In a peaceful glade in the woods, there is a little wooden house. And in that little wooden house there is a dim room. And in that dim room is a stone hearth. And in that stone hearth there is nothing. Nothing but a cold emptiness and lonely space. In front of that nothingness sits... a man? Or perhaps an elf if one was to take a closer look. That one lone figure sits still, eyes open but boring into the empty hearth.
The quietude of the scene is broken first by a single, pearly tear falling down an ashen cheek. Then second by the sight of a glass being lifted to the elf's lips. The glass is almost empty. How long has he been sitting there? It could be minutes. Or it could be days.
This being wears garb of blacks and grays, dark as the atmosphere in the room. All but three points of significance carry this same aura of gloom. On his chest, a resplendent chain hangs a star. A symbol of hope. But he does not realize the meaning. On his shoulder, a blue singing bird made of gems of the lightest azure and darkest navy. A gift. But one that can not be appreciated without the one who had given it to him.
And finally, on his hand, there is a ring. A ring made painstakingly in likeness of the one the elf loves. But that elf is gone, and he can't find him.
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'With each continuing sip of the bitter wine, I can only hope that the night will take me. And if I am lucky, it will be dreamless. For in my dreams, I only see more horrors.'
And so he drinks. He drinks and he drinks in that lonely space in front of the cold hearth, in that dim room in the little wooden house, in the peaceful glade in the woods.
'The world becomes foggy. And I am grateful. My body grows numb. I want nothing more. I am alone. As fate intends. Please let me sleep.'
And sleep did take him. He would succumb to his dreams, but they would not be nightmares and sights that he would eventually wake from, gasping with fear. This dream would bring him the peace and hope that he truly needed.
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"Wake."
'There is no fire. Where is the fire?'
"Wake."
'Why is it so cold?'
"Wake Little Moon."
'Where are the demons that continue to haunt my nightmares?'
"Wake Little Moon. You are safe."
'I am not safe. Not in my dreams.'
"Little Moon, I am here."
'Mother?'
When Ithilwe finally pries his eyes open, there is no fire. No dragons and demons to scare him. No pain or heartache to be found. But it is cold, and the sight that meets his gaze is desolate and bare.
Where once the sun shone, now only gray clouds traverse the sky. The golden mallorn trees are all bare, their branches and trunks seemingly skeletons upon the once thriving glade. Instead of soft dewy grass and blossoms, a thin layer of snow blankets the ground, killing anything underneath in its cold grip. The pond where clear and cool water flowed, is now frozen, no sign of life under it's prison. The pond is not the only thing bare of life. There are no birds to sing their joyful songs. No summer air to whisper in his ear. It is cold. And it is lifeless.
But there, upon that carved, marble bench, she sits. She is still here.
"Mother!"
The silver haired elf scrambles to his feet, stumbling over to her as if he could not reach her side fast enough.
The woman sits majestically upon the bench. She seems out of place in the barren waste of what should have been a paradise. Her beauty makes up for all the desolation and somber sight. But she too carries a palpable sadness. It is as if the depression that covers the glade had begun to seep into her own being.
"Mother where were you? Why were you not there?" Ithilwe falls to his knees before her, legs shaking too much to continue to hold his weight.
His hands reach to grab, to be able to touch any part of her he can reach. As if he was a child once more, needing the comfort that she could bring. His hands collide with the hem of her gown. But it is not the cerulean blue fabric that he had seen before. This gown was black, and tattered. Almost falling to pieces. Her feet were bare, as they always were. And her hair, it was pulled back in a braid, but not neat and tidy as it tended to be. It was messy, and dirty. And strands flew about her in the wind.
"What do you mean, Little Moon? I have always been here. You just were not looking for me."
She reaches down to run a hand across his cheek. Why is her skin ice cold? Where it the warmth? When he finally meets her gaze, he is taken aback at the sickly pallor of her skin, and the tears that flow from her eyes.
Ithilwe takes the hand on his cheek into his own hands, squeezing it tightly.
"Mother, what has happened to you? Why do you look like this? Why is everything so....dark and cold?"
His own eyes begin to water as he continues to take in her appearance. But the woman only shakes her head wearily.
"It is not you who should be asking that question. Little Moon what have you done to yourself?"
A pause, and he looks away from her discerning gaze.
"I do not know what you mean." He whispers lowly, knowing what she speaks of, but not wanting to reveal anything.
