A Short Time from A Long Life

On a long island of land, there lived an isolated people, the original elves as they are known. They lived on the northern most tip among the snow and ice filled mountains. It was cold with long nights, where the sun hardly kissed their pale skin and the star light glimmered ever watching. Some whispered that to set foot in their domain once was enough to make anyone believe in the mythical nature of the gods.

The elves were a people of hunters with bows made from the scattered trees further south and arrows made of a glassy ice that could pierce the heart of any creature. Danger lurked among the sea of white snow and even the most skilled of hunters could be killed if they didn’t keep their guard up. It was here, in this harsh land, that Isarrel was born.

He followed his elders as any elf did, learning how to handle a bow and traverse the glaciers that stretched out to the sea and the pine trees that were ever important to a hunter. He learned how to survive in the northern most reaches of baren tundra, learned where their lands boundaries were past the thick pine forest further south. And among all these teachings, Isarrel learned the harshness of the world he was born into. He had experienced several times how harsh the world could be.

The first time this happened was when he was barely seventy, a kid in the eyes of elves who lived for a millennium. At this time, he had a small body that reflected his young years. A human might have mistaken him for a kid or pre-teen boy if it weren’t for the pointed ears that poked through his midnight hair that was darker than what any light could reveal. Isarrel had been the furthest south he had ever been, learning under more experienced warriors. The task was the last among many to signify his readiness to move further with his training: Isarrel was to make his first bow. Foolishly, he had let his guard down that day once the pine forest had been reached. Summers were cold, yet here the sun was able to begin melting the snows. Isarrel had found himself transfixed by a small five-petaled flower he had spotted blooming near a fallen tree. The velvet pink petals seemed illuminated by the moonlight. The sight had placed a calm quietness within Isarrel he never realized could be there. It was a beautiful memory he would never forget.

He hadn’t noticed the enraged buck till its huge rack of antlers flung Isarrel into the air. Breath was taken from his lungs, only coming back once his body hit the ground. He knew immediately he needed to act. He needed to make a decision. The buck huffed, a cloud dissipating from its nostrils. The buck charged again, flinging the young elf once more.

Isarrel hadn’t let fear overwhelm him. The days and years of training took over and Isarrel thrusted out his arms just before hitting the ground and sprung himself up, dashing to the closest tree. It wasn’t till he was there, adrenaline pumping loud in his ears as he looked down at the angered buck from a branch, that Isarrel had noticed the cut on his cheek. If it wasn’t for the single drop of blood which had slipped to his chin and then fell to the white snow below, Isarrel doubts his mind would have registered being injured. He couldn’t recall much of anything from this memory beyond the arresting images his grey eyes had taken in.

The quiet had been all encompassing. A dangerous edge lurked around the edges of the clearing. Isarrel could hear nothing around him, yet the small pink flower still managed to catch his gaze and pulled it from the posturing buck. He had felt the world opening to him then, a clam showing off its pearl dipped in poison; the beauty and violence that made up life held bare. The world was raw, an open wound as real as the cut on his face and Isarrel had realized he was no different than that buck or flower, all of them fighting in the silence of the frozen land for their right to live. An ethereal divinity coated all of this as the snow blanketed the earth.

Isarrel had continued remaining motionless on that branch for some time, even staying some time more once the buck grew tired and walked off. When the light of dawn had begun coloring the sky, the young elf made his way down from the tree. Fresh snowfall had slowly coated his furs as he stood there taking in the stillness of the forest. Just as the cold was beginning to soak into his ears, an older elf found him. Isarrel hadn’t paid much attention as his wound was bandaged. He remembered being grateful that the older elf didn’t say a single word to him in that moment, the lack of words familiar among a people who preferred physical gestures and song. He had wondered if the other elf had known about the rawness of the world. The question need not answering. Once his wound was dressed, the older elf turned and just as silently led the young boy further south. It was time to make his first bow.

Time past and Isarrel was 200 years into his life. It was an age where elves were acknowledged by other elves as adults. Whether or not humans or other peoples would say the same is up for debate. These foreign cultures never had or would affect them. At this age, it was time for choices to be made. Isarrel had continued learning the ways of the hunters, mastering how to be aware and make himself hidden, how to feel the tension in a bow string as easily as a whisper in his ear. Dangers hadn’t disappeared for him out in the snowfields. A hunter always would be unsafe there. Isarrel had no longer been frightened by then, confident in his ability to deal with any surprises delt his way. The small scar upon his cheek, apparent for all to lay eyes on, was all the reminder he needed.

