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Amongst the forgotten ruins of a forgotten city in a forgotten forest in the Southern lands (which many people often forget about) lay a single person.
One could mistake him for part of the ruins, so surreal was his breathtaking beauty. He lay in the shadow of an ancient temple, the silky locks of his long hair scattered across the moss-covered stone beneath him, yet still they formed a perfect harmony with his body, encircling his head and upper torso in a halo of a colour which could not just be described as green, for it was reflecting the full moon's light, which gave it an enchanting glow. Like the grass of an enchanted elven meadow during spring.
He was indeed an elf, and a forest one at that.
He could have been considered very handsome even for one of his kind.
His face possessed the delicate features of the elven kind, however in him they were manifested in such a way that was unmistakably masculine, yet painfully beautiful at the same time. His body, tall and lean, was also hardened by the many years he had spent in combat or rigorously training. However it was not only his body which lent him the aura of a warrior, which could be felt even by the untrained.
It was as if his whole being radiated power and nobility. It was as if the spirits of his forest themselves had personally granted him these gifts, elevating him a step above the mystically beautiful creatures the elves already were. However with those gifts they had also branded him as theirs.
He had never seen actual gods, though he knew they existed in this realm. He had studied a lot about what existence itself meant, like all the elves were made to do, starting from a young age. For they had to prepare for a journey longer than any human or few other animals, with their short lifespan, could imagine. Understanding what they were from an early a time in their life as possible was what allowed the elves to retain their sanity for their long lives. Some failed. Some succeeded. Some died early. Some perished later, for causes great or petty.
In the end, that didn't matter much to this particular elf. He was different from his brethren, although he might have pretended he was not. He understood them, being one of them, however he was not content with the secluded lifestyle and rules, which, he admitted, were not as strict as those some of their cousins obeyed, were not to his liking. He was always confined. He still was. However those were restraints made of mortal hand, and those he could not stand. The rules of the elves were created amongst the flow of nature, yet even that single word "created" was enough for his hands and neck to itch, as if he had an actual collar put around his neck, held by his family, by his kind, even by the others who existed separate from them. Expectations, which in the end amounted to nothing material, and nothing spiritual which was of any value.
He opened his eyes, warm and brown as tree bark in summer, to stare at the cold night sky.
There were really no nobles amongst the elves, but there were those who were fit for ruling, and those whose bloodline strongly inherited that ability. He was born in such a family, in the home of the very King of the Forest elves. His father was what one would expect of the Forest King – beautiful, strong, just as the forest itself. His mother, too, had the strength to rile up their people and make them listen to her words. She was also a fearless warrior, a descendant of the forest's leaf dancers – she could enchant the enemy with the movements of her swords while she cut them down. He had two siblings, a younger brother, who, he thought with warm in his heart, would surely grow up to become at least as great as their father, and a sister, younger than them both, who was fun-loving and cheerful, yet even at her young age she carried her pride and righteousness and would surely become a powerful and adored princess, even more so than she was now.
