It was a morning painted in hues of gold, the sun a radiant beacon in a sky free of clouds. The temperature embraced perfection, and a gentle breeze wove through the air, coaxing a playful dance from each strand of my hair. Nature itself seemed to celebrate the day, urging me to share its joy with friends. Thamolin, engrossed in his training with his father, had been elusive lately. Today, I hoped, would be different.
My first destination was Rachel's home, a charming two-floor haven of bricks and wood set against a backdrop of ample land. Familiarity smoothed my approach, as her parents recognized me from prior visits. A knock repeated a patient cadence that mirrored the measured pace of my kind, who, blessed with longevity, had mastered the art of waiting.
The door creaked open, but the anticipation that usually greeted me had been replaced by a somber atmosphere. "Morning Veralien. Looking for Rachel?"
Concern etched my features as I probed gently, "Is everything alright, sir?"
A sigh escaped him, carrying the weight of untold tales. "You elves are pretty perceptive huh? Well, we're leaving Old Oak soon. This is our last week here before moving to the Capital."
I felt my heart sink. I only had two friends here, and one of them was leaving far enough that I would probably never see her again. The realization hung like a heavy mist, clouding the vibrant morning with the somber hues of impending farewell. The sun, once a beacon of joy, now cast a bittersweet glow on a moment that marked the end of an era.
In the waning light of our shared haven, I mustered the courage to voice the question that lingered unspoken. "Why the departure?" The words carried a weight that reflected my unease.
"Because Rachel is being held back in Old Oak. We're not sure who she takes after, but she's gifted, and universities have taken notice even at her young age. She was accepted to a junior program for a college of medicine. This opportunity is too good to turn down. She could be a doctor before she's twenty."
I gave him a nod. "I understand. Can we spend the last few days together?"
"Of course. I'll let her know you're here."
As the door closed, a tempest of emotions surged within, threatening to spill as tears. Yet, I resisted the urge for my friend's sake. To reveal my sorrow would only amplify hers. The path she tread was paved with opportunity, akin to my father's journey from home—a narrative shrouded in pain, spoken only in hushed tones.
Footsteps descended, and I composed myself. The impending reunion should be adorned with smiles, not stained by tears. The door swung open, revealing Rachel, her eyes glistening with unshed emotions and a faint smile gracing her lips. In this fleeting moment, we embraced the beauty of our shared history, crafting memories that would endure the sands of time.
"Veralien," she murmured, the words escaping like fragile whispers. A subtle sniffle lingered, a somber undertone setting the stage for a conversation less spirited than usual. In that moment, I sensed the need to embody the vivacity she once exuded.
"Rachel! It's a beautiful day today to just enjoy nature. Not too hot, not too cold. Maybe we could convince Mr. Tavis to let Thamolin skip training today."
"That would be fun…" she said. "But it would be harder to convince Thamolin. Even before he got his father to agree to train him, he would just keep working and keeping himself busy."
She spoke the truth, yet I couldn't let her spirit wane. "This time might be different. Imagine if we could persuade Mr. Tavis to endorse a break for Thamolin. If it comes from his father, he might just join us willingly. Convincing Thamolin is a challenge, but persuading his father might prove more fruitful. Let's give it a try."
She conceded with a faint sniffle, a half-hearted "Alright" escaping her lips. Conviction eluded her tone, but I remained undeterred. I would orchestrate this day of respite.
Thamolin, an easy target in the small canvas of Old Oak, revealed himself in the lively hubbub near the barracks. Distinct screams emanated from the structure, a delightful diversion that even prompted a rare chuckle from Rachel, breaking the pall that hung over her since morning.
From a distance, the rhythmic cadence of Mr. Tavis and Thamolin wielding large, dull axes filled the air. Their synchronized dance unfolded, a choreography of steel and effort, but not in opposition to each other. Mr. Tavis, a seasoned warrior, initiated each sequence with a deliberate step and a resounding chop, met by Thamolin's resonating yell. The exchange continued—a step back, an upward cut, a sidelong parry, then forward again with another powerful overhead stroke.
