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Prologue: Grandmother Death

~ Eyton, Fieldspree, Republic of Drexel, 1826 AY

Death had come to the great house; the house, Csharáll. To many, it was old and regular. It was a ritual after all, one as old as the race itself. But for a few—for the boy, at least—it was something new. Something tragic, and unwanted. Death was about to rob him for the first time; it was going to show him his own demise, the demise allotted to all elf-kind.

Elves were made to die.

Leif had always been close to his grandmother. In spite of their world-renown storminess, the bonds which held the Csharáll family together were stronger than most. But, Leif's connection with his grandmother had always been something a little bit more. The old woman was filled with stories: legends, lore, histories, tall tales, and more. In stormy weather—when the glass windows rattled and the mansion's huge rooms grew empty chilled—her room had always been waiting for him, open and inviting, filled with the warmth of the flickering fireplace. The room smelled of caramine and old perfume. The smell made the voluminous bedcovers and comfy chair and wall-white wall-to-wall carpet all feel that much softer. And the sweet crackers that much more delicious.

Leif would sit in a chair, or lay on the bed on cold days and fearful nights, resting in comfort as his grandmother would tell him stories of old, rocking back and forth in her chair by the fire. She told stories of all kinds. She would tell him of his father's youth, of his trials and travails. She would tell him of the deeds of the ancient mage-kings, of the long-lost Elvish Empire, and of “The Time Before Man”. She would tell him the great myths of the Spirits and the world. And sometimes, she would tell him of their family—its histories, its legends. She would tell him of the Old Man himself: Laan Csharáll, the head of the line, that phantom of a being who lurked the mansion's highest, grandest bedroom, consigned by his own designs to live forever in an endless slumber.

Like many in the family, Leif's grandmother did not look proudly upon the Old Man. “Yes, he is our forefather,” she would say, “but he is also our burden, and our shame. Don't be like him, Leif, dear, when the Wasting comes for you, choose the Good Death. A dead elf with no head is better than a live one with an empty mind. He didn't want to meet his family. I hope you do right by us, my love.”

Yes, she would say these things. She would ramble at times, but that was to be expected. She was ninety, after all.

— — —

It was several weeks ago, during a fierce winter rain, that Leif had first noticed that something was wrong. He'd been in one of the house's many, long halls when it happened. He was a curious lad; he liked gazing at the many oil canvases, pondering the portraits of his austere-faced ancestors as he weaved through the cascading velvet curtains of the artisan windows, imagining that he was journeying back through the tunnels of time. It was then that he saw his grandmother, ambling down the bold reds and murky purples of the musty old carpet that lined the hall. Her slightly-wrinkled face seemed healthy enough. Her hair was thick and wavy—only barely graying—and her brown eyes were as vital as usual, except… there was a strange distance to them, as if some part of her mind was continually lost in thought.

She'd come up to him, smiling and fussing, like the caring woman she was. Brushing aside the bangs of his tumbled-up, strawberry-blond hair, she drew him close.

“Oh, Elric,” she said, “what are you doing here, wandering about, all on your own? Shouldn't you be at school?”

Leif looked up at her for a moment, confused. Elric was his father.

“There's no school today,” he told her.

Suddenly, her expression changed. The peacefulness had vanished, and in its place was a quaking panic. But it was a brief flash; her worry seemed to get stuffed away just an instant later. She smiled weakly and walked off, her steps oddly shaky.

Later that day, Leif told an adult about his grandmother's confusion. It was one of his uncles… or, at least he thought it was his uncle. There were so many people in the house; it was hard for Leif to keep track of who was who. Regardless, his uncle had seemed especially unnerved by the words, but he didn't really say anything out loud about it. Though part of Leif thought the silent response was odd, the rest of him was used to it by now. He had learned that there were just some things that the family didn't like to talk about.

Not much else happened that day, except for a small leak that the rain had caused in one of the smaller kitchens. Leif helped the servants patch it up, passing tools from person to person, or holding stuff that people asked him to hold. His mother said that helping out around the house like that was good for him, but his older brother got angry and frustrated when he saw him helping out. Leif didn't understand why. He only caught a few of his brother's words: “elvish honor”, “birthright”, “servitude”. It must have been something from those pamphlets that Krian always seemed to be reading.

— — —

Late at night, while he was in his bed, with the rain drumming on the ceiling and the paved streets outside, Leif could hear his parents talking about something. His door had been left slightly ajar; the warm yellow light from his parents' bedroom streamed in through the opening in a long, razor-thin column. Despite the light's softness, it made Leif's eyes wince as he stared out at it through the darkness of his room. His mother and father's voices drifted in through the crack. He couldn't quite make out the words, but the tone was sad, upset, and worried. It made it hard to go to sleep.

Leif lay under the covers, half-listening and half-sleeping for a good long time. Just when Leif thought his parents' conversation had finally ended, his father gently opened the door and called his name.

“Leif, son—are you up?” he asked.

His father's face was a silhouette against the bright backdrop. It made it easy to see the pointed tips of his dad's ears.

“Yeah, dad, I'm awake,” Leif replied.

He gently swung the door open, and walked inside. He went over and sat on Leif's bed, and then, without a word, hugged his son tight.

Leif could hear sniffles in his father's slightly staggered breaths.

