ETCH, page 2
Ilva seethed and grunted.
Sensing her daughter’s frustration, Syli decided to use a softer tone, “Here let me show you how to do it slower.”
This angered Ilva more. For every time she was not performing perfectly, her mother had to jump in and make her feel like she just didn’t understand. She understood. Understood that there was no way to teach her to be something she simply wasn’t. And she wasn’t a dancer. She would never dance. Watching you do it perfectly every time is not going to help me, Ilva thought with misery.
Deaf to Ilva’s thoughts and feelings, Syli stepped onto the platform. A massive stump in the centre of the estate Ilva’s father had built. The village had grown quite a lot since the first war, and now since the recent deaths, houses sat empty. They were beautiful homes, with big sloping roofs, and tall doors. She looked at them all, counting the vacant and occupied ones, ignoring her mothers dancing. All she felt from these streets and homes and civilians was pressure. Pressure to conform to a society in which she was born. Pressure to dance, to allow young elven males to court her, to manifest magics.
As she turned to watch her mother, still performing the traditional dance with ease, she felt a pit of contempt form in her gut. She didn’t want to feel these things; they came nonetheless. With every soft tip toe and sway of Syli’s lavender skirts and golden hair, she appeared more and more beautiful. Her smile bright as the rays that touched her fans. The flashes of her peach coloured eyes sensual and lost in time. She looked magical.
When she stopped the dance and rested in her final position, the fabric in her ensemble easing slowly back into a still shape, her face contorted to the pained one Ilva knew best. The one that meant the fire within her soul had passed. Ilva used to long to see that smile when she was young. Now it just broke her heart to watch her mother trying to keep a dying culture alive, only smiling when she was dissociating, and it burned in her that she would never be as beautiful as her mother, sorrowful Syli.
The seed of contempt was growing into resentment. After years of trying, she was tired. She felt her essence of self slipping away. How could she tell her mother what rolled about in the caves of her mind, and in the pit of her stomach? I cannot, she thought. A firm decision. An affirmation that affected the love she could have felt for her mother, or for herself.
“Wonderfully done dear!” Ilva turned to see her father, Ediv, who was walking down the carved wood steps from the terrace of their home. His mohawk was greasy and slicked over to one side, his expression stoic and firm enough to be addressing soldiers before battle, and every step he took was intimidating. The steps he descended curled around and down into the tree stump, carved right from what the tree had once been. He marched off the final stair to face them both, giving them a look of what Ilva considered falsely affectionate scrutiny, he addressed them each with a nod.
“Thank you, Ediv.” her mother’s reply came out slightly slipping. Her breath was laboured. Ilva noticed the dance must have been straining for her. Lately her mother had been unwell often. Her lungs failing her at times. One year she had caught a cold and it had almost killed her. Ilva recalled the memory with silent sympathy. She cared for her mother deeply, even if she buried those feelings.
“You do that dance as well as when I first saw you perform,” Ediv exclaimed with what looked like a moment of true pride.
This made Syli blush, only a fraction, before she tightened her sashes and responded with, “You need not commend me so my Lord.” She curtsied.
Meanwhile, Ilva would have given all her heart for a compliment of the same caliber to be directed at her. She was shocked to find this only seared hot fire into that growing seed in her stomach. “I am going to the square for a bit,” Ilva stated, and walked across the stump, away from her parents.
Before she could get to the base of the stump her mother grabbed her arm, “We are not finished! The sun has not yet touched the sea. Two more sets.” Ediv stepped towards the women to interject. He often did when he could tell Syli was pushing too hard, and she always pushed too hard. It was a circle that their family grooved into a pattern. Syli would push, Ilva would resist, Ediv would try to appease both, and none came out satisfied. Ingrained in these behaviours were all three.
Ilva was, once again, triggered. “Oh, to hell with your training. If you enjoy it, then you do it. Stop trying to make me a dancer. I hate this stupid dance.” Then she ripped her arm from her mother’s grip and stormed away. With every step she felt her breath push from her, and then rush back in. She was full to the points of her ears with anger. She knew when she felt this particular emotion it was better to walk than talk. So, she walked, pounding her feet into the dirt until she reached the cobblestone ground of the square. As she approached the civilians, now looking at her like she might hurt any one of them, she straightened herself, plastered on a falsely content face, and walked around the small space with gentler steps.
The streets of Falil were bustling with the usual activity; the stalls and carts of various eats, and handcrafted items. As Ilva walked past one of the carts she smelled the sweet scent of strawberries and pastries. She glanced to see what treats the vendor had, and was delighted to see tarts with crème and berries filling them up. Her mouth watered. Practice often made her hungry, and she wanted nothing more than one of those delicious tarts to stuff in her keen face. She walked to the cart and the elf greeted her with an overzealous sales pitch. She gave him a small smile, and made her purchase.
Walking from the cart she barely took two steps before indulging in the tasty treat. It was so flaky, and soft that it broke gently under her teeth, almost spilling the contents. The berries were sweet and sour, the crème soft and buttery. Focusing on the taste, she found every hint of its flavour, as it burst into colourful tangs upon her tongue. She chewed and savoured its decadence. She was reminded of the simple comforts she would have to do without when she left this place. This small pleasure she awarded herself brought her such joy. She was grateful of the distraction.
