Elves laughed amongst each other as a fire flickered across their eyes. A young elf had been summoned to spar with the mighty man from faraway lands. He was indeed a man, and not an elf, and if the stories that Nhed had told were true, then man was a nasty sort—bloodthirsty and greedy. He had not shown that side yet, the man. He held his sword with both hands and circled cautiously around the circle, side stepping as he did so.

The young elf had his own elven blade with three different colors weaving along the steel to resemble the threads of the web spinners who dwelled above in Escuaria, where elves who lived good lives would live eternally with their maker. His hair was died from its usual silken brown to a bright blonde, as was customary for an elf that was to enter a duel. A square fence four feet tall was lined around the crowd who had gathered so that the two men sparring in its center would be contained and forced to fight.

Alaric had chosen to use his special sword that he had named Flamesword. It was heavy near the hilt, but he liked it that way. The tip was sharp and light and easy for jabbing and slashing rather than clumsy blows and brute strength. Alaric was a thinly framed man and he stood at an even height with the short elf at around six feet tall.

“It is a fight until either man or elf gives in. Death is forbidden, although cuts and slashes below the neck are welcome. Elgoron and Mondur are on hand with Rasthla and wild weed if the gash is too detrimental. Let us pray that the man does not slaughter our dear elf too badly!” Nhed shouted it in high elven tongue and the elves clapped excitedly and beat their own swords and spears against the wooden railings to raise the atmosphere.

Alaric met the eyes of the elf he was to duel with. He saw fear there and he tried to mask his own. He had a small head with pointy ears and an uprooted nose, and he wore no helm. Alaric had wished for one but the elves had not offered and so he did not ask. Instead, he wore an elven leather for protection although his legs were mostly bare. He still had a large wrap around his thigh where a large splinter had punctured his leg from the ship’s wreckage.

“What is your name?” shouted Alaric, although his voice was muffled, and he remembered that elves do not speak the One Tongue. The elf only stared at him confusedly. Alaric soon learned his name when those elves who were wanting victory for the young elf chanted his name, “Elfwin! Elfwin! Elfwin!” They expected him to go be beaten badly and so many elves lined themselves up by a gate they had constructed along the fence so that the next opponent could quickly enter in the arena once Alaric had assumedly defeated Elfwin comfortably.

The lady of the elves was watching, and Alaric had noticed it as he was dancing. She was standing in the back of the gathered elves who watched, and her eyes were watching him intently. He did not know how he had found her out of the watching group of elves and from the raucous noise of the tightly packed onlookers.

Elfwin came at him in a rush, screaming with all his might. Alaric had to arch his back to avoid the slashing as he dodged Elfwin’s adrenaline fueled charge. The next blow came, and then another, and another. Alaric desperately dodged all three and somehow the ninety-odd elves gathered were deafening as they cheered. Elfwin came around Alaric’s side, trying to catch him off balance but Alaric stooped low to block his elven sword from piercing his naked calf. It was his turn to return a blow. Alaric stepped to Elfwin, poking and prodding the deadly tip of flamesword. Flames did not erupt from its blade, even though the steel was hot and clashing against the metal of Elfwin’s own weapon.

Arokas voice could be heard over all bellowing some order in high elvish, as they often spoke when excited or loudly. Elfwin grit his teeth and narrowed those youthful eyes, feeling the energy of the onlooking elves spur him on. He advanced, slashing left, right, right again, and on the fourth blow he brought his blade down and knocked flamesword low enough to offer a window to Alaric’s midsection. Elfwin withdrew his short sword from his hip within the blink of an eye and drew it into Alaric’s gut.

Alaric had not known an elf was capable of moving so fast. He had hardly seen his fate coming, but luck was with him. The short sword got caught in the strap of his leather where metal buckled the leather tightly across his abdomen. Seizing the moment, Alaric kicked his boot into Elfwin’s chest, knocking him flat into the dirt and trodden grass. He stepped on Elfwin’s sword hand, releasing the grip on his sword. He brought the tip of flamesword around to rest along Elfwin’s gullet and he thought the cheering was for him. But it was not.

Elfwin had been manuevering his feet busily underneath Alaric, gripping his short sword between his two boots. He heaved his legs high into the air, flinging the sword over Alaric’s head to the left side where the hilt landed skillfully in Elfwin’s hand. The slash came side on, and it skimmed Alaric’s left arm. Blood gushed like a small spout from his upper arm and he cried out, backing away and stemming the flow of blood with his right hand.

