Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this, and review! I know you're reading this, ohhh yes I do… and thanks to Lady Tremere and letylyf for their lovely reviews… they know what happens to people who read and don't review!snickers evilly
Chapter 22Time passes quickly to those who have seen more lifetimes than an entire generation. A full cycle of the moon came, went, and returned again to blend the seasons seamlessly from the bone-chilling cold to the gentle spring that sets the trees alight with a brilliant green. Life went on per usual in Rivendell, excepting for the fact that Isorfir still lay concealed in the far east tower. Fiothiel tried time and time again to wrench some bit of information out of him, but the only result was a single tear gliding slowly down his cheek. His lips were parched, and though she pleaded and begged unceasingly, he only shook his head back and forth, mussing his dark locks thrown carelessly across the pillow. Smudged hollows grew dark under his ebony eyes, and Fiothiel heard him cry out in his rest, once sobbing like an elfling.
Footprints would no longer be an available clue, the snow had long melted to reveal tentative grass and widespread wildflowers spread about the grounds. The city's many towers and spires rose up majestically from the greenery, shedding the gray pallor everything seemed to acquire during the long winter months.
To the outside observer, everything was fine, bursting with the clean scent of the season of rebirth.
For several, death still hung like an undercurrent in the air, pulling them further and further out.
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I remember the day when I saw my parents die choking on their own blood, writhing on the ground.
Does he?
Elves are renowned for their nobility, agility, strength, wisdom. Though I am among them day in and day out, these qualities always pass me by. To me they are calculating killers, who trust no one outside their own race and care not for the emotions of others. They do not notice my differences, not caring to look twice and see that my ears do not come to a point like theirs, that my feet leave marks on the ground I tread upon. Some can be kind, for there are always some, but with every elf whose throat I slit a feeling of satisfaction sets in, and the muscles between my shoulder blades relax, if only for a short period of time. Sometimes I worry I am insatiable, and my thirst will one day have me discovered, in the throes of my vengeful madness.
But I realize then – no one ever would suspect me. Meek, quiet, unassuming… my guise is my power.
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Fiothiel stepped quickly into her room, turning to shut the heavy door behind her.
"Anelith?"
Seeing her crouched in the corner with her back turned, Fiothiel watched her handmaiden curiously as she spun around to meet her eyes. Standing slowly, she smiled gently as she walked towards her, and dipped a quick curtsy as she responded.
"Yes, milady?"
Relaxing, Fiothiel smiled as she rested her hand upon Anelith's shoulder, feeling the rounded curve of muscle under the linen blouse.
"Please, Anelith, call me Fiothiel. Such formalities are unnecessary between us."
Anelith looked to the ground, fiddling with the tie waistband of her skirt, her fingers massaging the cloth nervously.
"Of course – I will call you what you wish."
Though still unsatisfied with the awkward answer, Fiothiel left with a benign smile and a lift of her hand, closing the door with a muffled click behind her. Forgetting what she had gone to her chamber for, she started walking towards the east tower where Isorfir was hidden, still locked in a state of unresponsiveness.
Back in her chamber, Anelith moved slowly towards Fiothiel's heavy oak dresser, staring unblinking at her reflection in the wood-framed mirror, its sides carved with ornate designs. She brought up a hand to the shoulder where Fiothiel had touched her, brushing slowly at the fabric as if to rid herself of dust. Her hand slid slowly down to her skirt pocket, where a lump was clearly visible.
She drew out a short-bladed knife, glinting pale in the fading spring evening light. Twirling it around her hand so it sat clenched tight in her fist, she raised her arm with a sharp intake of breath and slammed the knife full force into the smooth oak of the table.
The crash still echoing resoundingly in her skull, she rested both hands flat on the surface, breathing heavily with the emotions that smashed furiously against her ribcage, sending buzzing heat down her arms and up her neck. She brought up a work-calloused hand to tuck her dark-honey hair behind her ear, the tip of her index finger tracing its round tip. Her eyes came up to meet their twins in the mirror, and she scanned their depths searchingly.
Hazel eyes – eyes the color of unadulterated tea, of fading autumn leaves. They will not forget them, or me, very easily. Just like I never forgot that day – when my soul died along with my parents and was buried with them in a pauper's grave.
She pocketed the knife in one swift movement, and left the room.