Chapter Ten
Elf and Dryad
Facing off with an elf for the Weir Hewn blade seemed like at least number three on a great list of things Art never wanted to do, but it was right in line with the way his night had been shaping up. Tired, spent, and getting angry, Art put his hand on the blade, which in turn made the elf narrow his eyes, menacingly.
“I have fought tooth and nail for this thing and need it as a matter of life and death. I will not be handing it over for any reason.”
The elf stared at him for a long moment, his beautiful face almost unreadable but there was a hardness in his eyes that made Art very nervous.
“I require it for reasons just as dire.”
“I know elves are not in the habit of stealing from people.” Art leveled the insinuation at him, causing the elf’s expression to twitch. Questioning his honor was the only way Art could think of dousing the growing friction between them.
“You are correct,” the elf’s voice dropped, his hands going to the bow he had just placed back in his pack. “However, for her I would sully more than my honor. I will have the blade, Weiriman, or I will have your life.”
Art barely comprehended the full weight of the elf’s threat before he had drawn out the bow and knocked an arrow faster than Art could even draw Weir Hewn from its sheath. He was dead; he knew it. The arrow would pierce his skull before he could react. Unable to even close his eyes, Art’s heart stopped in his chest when suddenly a cry broke into the night. The elf halted his arrow and Art blinked, breath shuttering out at the fact he was still alive.
“Stop!” the female voice cried again and the elf lowered his bow.
Confused, Art’s eyes moved around the forest, the elf, and anything else he could see, looking for the source of the voice. When he saw no one, he frowned deeply about to speak, when a light rose out of the elf’s body, ghostly shimmering like glowing frost. Awed, Art stared as the light softly took on shape, folding and rolling like sheer curtains in a breeze until the form was recognizable.
She was beautiful, the most dramatically beautiful thing Art had ever seen. Her skin was like lit porcelain, hair in blowing waves of white, tinted with yellow and soft fuchsia. The billowing dress, like long petals, fell around her form making her look like a flower blossom. Her face a perfect jewel in the whole of her appearance, heart shaped, crowned by two deep plum colored eyes, they opened, blinking in long lashes. A glitter of light shimmered off her as she took a breath of the night’s air.
Art stood dumbstruck, starring, not knowing what she was, not caring for she was a vision, ghostly, or other. Her form was gossamer and slightly transparent, floating in the night like a lantern against the trees. Her dress and hair moved with unfelt air. Eyes roaming over her, Art noted a wisp of white, like a tether, between her and the elf. She was somehow linked to him through the whisper of light.
“Please don’t, Ever,” she spoke, her voice like music. “This is not you. He is right. You would never steal from someone. You would never take a life like this. You are a Knight. I could not bear for you to sacrifice your mighty morals, please! You have already given up so much for me.”
She was hovering before him, her arms out stretched. He looked up at her, his summer colored eyes swam with sudden emotion. His hand lifted to hers but as they were going to touch her form shifted as if turning to milky mist and their fingers passed through one another’s. She was not physical. Art could only stare, as the pair looked on one another with such longing, such sadness, that he was almost tasting the emotion on the night’s chilled air.
“We must have the blade, my flower,” he said softly in Elvish.
Art was glad he had been forced to take all the major languages.
“But we cannot do evil to another who has not earned its wrath,” she spoke back to him. “I would rather be this ghost for the rest of my days than harm another in this way. Please, do not do this.”
As Art watched he was starting to get more of a sense of the pair. His inner eye was seeing something, sensing something, and then he suddenly knew it the way he had been taught to sense such things.
“Her Haunting Weir is within you!” He said aloud, surprised.
The elf flashed his eyes back to the man. “How is it you know this?”
“I can sense it. Your Weir and hers…they are somehow fused?”
Slowly the elf nodded and the woman smiled at him. “You can sense this in us because you are a Weiriman? Perhaps you can help then?”
“We have seen other, Weirimen, Orchid. They could not help us.” The elf’s voice was empty, unhopeful.
“But perhaps he is different. He has the Weir Hewn blade.”
Seeing that this issue of blade and owner might be resolved without bloodshed, Art cautiously asked, “What is it that you need with the blade?”
“That will require an explanation and she should not do it here. My camp is nearby. We will be safe there through the night. Come,” the elf ordered coolly.
Art hesitated but the woman, who's ears were long and tapered much more so even than the elf’s pointed tips, smiled at him.
“I promise Ever will not harm you. He does not truly want to. Even if you cannot help us, I promise no harm will come to you, stranger.”