“Everything is going to be alright, Leif. Your grandmother is going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”

Description
Prologue: Grandmother Death

~ Eyton, Fieldspree, Republic of Drexel, 1826 AY

Death had come to the great house; the house, Csharáll. To many, it was old and regular. It was a ritual after all, one as old as the race itself. But for a few—for the boy, at least—it was something new. Something tragic, and unwanted. Death was about to rob him for the first time; it was going to show him his own demise, the demise allotted to all elf-kind.

Elves were made to die.

Leif had always been close to his grandmother. In spite of their world-renown storminess, the bonds which held the Csharáll family together were stronger than most. But, Leif's connection with his grandmother had always been something a little bit more. The old woman was filled with stories: legends, lore, histories, tall tales, and more. In stormy weather—when the glass windows rattled and the mansion's huge rooms grew empty chilled—her room had always been waiting for him, open and inviting, filled with the warmth of the flickering fireplace. The room smelled of caramine and old perfume. The smell made the voluminous bedcovers and comfy chair and wall-white wall-to-wall carpet all feel that much softer. And the sweet crackers that much more delicious.

Leif would sit in a chair, or lay on the bed on cold days and fearful nights, resting in comfort as his grandmother would tell him stories of old, rocking back and forth in her chair by the fire. She told stories of all kinds. She would tell him of his father's youth, of his trials and travails. She would tell him of the deeds of the ancient mage-kings, of the long-lost Elvish Empire, and of “The Time Before Man”. She would tell him the great myths of the Spirits and the world. And sometimes, she would tell him of their family—its histories, its legends. She would tell him of the Old Man himself: Laan Csharáll, the head of the line, that phantom of a being who lurked the mansion's highest, grandest bedroom, consigned by his own designs to live forever in an endless slumber.

Like many in the family, Leif's grandmother did not look proudly upon the Old Man. “Yes, he is our forefather,” she would say, “but he is also our burden, and our shame. Don't be like him, Leif, dear, when the Wasting comes for you, choose the Good Death. A dead elf with no head is better than a live one with an empty mind. He didn't want to meet his family. I hope you do right by us, my love.”

Yes, she would say these things. She would ramble at times, but that was to be expected. She was ninety, after all.

— — —

It was several weeks ago, during a fierce winter rain, that Leif had first noticed that something was wrong. He'd been in one of the house's many, long halls when it happened. He was a curious lad; he liked gazing at the many oil canvases, pondering the portraits of his austere-faced ancestors as he weaved through the cascading velvet curtains of the artisan windows, imagining that he was journeying back through the tunnels of time. It was then that he saw his grandmother, ambling down the bold reds and murky purples of the musty old carpet that lined the hall. Her slightly-wrinkled face seemed healthy enough. Her hair was thick and wavy—only barely graying—and her brown eyes were as vital as usual, except… there was a strange distance to them, as if some part of her mind was continually lost in thought.

She'd come up to him, smiling and fussing, like the caring woman she was. Brushing aside the bangs of his tumbled-up, strawberry-blond hair, she drew him close.

“Oh, Elric,” she said, “what are you doing here, wandering about, all on your own? Shouldn't you be at school?”

Leif looked up at her for a moment, confused. Elric was his father.

“There's no school today,” he told her.

Suddenly, her expression changed. The peacefulness had vanished, and in its place was a quaking panic. But it was a brief flash; her worry seemed to get stuffed away just an instant later. She smiled weakly and walked off, her steps oddly shaky.

Later that day, Leif told an adult about his grandmother's confusion. It was one of his uncles… or, at least he thought it was his uncle. There were so many people in the house; it was hard for Leif to keep track of who was who. Regardless, his uncle had seemed especially unnerved by the words, but he didn't really say anything out loud about it. Though part of Leif thought the silent response was odd, the rest of him was used to it by now. He had learned that there were just some things that the family didn't like to talk about.

Not much else happened that day, except for a small leak that the rain had caused in one of the smaller kitchens. Leif helped the servants patch it up, passing tools from person to person, or holding stuff that people asked him to hold. His mother said that helping out around the house like that was good for him, but his older brother got angry and frustrated when he saw him helping out. Leif didn't understand why. He only caught a few of his brother's words: “elvish honor”, “birthright”, “servitude”. It must have been something from those pamphlets that Krian always seemed to be reading.

— — —

Late at night, while he was in his bed, with the rain drumming on the ceiling and the paved streets outside, Leif could hear his parents talking about something. His door had been left slightly ajar; the warm yellow light from his parents' bedroom streamed in through the opening in a long, razor-thin column. Despite the light's softness, it made Leif's eyes wince as he stared out at it through the darkness of his room. His mother and father's voices drifted in through the crack. He couldn't quite make out the words, but the tone was sad, upset, and worried. It made it hard to go to sleep.

Leif lay under the covers, half-listening and half-sleeping for a good long time. Just when Leif thought his parents' conversation had finally ended, his father gently opened the door and called his name.

“Leif, son—are you up?” he asked.

His father's face was a silhouette against the bright backdrop. It made it easy to see the pointed tips of his dad's ears.

“Yeah, dad, I'm awake,” Leif replied.

He gently swung the door open, and walked inside. He went over and sat on Leif's bed, and then, without a word, hugged his son tight.

Leif could hear sniffles in his father's slightly staggered breaths.

“Everything is going to be alright, Leif. Your grandmother is going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”