He looked around, searching for Nhed in hope that he would signal the end. It had seemed foul play to Alaric because he had not seen Elfwin’s skillful trick. He was still gaping his mouth open in protest towards Nhed when Elfwin lurched to his feet in one singular lunge and had his long elven sword dancing through the air again. This time it was for show. The elves screamed elven words and it all sounded like nonsense to Alaric.

Elfwin had an arrogance in his eyes now as he played with his sword like the great knights would at the tournaments of Brindvale all those years ago when Alaric watched on as a boy. Alaric could sense the shock of the elves who watched—expecting a blowout but getting just the opposite. Somehow the sword began to feel foreign in his hand, as if he had never held one before. His eyes flickered upward again to where the lady elf watched on from upon a wooden table to getter a better vantage point. Her eyes were full of intrigue but there was no time to think twice about it because Alaric was soon on the defensive again.

He winced with great pain at the gash on his arm, parrying with his sword hand. His other arm was tingling and unusable. Elfwin had him backed up against the wooden fence now, and he could back up no further. An elf gave him a two-handed shove towards Elfwin which meant his momentum met the swinging sword of Elfwin all the same. The elf’s blade hacked at his rib cage and he felt the sword crack his bone. He cried out in agony, dropping to the ground. He felt fury rise in him when Elfwin still slashed at him even though he was not moving. His anger and his adrenaline had gotten the best of his young elven mind now, and Arokas had to hop over the wooden fence to pull Elfwin away. His blade has cut up Alaric’s back so that is was a messy tangle of slashed flesh and blood.

It was a miracle that Alaric made it to his feet but there was an awkward quietness now. The elves watched with brows knit and eyes downcast. He glanced discreetly towards the lady elf as Arokas helped carry him away and he saw that she had her eyes down at the ground. The elves were embarrassed for him, and he was even more so for himself.

At least they know now, he thought. He was taken to a tent that smelled like herbs, plants, and mint. The elves called Elgoron and Mondur busied themselves crushing various colored leaves and pouring milky colored substances into bowls made of tree bark. He sipped them eagerly and they went down like chilled water—tasteless on his tongue. He lay flat on his stomach and the elves slashered the crushed leaves all along his slashed back. The substance soon took effect and every muscle in his body relaxed and his eyes shut for a while.

When he awoke, it was nighttime like it often was and he was in a new tent now. The roof of the tent hung much longer than most and the only item in the tent was a cot which he laid upon. He sat at the edge of the cot and grimaced, expecting his back and his arm to be prickled with pain. He rubbed his arm, then mustered the courage to look. His arm, where Elfwin had slashed a great cut, was almost fully healed. The scar was still there, but not even a speck of crusted blood lined the cut’s mark. He dropped to his feet and felt the smooth rug of a bear’s fur coat under his toes.

He wore only linen pants which were light and airy. He shivered and saw his tiger fur and linen coat laying at the foot of the cot. He slipped into them and prepared to pop his head out of his tent. It was dead silent expect for the nightly critters croaking and chirping in a pleasant melody. He almost bumped his head into an unsuspecting elf, and for a second he thought it was Elfwin again, for he flinched greatly and held his hands out defensively.

He felt sheepish and slowly lowered his hands when he saw that it was the lady elf. She stood just inside his small tent. She had bug eyes and a long nose than down into thin lips and a soft face. Her hair was coiled into one long braid that ran halfway down her back.

Holding his breath, Alaric held his words in his mouth, expecting her to say something first. She only stared.

“Oh, erm, hello. Do you speak the One Tongue?” Alaric managed to stammer. He backed away a few steps since they had been awkwardly close from her intrusion. “What do you want, or need? Is it Father Nhed?”

She only stared, unmoving. Turning to exit the flaps, she gave a glance back towards Alaric and, without a word, she darted off through the clearing in the center of Brymeria. Alaric trotted out of his tent, starting after her as she ran. She was faster than he had expected. His breath was beginning to come ragged when as he hurried up the hills that pinned Brymeria in—remembering in the back of his mind what Nhed and Shig had told him about leaving to go beyond those hills. Yeah, yeah...he thought. I haven’t seen a wight yet so why should I now? The rest of the elves’ snores drifted from all different tents, leaving Alaric to figure it was the dead of night.

Past the steep hill, Alaric found that the lady elf was waiting for him and as soon as she saw him get to the top of the hill she continued on running. Alaric followed, knowing that she had meant for him to follow her. She ran and he wanted to beg her to slow but he was out of breath and she would not understand him if he spoke in his own tongue. Dodging trees, tripping on roots, and slipping on long spans of wet rock, the two finally convened in a gully between two foothills where the stars littered the sky fantastically overhead and its shine glistened brightly off of the elf’s braided hair.