In this duel of generations, the distinction was obvious. William's movements displayed seasoned mastery—swift, precise, and laden with power. Thamolin, though strong and evidently fit for his youth, portrayed a certain clumsiness in both footwork and wielding his weapon. A subtle tremor in his hands and an occasional stumble betrayed his relative inexperience. Both combatants wore small metal clamps on their wrists, and larger ones adorned their ankles.
The axes sliced through the air, each swing cutting a swath of invisible resistance. The dull thuds and metallic clangs reverberated, punctuating the disciplined rhythm of their sparring. It was a dance, not just of combat, but a transfer of knowledge, a bridge between the seasoned warrior and the apprentice navigating the early currents of skill.
The late morning sun cast elongated shadows, accentuating the sweat-soaked contours of their determined faces. Dust particles shimmered like golden sprites in the sunlight, caught in the wake of each powerful stroke.
"Mr. Tavis!" I exclaimed as I approached.
"Keep practicing the sequences. You know the saying; practice makes less crappy," William said. He ambled toward us, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. "Not right now, kids. He needs to finish his training."
"I understand, but may I have a word with you in private? It will only take a moment," I asked.
Mr. Tavis hesitated initially, but after a short pause, he sighed and nodded. "I'll give you a minute or two," he said, motioning for me to come to him as he began to walk away from Rachel. "What did you want to talk about?" he asked once we were sufficiently distant from the other two.
The rhythmic clanging of sparring weapons accompanied our conversation. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, elongating our forms as we spoke.
"It's Rachel's last week in Old Oak. She and her family are moving out, and it would mean a lot not only to myself but also to her if Thamolin could come out."
"I understand, but cutting him slack right now could get him killed in the future. He had to make a choice, and the one he made, against my better judgment, was the path of a warrior. By choosing to increase his martial prowess in hopes of glory, fame, money, or whatever else he filled in that stupid head of his, he also chose to forgo friendships, family, and relationships in general. He chose a lonely path and has to decide to go all in because tryin' to stay on the fence on this will result in him gettin' killed."
"He's her best friend and has been for years. I am not asking for it to be a regular thing. Just a few days, before she leaves. Who knows, Mr. Tavis, it might even convince him to choose a simpler life and abandon the warrior's path."
William surveyed his son, his eyes shifting between Thamolin's determined gaze and mine, reflecting the inner turmoil he bore. He yearned for his son to forsake this ambitious dream, yet deep down, he feared Thamolin's unwavering resolve. A solitary tear traversed his weathered face. "The problem is that I see myself in him, and know nothin' would keep me away from the path I've chosen."
"There's merit in what you say, Mr. Tavis. Yet you are still around today to tell us of your regrets."
"I got lucky…" he confessed, his voice tinged with defeat as he gazed down at the earth beneath our feet. The morning sun cast a warm glow on his features, accentuating the lines etched by years of experience and hardship. Suddenly, his countenance shifted. With determination etched on his face, he raised his head and unclasped a pendant from around his neck. The pendant held a clear stone, not a dazzling diamond but a translucent gem that mirrored the hues of our surroundings.
"Thamolin," he declared, striding purposefully toward his son, "Take this and put it on." With a swift motion, he tossed the pendant toward Thamolin.
The gem caught the sunlight as it spun through the air, casting prismatic reflections. Momentarily taken aback, Thamolin reached out and caught the pendant with a mix of reverence and curiosity.
"Put it on, boy," William commanded. The pendant, once clasped around Thamolin's neck, hung there like a symbol of a choice to be made, a tangible link between a father's regret and a son's destiny. The subdued hues of the gem seemed to whisper of paths yet untraveled, mirroring the clarity sought by a father for his son in the face of an uncertain future.
As soon as he put it on, William tossed a training club to him, the wood catching the glint of the pendant's refracted light. Thamolin's fingers closed around it, and at that moment, father and son stood across from each other, armed with purpose and training clubs. William charged, a controlled intensity in his movements, and Thamolin met him with a newfound determination. The rhythmic clash of wood against wood echoed in the training area, a dance of parries and strikes, each movement a testament to the evolving skill on both sides.
It was evident that Mr. Tavis was holding back his strength, yet his technique remained masterful, a symphony of experience. However, this time, a shift occurred. Thamolin's responses were not mere reactions; they carried the grace of someone who had found a deeper connection to the art. There was a flurry of parrying and attacking from both sides, a perfect standstill that unfolded like a living painting for several heartbeats. The sun cast long shadows across the training ground, adding to the drama of the moment.