Her eyes were so large, so beautiful, their color even more glorious than Art had thought, a mixture of dark purple and gold. He knew he should not so easily trust someone who had just threatened him, but he could not help but believe the ghostly beauty. He would have to be careful but nodded and followed Ever and the ghostly tethered Orchid into the woods. His thoughts were on Lucid as he glanced one last time at the forest from which he came. He hoped he was all right and they would somehow find each other again.
The woods were not quiet. Things moved through the underbrush; small animal screams perforated the night, making Art jumpy. His mind was racing, wondering about Lucid, thinking perhaps he should not be following this strange elf and his ghostly companion, and worrying over the strength of the demon inside him. His head buzzed with everything that had happened in the last few days, all of it feeling more heavy with the fatigue of his body. He needed sleep, rest, and food but he worried he would not be getting any of that soon.
They were nearing a campsite, when suddenly something burst out of the bushes beside Art. The elf had heard it coming and pulled his bow but Art, mind lost somewhere else, had been unready and took the full brunt of the creature’s body against his.
“What the h—" but he stopped mid word when the smiling face of Lucid looked up at him, large blue eyes wide.
“Found you, Brother!” he exclaimed and Art could see out of the corner of his eye the elf relax. Orchid had hidden behind her solid partner, her glow very soft now, her eyes large.
Art was suddenly glad the elf had not shot Lucid but wondered if he had not protected the Weiriman purposely. It would be easy to take the knife off a man’s dead body. The fault would have been Art’s entirely. Dark thoughts aside, Art returned his attention to Lucid.
“You found more friends, Brother?” Lucid looked to the pair and gave them a nice smile, which seemed to further put the pair at ease.
“Well, I think so,” Art murmured as he and Ever exchanged a momentary glance full of question and suspicion. “But are you all right? Are you injured?”
Lucid shook his head, standing up to show he was intact. His clothing was more dirty, some dry blood on his hands and forearms but it did not appear to be his own, as it was black and deep brown. Demon blood likely, though Art really did not know what color Lucid bled, if at all. He had no idea what to expect from a dreamcatcher. The Weaver’s insistence that Art keep him safe did indicate the boy could at least come to harm. Regardless of the color of his blood, Art planned to keep his word and Lucid had already proven he was willing to protect the Weiriman. He continued to be surprised by the youth.
“Come,” Ever commanded. “We should not linger in the woods li
ke this. It is unsafe.”
Art nodded but Lucid stopped him and pointed to his pack slung over Art’s body. He had forgotten he had taken the boy’s things and nodded handing them over. As Lucid pulled his cloak on he motioned with his hands, acting like he was eating and then pointed to Art.
“Oh, I haven’t eaten tonight yet.” Art shook his head. “Are you hungry?”
Lucid shook his head and leaned over to reach into Art’s pack. The man let him, thinking it would be the easiest way since the boy had gone silent again and was surprised when he withdrew a candy twist. He held it up to Art and the man took it having forgotten he should take one. It would help him get through the night.
Their encampment was tucked away near a huge rock face. Ever had assured them it was safe and well fortified. At this point Art had ceased to care. By the end of their walking he was colder and more tired than he had ever been in his life. The past few days seemed to have all piled on him at once and all he wanted was to sit and maybe sip something warm.
“You look so weary, stranger,” the beautiful ghost leaned over him shortly after Art had collapsed by the low light embers elves used for warming night encampment. They were rare in the towns and Art had always thought the Weirimen should have brokered more deals to make them a standard issue in their equipment. Full fires at night were so dangerous.
“I am,” Art mumbled out as he watched her float in front of him, her ghostly figure ever connected to the elf who was seated opposite of him, watching. Looking at the pair together, it was clear she was not elven. Her ears were too long, her form different. There was something even more outwardly to her. “Are you a fairy or fey of some kind?” Art did not mean to ask the question but his fatigue was weighing on his judgment.
She gave him a soft smile and floated back towards the elf. Her hand graced over his shoulder but she was unable to touch him. Art noted how his eyes followed the movement but he did not reach for her.
“She is a flowering dryad,” Ever spoke, his voice low but silvery.
Art glanced at him. He had heard of dryads but never a “flowering” one.
“I doubt you would have heard of my kind,” Orchid smiled. “Flowering dryads are just a more rare form of dryad. We have other abilities.”
“I’m sorry, I’m rather uneducated on the matter.”
“I suppose Weirimen only study the darkness.” Ever’s voice had an edge in it that Art did not understand.