He was a hunter, which meant he knew the truths of the world intimately. He knew of the danger that lay beside beauty as equals. The quietness was a part of life and he had only needed to do what needed to be done to live. And yet… a desire had clung to the back of his mind to see more of the world, see far beyond that which he’d been born into. On a frigid morning, just as the sun was glistening through the trees to melt the winter away, Isarrel had made a choice.

Back then he was only a flutter of a heart-beat away from packing his bags and leaving, when a thud followed by careful words of instructions on how to counter an attack distracted Isarrel from his thoughts. He changed direction from his quarters down a hallway. The wood, ice and rock had all been silent, their careful construction producing no creeks or thuds that might disturb. Trailing towards the voices had led Isarrel to one of the many small courtyards carved into the mountainside. The morning light had been shining on an elder elf who he had recognized as a skilled hunter. Her abilities, while focused on gaining supplies in the harshest months of winter, were turned towards training the next generations of elite hunters. An elf listened as she listed off ways some technique could improve. He was not much older than Isarrel himself.

With that, the indecision had left him and Isarrel knew he had to stay longer. No matter how much he learned, he could still learn more. The world beyond his home would be a world he’d have to face alone. Facing it ill prepared would be foolish. At least, that was how he had rationalized his decision that day.

Isarrel had walked away from the two, heading towards a balcony nearby. He remembered breathing slowly as his eyes had trailed over the landscape. The sun had rose higher over the carved stone and ice of his people’s home, a home older than even the earliest whispered songs. It was his home. The rest of the world surely couldn’t compare. Back then, he had heard how other peoples always looked for ways to change or evolve, for ways to leave a mark so big they wouldn’t ever be forgotten in the future. The elves didn’t share that mentality. A mark, or as they called them essence, one left in their snow-covered land could be as simple as a new carving in a railing and someone would see it. A bow passed down from those gone to those in training. A new melody in a familiar song. Their people weren’t so blind as to need a bigger memory of themselves. Isarrel had wondered at times, cozy and warm among the furs in his bed, how he would be remembered. Yes, he could wait a while before he left. Beyond his home the world would be as strange that day as it would in a hundred years. He could stay for a bit longer, he had thought that night. A dream had come to him of a stretching sheet of ice that went on for eternity, creaking ocean water underneath.

A hundred years passed and Isarrel had made himself a renowned hunter. It had been a long time since he’d made an error of judgment of when to release the bow string. A hundred years, and that feeling of missing something had returned in full force. Every rock, tree and snowfield had been ingrained into his memory. He knew where elk graze in the winter, their vigilance for naught as the bears had gone to hibernation. He knew how the banks near the lake became dangerous in spring with melting ice and lurking water serpents, hungry from their cold slumber. Danger still there as always, but its sharp edge seemed dull to his senses as a boar no longer minds the fences around its pen.

Isarrel had felt stagnant. He loved his home, truly. Yet, he had thought over and over how he was blessed to be born in this world. How could he be forever content to not see it? That desire to leave caressed his mind every morning then on. A flicker of disappointment every time his eyes watched from his bed as soft light seeped from his balcony inch by inch into the room he’d lived in his entire life. A tingle of cold rested in his chest no matter how many furs he had curled under.

On a hunt that same spring that should have been as ordinary as ever, another elf had come up to him and silently led him away to a high tree branch they both could sit in. Isarrel recalled the curves of the others face, their dark eyes. He was an experienced hunter like himself, not even a century older. Their name remained in his heart even now, a whisper heard after a blizzard. When the other had reached their own hand out to hold Isarrel’s hand, he had felt his concealed disappointment open into a raw wound of failure. The other had rubbed their thumb over the back of his hand and scooted closer. They breathed a song into his ear, a song about starlight in the darkest of winter nights. Isarrel had leaned into their side, letting them finish before answering back with a song of a bird who no longer wished to fly.

Some time passed before the other asked if Isarrel would like to come help train the younger elves. A moment of contemplation was given before they continued, softly saying guidance from an elf as skilled as Isarrel would always be welcomed. They rested their head against Isarrel’s and squeezed their joined hands. ‘You aren’t alone’ they seemed to say. Isarrel had brought their joined hands to his chest. He wished the other could feel the ice that had settled there. The wind in that moment had grazed Isarrel’s cheek, carrying with it the scent of blooming flowers. A question had risen in his mind: what kind of flowers grew in the lands that didn’t have snow? Maybe it was time he ought to see the world. He had hummed a song of gratitude then, and was answered with a whispered hymn of love.

