The Chronicles Of The Council #1: The Sun's Tears

Chapter 30: Laelia - Breathe

"There is a saying in the Neverland that,every time you breathe, a grown-up dies." - J.M. Barrie.

Aedan and I scramble down the tree. Our sharp elf vision allows us to see in the dark without needing a light. We hurry towards the assembling commotion. A group of elves are gathered around the crashed remnants of a once-mighty branch on the ground. A young man lies in the centre of the mutilated tree limb. Agony is carved onto his face and his back is arched at a queer angle.

Faolan kneels down next to the ill-fated youth and asks him something, then receives a  muddled reply. My brother reaches for a twig and then lightly touches first the right, and then the left foot of the man whimpering in pain. Another unintelligible reply follows. With the shake off his head and knitted brows, Faolan asks the elf for his name.

For once I can make out the elf's words: "Dealken Branchbuilder of Dor-Ur, also of the family of Freefall."

I barely bite back a snicker at the irony of the poor elf's name. I am sure that his family did not intend to damn him with their choice of names for him. 

That makes me wonder whether the names chosen for us have any significance on our destined paths? Aedan and Faolan have the great names of our ancestors: the ones who changed everything for our nation. Aedan has already inherited the sight, and it is obvious to all that Faolan will soon be incorporated into legends. Perhaps my parents had botched my future up by changing the family name of Aelia, mother to the great Faolan and Aedan, and not bestowing it upon me in its original form.

Faolan struggling to hide his own giggle at the unfortunate guy's names pulls me back to the present.

"Dealken of Dor-Ur, it seems that you have sustained some severe injuries that wouldn't make it possible for you to continue with us."

"I'm fine," Dealken announces and barely moves as he attempts to sit up.

Faolan places a gentle hand on his chest: "Do not move, child of the forest. You'll make the injury worse. I am convinced that your back is broken."

"Faolan, blood of kings, our healers should be able to stabilise him until he reaches Telkinom where he should recover from the injury in time for him to return to the Mountains next decade," Elorhim advises with a hand on Faolan's shoulder.

"Please get the healers from both Telkinom and ArBrae."

Elorhim nods and shouts the order to someone else.

Dealken's laboured breathing changes to a harsh gasp tearing through the silence as we wait for our healers to arrive.

I anxiously shift my glance from elf to elf. They are all as skittish as I am, with the same shame of incompetence visible on our faces.

We have all had some medical training during our studies, but most of it has been towards minor ailments and not trauma - as we rarely encounter injuries. Elves are graceful and light on our feet. We don't fall from trees, we don't slip and twist our ankles, and we most definitely don't get mangled by the forest creatures. Our basic training is equal to the extensive training the human healers receive in Inwir City. Healing itself is such a vast craft for elves. Elfish healers train for centuries to perfect their craft and I can only guess as to the mysteries they solve and the miracles they are capable of.

Aedan and I stare in indecision as our knowledge regarding injuries like these consists only of the theoretical.

"He's going to die if we don't do something for him!"

"That's obvious, princess. But what do you propose?"

I rush to Dealken whose breathing has now altogether stopped. Kneeling down, I recall something of our classes. My right middle finger percusses my left that is flat on his chest. First the right chest, and then his left. The difference is indisputable.