Iolas

The leaves of the forest were turning brilliant shades of yellow and orange, though they still clung valiantly to the branches. Iolas had never liked this time of year. His mother found the turning of the seasons beautiful, and had many long poems to recite on the subject, but they didn't sit well with him. It was his father's blood, she would say, poisoning his heart with thoughts of death while her own Fey blood sang only of life. Perhaps she was right. Iolas was no Elf, not completely, and his poisoned heart yearned for other things. The sound of rustling brush came to his ears from some way off. It was no woodland creature, of that he was certain; too loud, and too reckless. Iolas crept through the trees toward the sound, and soon caught sight of Men. These were no hunters, for he had seen enough of those in the wood to recognize them. A man, dressed in fine black wool that had no business in the wilderness and wearing a blade never intended to strike the flesh of beasts, led a group of two dozen or more men, women, and children.

Iolas wondered for a heartbeat why they were coming into the wood this way, but their faces told the tale to anyone who had eyes: they were not going toward something, they were running away. "Hold!" cried Iolas, drawing himself up before the black-clad man. "What business do you have in this place?" Though he had a guess as to their motives, he had always been taught not to trust folk not born of the woods. "Ah!" said the man, as he came shuffling to a halt. The others behind him stopped as well. The man was stocky, with a greying beard and a red-splotched face dripping with sweat despite the Autumn coolness. "We have come to find the Mistress of the Wood, and beg her for sanctuary."

"And so you have found her." Iolas had his mouth half-open to speak, but found himself turning along with all the others to gape at the majestic Elf who had seemed to materialize out of the trees themselves. Iolas would never have the woodcraft of a true Elf, and this reminder of that fact was as galling as ever. "I am Lindiria, guardian of this place. You have come here uninvited." She cast a cool eye over the assembled Men. 

 The man removed his hat and clutched it in his hands as he bowed low. "Oh Mistress, please forgive us for our intrusion. Our small village at the edge of the wood was set upon by bandits and outlaws, and we are the only ones who have survived." "This is not my concern," said Lindiria, her voice still even, betraying no emotion. "You have your own kings and princes of Men whose duty it is to protect you. Go to them."  The man's face twisted with anxiety at these words. "We would, indeed, but the brigands chased us into the wood, and pursue us still. If you could but show us some secret way, some place to hide until they have given up the hunt, we will leave as soon as we may and trouble you no more."

"Show you my secrets?" There was emotion in those words, but it was not pleasant. "Never has the wise path involved the telling of Elvish secrets to Men." She shook her head ever so slightly, but with finality. "Your fate is your own, and I leave you to it." With that, she turned and retreated swiftly between the trees. The man turned to Iolas, his eyes full of fear, but still with a tiny spark of hope. Iolas could not bear that gaze, and turned to look into the wood where his mother had gone. "I will speak with her," he said, and followed after her. * * * "Mother!" Iolas shouted, though he knew she could have heard him at a much lower volume. Indeed, she was there beside him, almost as though she had never been anywhere else. She regarded him with her inscrutable gaze but said nothing. "How can you leave those people to such a fate?" Iolas felt his hands balling into fists, though he tried to maintain the same implacable demeanor as his mother. "And what would you have me do? Allow them safe haven, show them the secret ways of my home, so that when the danger has passed they can return and do what they will here? They nibble enough at the edges of the wood, year upon year; I will not let those teeth into its very heart." "Have you no compassion? Do you really have such contempt for their kind? What if it were I seeking refuge?" She quirked an eyebrow. "If you had run afoul of the perils of life among Men, then I would say you earned whatever fate befell you." Iolas never knew if his mother's coldness was for him alone, or if he only stood in for the father he had never met. He had never seen it so much on display before. "I will help them," he said, surprising even himself with the words. Feeling as though he were leaning over a precipice, he continued, "I do not know all of your secret ways, but I know enough to bring them to safety. If you will not show kindness or pity, then it must fall to me." Something flashed behind Lindiria's eyes, but Iolas could never read her subtle expressions. "Go then, if that is your choice," she said, her voice as even as ever, "but know that you will never be welcome here again, and never shall you see me until your dying day." She paused but a moment, and then she was gone once more. * * * Iolas cursed himself as he paced back and forth beneath the trees. Had he not the courage of his convictions? Why did he hesitate? The love of one so ready to cast him aside was hardly worth clinging to, and yet...

The swirling thoughts that held him paralyzed were shattered by the harsh cry of a raven. It stood on a branch between brightly colored leaves, sleek and glossy from beak to talon to tail. It cocked its head and peered at him, then flew off into the wood. Finally broken from his own thoughts, Iolas ran after it, in that moment leaving all he had ever known behind.


He had not been following the raven, but they had both arrived at the same destination. One just in time, the other far too late. The bodies of the refugees lay strewn about the forest floor, their wounds still shining with bright red blood. The raven flew to the man in the black suit, who lay on his back, staring wide-eyed into the leafy canopy. Iolas stood over him, seeing the very image of death that haunted his heart.
The raven looked up at him from its perch on the dead man's chest. Iolas imagined for a moment that the look was accusatory, blaming him for the inaction that lead to this tragedy. But it was not accusation in those shining black eyes, but a question. "What will you do?" they asked. "Do these lives mean less to you now that they are over? Does the brevity of life rob it of meaning?"

 
Iolas' eyes went from the raven to the sword at the man's hip. A pretty blade, made to spill the blood of Men, face to face, without all the trappings and justifications of warfare. He bent down and unbuckled the sword belt, sliding it out from beneath the corpse and fastening it around his own waist. The weight was strange and unbalancing, pulling on his body like the deaths around him pulled at his heart. He did not resist that pull, but rather followed it toward a new path, away from his home and into the world.