“It is the rudimentary core of our function, so yes, we are well versed in the study of the darkness.”
“It has been my experience that the Weirimen have little interest in the lives the darkness affects. Their only care is for the cleaving of that darkness, regardless of the cost. All I have seen is a private war with the underworlds.”
Art had never heard anyone speak so negatively about the Weirimen. His mood was not improving.
“I find this fairly offensive, coming from someone who just tried to rob me.”
The elf’s handsome face turned dark, his lip curling slightly when Orchid was suddenly between the pair.
“We are sorry about that, stranger. It is not something Ever would normally do. He is just desperate to help me.”
“You said that before.” Art leaned back, not realizing he had sat forward, his finger pointing rudely at the elf. Trying to recover some of his manners he said, “And my name is Art Storygrove.”
“What a lovely name!” Orchid’s face broke into another beautiful smile. It was so lovely it almost made Art feel better just looking at her. “I am Orchid Sarathone and this is Ever Nahrwel.”
“Lucid!” The boy popped his head up and pointed before settling back down, playing with a strand of yarn, folding it in and out of unusual forms between his hands and fingers.
Orchid smiled at him but turned back to Art.
“I promised you an explanation. As I said, Ever would never truly hurt you. He is a Tree Elf, after all.”
Art chuckled deep in his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, wrapping his coat about him for some comfort to his aching body.
“That was not my impression this evening, and not what I have heard about elves. They can be dangerous to men, should they enter their territory. They are not always known for their mercy.”
“How like the races of men,” Ever interjected, looking stone faced. “Your kind is given to exaggeration and misunderstanding so easily.”
Art tightened his lips but Orchid spoke before he could go on, “What I mean is Ever is a Scarborough Knight. While many elves do not mix their business with races of the towns, Scarborough Knights are often credited with helping anyone afflicted by Demon Touched beasts.”
Art looked the elf over, noticing much of his clothing was similar to theirs but it did not look exact. He lacked the full uniform, something rarely seen among the Knights.
“If he’s a knight what is he doing out here away from his garrison? I did not know them to travel alone.”
“She means to say I am formally of the Scarborough Knights.”
Orchid looked suddenly sad, her eyes drifting to Ever for a moment but he did not return the look.
“I've never heard of a Knight leaving the service either.”
“They rarely do,” the elf confirmed, his voice portraying little of what he might be feeling.
“Let me explain,” Orchid said moving towards the low light embers which were casting enough light to put a thin color on the rock face near them. “Once there was a flowering dryad. She lived in a beautiful tree in the Farahgall Woods.”
She extended her hands and a flourish of ghostly petals came forth to cast shadowy shapes on the rock. They twisted and bent until they formed the depiction of a tree and female figure. Lucid sat up instantly, completely enamored by the shadow play.
“Many happy years passed and there was nothing but the beautiful cycle of changing years.” Her shadow figures moved, the tree flowering, dropping tiny leaves and then blooming again to show the passage of time in her tale.
“Yet, as you know darkness haunts our world and danger is rampant. The forest near her small wood spawned a patch of haunted ground and many animals were poisoned by this evil.” Again her image changed, morphing into monstrous shadows, echoes of the twisted animals that suffered in these places just like the touched ram-bear Art had encountered.
“You know the longer these animals fester, the less like an animal they are and more like a demon. After a long time of fighting with the animal inside, the demons take over and hunt others to feed its demonic appetite. This was what brought the pack of Demon Touched to my tree one day.” The image showed animals that looked more like huge misshapen dogs than anything Art had seen before. They attacked the shadow tree and the female figure.
“I would surely have perished if a band of Scarborough Knights had not been tracking this pack. They battled the beasts, but demons are illusive, vapory creatures. In my grave wounded state, I was vulnerable to one that slipped out of its animal prisoner.” The scene first showed a group of elven knights engage the monsters, then the shadow Orchid terrified as a demon loomed over her, its hands plugging inside her head. “It was in the process of breeching my Weir when Ever got too close to us, still battling with the animal this demon’s group occupied.” Her shadows followed clearly what she was saying, imagery still disturbing though only in tiny play-like shadows.
“It is unclear what happened next. The mortal battle going on inside me and the raging battle going on above me somehow crossed, the demons tried to escape into me, Ever not letting them go with his own will and might. He was able to protect me but my Haunting Weir and my soul were now inside him.”
