A History, Part One

The sun chased dappled shadows across the grass of the glade, warming the buzzing insects that flickered from tree to flower to bush. Mallasdir sat, his eyes closed, the gentle lullaby of the wind through leaves in his ears. It seemed to whisper of ages past and tell tales of the gret and small things that had happened in this very spot. For despite the secluded nature of his perch there were many great tales unfolding around him. A colony of bees had settled high in the branches of one of the sturdy trees and was tirelessly working on their honey. A hundred years was not enough time to spend in this place. Being an elf Mallasdir had no need to hurry his life as did those of short lived races. He sat and tended his charges with great care and attention. The seasons passed before his light blue eyes as though they were mere days, and yet he enjoyed each of them. There was a song in his heart and a gentle smile upon his lips each day from the moment the first bird whistled a note of dawn breaking song to the dancing fireflies late in the night. For this had been his calling in life. He sought not the company of others nor did he need it. He could pass the rest of his long life in this place and still not pine for the sight of his fellows. For indeed his life was much enriched by the lack of companionship. There were no others to talk to nor distract him from his devotion. He could sit comfortably like this for days, his knees drawn up close to his chin, his eyes closed, his hair tossed and played by the gentle caresses of the wind. Small animals and bugs ran around him, crawled over him, he did not mind. Certainly any who passed through the glade would think him a statue if they even noticed him at all. His clothes were grey and often mended, delicate stitching in natural threads picking seams along the soft weave of the material. A bird high above pipped a happy song, hopping from branch to branch. It stopped suddenly and surveyed the ground with a wary eye before chirruping happily and descending to land not the length of a goodly sized boot from Mallasdir’s hand. He cracked his eyes and watched through heavy lids as his feathered friend bounced around him and, with sudden frenzy, pulled a long worm from the ground. The simplicity of life in the glade was magnificent. So it was with animals and so it was with him. He could not, he knew, have been happier. In his youth he had been an adventurer. A restless soul ever chasing the dreams of peace and harmony throughout the lands. He had left Rivendell and wandered far and wide, his bow string humming with death and righteousness. Always he sought inner calm. Little had he known then that inner calm was a state of mind that one brought upon oneself. It could not be given by another nor accomplished by great deeds. It was not found in others. Pain and suffering was caused by the confusion of inner emotions that one allowed to grow in oneself. By purging these emotions one could realise the dream of all those who were mortal - life without bitterness and pain. Anger lead to inner chaos and damage. Mallasdir had purged himself of all such things, purged himself of others, and now knew the true sanity and calm of life. As he sat he could feel the flow of the worlds energy tracing through him. He sought not to impact upon it. He wanted to be no stone tossed into a river, causing ripples upon the surface and altering the flow. Instead he sought to sit lightly upon the waters and allow them to carry him where they would. Not for him the cares of the world. The last flush of the sun was now visible through the trunks and the shadows had grown long. It was a summer day and by the reckoning of the peoples night was onrushing. In Mallasdir’s world this meant little. He slept only when he was tired and ate only when he was hungry. There was no need for further ritualisation of the day. What was simply... was. As he sat trance like a strange feeling shivered through the forest. Mallasdir felt a frown crinkle his normally impassive face. Something was amiss. A feeling came over him. It was not a bad feeling, nor one of foreboding nor danger. For certain there had been times when he had been forced to fight to preserve the specialness of this place, but the mortals of the world were so easy to scare. Tales of ghosts and trolls abounded these parts and the small river folk nearby did not venture deep into his woods. The larger animals that passed through - the bears and boars - did not stop to bother him. He barely existed in the eyes of the world. As evening turned to night his mind tracked the presence. It had entered the borders of the forest and was pressing through the carpet of leaves and petals. Deeper and deeper it came, piercing towards him as though it sought him specifically. The presence was unusual. Mallasdir knew the feeling of the souls of the river people. He knew their footsteps and voices. This creature stood lower, stepped lighter. It's movement was almost a dance. It left barely a trail in the physical world as it passed, although each branch and bloom remembered and changed and would never be the same again. A twig snapped near the edge of the clearing. His eyes opened. They pierced the late gloom to whence the sound had come. She was beautiful. To this moment Mallasdir had found the peace and solitude of his woodland clearing to be breathtakingly special, a dream within his heart, a warmth that filled him. Now that peave was shattered by a single glance. She was willowy, her body that of a woman, her face soft and gentle like a cherub. Large soulful eyes looked too large in her head, their watery depths catching the light so that they glowed. A small nose curved above soft full lips flushed with the red of rose petals. Her hair was a thousand different shades from white through greys to black. She wore it long around her shoulders like a cloak and it tossed and wreathed like the waves upon the ocean. A single flower was tucked behind one ear, a white rose with delicate petals. She was unclothed, her body breathlessly perfect. Her nut brown skin was so flawless that were the final rays of sun caught it she glowed as though bathed in gold. She shimmered as though encrusted in jewels and yet at the same time appeared soft and yielding. Her proportions were delightfully perfect, a body wholesome and yet enticing, a sensuality glimpsed in dreams. There was a lightness about her and she moved with the grace and poise of the fox coupled with the lightness of purity. Not seeming to notice him she slipped into the clearing and flowed to the centre. From where Mallasdir sat upon the ground he could see here every movement. Then she danced, danced for him, danced for them all. The forest fell silent in wonder as the spirit captivated them all, drawing them into her, her eyes closed, her face caught in rapturous ecstasy. The moon rose high this night but ever so silently, as though it wished to illuminate her but not disturb. The firebugs span from their daytime nests and joined her, glowing and twinkling, their green flickering fires a counterpoint to the rhythmic nature of her dance. And oh that dance. Malladsir wished for it never to end. It personified nature for him. Gentle yet firm, loving yet senseless, vibrant yet decaying, familiar yet mysterious, touching and yet untouchable. It was as though by dancing the figure drew the whole world within her. Her arms stretched wide. She threw back her head, her delicate rows of teeth showing, her eyes closed, her hair alive around her. Her body glowed in the moonlight. Mallasdir watched. He could not help it. A tear flowed down his cheek and splashed into his lap. His emotions were those of joy and love, and yet there was a sadness deep within him. It was an unrestricted love, an infatuation. He wanted to take this moment and hold it tightly against him and never let it go. Yet his own actions shattered it. As the tear fell from his face it sparkled before landing in his lap. The sound was like the snap of a bowstring across the silent forest, and the eyes of the figure flew open. A look of shock and horror fled across her face, and then she began to laugh. Her laughter was light and high like a song. Her delicate body shook. There was not a single hint of malice in her voice. Mallasdir, unable to help himself, reached out a hand toward her. The spell was broken. The moment finished. He felt a fresh pain in his heart as though an arrow had cut deeply into his flesh. At his movement she span and pirouetted away, her movements slow and graceful like that of a sun dazed bee. In the future years, the very history that had not yet come to be, in those darkest times when he saw the burning in his dreams, Mallasdir would regret this moment. Yet now he was powerless. He often wondered whether she had meant for him to follow, to abandon his sanctuary and place of peace. Or whether he should have cast that moment aside, kept it as a pure memory. Certainly as his wives died he would regret it and weep. For he would blame it upon a spell. As his feet followed the dreamlike dancer through the darkness of the forest, his eyes daring to caress the curve of her shoulder and back, he had known there was no magic at work. Simply the fickle inability of the heart to let go.