Misfit

Prologue

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Third Age 2762
October 23
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What a night for such a bitter breaking.

On the surface, the scene seemed to be completely ordinary; the living room was comfortable and bright, decorated with eye-catching colors and interesting trinkets of both Elvish and Human make. A pot of beef stew simmered over the fire flickering in the hearth, filling the air with a rich, spiced aroma. Gwyllith rocked gently in her oak rocking-chair, filling the silence of the room with a soft, steady creaking, while her husband Thalionsul reclined on the nearby sofa, sipping at a glass of red wine.

But beneath the appearance of tranquility, the underlying tension was as thick as the smell of stew; the sweater Gwyllith was knitting for her son rested like a burden in her lap, and Thalionsul's face was rigid as he swirled the wine in his glass, clearly not enjoying the flavor as much as he usually did. Neither one spoke; both were listening to the heartbroken sobs of their son bleeding through the walls.

Culfin's small bow was still lying by the foot of the stairs where he had thrown it upon the family's return that afternoon; the poor boy had spent weeks training for that archery competition, but it had turned into a disaster. The first thing he had done upon arriving home was shut himself in his room, tears streaming down his face even before he had slammed the door.

Since then, the plans of celebration had died with the embers of the fire. His sobs had quieted a few times during the evening, but they had always erupted louder than ever. The sun had well set, and still no amount of coaxing or soothing words had persuaded him downstairs.

"Culfin will come when he is ready," Gwyllith said when Thalionsul came down the stairs after yet another unsuccessful attempt, his agitation barely concealed. "This was a very difficult blow to him; you must give him time to work through it."

"My love, it has been hours—I'm beginning to grow worried about him. He must at least eat!" Thalionsul answered agitatedly. After a pause, he added in a calmer tone, "He must also learn to harden himself. He cannot come home crying like this every time he loses an archery competition, which I foresee happening often at his rate."

Gwyllith blinked, taken aback by his callous tone. "'At his rate?' How can you say such a thing about your own son? Do you not have any faith in him at all?"

Thalionsul sighed irritably, running a hand through his long red hair. "It was not my intention to sound so hard," he said. "Of course I believe he can overcome this difficulty—I have no doubts there—but I also think he could be applying himself more. I am not simply thinking of his current situation, but of his future, Gwyllith. You do not seem to want to acknowledge the fact that he is far behind the other children in his grade."

"That is because all the other children are decades—perhaps centuries—older than him," Gwyllith argued. "His skill level is perfectly natural for a human child of his age; in fact, if he was compared to them, his talent would far exceed theirs."

"Culfin is not a human child."

Gwyllith fixed her husband with a cold glare, her hands tightening on her knitting. "He is not an Elfin one either, Thalionsul, a fact that you do not seem to want to acknowledge. He does not belong to this world—not completely."

Thalionsul stopped pacing, stiffening like a deer who hears a hunter's tread, but said nothing.

"I am not saying he is inferior to the Elves," Gwyllith went on, "but I do think that he ought to spend some time among Human children to learn along with them. He needs to see that this life is not all he is confined to—"