Chapter One
Rumors
My mother used to tell me the great stories of life before the war, I’d fall asleep as a child in hopes that one day we would all be at peace again. Though it never reached the borders of Andromeda, the war left us all living in fear that one day we too would start disappearing in the night. Being the last free place for humans to prosper, my mother and I lived in a small house right by the wall protecting us from the outside world. We ran a little inn, also selling crops, clothing, and household needs for the rest of the village.
"Aulora!"
My mother called.
"Yes?"
I replied. Still half asleep on my cot. I was never eager to start the usual routine of getting up, feeding the chickens, working the garden, and sometimes taking over in the store so my mother could go do the shopping for the week; in the one other market our village had.
"Get up dear, those chickens aren't going to feed themselves you know."
She always had a way of making her orders sound loving, and convinced me to get up every time. I sat there for a second. My long auburn hair stuck out wildly in different directions, and tickled my back when I stretched in hopes of waking myself up.
Finally, against my will, I stood up and went to the square of glass leaning against my wall that was my make-shift mirror. I looked for a moment. My face had slendered in the last year. All traces of childhood were slowly beginning to disappear. I looked at my eyes, and began to clean out all reminiscences of sleep. My eyes always puzzled me. They were a very light blue most of the time. They've been known to take on different hues in certain moods. But my mother’s eyes were a honey brown color. I asked her one day why mine weren't gold like hers, and she simply replied with,
"You got them from your father."
She didn't speak much of him, my father. He died before I was born in the war effort. Small tallabands of humans would band together; attempting to hold the Elven army off and far out of reach of Andromeda.
I always had questions about him, but I got the same answer pretty much every time.
"I'll tell you when you're older."
She would say. Or,
"It doesn't matter sweetheart, it's just you and me, and we have to take care of each other."
She'd always say it with a meek smile; one which I knew was just a cover for the pain she felt due to his death. Though I did intend to inquire more when I was older. Ha, older. It's a funny thing when I think about it. She'd told me the same thing for years, and I was staring to doubt that 'older' would ever come.
I broke free from my wondering mind, and started getting ready for the day. I threw a ragged tan tunic over my head and twisted my hair, then wrapped it away in a fairly snug bun. It was the only way I could keep it out of my face and from interfering with my work. My hair was always a pain, it was thick, heavy, and always got caught on things. Though my mother often reassured me how lucky I was to have naturally straight hair, and not wavy like hers; the weather tended to make hers fray and stick out when it rained.
Once I was dressed and ready, I headed into the kitchen. It was just a few steps from my tiny room, through the doorway into our living room that was connected to the kitchen by an opening. There my mother always awaited for me with a smile, a few pieces of toast, with an egg on top; for breakfast - Sometimes on special occasions like my birthday, she'd be able to get a strawberry pastry, or sweet apple sauce as well- I never knew how she managed to always provide, and somehow get her hands on things like that. Such indulgences seemed to have disappeared since before I was born.
