Gabriel Thorn: First Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

Emergence of a Savior

 

HER SCREAMS CUT THROUGH the silence, as sharply as an unkind word penetrates a sensitive heart. The stars gave her no solace, the moon no consolation. There was only the pain, and the sound of her cries to comfort her. Those gathered around her in witness of the child’s birth remained detached. They were not permitted to alleviate her suffering in any way or shed a tear. The pain that she endured on their behalf was the pain felt by countless Elves throughout the centuries. The bloody sheen that coated her inner thighs was the blood of those who died at the hands of persecution. Her racing heart beat with the fury of every heart silenced by intolerance and fear. Ignoring the urge to retreat to a place in her mind where pain did not exist, she embraced the agony eating away at her body and converted it into strength. The life breaching her maternal gates was the Elves’ only chance of salvation, and for salvation, Mariss would gladly endure worse. 

The altar beneath her was a short mound of earth. Stones encircled the bottom, and soft hemlock branches separated her naked back from the coarse feel of dirt and grass. Though her courage was slowly being crushed beneath the weight of her ordeal, the glade provided her with a measure of peace. This was her home and had been for many years. Those who stood around her were her family, her kind, and there was no one else that she would rather have at her side. As poorly as the darkness contained her screams, the Elves’ long robes failed to hide her family’s sympathy and concern. Emotionless faces peeked out from the hoods of the ancient garments, yet Mariss could read the compassion in their eyes. It was nearly enough to put her at ease. A riot of long blond curls unfurled over her thin shoulders, sticking to her skin with perspiration. They matted against her forehead and cheeks. In the moonlight, her naked body glistened, like the surface of a pond on a windless night. The narrow muscles in her swanlike neck bulged with her every breath; her small breasts rose and fell with each thrust of her hips. Another blinding contraction and Mariss struggled to free the babe inside her who seemed reluctant to enter the world.

Tryannus, an Elf of muscular stature and stony demeanor, stood over the porcelain-skinned creature whose cries gripped his heart. His long white hair and beard were braided with small gemstones and thin strips of gold. It was everything he could do to keep from toying with the plaited locks, which he often did when stressed or deep in thought. His stoic expression belied his impatience to behold the unborn savior. His thick hands twitched in anticipation of guiding the child’s precious head from Mariss’s body. As he watched the tiny shape begin to emerge, he found it difficult to imagine that something so small would have such a disastrous impact on humanity.

With the last of her strength, Mariss forced the child from her body. Its tender cries reached her ears, and she wondered how the babe might have felt cradled in her arms. She thought of what it would be like to nurse the child at her breast or shower it with a mother’s love.

If only she were allowed to consider it her own. As quickly as these thoughts entered her mind, she cast them away. This creature was not hers to nurture as nature intended. She was not permitted to soothe its fears or inspire it to dream. For however long it took him to make things right, the child belonged to the Faerie. Even then, after returning to the glade bearing the scars of his labors, he and Mariss would be as strange to each other as they were now. To spare her fragile heart, however, Mariss would have it no other way.

Tryannus gently pulled the infant from between Mariss’s legs. He severed the cord that joined its body to hers with a swipe of his dagger and wiped him clean with a cloth. When he was finished, Tryannus proudly displayed him before the others.

“Let us praise this child,” he said, “conceived without conception, and born this night in blood and pain. Hail the ethereal ones—the Elementals—creators of all life, who have graciously bestowed this divine gift upon us.”

He set the child down on the altar and motioned for the sword.

A hunched figure staggered toward the altar whose appearance differed greatly from the other Elves. The hood of his robe partially hid a face that was as unsightly as it was kind. His body was completely hairless, his skin the color of moist earth. One of his yellow eyes was large and bulbous, the other small and squinted shut. A long, hooked nose grew out from his heavily pocked face, and his pointed ears were much longer than an Elf’s should be. His lower jaw protruded farther than his upper one, each bearing a row of crooked teeth spaced widely apart. No one knew the origins of Rothan’s unusual features. Given his penchant for experimenting with magical forces in nature, his appearance was assumed to be the result of sorcery gone awry. Those who loved him, however, were blind to his disfigurement. He was still an Elf, after all, and thus worthy of being among them.

Rothan handed Tryannus the sword, before returning to his place in the circle.

The elder Faerie took the weapon from Rothan and unsheathed it, admiring the thin, curved blade and hilt of polished bone. He set the sheath aside and held the sword upside down over the child, gripping the hilt firmly with both hands. Tryannus closed his eyes and carefully lowered the tip of the blade into the infant’s chest. Once it penetrated the heart, he removed the sword. Blood did not seep from the wound, nor did the child seem affected by the sword entering his body. His bright green eyes remained pointed at the sky, his little fingers busy examining the shape of his face and texture of his auburn hair.

Tryannus lifted his arms and cried, “Who among those of fang and claw will claim this child and ensure that he never deviates from the path of the hunter?”

The night responded with silence. A moment later, there was a rustling in the trees. No one could resist glancing in the direction of the curious sound, wondering what manner of creature answered Tryannus’s call. A large black wolf broke through the tall grass and stepped regally into the moonlight. Its eyes burned with a yellow glow, evidence of the wild spirit lurking behind their glassy surface. Those encircling the altar parted to let the beast through.

Tryannus nodded his approval. “You honor us with your noble sacrifice,” he said respectfully.

“Calls The Wind!” spat a raven-haired male named Darius.

“You honor us,” repeated Tryannus, louder, “and I will have words with anyone who says otherwise.”

“He will make the child a monster!”

“He will make the child a god,” argued Prinia, a female with long wavy red hair.

“As would another of his race less eager to water the earth with blood!” Darius fired back.

“An Elf’s gentleness is deeply rooted in the soul,” added Tariah, another female, whose hair was the color of sandalwood, “and is not an aspect of their nature easily corrupted. The identity of the Forfeiture is unknown, and likely thousands of human lives will fall to the savior’s wrath before he happens upon this person. Decades could pass, centuries even, before the Forfeiture is even born. The savior’s willingness to plague humankind will be tested many times over. He is primarily a child of the wood, Darius, and therefore his heart will be tormented and conflicted in ways that you and I will never know. In order for him to remain an indiscriminate reaper of human life for that long, he may very well require the aid of one as ferocious as Calls The Wind.”