Alaric was heaving air and bent over with his hands on his knees. They stood many paces apart and the lady elf just stared.

She was the first to speak in a soft, gentle tone. “Hu-man?” She managed to say. She separated the two syllables like most elves tended to do.

“Human,” confirmed Alaric, nodding his head. He realized he had his hands out in front of him defensively. He realized the fact and dropped them sheepishly. She had seen his humiliation to Elfwin, he was sure of it. Now he had finally gotten the time to wonder why she had drawn him all the way here.

“Home?” asked Alaric, gesturing to the small clearing they stood in. Bushes and wild weeds grew along the crevice between the foothills sporadically.

The elf ignored him and put a hand to her chest, pointing to herself.

“Galiria,” she said. Alaric’s mouth formed an “O”.

“Galiria,” he repeated.

She pointed at him and Alaric acted surprised. “Alaric,” he said. She did not repeat his name, rather just staring at him as if studying him.

“Alaric,” he said again, in case she had not heard.

“Human,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, human.” Alaric replied with a thin smile spread across his lips. Is she messing with me?

Galiria had on an oversized cloak tied together at the neck by a lion shaped brooch. She slipped two hands inside her cloak to withdraw two elven swords from her belt. She tossed one to Alaric and unsheathed her own.

Alaric waved his hands in resignation, “Oh no, I can’t—I don’t—”

“Human,” she said. Somehow Alaric thought he knew what she had meant. He remembered how her eyes were looking down to the ground after his defeat. Humans were not the warriors that she had thought they would be. Alaric was tired and his muscles ached from his fight with Elfwin, but he did not want to squander this opportunity. He suddenly realized how bad it would be if they were caught. He was with the only hope for their people—to reproduce.

Galiria began doing a repeated motion with her sword. Her eyes watched Alaric all the while, as if waiting for him to mimic her movements. She was showing him, and stance and Alaric tried his best to do the same. She shook her head and then mimicked a worse version of what she was doing and then pointed at him.

“Oh, I see,” said Alaric. His shoulders were slumped and low, and so he straightened himself out and she nodded in approval.

She showed him a jabbing move, poking the pointy end of her sword just as he had done to Elfwin at times. She shook her head afterwards, condemning the movement. She ran through what she would have done, and Alaric tried his best to mimic those movements on his own.

He was beginning to sweat and so was Galiria. She removed her oversized cloak which was the color of the forest green grasses underfoot. They worked on technique for a couple hours, but it had seemed like no time at all to Alaric. She evoked a sense of interest from him.

It was similar to when he was a boy and he watched King Eyowen as a young Prince, sparring and jousting upon his wealthy horse in golden armor. He had seemed so far away and unobtainable at that time. When he grew older and followed his father to the council meetings and to weddings hosted by Prince Eyowen’s father he had been granted the chance to meet him. It was that sense of awe in those early days that he might the championed prince of a knight’s tournament that overcame Alaric now. He was learning from an elf now, and he was awed by her athleticism and the smoothness with which he handled a sword. It seemed like an extension of her limb as she twirled it and turned it. Alaric watched the way his own hand gripped a sword, feeling like a child again.

By the end, Galiria approached Alaric. She stared at him like he was some odd creature, brows knit. “Human,” she said, still mystified. Alaric chuckled, repeating the same word but much more assuredly. He dropped gaze, feeling the uneasy nature of her staring. She realized and must have apologized, for Alaric recognized the tone in her elvish language.

“It’s okay,” he replied. He said it testily, encouraging her to try and say it now.

“Is gray,” she managed. Alaric repeated the word and she tried again; this time closer. They began to walk back the way they came, which had been nearly five miles all told. The entire time was spent with Alaric saying words of things they would come across and she would repeat them to him until she got them right.

“Tree,” said Alaric, resting his palm against the trunk of a random tree.

“Tee,” replied Galiria.

They arrived at the top of the hill where they overlooked the still night of Brymeria. Alaric scanned the clearing below, making sure it was safe for them to return to their tents, unseen. By the time he turned his head back towards Galiria, she was gone. The word “bye” was already bubbling on the end of his lips and so he whispered it to no one. He sauntered down the hill cautiously and found his way back into his tent, resting upon his cot until the sounds of pots and pans clattering and the smell of venison sizzling above a fire stirred the sleeping elves from their homes.

It had felt like a dream.