Search for the Extinct [Last of Elves book 2]

Twenty-One: Aura

Aura

They told me a story tonight. Of the beastkin we humans call Thunder. I was fascinated. Ali told it. His voice seemed made for telling stories. He held us all under a sort of spell, even the beastkins.

Kura didn’t speak at all, something I’ve never heard her do. She always seems to be making some sort of sound, always noisy, but she wasn’t. It was like she was hearing it for the first time.

I’d like to know other legends from their land.

But this means that they have to be elves. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. But my mother said that they were all dead, that the last elf was burned before I was born.

I think I’m going to ask Ali what really happened. Maybe he will tell me. I hope so – I think.

A rumbling purr filled the room, and the quill stopped as Hunaja demanded her nightly attention. After a while, it resumed writing.

I want to record the story. So I can remember it always. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, but I might. This is how he told me.

There was a time long ago where the elves were numerous. They lived in harmony with the humans, each race keeping to themselves, but not above helping each other. It was in these times of peace that the beastkins thrived. They were the elves’ companions; friends and protectors. Each beastkin chose an elf, never the other way around. It was an honour to be chosen.

Many beastkins lived in what is now known as the Dark Forest. It is their ancestral home, one where they will always feel safe and protected. The young ones were born and raised there, but more than that is unknown, even now.

It was when they emerged to find their elf that they became truly known. The babies were rarely seen, usually adults. The beastkins of old were huge creatures, their shoulders easily the height of an eight year old child. Despite their size, and theirclaws and fangs, they were gentle creatures. They would not harm if they weren’t threatened.

The one known to the humans as Thunder was a different beastkin. Unlike the rest of his kind, he was not a tawny gold colour. Instead, he was dark, dark as the earth, dark as the soil. The elves of old called him the Soul.

It was believed that he was the first beastkin. Believed that he and the first elf created the land as it is now. When they were done, Thunder and the elf vanished, never to be seen again.

With the disappearance of the first elf and Thunder, the elves of old thrived, living in harmony with the humans. The two races lived together in peace, with Thunder and his elf watching over them, making sure that all was kept in balance.

This changed when the Great Famine fell across the land.

Shaking with emotion, the quill stopped. The parchment was wet at the edges, and the moisture was carefully dabbed away before continuing.

Ali stopped talking for a long time. I didn’t know whether he’d finished or not, but Kura seemed to be waiting. Both of them seemed to be hiding and controlling some sort of pain, and I wonder if they were there. If they are elves, then it’s not stupid. I know that they can live a long time, even if they don’t look it.

The Great Famine was blamed on the elves. They were hunted ruthlessly, until they were almost all gone. Despite that, they showed no aggression. They pleaded, saying that it was only the earth turning. They believed in the earth, you see. They believed that they could hear his voice, that everything he did was for a reason. Even a famine as great as that one.

Needless to say, the humans refused to listen. There had long been growing dissent among them over the elves, growing jealousy. The Great Famine was only an excuse for them to do something they’d been wanting to for years.

The elves were hunted to death. The last handful of them, a handful including the last great elf, the strongest of them, fled. There was no sense in spilling blood when the humans would not listen.

They fled into the Dark Forest, the ancestral home of the beastkins. The beastkins, rather than attacking the intruders, welcomed them. They gave them a home, protected them. The links between them grew stronger, until each beastkin, baby to elder, had chosen an elf.

The beastkins were so few in those days. They had been hunted as the elves had been, similarly blamed for the famine. Hidden away, the two races gathered their forces, and lived as well as they could, without being found out.

He confused me here. I thought he was telling the legend of the beastkin, of Thunder. Instead, he seemed to be telling the legend of the Great Famine, where the last of the elves had perished. He seemed to understand my questions, for he drew me closer to the fire, letting me put my hand on Hunaja’s tawny fur.

Thunder found out about the hunts. He and the first elf emerged from where they had been hidden beyond the Forbidden Mountains; where not even the beastkins would go. It was the days of snow and ice, of fierce wind, and unrelenting rain.

When it ended, the famine was over. The rains had come, and the grass was green once more.

Thunder and the elf disappeared once more, but the elves and beastkins stayed in the Forest. They knew, had always known, that they were not welcomed by the humans. It was safer for them, under the protection of the Soul, to stay, hidden.

They say that when the last elf is dying, Thunder will return to take the elf. No one can guess where the elf will be taken, or what will happen to them afterwards. It is common belief that the elf in question is Thunder’s companion.

They will be reunited at last.

The quill stopped, thinking. Hunaja was still filling the room with a gentle purr, comforting as best she could. The parchment was still wet.

It scares me. If the legend is true, then the last elf wasn’t killed before I was born. If the legend is true, then there are still elves roaming the land.

I hope it's true.

If it is, I wonder what the elves called him.