Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Elstan

"I assure you I have no power within me. It is the words of an ancient race long forgotten by your people. Your daughter heals under those words."

§§§

"You know of The War of the Ring?" Illeandir asked. Matilda nodded. "When orcs and goblins among other fouler beasts ran amok across open fields and killed without any resistance against them." Matilda's stomach twisted in a tight knot. "They still do. Though there are fewer of them now than before. I was traveling with my several of my kin when we were attacked at the foothills of the Misty Mountains one-hundred miles north of here. Many were killed and none evaded injury." Illeandir paused, lost to memory. Matilda waited a minute before repeating her earlier question.

"How long ago was this?" she asked, hoping to be able to put an age to him. Illeandir gave a mirthless smile.

"Two-hundred fifty-five years, three months and six days ago." he said. Matilda gasped and staggered back several steps clasping her hands to her chest. Her face drained of all color.

"Y-you c-cannot be that old!" she whispered hoarsely. Illeandir looked at her gravely.

"I am older still. Your king is more than two-hundred years old. What is fifty years more?"

"But he is the king! He comes from royal blood that is far older than tales speak of! You, you are but a boy!"

"It is true. Among my kin I was the youngest," Illeandir said standing up.

"Was?" Matilda asked. Illeandir looked at her but didn't answer.

"I will stay until your daughter is able to walk again. Then I must leave." He grabbed his things and disappeared inside the tent. As he bent over his hair fell away from his ear. Matilda could have sworn it was pointed.

§§§

Inside the tent Illeandir was met with the hushed voices of women tending to the wounded. He saw Everild lying on a small cot in the far corner and made his way over. He passed a man with the lower half of his arm missing and a severe burn on his leg. He was shivering with fever. Illeandir laid a cool hand on his forehead and the man stopped shaking and his breathing eased. A smile showed on his lips as he sunk into a deep sleep. Like a ghost, Illeandir slipped through the tent touching the more seriously wounded. He came across a child, a boy, with a massive laceration across his chest.

The boy's breathing was shallow and ragged. He was beyond the aid of the women and they knew he would die. His mother stood beside him weeping silently. Illeandir stood behind her for several minutes before she noticed him. Her dark eyes shone with tears.

"He's all I have left," she whispered. "My husband was killed."

"What is his name?" Illeandir asked.

"Connor," she told him.

"Strong willed."

"Yes. Very." Connor's mother sniffed and smiled.

"He will live," Illeandir said handing her a small pouch of fine powder. "Give a little of this to him once a day until it is gone with water or food. It will keep away any infection. No more no less. Do this and he will live." Tears sprang to the woman's eyes.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, wrapping her small arms around Illeandir. She then realized what she had done and backed away quickly clutching the pouch to her chest. "Thank you," she hesitated.

"Elstan," Illeandir said. The woman smiled.

"Hearth," she replied. Illeandir bowed slightly and turned to leave. Hearth watched as he walked over to Everild and stood silently over her with closed eyes. Connor moaned and Hearth turned to her son to soothe him. When she looked back Illeandir had disappeared.