BW XXVII - Lan Zi
“No, we must support the Norsemen; they are expecting us to ease their westward march,” the female elf whispers. She is on one knee, bent over a hollowed tree stump that is filled with rain water, seemingly talking to her reflection, “but then he needs me.”
Dressed in the dark greens, browns, yellow, umber and gold that mark her as a half-elf from the Old Heart Forest, she is oblivious to Lanzi. Late in the day, the gloaming is pierced by the occasional long, slanting ray of light which tears through the dust-laden air in dazzling gold. One such beam illuminates the small clearing where the elf kneels, its light bouncing from her partially hidden mithril shirt and gem-studded crown. The circlet of platinum that sits on her long, blonde hair bears a point shaped like a cross-hilt sword, holding a violet gem. At her sides are the customary long and short swords carried by her folk and on her back is a long bow and four swollen quivers.
The peaceful, autumnal scene of an ancient, immobile, damp oak wood, thick with weed, decay, and fungus, whilst matching her colours, contrasts starkly the elf who is dressed for rapid movement or skirmishing. Her indecision appears in danger of leading to inaction; to Lanzi, the Forest had made the choice to do nothing millennia before and remains content to allow the Prime’s machinations flow over it, unaffected. But there is movement, isn’t there? In the shadows, near to the elf, something moves. Lanzi wants to call out but his voice is somehow mute, like the very air of the Forest removed the vibration from his vocal chords. He watches, struck dumb, heart beginning to race, as the shape grows in form, emerging from the dusk into the same golden stream of light that strikes the elf. The sword is illuminated first, in a dazzling flash of gold and silver. Then comes the humanoid shape bearing the weapon; half-man, half-stag it stands behind the elf. Head bowed, both to gaze upon her still crouching form and to ensure his magnificent antlers did not fall foul of the overhanging vegetation, which form the roof of the glade, it comes into the foreground. Sword carried, it does not intend to strike; indeed, stood passive, watching, Lanzi detects some other emotion in the creature: pity.
“Why am I faced with these choices, Archerion?” she asks without turning to see her companion.
The reply is deep, rhythmical and rich like the plucking of a base guitar, “You know my counsel Lady, oft rehearsed since your parting from the Lady Gwendolyn. Whilst matters of the heart are not easily understood and wounds to such a vital organ cannot be healed easily, you must understand that there is no choice.”
Finally turning from the pool and standing to face the creature, the elf’s passion threatens to engulf her, “You all would have me abandon the only one that has touched my heart and begun to repair my soul? I cannot simply turn my back on him, when I know that he is in darkness.”
“A darkness which calls you still, my Lady.” Archerion replies, “Say not abandon, my child, but we must postpone the idea of any direct action to return him to us and take a longer path to ensure we and our allies have the power to defeat such a potent enemy. Hark Gwendolyn’s last words: let him be until we are together again and ignore the pleading voices, as they come only from the Witch.”
Crying now, the female elf falls to her knees and sobs, “When will that be? Where is she now? Her counsel, whilst seaming wise, has been lost to us. How could she let this happen to her? How could she let Sutur fall?”
“She will not fail, my Lady,” the creature places his free hand on the elf’s head reassuringly, “we must follow her last instructions and help unite the forces that oppose the Witch that has trapped your beloved. She let Sutur fall so that a greater good would blossom.”
“But they are so few…How can we ever get him back? He has been gone so long and the corruption is surely complete…”, the elf’s sobs break into cries of anger, smashing the tranquility of the glade.
Bending to help her stand, the creature’s smooth, calming tone seems to draw in the surrounding wood like a comforting blanket, “My Lady, we can do nothing for him now; but in destroying she who enslaved him we might well be able to break the spell. Vent your rage at her…”
The elf’s upturned hand cuts off his speech, “I have heard this before, I will rage at the Drow Queen but first I must listen to my heart. I cannot stay here, waiting for him to be lost to me forever.”
“Then Inwe has won,” Archerion’s head bows and his words take on a more forceful nature, “She will ensnare you too as she once tried. We will lose our champion and the Forest will dwindle to mere shadow.”
The elf’s hand drops and she too regards the deep green grass beneath her, as the creature continues, “All those of the most ancient beings that still call this sacred place home will fall to despair and death. The old paths that have remained hidden to all but the most worthy will be exposed to the enemy and none on the Prime will be safe, no matter where they hide.”
Bending to pluck a small white flower from amongst the mass of long blades of grass that carpet the floor of the glade, the elf holds it before her, and, steadier now, argues, “Am I not this flower amongst so many other living things? What makes this one flower so important to such a panoply of life? Are my choices so important to you all that I must accede to your wishes at the expense of my own desires? I would risk my life to save the one I love, is that not our purpose? Why is that inglorious? Why would that mean the Forest would fail?”
“Ahh, should the flower turn from the light it would either die,” the creature begins, solemnly, whilst pulling a dark-leafed vine from a nearby branch, “or it would transform, perhaps slowly at first, becoming increasingly discoloured with coarse, dark leaves and a binding stem that would wrap itself around all living things, weaving between them and slowly suffocating them. Its offspring would be similarly dark and dangerous, changing the Prime and dragging all living things into the Abyss.”
“And if it remains, bathed in light, what then?” she asks almost transfixed by the creature’s voice.
Gently taking the flower from the elf, the creature stares at it whilst replying in its more calming voice, “It would grow, attracting life to drink from its nectar,” he intones, turning the flower gently between finger and thumb, “and it would reproduce many more of similar colour and design, creating something splendid on which a gaze might rest, assured that all was well with the Prime.”
As Lanzi watches, the forest floor becomes bejeweled by small white flowers, which grow up between the blades of dark grass, thickest near the rays of golden sunlight. Pausing slightly, Archerion pleads, “My Queen, the Prime needs such flowers – those that grow true and add beauty to otherwise dark places – it is full enough of weeds and vines that climb and feed, one on another, in search of the best aspect. Be the true flower, not something sullied and lesser by nature!”