Then, the strain on Thamolin's muscles became apparent due to his earlier training and the added weights. He panted, disarmed, but his father, instead of pressing the advantage, gave him a nod. The air buzzed with the shared understanding of a father and son, and the pendant around Thamolin's neck seemed to gleam with the promise of choices made and futures shaped in the crucible of combat.
"Take off your weights and join them. But if you're heading into the wilderness, ensure you eat and rest for at least two hours. Take my magic sword," William explained, the words carrying the weight of experience, "and never remove that pendant. I know you're not trained in swords, but that pendant holds the memory of its previous wielders. You will fight with my skill, even if caught off guard."
The directive hung in the air, a blend of wisdom and responsibility. Thamolin's expression revealed a mix of confusion and reluctance. "I don't understand," he said. "Why make me train then?"
"Trainin' builds character, physical strength, and endurance," William clarified. "The pendant records your habits over time, both good and bad. Completing your training ensures you don't rely solely on it. If you surpass my skill, it will adapt and keep your reflexes sharp. The magic acts faster than conscious thought, memorizin' parries, footwork, edge alignment—everything you need as a fighter."
"I can't take this," Thamolin protested.
"You can, and you will," Mr. Tavis insisted, his tone firm. "I want you to have it because it's invaluable. It saved my life countless times, and it will do the same for you if you choose this path. It's worth more than my sword. You might find better weapons, but never a better pendant."
Thamolin adjusted the stone around his neck with a grateful smile. "Thank you."
"Go with your friends and enjoy yourselves. We'll continue training this week, but we'll shorten the sessions. Be cautious and prepared to resume intense training next week," Mr. Tavis instructed, the authority in his voice softened by a genuine concern for Thamolin's well-being.
Thamolin nodded, a sense of relief evident in his eyes, and we headed to my house to grab a meal, following Mr. Tavis's advice. The outskirts were indeed perilous, but we couldn't live in constant fear, especially with Rachel's imminent departure. We had to make these last days memorable.
My father, skilled in the art of creating culinary delights, prepared Eruvien, a traditional Llevian dish rich in vegetables, herbs, and seeds. Despite its humble ingredients, it was nourishing and revitalizing, a staple for us in Old Oak. It was Thamolin's first taste, and he devoured it eagerly, prompting hearty laughter from my father.
"I see you're enjoying it. Would you like more?" my father asked with amusement, recognizing the universal language of a satisfied palate.
With his cheeks still bulging from the first mouthful, Thamolin nodded eagerly, extending his bowl for a refill. My father obliged, unfazed by his voracious appetite.
"You're quite the cook, To'darrien. I recall you mentioning that you learned from your wife. What about your parents?" Rachel inquired, curious about our culinary traditions.
"The Velmar and Llevians have their cultural nuances. While my mother was skilled in the kitchen, cooking was generally not a pursuit for men in my homeland. I've never seen my father don an apron, so I'm uncertain if he possessed any culinary skills. Consequently, I never learned Velmar dishes. However, I've passed down everything I know to Veralien. If anything were to happen to me, he'd be able to sustain himself and preserve our cultural heritage," my father explained, a subtle pride underlying his words as he shared the cultural continuity within our family.
"That's amazing!" Rachel exclaimed with enthusiasm. "So, does he know how to make this too?"
"This and much more," my father replied.
"You're more excited about my cooking than my prowess in using incantations with Essence," I teased.
"That's cool too, but this is better. You'll make your future wife very happy one day," Rachel said, leaving me slightly flustered with her unexpected comment.
"Forget your future wife. Do it for me and the men," Thamolin interjected, injecting humor into the moment. Everyone burst into laughter, the camaraderie filling the room with warmth.
"So where are you kids going?" my father asked, genuinely interested in our plans.
"We're not sure. Probably just a nature walk and some games, enjoying each other's company," I replied.
"You three should go to the garden I took your mother to when I asked her to marry me."