A week later had found Isarrel at the southernmost tip of the island. The dock he ended up standing on had been unfamiliar. The small town was just as unfamiliar, perhaps even more so. His past self had heard about the small group of humans that begun living there some hundred years ago, recalling how his people had cautiously let them stay but ignored all offers of trade. There wasn’t any real need to worry about the humans expanding further into their homeland. The frigid winters kept other peoples south and elves never held desire to go south where the warmer air was unpleasant to breathe.

Isarrel had agreed that it was unpleasant, the air sticky in his throat. However, the stares from the townsfolk had been far more unpleasant. Whispers that sounded far too loud to his elvish ears picked up talk of how inhuman he looked, how some knew the elves here where distant hunters who hated socialization. Some had asked quietly to others how anyone could live such a harsh cold life in the north. Isarrel had felt unwelcome and strange, an intruder in his own home. He had known he’d have to get used to it. The world beyond would be the same. He’d have to handle it. This was the world he was born into, he’d told himself. A little gossip like this wouldn’t change his mind from seeing wondrous sights he was sure existed out there. He remembers whispering a song only he could hear so that the loudness of the town didn’t bother him as much.

Isarrel not long after took the first boat he could to the Southern Continent. The trader port he then found himself in was unfathomably loud with men and women alike yelling for people to buy their wares. It had surprisingly been physically painful. Talk about Isarrel himself had been just like the small town however, with people in the street keeping their distance as they watched in awe and weariness alike. Isarrel had kept his distance as well.

A tune in the distance had caught his ear and the elf couldn’t help but look for the source. He ended up walking further from the docks till he reached the edge of the town. The loudness had dampened as he then passed wooden homes, but that elusive music had replaced the yelling people. He eventually came upon the source, an old man strumming on some stringed instrument.

Leaning against a nearby home, Isarrel had closed his eyes and listened. Such a song without a voice singing was strange. All the same it served to calm him. He’d thought of the songs he knew, recalling one that would match the rhythm of the old mans. The words were quiet and Isarrel had known no one would hear him over the instrument. If they did, they would have heard a language unfamiliar to non-elves speaking so delicately their ears could never hope to pick up the complexities in his slight change of pitch. They would have failed to realize that elvish songs were emotional things, just as many would look at their hunting skills and never guess that Isarrel’s people thrived in the quiet comforts of each other. The old man’s tune stopped and Isarrel had opened his eyes as notes fluttered out of existence. He had then stared into the forest that lay beyond the town and knew that was where he would head. The quietness there would be far more welcome than the town where everyone stared.

One night turned into days, which turned into weeks, then years. Isarrel hadn’t expect it but going into that forest opened more curiosities than he had imagined. The allure of finding out the secrets of the land, of the creatures and plants that grew here, had been overwhelming. This was exactly what he had desired. To see the beautiful world he was born into. The failure and disappointment had dissipated. Feelings of exhilaration took over, filling his heart, at having to learn the quiet of the woods all over again. He had also found himself frightened at doing this all alone. He had felt alive.

Even after having existed so long in the gargantuan forest, Isarrel still found that he always had more to see in this land. The Southern Continent was vastly larger than the island he grew up on. Winters might as well have never happened with how warm they were this far south, with Isarrel finding he had missed the snow that could be several feet deep. Here the snow was a thin blanket over everything and only up the western mountains would it ever grow thicker.

Summers were unbearably hot and Isarrel shortly into his first year there had bought a change of clothing. It had been a very essential necessity. Local clothing was made of a light cotton, yet even then Isarrel had needed to wear a shirt without sleeves as the heat seemed to boil his insides. At least he had also found a light cloak to buy that covered his pale skin. The lack of pigment was just as telling of his elvishness as his pointed ears.

A mid-summer day in his 328th year of life has Isarrel come across a skeleton. It was old yet surprisingly fully intact. The sickly yellow coating on each bone quickly gave an answer as to how this person died. A venom cougar, a strange native creature near the mountains, had killed them. These beasts never ate the bones and their deadly saliva ensured that no other creature touched the remains. Isarrel had made sure his hands never touched the bones directly when he carefully placed them in a deep hole. Isarrel would give the skeleton a proper burial. Words passed lips that hadn’t spoken to another individual in weeks:

“May you rest now and live to hunt again in the next life.”

He had only hoped that whoever this person was, that they would now return to the cycle of life and be reborn. This memory floated in his mind some days, memories of his homeland skirting near. A song about a hunter being buried by their lover had passed his lips that day and Isarrel had felt a quiet sadness swell up inside him. After, he had turned around and left. He regrets not planting flowers for them.