“The sort of ferocity for which this Wyld is renowned will be the death of us all—the child included!”

“That is enough, Darius!” Tryannus snapped. “We are fortunate that so valiant a warrior as Calls The Wind has chosen to sacrifice his own life for ours; true glory is achieved through acts of benevolence. Were the Wyld the ones in peril, would you do the same?”

Their stares remained locked until Darius finally looked away.

Tryannus stepped out from behind the altar and stood before the wolf, holding the sword ceremoniously. The beast lifted its head, and the Elf opened its throat with one swift stroke. Its body collapsed to the ground, blood pooling quickly beneath its neck. Tryannus looked down at the soiled weapon in his hands, staring in awe as the animal’s blood was absorbed into the blade. When the metal was clean again, his eyes returned to the lifeless creature at his feet. White mist spewed from the open wound. It gathered over the dead Wyld and drifted toward the altar. When the mist reached the newborn Elf, it collected above where the sword pierced him. The mist hovered over the child for a moment, before slipping into the hole in his chest. Once it disappeared, the wound instantly healed.

Tryannus held the tip of the sword to the child’s shoulder and gently carved a seven-pointed star into his skin. The child was as unfazed by the blade as when it punctured his heart. Once he finished drawing the septagram, Tryannus allowed the weapon to linger against the symbol and drink the engraving clean of blood.

“Now that this sword has tasted the essence of life,” proclaimed the Elf, “it will thirst for as long as humankind is suffered to exist, sated only by that which flows through the hearts of men. Should the sword ever be denied its feast of blood, may the Dok Alvar walk eternally in death without salvation.”

Tryannus sheathed the sword and hooked it onto his belt underneath his robe. It had been a long time since he bore a weapon, and he was unsure of how it made him feel. He turned to the child and lifted him up off the altar. Tryannus held him against his chest, stroking his long hair affectionately. He felt soothed by the child’s soft breathing, and the feeling of his tiny hand wrapped around one of his braids.

Martarah, a cherubic-faced Elf with short, tousled brown hair, caught his eye, and Tryannus gestured for him to tend to the exhausted creature atop the altar.

For the duration of the ritual, Martarah suffered terribly. Given how much younger he was than the others, his heart was still tender. How he wished to hold Mariss’s hand and wipe her brow, perhaps whisper words of comfort into her ear. The experience was a true test of his emotional fortitude. Once Tryannus moved far enough away from the altar, Martarah grabbed the robe at his feet and rushed to wrap Mariss in its warmth.

“The birth of our savior,” Tryannus began, “was first predicted a thousand years ago by Elven seers. It was foretold that seven Elves would welcome him into the world and strive to make him a great warrior. The future, however, is fraught with uncertainty, rendering the outcome of our efforts impossible to foresee. Whether the savior succeeds or fails is unknown. The seers could not see beyond the demise of the Elves, the birth of their champion, and the task that he must perform to resurrect our fallen race. We must carry out our role regardless. Though endowed with abilities that will aid him in his task, the savior is born ignorant of how to use them to his advantage. Being all that remains of our race, remedying this ignorance falls on us. Yet we must also teach him about our way of life. The child must learn to recognize and value beauty. He must become a creature of virtue and conscience, whose morals and principles reflect a deep respect for all living things. Should we fail in this, his suffering will be for naught. He will become merely a creature of instinct, a coldhearted beast, whose death would serve the world more than his existence. Upon the fulfillment of his task, he will shed his preternatural gifts and become mortal. He will retain his Elven soul, but his body will be given a finite number of years in which to live. How unfortunate it would be if he were unable to appreciate that for which he gave his life to save and preserve.” He turned to Mariss. “Though having borne the sacred child, the task of raising him is each of our responsibility. When the day comes, he must depart the glade unburdened by feelings of attachment…and the idea that he leaves behind a mother.”

 “My greatest sacrifice thus becomes the Elves’ greatest gain,” she muttered, her sore body curled against Martarah.

“You have played a significant role in our salvation, and for this you will always be remembered.”

“True glory is achieved through acts of benevolence,” Mariss stated, quoting Tryannus.

“Precisely.”

With great effort, Mariss stood up, despite Martarah’s subtle protest. “I am Elven,” she said, glancing at Tryannus, “and therefore have no need for glory.”

Tryannus watched her disappear into the forest, tempted to insist that she remain. He knew that she would return by morning, but he wanted everyone to be present for the savior’s first few moments on earth. Were he more sensitive to Mariss’s feelings, he would do her a grave injustice. Tryannus could not fathom what she was giving up by not raising the child as her own, and he was not foolish enough to try. Still, he knew that if he paid too much attention to her broken heart, it would never heal.

Once the darkness swallowed her completely, the child began to cry.

* * *

From a short distance off the ground, the creature watched his prey. He peered through a blind of leaves that hung in front of his face, studying his potential victims’ movements and activities below. They were seemingly unaware of his presence, his silence and stillness as perfect as untouched snow. He was waiting for an opportune moment to strike, when one of them would move close enough beneath him. They would be oblivious to the predator lurking above. When he leapt down from the bough upon which he was perched, his jump would be swift, deadly, giving his prey no time to escape or defend themselves. He nearly grinned at the idea yet stopped himself, afraid that the movement of his lips would be noticed and give him away.

Those below shuffled about a large clearing blanketed in ferns, gathering roots and herbs and slipping them into sacks around their shoulders. In his anxiousness to descend, the creature’s limbs tightened around the bough, the tips of his claws sinking deeper into the wood. Three Elves labored beneath him—two females and a male. The females were too far away and had not moved nearer to him since they began that morning. The male, however, had been moving steadily closer since they first arrived. He appeared to be a worthier target, someone more likely to struggle and scream, thus making the attack more exciting. The females were younger and quicker; whose delicate appearance he would be foolish to underestimate.

“Mugwort and cowslip, my dears,” said the male, hunched over the ground, “as much as you can find. Their medicinal properties show great promise, yet I still need to determine their other uses.”

“Oh, why did I agree to this?” whined the female with long cedar locks. She straightened her back and rested her hands on her hips.