A hand upon his chin brings him back to meet her eyes.
"Why are you so sad? Why do you look so melancholy? Why does your heart grieve?"
'I do not grieve. I am fine.'
He squeezes her hand as if it is the only thing keeping him calm.
"Amathlan. He is...."
"Away? Yes, I know. But not forever. He still lives, does he not?"
'He is gone, but I am fine.'
Ithilwe shudders, knowing he can not keep his secrets from her. He nods and begins to speak again.
"Yes, but I do not know if..." She holds up a hand to interrupt him.
"Come up here with me, Little Moon." As she speaks, she takes his arms and forcefully drags him up from the snow covered ground to sit beside her. Once he has found his place beside her, she takes him into her arms in a gentle hug. "Why do you hurt yourself?" She whispers into his ear.
"Hurt myself? Mother I am fine!" He begins to protest but she cuts him off a second time.
'It hurts. I am fine.'
"Nay, Little Moon. You choose to be alone. You sit alone in your grief and sorrow. You think because Amathlan is not there that you are forsaken." He shakes his head, clutching her back as she speaks.
'What can I do but grieve. I am fine'
"I can not burden my friends with my needless grief. I can not burden them with my pain when they already carry so much of their own. I can do this by myself. I do not need them."
"But in protecting your friends, you push them away."
'I don't want to be alone. I am fine.'
As the woman begins to stroke long, slender fingers through his hair, tears begin their descent down his cheeks. In turn, soaking the shoulder of his mother. But this does not deter her. She pulls away for a moment to give him a kind smile, though her own tears have not stopped.
"I can not lose my friends to the evil of this world. I can not lose them too. Not like I lost Amathlan, not like I lost you."
She pushes him around to face the bare mallorn trees as he stutters though his words, choking on the tears that would not stop.
"But you have not lost Amathlan, nor have you lost your friends. Why do you turn away from hope and love?"
'I don't want them to die. I am fine.'
"I do not need anyone's pity. I can handle this myself." Ithilwe's words are harsh and venomous. But it is only a mask.
His mother takes strands of his knotted hair and begins to braid it carefully. She listens as he speaks, letting him get his frustrations and anger out before responding. Her fingers work quickly and deftly, a practiced routine that had been perfected after millenia. When his words stop and he is finally reduced to unintelligble sobs she pauses her actions.
"With those words and your attitude, you will drink yourself to death before Amathlan is ever found."
'I am fine.'
She resumes her work, but he does not respond. He is lost in memories. Memories of drinking alone. And memories of drinking with friends. And eventually memories of the wine being replaced with a steaming hot cup of tea. He shakes his head violently. He can not get lost in his memories. They will not help him. He is fine. He is fine. There is nothing wrong.
"I am fine." He whispers, so quietly that even in the silent forest, he can barely be heard.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Do not lie to me, Little Moon. There is much wrong with you. Do not push me away. Do not push your friends away."
"I am fine."
"You are not. But this is not the first time you have been lost. But tell me. Did you lose hope back then? Did you drown your sorrows in wine and hatred?"
'I am not fine.'
He shakes his head, trembling under her stern gaze.
"Nay."
"Hmmm, good. Did you forget me? Did you forget those that love you?"
"Nay."
'I am not fine.'
"Then do not forget it now. I am still here. Your friends are still here. And so is Amathlan, even if he is not physically beside you."
"But what if..." A raised eyebrow stops him mid sentence.
"Do not forget your happiness. Do not forget your hope. Do not force your friends away. Only they can keep you from drowning in your sorrow. Only they can aid in returning your love to your side. You are not alone."
She pulls him back to her chest. Neither's tears have ceased. But not all seems as bad as it was before.
'I am not fine.'
"Will I be okay, mother? Will Amathlan be okay?"
"Only if you have hope. And if you remember that I, Amathlan, and your friends will always be there."
'I will be fine.'
"I love you mother." He wraps his arms around her as tight as they could get.
"And I love you. You will be fine Little Moon. Keep your chin held high, and keep that hope within your heart."
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So the elf retreats from the realm of dreams. He finally wakes. When he wakes, he is still there. He is still in that lonely space in front of the stone hearth, in the dim room in the little wooden house, in the peaceful glade in the woods.
But this time, he has found one more thing that had not before.
Hope.
