711492

Chapter 2 - Half-Alive

The next time Elbereth opened his eyes, there were two people in the room. Margoth and the High King, who he'd gotten unusually close to in the past two decades. The king had even gone so far as to say he and Elbereth were good friends. He and Whispering Pines had similar appearances. Elbereth knew that Margoth was as old as the first trees. Even so, she could've been his mother. Their eyes were the same shade of pale, light blue. The king was dressed much more regally than her. Golden threats serving the purpose of embroidery took the shape of flowers on his clothes. Margoth wore the same ruffled black dress as he'd seen her in earlier. The king's simple, golden crown shimmered in what little light was engulfing the room.

Elbereth's eyes shot open upon hearing the slightest sound of whispering voices. He could barely hear Margoth's. Maybe that was the true reason she'd been called Whispering Pines. 

There was too much quiet for the longest time. Elbereth and Margoth were getting uneasy and Elbereth could sense the sorrow of the High King. He'd been too reckless in his actions.

"Elbereth..." The High King's voice was like sweet wine, similar to Margoth's. Maybe he and Margoth were truly related. "Why did you do it?"

Despite looking like a grown man that just happened to be built like a twig underneath his long, flowing robes, the High King was still a child in elf years. Nevertheless, he was still forty years shy of adulthood, even in the present. The world didn't understand why elves aged normally, physically growing up in two decades, yet were considered children mentally until they'd been alive for a century and frankly, the elves didn't understand it either. The childhoods of elves lasted longer than humans or horned men lived. It was a strange existence. 

Elbereth always fought with his theory that Margoth was the High King's mother. He was so young and she was so, so old. She could've been classified as one of the Ancients. Regardless of the fact that he had a portrait of his mother—whose name he insisted was Amalthea—above the desk in his bedchamber, Elbereth knew Margoth to be a woman who took on distinct names she used in fooling the foolish men of the world. She seldom used her real name in the world and taught Elbereth to do the same. She had been known as Tihalt, Elora, Dirue, Irhaal. Maybe Margoth was also the old queen. The new High King stood on the ground that his mother died upon giving birth to him except that didn't stop Elbereth from thinking Margoth was a liar. 

"I've never really cared if I live or die," the words slipped from his tongue. "In the moment, I guess...I saw you as a person worth saving."

"At the cost of your own life?"

If Elbereth could sit up enough to shrug, he would've. Instead it had to be implied from his lack of response. Margoth and the High King exchanged a glance. Neither of them were really sure what to take from it.

Elbereth kept his vision plastered on the ceiling as he slipped his fingers into the lapel of his gray, colorless robes. He felt something wrapped around his chest. He'd felt it since he woke. Without touching them, he knew they were bandages. The bedframe's posts were short stubs and there was no decorative canopy above his head. Thus, his vision remained on the dull sight of the ceiling. "Did you do this?"

Margoth nodded, "I did." 

"Th-that means you saw..." Elbereth trailed off, his cheeks flushed to a pinkish-red against his dark skin from the thought of what Margoth had done to him. Ever since learning about reproduction, he hated any thoughts related to it. They were awkward and only cluttered his mind. He was an assassin who had no real intent of reproducing just so his child could be put through the same harrowing training he went through. That thought scared him the most. He pulled the pillow his head lay on over his face. He tried to scream but it sounded more like a horse dying in his unusually quiet tone.