“Somewhere out there, at this very moment, an artist searches for his muse. Yet she is here in the forest, pulling at weeds like a farmer.”

“Come now, dear sister,” said the other female, whose thick brown hair fell majestically over her shoulders. “Your brother and I may not be two strapping young lads with hearts bigger than our brains, yet I am sure that you can tolerate our company for a little while longer.”

“The skin on my fingers is turning green, and my back is unbearably sore. Men are not interested in green-fingered cripples—not even ones as fascinating as myself.”

“They are even less interested in ones with swollen lips and bruised cheeks,” said the dark-haired maiden, with a hint of impatience.

“I would imagine so! Men are such superficial creatures.”

“I would not know,” replied the Elf, sarcastically. “Superficiality is not a quality with which I am familiar. Everyone I know is selfless and modest.”

“Indeed,” agreed the auburn-haired female, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “How fortunate you are to know such people.”

Both females turned toward each other, a smile slowly forming on their lips. After a moment, they burst into laughter.

The sound of their joviality filled the forest, and the male wandered beneath the creature poised in the tree above. The creature followed the slow-moving Faerie below with his eyes, waiting for him to line up with the angle of his descent. The Elf’s back was to the predator, and the females were too distracted to warn him of the danger overhead. His prey was much larger than he was, yet the Elf was bent forward, making it easier to knock him over and quickly gain the advantage. The moment was nearly at hand. He raised his haunches slowly, preparing to leap. A growl involuntarily slipped through his curled lips, and the creature sprung from the bough.  

Rothan collapsed beneath the predator’s small weight surprisingly easy, his sack of herbs spilling onto the ground. The young assailant, however, was laughing too hard to notice his brother’s unhappy expression. Rolling off his felled prey, Gabriel struggled to compose himself, yet his sisters were making it difficult given how amused they were by his stunt. He dared not meet his brother’s angry face, which tended to frighten him even when Rothan did not look sore. Gabriel wrung his hands anxiously, waiting to be scolded for what he did.

Rothan stood up with a grunt and began to refill his sack. “Unlike some Elves,” he muttered, glancing over at Prinia and Tariah, “I am not entertained by your antics, Gabriel Thorn.”

“Oh Rothan, is it not youth’s moral obligation to test the wisdom of their elders?” asked Prinia, who was only just beginning to bring her laughter under control. “Why not their patience as well?”

“Temperance is a very noble and respectable trait, dear brother,” said Tariah. “Thanks to Gabriel, you are the most noble and respectable person I know.”

“You shall be the death of me, young one,” mumbled Rothan, ignoring the females’ attempt at humor. He turned to the young Elf of eight years, who wore only a pair of dirty breeches, and warned him through clenched teeth, “Fortunately, your body matures at a human rate. Soon you will be strong enough to endure my wrath. Pray that you are ready by then, for I will show you no mercy.”

Gabriel’s face turned white, and his smile instantly vanished.

“Do not listen to him, Gabriel,” insisted Tariah. “Rothan’s idea of fun is simply a bit crueler than yours.”

Rothan smiled at the trembling Elf, before returning to filling his sack.

The Elves resumed their foraging, and Gabriel watched them perform the monotonous task from atop a large rock. Rather than assist, he chose to admire his latest abrasions. Their deep, rich color and impressive size were mere scratches in comparison to the ones that he acquired days ago, while scaling the cliffs near the edge of the forest. Even so, they were a worthy addition to his proud collection. The wounds covering his chest and arms had yet to scar, but Gabriel was eager to flaunt them.

It suddenly began to rain, though the sun was still shining.

“How wonderful!” cried Prinia, in praise of the soothing disruption. She seized Tariah’s hand and quickly led her away.

“Come, Gabriel, dance with us!” Tariah called out, as she fled the grove.

The two girls raced toward a field just beyond the clearing, their damp manes whipping about behind them.

Gabriel looked over at his brother imploringly, afraid that Rothan would forbid him to go as punishment for his mischievous behavior.

“Go, young one,” said Rothan, grinning. “I grow tired of looking at you.”

Gabriel was unusually fast for a Faerie so young. In no time, he caught up to his sisters, as they twirled and danced in the pouring rain. They joined hands with their younger brother, who was giggling with excitement, and the three of them began spinning around in a circle. Their speed increased gradually, until they were going so fast that their hands slipped apart. The Elves fell backward into the tall yellow grass, their laughter nearly as loud as the rain slapping against the earth.

From a short distance away, Rothan watched them play. The sight pacified the cantankerous Elf and made him feel as content as they appeared to be. Yet he knew, as with all things innocent and beautiful, it would not last.

While lying on his back, his stomach beginning to hurt from laughing, an enticing scent wafted beneath Gabriel’s nose. The rain slowed, and a breeze carrying a variety of smells was drifting by. One in particular seized Gabriel’s attention like a strong hand around his throat. Suddenly, his sisters were no longer there. It felt as if he had not laughed in a hundred years. The rain was not falling, and Rothan was not gathering herbs in a lush clearing nearby. He was no longer a boy, an Elf, or an innocent creature born to a grand and noble purpose. He was merely one living thing in the world that became painfully aware of another.

Gabriel stood up and sniffed the air, inhaling the luscious scent. His bestial instincts surged to life, waking the animal within. He was alert, perfectly still, and waiting for his mind to tell him from which direction the scent came. The uncomfortable sensation of his upper canines growing longer, and the black claws sprouting from the tips of his fingers, was not enough to disrupt his concentration. The changes to his body felt natural; they felt right. The urge to kill filled him almost completely, yet the urge was specific. He did not feel inclined to take the lives of the two Elves standing nearby, only the mysterious beast whose scent was driving him mad. At first, there was a slight resistance from somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice begging him to let the creature live. Yet the sound was quickly smothered by another, stronger, voice that commended his murderous intentions.

Unlike other Faeries, killing was as essential to him as living free in the forest, or testing the limits of his courage. Gabriel knew that he was different from the other Elves, yet he did not consider himself better or flawed. His needs were simply different from theirs, and he struggled to accept this fact every day. He envied the beasts of the forest with whom he felt he had more in common than his kin. He observed them killing indiscriminately—whether for sustenance or pleasure. They did not wrestle with their conscience, as he did at times, or feel inclined to either justify or apologize for their actions. Like Gabriel, they were simply flowers in a savage garden. The creature to which the scent belonged needed to die in order for Gabriel to feel at peace. More importantly, he wanted to take the animal’s life. He wanted to smell its panic and fear as it ran from him. He wanted to taste the fur on his tongue, feel his teeth sink into the soft flesh beneath, hear the music of its pitiful squeal, and revel in the first gush of blood against his tongue.

