Lilting in the breeze and round the ever-flowing branches of the trees do flitter flutter in and out the bright winged moths of deepest grove, lit up and shining as ground-fell stars in the moonless night that folds us in in this warm, summer wood. Perhaps a chance to dream and dreaming take up the greater spirit of all that around lies asleep as well, branches and leaves the protruding bubbles that spring up from natures patient folk. More noble perhaps to watch and keep the sight of summer's lingering beauty, arrayed in splendor before the folk who have their home with bird and beast and free-running water.
Still, all around the chill of twilight rushes in as suns light warmth disappears over yonder horizon leaving only the bitter aftertaste of winter's bite, promise of the white one's fated return. The time when through the vast stretches of forest not a green speck be left out, pressed down to the ground and yellowed out in age. The darkness and the wind whipping through the branches, singing dire dirges as a fore-running messenger of doom. These days bode ill for the land and for we elves of little worry.
Bound by custom and by long ages past, rooted to our lands and our trees with no thought of touching the open land on the east or the high craggy mountains west and south. These many miles of lush beauty both a heartwarming homeland and a prideful prison that captured a whole race of ling-lived immortals. Once we had a star within our midst, a purpose and a gem of beauty. Once we held a common goal of life and immortality that flowed through our veins like the sap through an old tree in the verdant land we lost.
This beauty we surround ourselves with may as well be our lifeblood flowing out of us as we shrivel and putrefy. Once we were a high born race akin to gods, now we are no more than the caretakers of a forest grown up from sad memories of home. Sure fate quickens his step to snuff out our very being here as once before the hateful ones tried to do. To finish what they started in their fire and spells. We stay as the elves of the past, attached to our land, our trees, our home and surely those elves will be found, be sundered by time.
Is it a moral thing to leave this behind, to run from what we view as our birthright to escape that death? Is it spit in the face of the land we have created here, sustained in this way by our sweat and blood? But yet the tree grows around its bonds and the wolves grow thicker coats as on trudges winter through the groves.
Perhaps we are hindered in our pride, refusing to change like those we deem our kin. In this dark land bereft of our star and our hope, perhaps we are done with the civil tranquility of our past and must again run through the woods in fear to stay alive. Perhaps in our change we must embrace the ruination of ourselves to keep the soul within us from being snuffed out. I know not, for I am old and wisdom leads me to much indecision as I see the cliff on one side and the baying of the hunter's dogs sounds behind.
The young ones would be those to take the jump, to plunge off the edge to doom or salvation. None will appear though, for all of us are old and wonder at the fate we can have in this world.
-Thaelis Longshadow, Eldest of the Elves of the Wilderglen and first to cast off his immortality.
Where did he cast it? Just wondering.
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