“Wait, how did that happen?” Art was confused. He had heard of accidents happening, Weirs being broken, altered, even removed on very rare unexplained occasions, but all these normally took place during exorcism. “Scarborough Knights have never been known to exorcise. I’ve on
ly heard they release the beasts who are afflicted. If they engage the demons early enough on in the possession, sometimes the demons leave on their own accord driven out by the elf’s purity.”
“That is a form of exorcism, Weiriman,” Ever spoke, his manner slightly condescending.
“Purity of soul is not enough to drive a demon from a possessed person,” Art added, feeling a little defensive. “It requires great strength and aggression of spirit, training of psychic skill, and control of the mind and Haunting Weir, and of course the demon’s name.”
“The Demon Touched are not the same as a possession,” Ever explained. “Early enough in the possession of an animal a Knight may drive the demons from it. There is no clear mind for the demon to infect, animals are neither good nor evil and therefore cannot be corrupt.”
“Oh,” Art’s brow popped up, the new knowledge seeming to rob him of his hostile feelings. “That makes perfect sense. We never learned such a thing in the Seminary as we rarely deal with Demon Touched animals.”
“By the sounding of it, your curriculum could do with some additions.”
Art knew the elf was being condescending once more, but he did not disagree and instead said, “I agree with you. I feel Weirimen could benefit greatly by the study of much more than just the narrow field of our profession. We should know all things demonic and the combat by which they must be fought.”
Ever said nothing but his eyes did portray a moment of surprise. Perhaps if Art worked at this he could gain a working relationship with the cold-shouldered elf, though to what end he was not sure of yet.
“Anyway, Orchid,” Art turned back to the dryad, “that incident is what led your Haunting Weir to be within his?”
“It is not just my Weir is inside his,” she tilted her head, looking a touch whimsical as she spoke. “It is more that I now reside within his psychic space, his mind’s eye. My soul, my consciousness is, as you know, attached to my Weir. My soul followed my Weir.”
“Yes, of course.” Art nodded, his brow sinking low with thought. He had never heard of a case similar. “Your only recourse has been to find the Weir Hewn blade?”
Ever sat up, looking irritable. “Not the only, it is the last. We have been to healers of many kinds. They could offer no aid. All they could do was heal her body and her tree, but they were unable to separate her from me.”
“They did move my tree to the garden at Ever’s home, but with me unable to return to my body it did little good. My whole life will be spent inside Ever’s mind, my body locked within my tree in ever slumber.”
“Did you not seek out the Weirimen? Surely they could have—”
Ever’s eyes took on the glow of the embers and angrily he said, “Ah, we have been to the Weirimen, several in fact. The solution they have offered us is to purge Orchid from me as if she were some encroaching demonic force or a parasite. In doing this she will perish.”
“They say I am now a foreign soul within him, a ghost and should be exorcised and moved on to the next world. My attack by the demons was my death and they say it is only natural the process be completed since that is what would have happened had this accident not occurred.”
“But your body lives,” Art protested, appalled by what he was hearing.
“Not just her body. She lives,” Ever said darkly. “Her whole being lives, her body, soul and Haunting Weir. Though two are separate from the one, she is no more dead than I. I could no more condemn her to death now than I could if I had just happened upon her loveliness in the woods. The thought is repugnant.”
Art agreed though he should not have been completely surprised. Though highly respected and sorely needed, the Weirimen were known for harsh judgment, and if the possessed could not be saved they would be put down. This fact Art had always known, but it had been only recently that he understood the full harsh reality of it.
“They said it was natural and I should do this so that I might live and return to my life as a Knight.”
“With a foreign soul inside him, the Scarborough will not allow him to work as a Knight.” Her eyes cast downward, the windless float of her flowing dress seemed to slow as her feelings of guilt etched over her pale face. “They say it puts me in far too much danger and could compromise his judgment.”
“I would give up that calling if we could find a way to liberate you from my mind’s eye,” Ever’s voice softened, his eyes portraying emotion rarely seen in elves.
Art could not deny he was moved by their story and he could not bring himself to agree with his Guild. An accident had severed Orchid’s soul from her body. If steps could be taken to restore her, he fully believed they should be pursued. The idea that they would want to put her down, when clearly both her and the one she was attached to wanted to find another way to save her, seemed a rush to judgment and a waste of a life.
“So what is it you need my Weir Hewn for? You still have not explained that.”
“The last person we visited knew of a special blade, one that might have the ability to separate my Weir from Ever.”