Gabriel suddenly turned and began moving through the field deliberately. He slipped through the grass like water through a thin crack, making as little noise as possible. The scent mapped out a route to the creature’s location—now it was simply a matter of stealth and letting his senses guide him. His body knew what to do, though he was never taught how to hunt. Gabriel was more like a passenger, and his instincts were the horse that pulled the chariot along.

There was movement ahead, near a mound of briars. The young Elf froze and held his breath. From a hole in the earth, a large hare appeared, oblivious to Gabriel’s presence. It lowered its nose to the ground, and then lifted its face into the air. The animal detected the unusual scent, yet it was unable to identify the source and determine whether it was a threat. Gabriel decided to take advantage of the hare’s uncertainty and darted toward it, ignoring the sound of the Elf in the background begging him to spare the creature’s life.

At the sound of Gabriel approaching, the hare reacted instantly, diving beneath the briars where it believed it would be safe. Gabriel pursued the hare into the thorny brush, excited by the wealth of cuts and scrapes that he stood to acquire.

Prinia attempted to run after him, yet her sister stopped her.

“But he kills them for sport!” cried Prinia, falling into her sister’s arms.

“To sate a need that we will thankfully never know,” said Tariah, reassuringly, “a need that may one day save us.”

“I simply cannot bear it at times.” *

“Nor I,” whispered Tariah, stroking her sister’s hair. “Nor I.”

* * *

The toes of his boots hugged the edge of the cliff, despair coating his heart like a winter frost. Below, the floor of the vale beckoned to him. The tip of his sword lay against the ground, the weapon limp in his hand. His tunic was moist with sweat and ripped in areas, his long hair tangled in knots. A gust of wind crashed against the rocky slope beneath him and blew upward, cooling his tired body. In his mind, Darius had failed. He was filled with regret, mostly for not being able to convince the others fifteen years ago that Calls The Wind was wrong for Gabriel. The boy’s Elven nature would be pummeled into submission whenever a situation arose that excited the bloodthirsty spirit. It would be clawed apart and broken, eaten away over time, until nothing remained, save the beast.

Thus far, the savior proved Darius right countless times. Being charged with training the young Elf to fight with a sword, he was in a position to observe his progress intimately. The youth mastered the weapon in only a few short years, and soon Gabriel’s skill would surpass his own. Yet the one area in which Darius was more proficient than Gabriel was discipline—of which the boy possessed little. Should Gabriel ever acquire a sense of discipline to match his ability as a swordsman, Darius could not imagine him ever being bested. Without discipline, however, Gabriel was as vulnerable to defeat as any novice.

Gabriel’s difficulty with self-control was not for lack of trying. He struggled to keep the beast at bay during their lessons, yet his efforts only resulted in frustration. His anger fueled the beast and tempted him with the freedom of surrendering to his urges. It was Darius’s responsibility to show Gabriel how self-defeating this was. He believed that Gabriel understood; however, it was another thing for the youth to embrace this concept and apply it to everyday life.

No matter how cruel or fair his methods were in channeling the youth’s aggression, Darius could not compete with the rate at which Gabriel developed. As soon as Darius finished teaching the boy a lesson involving discipline, the beast was quick to demonstrate an easier and more thrilling way to accomplish the same goal. What good were morals and principles to someone who believed they were invincible? Gabriel was neither egotistical nor narcissistic; he was simply overconfident. His physical achievements, over the years, reinforced the idea that he was indestructible. Though he was immortal, Gabriel was only immune to natural death. He could not die of old age or disease, but he could be killed just the same. Yet he suffered under the naive delusion that he was impervious to death of any sort. Granted, he possessed an unnaturally high level of fortitude and recovered faster than most living things, the fact that he was never seriously hurt only supported this foolish notion about himself. Unfortunately, there was no way to temper his attitude. There was no one to teach him humility, because no one was better than Gabriel at most things. He could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and swing a weapon more masterfully than anyone Darius had ever known—including himself. Darius succeeded at first when Gabriel was very young, but then Gabriel became increasingly better. The boy’s superiority in skill, however, made him prone to a very dangerous mentality. He would eventually become bold, perhaps even careless, and any chance of remaining discreet while fulfilling his dark purpose would be lost. Gabriel would bring unnecessary attention to himself, which the Elf could not afford. His enemies would become aware of his existence, hunt him down, and eventually destroy him.

A part of Darius believed that Calls The Wind was spiting him for objecting to his presence at Gabriel’s birth, intentionally ruining the child and his chances of saving the Elves. Darius may have offended the arrogant creature, but he always believed the Wyld would rise above such petty grievances and honor his commitment to the Elves. After all, if humanity was capable of exterminating Elvenkind, what would stop them from eliminating any other race with which they did not wish to share the world? Perhaps Darius thought too highly of the beast, and the Wyld’s pride was more important to him than helping Elvenkind. Darius’s regret deepened at the thought.

As he wallowed in self-pity, Darius failed to notice the creature at his feet clinging to the edge of the cliff by one hand. Faster than Darius could avoid him, Gabriel sprung up and kicked him twice in the face before leaping past his teacher and heading for the forest. The blindfold covering his eyes did little to impede the boy’s sense of precision and accuracy. The attack was perfect—a feat most others could not have performed with their eyes open.

 Darius recovered quickly and ran after the boy. The edge of the forest was only a short distance away. Rather than try to navigate the dense wood blindly, a cunning warrior would take a stand and keep the trees at his back. If Gabriel entered the wood, it was likely that he would become lost, and his fear and anxiety would give the beast a reason to manifest. Instead of seeing the advantage of having the trees behind him during a fight, the beast would feel cornered, trapped, and react ferociously. This mindset would prevent Gabriel from acting rationally and would likely cause him to make a fatal error. This is the conclusion at which Darius hoped Gabriel would arrive on his own, but he knew better than to expect such wisdom from the boy. As he ran, Gabriel did not display any sign of stress. Rather, he seemed to be heading for the trees intentionally, as if he wanted Darius to chase him there.

