the child took off into the fields, shaking their heads in wonder. “Honestly, I don’t know where he picks these things up.” Louarn scoffed. “He spends too many days with the elves.”
“Look on the bright side, my friend. If not a warrior, he could make a great healer.”
“Aye, just like his mother…may she rest in starlight.”
Once out of sight the men went back to finishing off their day and readied the knives used to carve the boar. Flint caught sight of a disturbance among the hills. Smoke, nay, dust clouds formed along the horizon and were gradually coming closer. This was no unnatural experience given the dry roads and rushed hooves.
Louarn looked over his shoulder at Flint but paid no mind to the situation as he gently stroked his beard. “A messenger? Or a provision freight perhaps. It would be unforgivable if the elven king went without his wine.”
Flint chuckled and tossed a pebble towards the sky, “…Perhaps.”
The day was well until the frantic screams of their children alerted the entire camp. All fifteen of the men stopped and looked towards the dust trail and followed Flint’s lead as he and Louarn rushed towards the voice of their sons. Two elven brothers, the only pair that invested in their hunts, took off at a speed no hume could measure.
As they passed him with feet barely brushing the grass, Flint knew they would arrive at the scene first and trusted them to handle it accordingly. When the screams grew silent the fathers didn’t know whether to fear the worst or feel an overwhelming sigh of relief. Reaching the dusted road, Flint was meant with the rush of a chestnut stallion.
Feeling the hands of two of his men snatch him back before he could get hit by the speeding carriage. Flint took only a second to witness the merchant forcing speed on a freshly damaged wagon. The right wheel shook nervously against the axel.
Choking on the dust-filled air, he pressed on towards the cries. The answer of whom was crying answered itself when Louarn scooped up Mathis in his arms and cradling his head into the crease of his neck. A swelling rage and fear began to boil in his blood when the dust finally cleared around them.
Pushing through his men who had swarmed along the road, they looked at him with eyes of sympathy and guilt. Yanking from the hands the continually reached for him, Flint reached the opened to find the two elves kneeling. Between them was a small cloaked bundle. Upon seeing their hunter, one of the elves jumped to his feet and approached him.
“Lord Loxley, I don’t think you should-”
“Move Elrohir!” He shoved the elf away.
Getting what he wanted, Flint found himself frozen at the sight of Sage’s bloodied arm hanging out of the cloak. His lost arrow lay broken in the dirt next to them. The elven brother held his son like a precious gemstone and whispering prayers softly in his native tongue. Stopping when their eyes left, the elf cradled the boy towards his father.
“I’m sorry my lord, he has passed.”
“No,” Flint said with words of denial. “Not my son.”
“The bastard didn’t even stop!” Louarn shouted down the road. “We should go after him and pull his limbs apart.”
“That will not change anything.” One of the elves spoke, “Only cause more pain...another loss”
Aggressively taking the bundle, Flint held him to his chest before building up the courage to unfold the fabric, revealing his broken child. Sage’s body was dirty and painted with bruises. Bloodstained his nose and soaked his hair, his beautiful sun no longer shined for him and only grew colder in his arms.
There was no grand celebration of harvest under the stars, but death did not stop Flint from treating his men with a wholesome meal. Everyone watched and ate in silence out of grief. No greater wound in battle could ever match the pain they currently endured.
The body needed to be prepped and treated properly after death to ensure his youthful soul found its way to the afterlife. Taking him to the creek he washed his son with cool water before wrapping him back in the cloak. In any other situation the body with being blessed and readied for burning straight away, but Flint couldn’t find it in himself to tarnish the body just yet.
Sitting alone and watching the dying embers, the hunter found himself in a state of shock as memories and loss took over. What would his wife think? She already worried herself sick when she finally caved and let him take his six-year-old son on an adventure. Burning his remains and returning without his presence would surely give her a false hope that her son was still out there in the world. That everything that happened during the hunt was a lie.
Waiting for his burial in their homeland would be a three days ride and difficult to preserve a body in the summer heat. Flint’s mind and heart were at war with each other. For a stern man who was known to never shed a tear wilted onto his knees and cried.
A gentle touch pressed into his shoulder. “Father?”
Looking up Flint thought the heavens were tormenting him when he saw his son standing next to him. Flint screamed and fell off the log. Was it a demon? A ghost coming back to haunt him for his wrong doing? The boy stood in front of him naked and still covered in bruises from his misfortune. Reaching out he caressed the arms of his child and found only warmth.
Louarn and others who had heard Flint’s scream rushed out of their tents with weapons in armed, only to find themselves standing around their leader completely bewildered.
“He lives?” Louarn spoke.
“That’s impossible.” The elves stood together and sheathing their swords, the one that held his son came forward and looked at the boy. “My eye did not deceive me. His body was broken, there was no life in him.”
“It’s a miracle!” One of the men praised loudly in the background.
A miracle indeed.He laughed and brought the boy into his arms, throwing his own cloak around him. Kissing his face and rubbing his fingers through the boy’s soft, messy hair. Flint was not about to question this situation logically, nor would he take this gift from the Stars for granted. Sage remembered nothing, and no one ever spoke about the incident ever again.
