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Elves don't have children.
He doesn't know how else to explain it. Elves don't have children. But, Kiirion, you were a child once, weren't you? He answers them with a yes, of course, but elves don't have children.
He's said it so many times that even the mere thought of explaining makes his ears twitch irritably, makes his pupils slit, makes his too-pretty face sour. Elves don't have children.
They take them.
Now, 'take' might be a strong word. There's not really a struggle involved. A child left alone beside the forest at sunset will not be found come sunrise. A baby in a basket—hanging, pushcart, carried—next to a still lake will be gone as soon as the moons touch the horizon. Mothers caution their beloveds, "Do not go out after dark or the Lovely Ones will recruit you into their armies!"
Recruit might also be a strong word.
He doesn't say any of this, however. A simple smile is enough, followed by his usual response of "Elves don't have children."
It occurs to him, a hundred repeated years into a journey meant only to last a couple months, that this found-family of his doesn't even know where he came from. It should make him sad to think that, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it? They know he had a childhood; they know he doesn't remember much of it. They know that there are things so buried within his past that he sometimes cannot make a sound. They know that when he's particularly happy, he'll hum and the room seems a little brighter around him (bard magic can be a little finicky when it's influenced by emotions). But they don't know how elves come to be. They don't know how he came to be.
Kiirion thinks of growing up for the first time since he chose his adult name.
He remembers soft voices, learning to play a lute—or was it a harp?—and the feeling of gentle hands plaiting his hair, listening to a woman humming a song he can't quite grasp the melody of. He remembers blonde hair brushing his face as a kiss is pressed to his forehead. He doesn't remember them. He remembers an old woman—face wizened and wrinkled, her home smelling like lavender and a crackly-ozone of magic—wrapping him into a solid hug. He remembers sticky-fingers from fruit in too-hot-too-bright summers and huddling in blankets and furs come harsh winter. More clearly, he remembers the day he left. Or was he forced? He doesn't think about that possibility much.
He was whistling, back against a sapling, the crows at his feet mimicking the pattern back in a canon, a lovely cacophony. He hadn't noticed it was dark until a slender hand was resting on his shoulder and the crows were spiralling up and out of the clearing. Kiirion had looked up, feeling particularly plain in comparison to the ethereal beauty embodied in this elf, and smiled—what else are you supposed to do when faced with your doom salvation?
Her laughter had been like the twin bells hanging in the temple of...in the temple...in the...in...
...
Her laughter had been like bells. Her voice too, clear and ringing. He remembers her eyes glinting in the moonlight. She introduced herself as Ennala and when she said his name from Before, it rolled off her tongue like honey. She draped an arm over his shoulder and steered him deeper into the forest. The crows observed from the trees above their heads, indifferent.
Kiirion thinks he was young, when he left. Certainly, he was young to the elves, a mere blip in their centuries of life, when Ennala brought him to the village...home ...to the training grounds. He was young. He was...impressionable. Of course, to become an elf, you have to be able to adapt—with or without magic.