Darius nearly caught up to him. He raised his sword over his head, confident that the boy would turn around in time to face him. Much to his surprise, however, Gabriel used his momentum to run up the side of a tree, without using his hands, and grab an overhanging bough. While hanging suspended by one hand, he spun around quickly to block a flurry of strikes from Darius’s sword.     

So consumed was Darius with besting Gabriel at that moment that he felt himself surrendering to his own rage. He compromised the same discipline that he hoped to instill in Gabriel and began hacking away recklessly at the boy’s weapon. He needed to defeat him, strike a blow to the youth’s unshakable confidence, if only to save him from a damaging sense of pride that threatened to devour him over time. He needed to prove to Gabriel that he was not exempt from defeat, and that the life he enjoyed so much could be taken from him. More so, he needed to prove this to himself for his own peace of mind. Darius needed to believe that he had not failed the boy, himself, or the future of Elvenkind.

In the midst of their fast and violent exchange of parries and thrusts, Gabriel suddenly leapt from the bough and flipped over Darius’s head. Still caught in the grip of his own frustration, Darius turned around and swung wildly at the Elf while he was still in the air, hoping to land a crippling blow. Yet the nimble youth was quicker. Darius swung his sword and missed. When Gabriel landed, he dropped to the ground and swept his leg in a circle behind him, which sent his teacher reeling backwards. As Darius fell, Gabriel swung his arm back around and raked his claws across the descending Elf’s back.

Gabriel stood up immediately and tore away his blindfold, mortified by what he did. He backed away from Darius, fearing his teacher’s reprisal. “Darius, I…” he said shamefully, glancing down at the blood dripping from his fingers.

Darius slowly stood up. He could not tell whether he was more devastated by the beast’s fleeting appearance or that he was so intent on hurting the boy. The lengths to which he nearly went to save Gabriel were unforgivable. Darius knew that Gabriel did not consciously wound him; however, it was proof of how close the boy was to becoming lost forever. The beast won this bout, as it had been winning the struggle for Gabriel’s soul since the day he was born. Darius was beginning to doubt his worthiness as an opponent, and his chances of ever teaching the boy to master the beast and not become a slave to his instincts.       

“That will be all for today,” said Darius, curtly.

“But—”

“I said that will be all!”

Gabriel was paralyzed with remorse, unable to look away from Darius.

“You have done nothing wrong, Gabriel,” Darius calmly explained. “Rather, you did precisely what you were born to do. Who were we to think that we could capture a thunderous wind and teach it to be a mere breeze? Even the slightest gust of air bears the potential to become a storm—though none more so than you. In time, your inability to tame the beast might compel you to embrace the life of a recluse. Avoiding contact with the world, however, will force you to live in a loveless state with no appreciation for the lives that you affect. The beast will thrive on your need for solitude and your reluctance to trust anyone who might alleviate your suffering. Do not be tempted by the bliss of isolation. Though you may think you are protecting your heart, you are only making it easier for the beast to retain control. You are first and foremost a child of the wood—a lover of gaiety and life. Never forget this when the darkness threatens to overtake you. Gabriel Thorn, if I cannot teach you to be the king of your own heart, perhaps I can at least bring a measure of peace to your soul.”

Darius strode past his troubled student and retreated into the forest.

* * *

Gabriel Thorn stood atop a thick tree root, the end of which disappeared into the stream below. The willow tree from which it grew towered over his lean and muscular body, its long, drooping branches brushing lightly against his fair skin. Most of the tree’s shallow roots were buried on land, while the rest spilled helplessly into the water’s cool depths. Leafy plants hung over the side of the bank, shading the stream from the hot sun. Gabriel found the secluded location to be a suitable retreat whenever he wanted to be alone. The bark on the widest and flattest parts of the roots were worn away, evidence of how long ago he discovered the quiet refuge. He was not against sharing the place with the other Elves whenever he felt like company. On a lazy afternoon, however, when no other sound save the buzzing of dragonflies and splash of the water against the rocks would soothe him, Gabriel would come and rest at the foot of the tree to be by himself with his thoughts.

Yet his desire for solitude lessened considerably as he got older. The others were not as eager to spend time with him and often politely refused his invitations. They did not ignore him, but rather they treated him like someone with whom they were only mildly acquainted. Their conversation was friendly yet impersonal, their interaction with him somewhat guarded and reserved. This was never the case when he was a boy. They once nearly competed for his attention. For whatever reason, things were different now, and Gabriel grew to accept this change. The only one who seemed to enjoy his companionship anymore was Tryannus, to whom he always felt the closest.

It was Gabriel’s twenty-first birthday, and he felt very relaxed. The sweet balmy air moistened his scarred flesh, the humidity thickening his long hair. He wore only a pair of dark breeches, his customary outfit.

The worn fabric was badly stained and riddled with holes. Gabriel always found tunics and boots to be restrictive and would only wear them when necessary. He enjoyed the feeling of the wind against his naked skin, and the freedom of the earth beneath his bare feet. The pungent scent of animal hair, dirt, and sweat agreed with him. It felt natural—more so than the floral scent with which most Elves were born. Gabriel was never fond of bathing, nor partial to clean attire. The only time he washed himself was when he went swimming, an activity he enjoyed even in the coldest of weather. He once considered whether his smell and appearance were the reasons why the others avoided him. If their reasons were as simple as that, however, Gabriel was certain that they would have brought it to his attention long ago.

In his hands was a tall staff—a gift from Rothan years ago. Strings of intricate knotwork and various animal shapes were carved into the wood, lining its entire length. Gabriel cherished the staff and took it with him wherever he went. It served as a reminder of the others’ care and love, which they were reluctant to share with him lately. He prodded the sandy bottom of the stream, churning the sediment and overturning small stones. The act was mindless, a reaction to the slow, hot day that was coming to an end.