“Was it the Weaver?” Art was already frowning even before he asked the question. Sending Art after the blade he had already sent the elf and dryad after, seemed like something the Weaver would do and either not think to mention it or not care to. Art did not even try to understand the oddity.
“The Weaver, no.” Ever shook his head, smoothing back long bangs of his deep green hair. “Though we would likely seek him out once the blade was in hand.”
“Well, it was the Weaver who sent me after the blade. But am I understanding correctly that you do not know how to use the knife then?”
The pair shook their heads.
“I suppose that is why you were going to go to the Weaver after you found the knife? Makes sense.”
“Father cannot use the blade,” Lucid suddenly spoke. “He does not use his prizes. He is just an artisan.”
Everyone was looking at the boy now but Lucid had gone back to playing with his string, which he was weaving into amazing designs in ways Art did not think possible.
“What do you mean, Lucid?” Art tried to coax an answer but Lucid only blinked at him and pointed to Art, before making a slashing motion with his hand. “I don’t understand.”
“Your father is the Weaver?” Ever asked and Lucid nodded.
“Well, I don’t think that’s entirely right,” Art interjected. “The Weaver is like a father to him, but not actually blood related. Lucid was born of something else.”
“Something else?” Orchid tilted her head.
“He told me he was a dreamcatcher, but I really don’t know too much more than that. He told Lucid to come with me, to aid me.” After hearing how the Weirimen Guild might react to Lucid, Art was weary to share his full origins just yet.
“But, he calls you brother.”
Art nodded. “He did that of his own accord. We’re not related.”
“He is my brother,” Lucid said plainly, unfazed by the group’s confusion with his origin.
“But if he was built or created from a dreamcatcher does that make him a thing?” Ever’s brow was lifted high, inspecting Lucid’s appearance. “I have never seen a golem, creation, or homunculus as such.”
“Lucid is a person.” The boy looked sharply at the elf for a moment before going back to his string.
Art strangely felt the same way. The boy was a person to him and no artificial creation.
“I believe he is correct. He is a person. I feel a Weir and a soul within him.”
“Remarkable.” Orchid smiled. “The Weaver lives up to his legends. Yet, the boy says he could not help us even if we were to bring him the blade.”
“He seemed to imply you could help us, Storygrove.”
Art stared at the couple realizing Lucid could have been indicating that. “Well, I…I only just got the blade myself,” Art confessed. “I really don’t know how to use its special properties.”
/> “Then what is your plan for the blade?” Ever asked, looking skeptical of the young man once more.
Art did not want to divulge his situation to the elf. He still did not fully trust him, even if Orchid had rather easily persuaded Art he was innocent of any dark intentions. The lengths to which the elf was willing to go to save her, gave Art misgivings. Honorable as elven Knights might be, their goals and beliefs could set them at odds with the morals of other races. Art had already seen that. Ever could have convinced himself Art was a man and not worth as much as the life of a flowering dryad. Whatever his reasoning for nearly killing Art, he did not want to give him further reasons. Harboring a Pith demon would likely insight fear and mistrust.
“All the Weaver told me was I needed to cut something from my soul but I don’t know how to do that. I had to get the knife and visit the Consciatosium and then I return to the Weaver. Hopefully, he’ll tell me what I need to do next.”
Clearly, Ever and Orchid knew Art was avoiding explaining his predicament but they chose not to press him.
“Perhaps you as a Weiriman could cut my Weir from Ever without killing us both.” Orchid looked so hopeful.
One of Art’s eyebrows dropped a bit and he gave the pair a half smile. “I am skilled with a blade but this is new to me. However, if I am able to do it, I will help you both. Despite your experience with my brethren I still feel that is my duty.”
“I am no possessed or afflicted, Storygrove. I will not allow you to purge her.” Ever warned in a gentle but heavy tone.
“I assure you that is not my intention.” Art felt himself growing sleepy. He did not want to drift into nightmares that he knew awaited but his body and mind were so tired. “I’ll help you. If you want to accompany Lucid and myself to the Consciatosium and then back to the Weaver, I’ll do whatever he suggests to free you both of your situation. It’s my duty. You may not be traditionally possessed, but you are afflicted. Weirimen should aid you. It’s our charge.”
Art knew he was rambling a little but sleep was over coming him. The last thing he recalled was Lucid moving to sit next to him, as if a sentry. The Weiriman found himself wondering if Lucid slept. Would he watch over him all night? His cracked open Weir could draw trouble. Worry was not enough to keep the young man awake and before long Art was drifting into black, watched by the eyes of his inner evil.