She stuffed the last morsel of crust and remaining fruit into her mouth and continued to wander lazily through the tiny town. Children ran about with hoots and hollers of excitement, the occasional elder elf grimaced as the elflings passed. She found it strange that some would choose to frown at smiles. She so enjoyed watching anyone experience joy. Especially here. How could anyone find it in them to be unhappy with happiness? She tried not to let that behaviour trouble her.
Some stalls began to pack up their goods as the last light of the day was turning shadows long. The darkness that began swallowing the streets made it slightly cooler, and Ilva enjoyed that miraculous change. The sun was an everyday spectacle, but it did not make it any less magical to her every time it rose and set. Her mind was always filled with the simplest of joys to be had.
She turned a corner to walk down a thin walkway between two homes, and bumped straight into a young male, he bellowed grumpily at her, and continued walking briskly away. Taking the encounter to heart she began telling herself to be more alert. Then she walked on more carefully. She made it to her last stop. Every day, as the last light left and the skies were covered in darkness, she sat at a fountain of water at the entrance of Falil.
This place was beautiful in the dark, with the serene sound of water, and the glittering ripples it produced as the moonlight hit it just right. If you looked close into the water’s still areas, you could see the stars reflected just before the ripples broke the vision. Just watching the illusory water move brought her clarity and rejuvenation. Her emotions balancing with each moment she focused intently on her daydream.
She stood up after feeling the calm take her in, and felt ready to return home. As she walked back through the familiar places that she had known for decades, she contemplated what other wonders the world held. She had been to Marka once with her father, and had on rare occasions escaped into the Nilfin forest to adventure. This was considered a dangerous and rebellious act. Not many were brave enough to wander the ancient forests. Soon to be my new home. Ilva smiled again.
There were many terrifying tales about the forest. Rather than let it frighten her, Ilva was fascinated by all of these. She found herself constantly saying she was brave enough to survive in the forest, and strong enough to fight off any monsters lurking in the dark. She was not troubled by simple stories. There was never any proof these stories were true, maybe there were no beasts in the forest at all. She did not encounter any on her frequent and unauthorized escapades. She slept that night, dreaming of the leaps she was about to take. This life is mine. No one can take it from me.
She toiled the morning away until her patience wore as thin as her silks, and she let her troubles melt while getting lost in daydreams, she said silent goodbyes to each task as she completed them. When the chores were complete, and she knew no one would question her about her daily run, she took off. This time with a bag on her back.
Chapter 3
As Ilva stepped along the forbidden forested path once again, and absorbed all of the splendor, she felt even more righteous in her decision to break the rules. She was comfortable with her choice. Sometimes the ones that got her in trouble were the most satisfying of all until the trouble came. Aside from fear of the retribution she would face, she felt a sense of power when she was making decisions for herself. Felt a strength rise within her. She didn’t know her independence could be so freeing. She was obedient for the first hundred years of her life. So very obedient. She questioned things, but did not often disobey. Curiosity loomed heavy in her.
Before today she had a role to play in her community. The world was always trying to fit her into a little box. She wanted to smash the box to bits. Ilva tried to maintain appearances all her life, and was successful in the face of most others. It was her parents that saw her at her worst. She expressed herself regularly without a care of their disapproval. At least, she tried to convince herself she didn’t care. She had feelings, and she knew from experience now that if she did not shout them out and have them heard, that they would batter her even harder from inside.
She knew the damage of retaining things could be immense. It was not worth holding back all this pain. She shouted into the quiet of the forest. No one to listen anymore. That was ok. There was also no one looming over her with high expectations. So, when she let her voice echo into the forest, she felt a wave of relief hit her. There would be no retaliation. She could raise her voice louder if she wanted. She did not. But she could.
As Ilva thought about her parents, she longed to know whether her mother ever felt as she did. Did she ever wish she had another life? Did she long for the option of choice? Ilva knew her mother did not have any say in marrying her father. Her father had seen her mother dancing at a festival just before the war, and he fell in love. He bought her. There was a lot of slavery in Zoriya after the first war with Mila. Ilva’s mother, who was once of noble upbringing, was a bought slave. That was their love story. The story of a war lord and his slave bride.
It broke Ilva’s heart to consider herself in the same position as her mother. She would have never gone willingly if she was bought. She didn’t want to think her father was a cruel leader, it appeared that her folks were content in most ways, more so than a lot of other elves who had seen and survived wars anyway. Most slaves would end up dead as a result of rebellion. It made her rethink her belief that she would simply flee slavery. There were so many uncertainties in Ilva’s life, even with her new found freedom. She wandered through her new home. Her precious forest of isolation and peace. Her own secret sanctuary. Free.