Tryannus sat comfortably on a rock nearby, his feet dangling in the water. One of his strong hands held a long wooden pipe to his lips, the other rested atop the hilt of a beautiful sword strapped to his hip. His face was ensconced in white swirling smoke, his expression calm and serene. He seemed neither compelled to speak nor ask Gabriel about what he was thinking. Tryannus never grew tired of the quiet. One might think that his life was full of endless toil and responsibility the way he embraced these moments of tranquility. The truth was that he was very old, and he had seen and done much in his long lifetime. There was little that excited him anymore, a fact by which he was not entirely disappointed. He also knew that once Gabriel left the glade, he would rarely feel at peace. His mind would be weighed upon by concern and worry. It was likely that he would never see the boy again. The two of them spent most evenings this way, as silent as the amber sun dissolving behind the treetops, until they felt ready to leave. These were moments to remember, ones he would think about when Gabriel was gone.

“I first came to this spot ten years ago with Mariss,” said Gabriel, somberly. “We were alone and returning from a quiet walk in the forest. I remember bragging to her about how I could balance along the edge of the bank without falling in. I was always trying to impress her, think of new ways to capture her attention and perhaps coax from her a compliment or gesture of affection—the one feat that I seemed to fail miserably at the most often. Despite all the time that we have spent together over the years, she always seems the most detached from me. I suppose this is why I was once so committed to being with her whenever possible. Anyway, balancing along the bank would not be a difficult feat had I not found Rothan’s supply of fermented cider earlier that morning. This was probably why Mariss thought to keep me away from the others that day—she was afraid that Rothan would notice my strange behavior and scold me. Despite my condition, I was determined to perform for Mariss. She did not stop me, likely thinking that the inevitable result would teach me a lesson. Needless to say, I fell in almost immediately. I was extremely embarrassed, the effects of the cider wearing off almost instantly. I expected Mariss to come to my aid. I looked up, thinking that I would see her arms reaching out to assist me back onto dry land, perhaps wrap me in her cloak and say something kind. I saw her rush toward me, but then she stopped—rather abruptly. She was wringing her hands, as if nervous or anxious. She was biting her lip and glancing over her shoulder repeatedly. After a moment, she calmly turned around and headed into the forest without me. Mariss left me in the stream, alone with my tears and shame. She returned to the glade by herself, and when I finally showed up, sometime later, she would not look at nor speak to me for the remainder of the evening. I could tell that she had been crying. I have never failed to notice her distance from me since then. Before that, her remoteness was only mildly apparent, as if she was merely deep in thought or distracted. After that day though, it seemed so…deliberate.”

It pained Tryannus to see the others withdraw from Gabriel over the years simply to spare their hearts. They knew that he would be leaving them soon, unbeknownst to the young Elf, and were desperate to remain unattached to ease the pain of their separation. He knew that they did this for themselves, but also for Gabriel. Mariss’s heartache, however, was different. It began the night Gabriel was born and festered into something that threatened to one day consume her. With every passing year, she sank deeper into misery. Tryannus feared that she would eventually sink too deep for anyone to reach her and be lost forever. Her anguish was Tryannus’s to bear as well. Everyone shouldered it with her, though she did not realize this. Even Gabriel sensed her suffering and unknowingly took a portion of it upon himself. Merely the fact that he missed her and desired her attention must comfort her somewhat, Tryannus presumed. Yet Gabriel’s intense longing could easily worsen her pain as well. Only she could save herself. She was stronger than she believed, and so Tryannus maintained faith that she would be with them for a long time. Whether she would be happy was another matter.

Rather than acknowledge Gabriel’s sorrowful tale, Tryannus merely looked over at him, noticing the array of fresh scratches and teeth marks embedded in his skin. “Provoking certain residents of the forest again?”

“Force of habit,” answered Gabriel, grinning.

“What do you hope to gain by constantly subjecting yourself to such punishment?”

Gabriel laughed. “To be fearless is to be free.”

“Sounds like something Darius would say,” remarked Tryannus, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“Darius is very wise.”

“Gabriel, a warrior who defines himself by courage alone is merely a courageous brute…albeit one who is free.”

“I suppose,” chuckled the young Elf.

The two Elves were quiet again for some time. Tryannus puffed on his pipe, and Gabriel prodded the stream. The sun continued to fall slowly.

“Long ago,” said Tryannus, breaking the silence, “the world was very different. There was no such thing as pestilence, war, or poverty. Wealth did not exist, nor did borders, power, or social status among the land’s inhabitants. Death was merely a part of life, and nothing to be mourned or lamented. Beauty reigned in abundance. The world was a garden of earthly delights, and the Elves its soul. They were the creators of love, music, and art, for whom time meant nothing. A single Elf could live for hundreds of years. When they grew tired of their bodies, they simply melded with the earth and became a tree, a rock, or a waterfall. For one malicious spirit, however, all of this was too much to behold. Given his immaterial form, the spirit was jealous of the Elves. He believed that the Elementals were unfair when they created the universe and those who would occupy its various realms. Why must spirits suffer the indignity of incorporeality, while the Elves reveled in the pleasures of being alive? The spirit’s envy was strong enough to curse the Elves and flaw them forever. Hair grew on their bodies in places where there was none before. Their flesh became coarser, their bones weaker. They were vulnerable to ailment and disease, and their lives became finite. They remained capable of love, humility, and kindness, but now they were also prone to greed, hatred, and vengeance. These kinds of traits did not exist in nature before the Elves were cursed. These imperfect Faeries were called humans, and they were the first of their kind. Yet, being an imperfect entity himself, the spirit’s curse was not absolute. Even after the Elves’ transformation, for many years humans randomly gave birth to Elves. These creatures were more Faerie than human and capable of reproducing other Elves. Had they been allowed to flourish, our numbers might have returned to a semblance of what they were before the emergence of humankind. For a long time, humans and Elves lived harmoniously. There was the occasional act of prejudice; however, such instances were rare. Then the humans somehow learned of the prophecy. They knew that an Elf would be born with the power to rid the earth of humankind forever. They rose up in groups, hunted down the Elves, and nearly wiped us from the planet. Their efforts are rumored to continue to this day, discreetly disposing of Elven children born to human parents. The others and I are the only ones who escaped the humans’ wrath. We have hidden in the glade ever since, venturing out only occasionally, and even then, disguising our Elven features. The savior was yet to be born. Given that we were all that remained of the Elves, and the prophets’ certainty that he would someday exist, we knew that it was only a matter of time before one of the three females began to swell with child. The savior’s divinity would not allow him to be born by natural means, thus we could not choose who would carry the child, or when. The point of our existence became to await your arrival and usher you into the role of Dok Alvar—the last hope for Elvenkind. For his crime against the Elves, the Elementals condemned the malicious spirit to the body of a young human. His helpless form makes him dependent on others to care for him and protect him. The punishment was just, yet the Elementals were merciful. Should you fulfill the prophecy, they will release this fallen god from his earthly prison and return him to his proper realm. There, he will resume being merely a watchful spirit. Things will be as they were before, as if humanity never existed.”

