The End of It All

PETRICHOR

Petrichor. It rose from the grass like invisible smoke, wafting through the trees to the sky. It was a pleasant smell, mixed with pine and other woodland scents. A slight fog, or perhaps a mist, cast odd shadows by the clouds dancing in front of the sun.

Amidst the birds singing to each other and rustling leaves, another distinct sound was present. A rushing sound. It was the river Bruedra, pouring herself through the water stones and lapping at her riverbank.

The scene itself would have been pleasant if not for the thunder of hooves and clanking of metal and ironclad men. The mist dispersed before them and the lovely songs of the birds turned to cries of panic. The hooves created a body of dust behind them.

The men bore a blood-red banner and a golden lion with wings was its insignia. They hoisted it with pride and greed within their hearts.

These men belonged to the army of a great king named Villbrad, whose great-grandfather had taken this land from its inhabitants, the elves, hundreds of years ago. The men were powerful and skilled in the arts of war, battle, and weapons. Nothing ever stopped them, including the elves. Villbrad's ancestors took the land from them, killing their king.

In his greed, the usurper decreed that any elves who had not pleaded allegiance to him would surely be named traitors and executed or tortured until death. The elves immediately agreed and while almost all of them had obeyed, the others sought to take the throne back. The king had found out and promptly killed them for all to see.

One of the elves had been an elder of the elven king and cursed the river Bruedra to be poisonous to all. This river had been the main water supply. Another elder, who had survived, broke the curse and in his spell, had made the water susceptible to any magic, whether it was good or bad. Soon, it became a legend.

Villbrad had heard of the river Bruedra and the legend. "However, anyone who could use magic could use it for any need of theirs no matter the reason," Villbrad had said to his mage. Now, that mage craved this water and wished to use it on traitors.

This mage, Heimir, rode behind the party of soldiers in a wagon laden with barrels. They halted, and at the request of the mage, filled the barrels with Bruedra's water.

On their return journey to the castle that lay beyond the forest, they passed through a bustling town of elves and humans. The humans waved and called out pleasantries to other soldiers they knew, but the elves would nonchalantly spit in his general direction and dart away. He normally paid no heed to the elves - the king despised them and thought of them as below humans - but there was one that looked much different from the others.

She was tall, lean, and tan, completely like the other she-elves. They were blonde, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned and while they were slender, were not nearly as tall as she. Her hair was an ash brown, freckles sprinkled across her face and her eyes were like shining emeralds; like male elves. Also unlike the women, she did not wear skirts and robes. She dressed like the men with boots, trousers, and vests. She had a look of mischief and a hint of disgust when she saw the soldiers. Her mouth turned up slightly, creating a dimple.

Heimir's thoughts had vanished as he passed the elf. He repeatedly turned in his seat to stare at her. Despite his dislike for elves, they were creatures he was fascinated by. Now after seeing that particular elf, he had to learn more about them.

He rode off with the barrels full of water and the soldiers, leaving a body of dust in their wake. The elves grumbled and complained once the mage and soldiers were out of earshot, returning to their business.

The particular elf he had been fascinated by had crossed the street behind them, wondering what the barrels were for. But soon, the thought was replaced by another.