I knew the garden he referred to—a vast, beautiful space adorned with various trees and flowers. Rachel would surely appreciate its charm, though I wasn't so sure about Thamolin. Yet, it was Rachel who was departing, not Thamolin. The suggestion added a layer of sentiment to our outing, turning it into a poignant journey through the pages of our family history.
"That's a sound plan. We should head there."
"How far is it?" Thamolin inquired.
"It's close enough for all of us to get there without taking a break. And it's safe. My dad isn't the warrior that yours is, and if you truly possess the prowess and reflexes of your father when you wear that pendant, we have very little to worry about."
Thamolin considered it for a moment, then agreed, a sense of anticipation lingering in the air.
"What can you find in the garden?" Rachel asked.
"Several plants that aren't native to the area. Exotic ones you've likely never seen unless you stumbled upon it by mistake," my father replied.
"If they aren't native here, how did they grow?" she inquired, her curiosity mirroring the enchantment of the garden.
"In truth, I can't be sure. It's possible that it was a grove that once belonged to a Keeper, likely a Llevian or one that learned their ways. However, if this were true, any remnants that remained of the Keeper or his belongings are long gone, probably stolen."
Rachel's eyes widened in excitement. In Old Oak, excitement was a rarity for children. I was the main exhibit, being the only half-Velmar and half-Llevian in the village. Anything involving other species was experienced only by a select few. I myself had never seen another of my kin aside from my father or mother. While they had encountered Ozen, Drokkar, and the like, I had only encountered Bontu (small, green scavengers of mischief with pointy noses and ears) and Albeani (another small race, but far more creative and inventive than Bontu, humans, or my people) once each. The prospect of exploring this hidden haven, teeming with exotic life, sparked a gleam of excitement in Rachel's eyes, transcending the ordinary mundanity of Old Oak.
"That's amazing! I would really like to see it!" Rachel exclaimed.
"Alright Rae Rae. If you want to go to the garden, we'll go to the garden," Thamolin said.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!" She shouted.
We dashed out of the village and embarked on our journey to the garden. Into the wilderness we walked once more. It allowed us to not only appreciate the beauty that nature held but also to proceed cautiously, respecting the warnings nature gave us when peril lay ahead. Our path was adorned with wonders – small woodland animals feeding off berries, the rustle of leaves, and the melody of nature. Yet, it was often taken for granted in the hustle of day-to-day life. It was a pity, for I wished to spend more time appreciating the beauty. Still, it didn't come unaccompanied by danger.
Unlike Thamolin or my dad, I was no warrior, and my mastery in Essence was that of an amateur at best. While I might hold my own against a lone Zul or perhaps a pair of Bontu, the idea of facing packs was daunting. However, I always felt safe with my father, and Thamolin, armed with his father's pendant, was likely an even greater protector.
It took us a few hours of walking to reach our destination, providing ample time for shared experiences. Rachel reveled in the beauty of nature—the trees and streams, the falling leaves, and the blooming flowers. Thamolin sought the thrill of it all; the sense of danger gave him an unmatched excitement. Aspiring to be an adventurer, he reveled in the idea of catching wildlife. For me, being in nature brought me closer to my mother, a former Llevian huntress deeply attuned to the natural world. As a half-Llevian, I harbored the desire to learn how to mastery of Essence in the way the Keepers had, though I had no one to teach me. My father was no Llevian, unfamiliar with their ways of commanding the forces of nature. Although Velmar had a natural affinity for Essence control, he was a relatively modest essence user by all accounts and could only offer limited guidance.
My two friends stood in awe before the entrance, a mesmerizing sight hidden beneath the embrace of large foreign trees. These arboreal wonders boasted unique coiled branches, and long, thick vines cascaded from them like ethereal curtains. The entrance was a tapestry of colors and textures, a living artwork that beckoned us into its sanctuary.
As we stepped through, the moss clinging to the trees released a fragrance, a delightful amalgamation of musk and floral notes. The air changed, growing warmer and more humid, cocooning us in an atmosphere that whispered ancient secrets. The Essence that permeated the air was potent, a testament to the extraordinary strength possessed by whoever or whatever had crafted this enchanted grove. Each step deeper into this ethereal realm heightened our sense of wonder and reverence for the unseen forces at play.
The trees, towering high above us, seemed to hum with an otherworldly energy. Their branches intertwined, creating a natural can