Chapter 4
Eighty Years Later
Ilva was sitting on a fallen log carving a bit of wood into a twisting, unnatural shape. She loved to create abstract objects, made and created only by her. Artistically carving wood was now her main pastime. Her hair had been chopped short. Cut away in messy pieces with a small knife. It helped keep it clean. Her face was always smudged with a bit of dirt, and she didn’t bother using the rainwater she collected to wash with. It made much more sense to save that for drinking. She was content with her life in the forest. She seldom missed her home, and found more beauty and appreciation of her surroundings now then she ever had before. The peace she felt made her soul feel light and airy.
She looked up from her masterpiece, to see a figure walking down her path. No one came to this part of the forest. This sanctuary in nature belonged only to her. She felt the sharp pangs of frustration. The urge to throw this intruder who was approaching, at a very slow casual saunter, out of her realm of isolation, was deep-seated and strong. This interaction, with another, that was surely soon to be upon her, gave her fear she had not known in more years than she cared to recall. Nevertheless, the figure was encroaching.
As this elf came closer, Ilva could make out the large shining bow strung across her chest. Her long straight hair floating behind her shoulders in colours resembling raven feathers, her clothing as dark as a moonless night sky, and her heavy boots making surprisingly light feathery steps. She was lean, taller than Ilva, her muscles under her outfit were noticeably strong. She wandered down the path, and appeared not to notice Ilva hidden by the foliage in front of the withering log she sat upon. A small flash of fur, no bigger than a mouse, darted across the path from one side quickly to the other. Right in front of the stranger. The stranger was not startled. She glanced slowly at the direction the furry thing went, then brought her head slowly back to her surroundings. She was calm.
This intrigued Ilva. When she lived among others, she did not know them to be so cool, and collected. Everyone she ever knew always seemed to be full of fear, sadness, stress or anger. Except her father, he seemed emotionless most times. He would put on airs for many elves, but never her. Watching this stranger, Ilva noticed how she seemed as at peace in her solitude as herself. Seeing the way the elf appreciated her surroundings made her connect with this stranger, on a level she never had with any other. Then, Ilva noticed as she pulled back from her entranced state, the stranger was closing the gap between them.
Though she was sure she hadn’t been spotted; the stranger was no less than ten feet from Ilva. She felt a panic lace its way into her heart as the elf crunched the dirt underfoot. Step, step, step. Feeling her fear take control, she ducked behind her log, deciding she wanted to remain unnoticed. However, at this motion, the elf turned, as slowly as before. “You need not hide, I have known of your presence since entering this part of the forest.”
Ilva, frozen in shock, found her voice hard in her chest, her muscles clenched so hard and tight she could feel her bones beg for movement. She debated on running away. She had run all her life. Running meant safety. Running meant she could stay as she was. Free. Her feet were rooted though, and the stranger did not appear to pose any threat.
The stranger was still looking in her direction, and Ilva noticed the dullness in her milky eyes. They appeared foggy and colourless. Is she blind? Ilva thought she could make out traces of an iris that was once there, but now seemed to be hidden by stormy clouds. She felt a feeling, was it pity? No, sympathy maybe? She could not place it. Emotions were fickle things, and Ilva had always struggled to name hers. She did feel one thing she could place however; curiosity.
This was Ilva’s nature. She had always been inquisitive. The stranger moved to speak again, shifting her body to face the way her seemingly sightless eyes did. Gods and goddesses those legs, those shoulders, she could really hurt me if she wanted to. Please don’t let this turn to conflict. Should I run? No, she might be able to outrun me. Ilva struggled with her faintheartedness. “Do you speak?” the stranger asked.
Ilva was terrified to, but she spoke. Her first word to another in decades. “Yes.” This word that left her lips, left a stain of remorse upon her tongue. Her silent oath to never need speak to another again, broken. In all her stubbornness, Ilva felt like crying over this betrayal of her willfulness. She could never show anyone her tears though, another sign of her willful nature. She receded slightly, one step, one more, her feet feeling less like they were attached to the forest floor. Those two steps put the stranger on alert.
The unwelcome guest spoke again, “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I’m embarrassed to say that I am quite lost. I was on my way to the ruins of Mila, on the other side of the mountain, do you know the way to the mountain pass?”
Ilva pondered the reason anyone would seek the desecrated city of Mila. This stranger seemed determined in her quest however, and Ilva would be only too happy to direct the lost elf away from her forest. This would require more than one word, and Ilva trembled at the thought. Speaking. Could she do it? Will her voice betray her? She wanted nothing more than to avoid sounding weak in front of the strong female before her.
She took a deep gulp of the saliva that pooled upon her tongue, which threatened to sour into nausea. She said with only a fraction of a shiver in her tone, “That way,” and pointed South-West. Forgetting the glazed white orbs within the stranger’s sockets.
“Forgive me,” the stranger started, “I cannot see well, you blend in very well with those bushes behind you, could you come forward so I can better make out your gestures?” That answered the question, she had some vision. Ilva took unsure steps towards the path, not lowering her arm which pointed the way to Mila. “Ah, so this way then?” said the stranger, mimicking the hand motion.
Ilva nodded, curious if this stranger could see that.
“Thank you,” her visitor responded. Yet she did not move down the path towards her destination.
