“Imagining is easy. It takes no effort and is free. Anyone can do it, but how many do? Few. Yet, those who dare to escape the confines of reality by flying on the wings of dreams, at the very least have an adventure to tell others, and at the very best become the adventure they imagined.”
Talidin The Trekker, Wind-Cycle 124, Stout-Heart: Journals of Talidin
THE LAST DASH
Compelled by the horror of her sickened father, she runs her stolen horse into exhaustion for several days, stopping only for water. Flying afoot past the peril of raging storms, the heat of the day, and the nighttime chill of the dangerous paths south, she reaches the calm shepherd hills of the Orshal Cottages.
After resting briefly on the ridges leading into the forest, Eloria makes her last dash into the thick of the Grandenhall Woods. She leaves her horse aside the cobblestone road, scrambling into the dark canopy of the woodlands. With sword and sickle in hand, and the fire of love in her heart, she braves the nameless terrors of the shadowy woodland to find her father’s salvation.
THE TOUCH
The morning passes into midday. Tears fill her eyes. A wave of panic overwhelms her, manifested in her hyperventilating breaths. She searches through trees, stones, roots, and brooks but finds nothing.
“Where can that blasted plant be?” ponders Eloria.
She has not eaten the whole day. Weakness weighs down her body but she ignores it. After several more hours, the fearful resignation causes her to slump her shoulders in defeat. Her bitter tears flow down her mud-speckled face.
The sun sets beneath the horizon. Gangly shadows stretch ominously into the forest. Frustrated, she boots a nearby branch into the air and tumbles to the soil. Punching the ground, her eyes catch something. She wipes the tears with the edge of her dirty hand and stands up. Do her eyes deceive her?
Settled amidst the underbrush of a tall red oak, she notices a single violet lonth flower. Its dry and wrinkled petals cupped into deep folds force her to run to it—the haste of the flower’s demise as real as the imminent death of her father. She carefully pries the delicate flower from the earth with her dagger but hears the sharp whistle of an arrow behind her. It is dug into the ground, just near her ankle. A second arrow sticks into a nearby tree.
A broad-shouldered leaf-elf, towering and intimidating, steps forward, clicking his tongue in a guttural language unfamiliar to her ears. War paint covers his jade muscular cheeks and braided black locks. She had heard of the war-hardened Rinaduan leaf-elves but she had never encountered one until this moment. No armor. Just a sunned and sinewy body, slender arrows, wooden bows, and eyes that could cut through steel.
She stands, swiftly tucking the lonth plant in her pocket, raising her dagger. “I mean no harm to you or your people, Rinaduan,” says Eloria. “I’ve only come here for this plant. I need it to heal my father.”
The leaf-elf speaks in the common tongue, “This is now our land. We’ve never attacked your kind. Put the plant down and let’s keep that record intact.”
“You’ll have to take it from my lifeless hands,” says Eloria, fire nearly burning through her narrowed eyes. “Take this from me and I’ll kill you.”
A torrent of Rinaduan soldiers emerge from trees and underbrush. Their arrows are nocked and ready.
“Put it on the ground,” says the leaf-elf soldier. “Your carcass doesn’t have to be the feed of the forest tonight.”
The volcanic fever of rage boils in her heart. A blast of wind curls around her feet… tornadically tossing loose dead leaves together, gracefully spinning around her as if a long flowing sash.
“Dawn avails dark,’ shouts a male voice from the distance.
Dawn-Riders, dressed in white cloaks, with swords, bows, and spears in hand, charge forward. Arrows fly, piercing through air, flesh, and bone. The strident sound of swords clanging with steel mixes with the leathery sound of sliced flesh and howls of pain.
The breeze unfurling around Eloria weakens… the leaves retire their rhythmic wind-dance, ceasing their watch over her. The looming shadow of a man draws closer amidst the blinding white light.
“These parts are not safe, my lady,” says the deep voice.
The shadow weakens until he finally comes into view. She catches his broad shoulders, muscular square jaw, long raven hair, and a dark violet scar on his left cheek. Those eyes… she had seen them before… cool, calm, and as strong as the flame of desire yet relentless as the grave.
Eloria’s heart flutters wildly, like a bird trapped in a cage, desperate to escape. There is no mistaking that look and that magnetic presence. She knew it was him, wasting no time, “You healed a girl of a terrible disease of the legs five years ago, right near these woods. Her father thanked you by pounding your face to bloody oblivion.”
“Eloria? Is that you?” His hungry eyes settle so steadily upon her captivating face. He doesn’t think it is possible but she is now even more beautiful than in her perfect form before the worlds were forged.
A million memories race through his mind. Flashes of the horrors of the Eternal Scar— that galactic dungeon in between time and eternity. Fighting through the endless horrors of the intertwined realities of darkness and light, she was the vision in his mind that kept him from quitting. Just her memory gave him the strength and will to fight through numberless untold ages, through the unrelenting thorny teeth of the Black Chain, to break free.
Now, hundreds of thousands of years later, she stands in front of him. He feels her need. The taste of her desperation is as sweet as honey. He remembers the conversation, continuing, “How could I forget your father’s meaty hands? My jaw still cracks when I eat.”
He holds her shaking hand. The touch— the feel of her soft and warm flesh on just his hand— races his soul into a fiery frenzy of passion. He had been waiting for the feeling of that velvety hand for far too long. He wanted to tell her everything once again, whisper unto her the heights of his love for her, of how she was the only reason for the strength of his power, and the resolve of his will when imprisoned for so long, but then he remembers how she rejected him only five years ago after revealing far too much… when her heart was not in season for the truth of who she truly was …and suddenly he slows his heart... and measures his words. His eyes rebel against his calm, fixed upon her… unashamed in its brazenness.
She notices his fierce gaze upon her as he takes her by the hand and helps her to her feet. Reminding herself to slow down the violent beats of her whimsical heart, she takes a deep breath, pulling out the lonth plant in her pocket, asking, “Are there any other plants like this in these parts?”
Deralius, whose face seemed hardened with the scars of several years of war and death, answers, “No. And this flower has died. Does your father need it to heal someone?”
Eloria throws herself at Deralius’ feet, pleading, “I need it to heal him. Please! I’ve no time left. He is ill with the Black Fever. Ride with me to The Four Towns! I beg you!”
Deralius turns to the soldiers around him, “This is an old friend. I must leave to help her father. I will return in a few days to finish these wretched leaf-elves. Can you hold these lands until I return?”
“We will,” answers one of the soldiers.
With one wave of Deralius’ hand, he calls off the rest of his battalion. They march back into the dark of the forests.
Eloria stands up and hugs Deralius, “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
He whistles. The beautiful white steed giddily snorts, virtually begging Deralius for another ride. He quickly mounts and extends his hand out to Eloria. She mounts the horse, draping her arms around his beefy chest and back.
He savors the feel of her warm hands on his body, closing his eyes for a brief second… exhilarated beyond his wildest dreams. It is happening, just as he dreamed for so many millions of years. He can feel the power of her love, the flame of her passion growing stronger in her heart. He takes a deep breath to martial his crumbling composure. It works.
“He is a beautiful horse. What is his name?” asks Eloria.
“I call him, 'Destiny,' for he always finds me adventure,” says Deralius, petting his brilliant white mane. He firmly yanks the reins. They whisk off, down the weathered forest path, a blur of galloping white, and the hope of The Four Towns.
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