Connections [1763 RWH], by Beth Kita
The morning is always so quiet. There are the usual melodies of the bugs in the moss on the dew covered forest floor, the fall of paws hitting the ground as the two wolves, Stardust and Prancer, fling themselves about in a wild dance trying to catch a floating feather drifting down in the heavy, breezeless air. But those are not voices or laughter or anything unusual.
With the rest of the feathers on the old hollow log between us, Surefire and I sit in the friendly silence, both of our hands working to tie the sinew around the feathers, fletching a new batch of arrows for an anticipated target practice before any other elves woke up. This was so there would be no danger of an unwary elf walking between us archers and the target, which, at least on my half, is seldom hit.
But at least it's something we can do together. My father is all that I have from my heritage. Though all my life I have lived in this twisted maze of canyons, I know that he was born of the White Cold Hunters. They are my blood, not Rushwater, though I have grown up here and I love them all dearly.
Still… I look up at Surefire, who's concentrating on the task with a single-minded determination, not distracted by anything. I smile and look back to the arrow in my own hands, flexing it between my palms. It seems that no words, sent nor spoken, are needed between us.
He vowed once that he'd never leave me again for as long a time as he did the last. Those years were missing something, and now that Mother is with the High Ones, I'd feel abandoned if he did leave, despite my friends and "families" here. But I still fear that the pull of his birth tribe will catch hold of him and drag him back on journey after journey.
And now… I want to know why. I want to go with him, to meet new elves, hear about new adventures. Experience something else, though life here is still far from boring.
The arrow in my hands starts to quiver; resisting the force I am putting on it. I release it before it can snap, letting it bend back into its original form. Grinning self-consciously, I flicked the springy wood at my father.
"You going to hurry up? Or do we wait forever to test these out?" I pick up my short bow, the rough wood feeling strange in my hands. I was too used to the sword. This change would be good.
Surefire nodded with a smile, stubbornly taking his own time to finish tying the last knot. "Whenever you're ready," he replied at last.
Someday, I promise myself. Someday I'll ask to go with him to see the White Cold Hunters. See Strongsoul, maybe some of the others he's talked about briefly. It was never easy to get information from him, so the bits that he did tell me about them, I treasured.
I lined up the arrow and pulled back, letting it fly. It missed the target by a long shot, disappearing into the underbrush.
And maybe I'd wait a lot longer to ask.
Change [1763 RWH], by Beth Kita
Lionheart lay on his back staring up at the bright sky. The night was barely on its way: the daystar had crept close to the horizon and was slowly dipping away. Colours like those in Honeyhue’s paintings began to slowly appear, so soft and muted at first but they soon brightened, deepened to strands of dark pinks and fiery oranges that raced across the cloud-studded canvas of the sky.
Change was everywhere.
Too much change sometimes, but the past was quickly forgotten and the NOW was really the only thing that mattered anyway.
He was glad he’d finally decided on what he wanted to train for. As dull as Troll Lore Keeper sounded, it was truly a job that interested him, especially the physical aspects of it. He’d finally get to accompany Nettle on trading missions. Not out in the open, but in secret. And not right away, but eventually. First he needed to improve on his stealth skills, and he’d be doing that with training from the hunters.
He had always loved sneaking around, whether if it was to drop a bug down someone’s back, or to just see how long it took for them to notice a different shadow trailing behind them.
And eventually, he hoped to track the trolls back to their home. That was probably what he wanted most. It was the thrill of sneaking around somewhere so dangerous that no elves alive knew much about it. And he would someday - he might be the only one who would before he shared the knowledge he might gather with the tribe.
It was also good to know that he might be able to help. The tribe, over the years, had lost too many elves to troll activity. The reason why still eluded Lionheart, but that was another thing he wanted to find out for certain. Death to elves, in any form, brought too much sadness.
He smiled to himself. The sky had darkened to a velvet navy, and bunches of stars seemed to explode out of it. The change was over for the night. As much as he loved watching the daystar change the colours in the clouds; he also loved the dark softness of the night.
He knew it would stay dark for a while. He pushed off from the branch he’d been resting on and howled. A wolf answered the song, and then the full pack raised their voices as well. It was good to start something new.