Until now, Gabriel knew nothing about his destiny or purpose. Aside from the fact that he was unlike the others in many ways, he never considered himself significant in any way. He did not know why there were so few Elves in the forest, or why they were different from humans—who he glimpsed on occasion from afar and always thought resembled Elves. Whenever he would ask the others about the history of their race, or how he came to exist, they would avoid the question and change the subject. Gabriel reeled in his newfound knowledge. He was taken aback by the horror of what the Elves had undergone, yet he was excited about the part that he would play in their salvation. He wanted to be alone so that he could absorb it all. Questions brewed in his mind. The responsibility was enormous—would he succeed or fail? How long would it take? What exactly would he need to do? Did the others know, and would they be involved? Did Gabriel have allies outside of the glade, enemies?

“Ironically,” said Tryannus, interrupting his train of thought, “the Fallen God is from whom you are meant to learn how to fulfill the prophecy. The Elementals were very specific about this; therefore, I cannot tell you anything more. Others possess this knowledge, yet their identities are unknown to me. When you leave the glade, it will be in search of the Fallen God. He will set you on your path. From there, you will embark on a journey that may very well carry you through the rest of your immortal life.”

“And where does this fiend reside?”

“Far away, in a place where hope fears to tread, deep in the bowels of civilization. A city called Machant.”

Despite his interest in hearing more about the Fallen God and the city in which he dwelled, Gabriel suddenly became captivated by Tryannus’s sword. Though he always found the weapon impressive, the sight of it was enthralling. He felt drawn to the sword, as if against his will. Since he was a boy, Gabriel was curious about the weapon, yet Tryannus would never show it to him—despite Gabriel’s insistence. He never unsheathed the sword to sharpen or oil the blade. It never left his side, yet he never trained with it. Gabriel suspected that it was merely decorative, an item meant to complement Tryannus’s jeweled braids, and therefore a pointless vanity. “Have you ever wielded it in battle?” asked Gabriel, innocently.

 “No.”

“Why not?”

Tryannus smiled at the young Elf. “Because the sword was never mine to wield.”

“For whom do you guard it so closely then?”

The older Faerie unhooked the weapon from his belt. “Its rightful owner,” he said, handing it to Gabriel. “I was merely waiting for him to come of age.” He noticed the lustful glimmer in the boy’s eyes. “Now that you have been informed of who you are, no doubt the sword is calling out to you, eager to be with its master. Do not be afraid of what you are feeling, Gabriel; you were meant to be together. The intense attraction by which you are overcome will only increase your devotion to its care and safekeeping.”

Gabriel leaned his staff against the willow tree and took the weapon from Tryannus reluctantly, unable to believe that he was being entrusted with so marvelous an object. He held it delicately, as if it would break if he gripped it too tightly. Gabriel grasped the middle of the sheath with his left hand and wrapped his right hand gently around the bone hilt. He slid the curved blade easily from the sheath of braided leather, amazed by its perfect craftsmanship. The sword felt right in his hand, as if it was designed to fit his grip exclusively. The blade looked as if it was forged from moonlight—the hilt, the body of a fallen star. It breathed with life, as if a sentient being.

As Gabriel examined the sword, a voice floated through his mind. It reminded him of what a person might sound like trying to speak with their throat cut, yet something about the voice was strangely familiar and soothing. He realized it belonged to the sword. It spoke to him of its insatiable need for blood, a need that must be sated every day lest Gabriel suffer a horrible fate. At first, Gabriel was repulsed by what the sword was telling him to do. His first instinct was to give it back to Tryannus and insist that he dispose of the infernal weapon, melt it down, or toss it into the sea. A moment later, however, Gabriel felt oddly at peace with the sword’s murderous demands. He was slightly hesitant, but willing to comply. It needed to be done, and there was no one else who could do it. It was as simple as that. Gabriel was not even curious about the consequence for failing to feed the sword. The first life that he took would be difficult, the sword assured him, but it would become easier after that. It told him that it preferred the blood of an evildoer, yet any human life would suffice if one were not readily available. The sword managed to stifle its hunger since the night of Gabriel’s birth, when it first tasted the delectable fluid, but it could not hold out any longer. Gabriel must leave the glade soon and seek out his first victim. Despite the gruesome manner in which he must care for the sword, Gabriel felt as if the weapon completed him. He felt whole for the first time in his life and could not imagine ever being without it.

“The sword was made when the prophets first spoke of the Great Death to come,” Tryannus informed him, “the near decimation of Elvenkind, known to some as The Silencing. Its creation took centuries, the hammering and folding of the metal alone a hundred years. The blade will never break and can only be wielded by Elvenkind.”

“And how will a sword like this aid me in my task?” inquired the young savior, glancing at the seven-pointed star on his shoulder. When asked long ago, Martarah told him that a great and terrible sword made the symbol on his arm. Yet he refused to elaborate, as if regretful of saying anything at all. Gabriel was still confused as to whether the sword was a curse or a gift—despite his new fixation with it. “I know that it will protect me from those who wish me harm, but why a weapon for which I am required to provide with blood? Surely, its voracious thirst benefits me in some way. Perhaps it forces me to become accustomed to taking human life…or maybe its purpose is to enslave me to the role of Dok Alvar.”

“I wish I could tell you, Gabriel.”  

“Then perhaps you can tell me why a race of peaceful creatures, to whom death was something to be revered, would create a weapon dependent on the lives and suffering of others?” blurted Gabriel, agitated by the idea of being manipulated, and the lack of information with which Tryannus was able to provide. “Should I live for a thousand years, the amount of death for which I will be responsible will be catastrophic. There will be nothing left of my soul by then. How were they able to justify this?”

Tryannus stood up, his gaze fixed upon the remains of the sun. “You are correcting an error in nature, Gabriel. It is a mercy, and not the same as murder. These tortured souls require releasing. In that sense, you are as much their savior as you are mine.”

The older Elf stepped onto the bank and headed into the forest.

Gabriel followed, the sword riding comfortably on his hip.

* * *

Winter came early that year. Cold winds blew down from the north halfway through autumn, bringing with them ice and a dusting of snow. Gabriel was due to leave the glade that morning and almost all the Elves came to see him off. Mariss, as he predicted, was nowhere to be found. As they stood gathered at the edge of the forest, exhaling ghosts into the frosty air, Gabriel looked around. Those present were unable to hide their true feelings behind their masks of false strength. He could tell they were unhappy to see him go, though he also detected a hint of relief. After all, his departure marked the start of his efforts to save Elvenkind. Yet Gabriel knew, as he met each of their gazes individually, that his absence meant they would no longer have to shield their hearts. Gabriel assumed they were all aware for some time that this moment would come. With him gone, the sight of the Elf for whom they forbade themselves to care too deeply would no longer taunt them. Gabriel both hated them and loved them even more for this. It also made it easier for him to leave and more eager to be on his way.

No one seemed to have anything to say. Though everyone was focused on him, they would occasionally look at the ground or pretend to be distracted by something off in the distance. Did they do this out of shame or sorrow, he wondered? Gabriel was confident that he would never see them again. Whether this was intuition or wishful thinking, he was unsure.

As he expected, Tryannus was the only one to come forward. The older Elf forced his mouth into a grin, and he put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder reassuringly. At first, he seemed at a loss for words, which was unusual for Tryannus. He eventually settled on what he said to Gabriel every morning when he was a boy, before Gabriel scampered off for the day. “Be safe,” he told him.

Gabriel merely handed the Elf his beloved staff and nodded his head.

No other words were necessary.

The young Elf turned around, a gust of freezing wind slapping against his cheeks. The forest was at his back—before him, the world. He tied back his long hair, careful to cover the tips of his pointed ears. Prinia showed him this trick, claiming to have fooled many a human suitor with this simple ruse. He could not help but glance over his shoulder one last time, but there was no one there. Gabriel was not surprised and might have been disappointed if there was.

Tryannus gave him a brief idea of how to locate Machant—a general direction, and some significant landmarks. He assured Gabriel that his instincts would lead him the rest of the way. For the beginning of his journey, he avoided the main roads. He wanted time to become adjusted to the idea of being so far away from the glade and the company of the other Elves. The sword would need to feed soon. Given that nightfall was quickly approaching, Gabriel found the nearest road, hoping his vulnerable appearance would attract the attention of highwaymen. Tryannus suggested this ploy before he set out, seeing as the closest city or town was a considerable distance away. It was Gabriel’s only chance of finding a suitable victim for the sword before the day was over.

As the sky began to darken, however, Gabriel became increasingly anxious. The road remained desolate for the entire day. He presumed that this had much to do with the weather, and he began to fear that he would be unable to feed the sword before morning. What made matters worse was that he was growing unbearably tired and would soon need to sleep. Elves can typically go for days without slumbering, but even a creature such as Gabriel was not completely immune to the demands of his natural form. Perhaps if he were to rest for a little while, Gabriel thought, he would be able to move more quickly and reach a populated area before dawn.

In his exhausted state, the idea sounded brilliant. The section of road along which he traveled was surrounded by pine groves. Gabriel stepped off the snow-covered highway and headed for the nearest one a short distance away. A barrier of tall grass and a brook separated the cluster of trees from the road, giving the location an air of seclusion. It did not matter if he was found, and so Gabriel did not bother to hide his footprints. Given how lightly he slept, it would be fortunate if a curious marauder discovered him. Beneath a canopy of low-hanging boughs, he located a patch of ground littered with soft branches and lay down. The back of his head rested against an old rotted log, the spongy wood conforming somewhat to the shape of his weary skull. Crossing his ankles, he pulled his long black coat tightly around him, folded his arms, and was asleep within moments.

Gabriel did not recall the precise moment that he realized someone was standing over him. He did not remember waking up, becoming alarmed, or making the conscious decision to remove his sword. He did not remember judging where to thrust the hungry blade, or even making the choice to end the person’s life. His first moment of awareness was the look on the boy’s face. The first orange rays of sunlight were sprouting up from the earth in the distance, and he noticed that the skin on the boy’s cheeks was turning whiter with each passing moment. The child’s look of horror engraved itself in Gabriel’s memory slowly and painfully, like a dull knife carving an intricate picture into a hard piece of wood. In the boy’s hand was Gabriel’s pouch of money, with which Tryannus equipped him for his travels. Somewhere on the road close by, Gabriel could hear who he presumed to be the boy’s family or friends waiting for him to return triumphantly. He looked down and watched the boy’s blood absorb into the cold metal, the hilt feeling warmer in his hand. Once the sword drained him completely, the boy slumped forward, the weight of his body surprisingly heavy against Gabriel’s arm.

Gabriel withdrew the blade quickly from the boy’s chest. He was mortified by what he did. The sight of the dead child repulsed him, evidence of what he had to look forward to every day of his indefinite existence. He inched away from the body as if it were on fire, wondering whether he committed the act instinctually or if the sword reacted to the boy’s presence on its own. Given the circumstances, and how Gabriel felt at that moment, both possibilities sounded reasonable. The idea of the sword acting independently of Gabriel’s will terrified him, though he knew that it was not something that he could prevent or change. He would simply have to keep this in mind whenever he was around others and the sword had yet to feed.

The first human had fallen in the name of the Elves’ salvation, and Gabriel was not in the least comforted by the idea. Soon the boy’s companions would come bounding into the grove looking for him, and he did not want to be anywhere nearby when they did. It was not that he feared them; rather, Gabriel knew that he could not bear the looks on their faces when they saw what he did. He quickly sheathed the contented sword, stood up, and slipped out the other side of the grove. He could hear the worried voices of a man and a woman getting closer. Gabriel did his best not to let a single tear fall from his eyes.

 

Purchase Gabriel Thorn