The Message of the Dove

Her breathe fogged her vision to the yonder. She waited for it to dissipate, so that she would be able to enjoy her last days at this place. She would be sorry to go, but she had no choice.

The green and orange rocks surrounding the Scottish Highlands looked exactly the same as they have been over the past fifteen years, but she could not get enough of them. The cold, winter sun reflecting on the seas beyond formed diamonds that glittered with every sway of the wind.

Her eyes scanned the horizon that was getting tinted with brown and grey clouds, and she sighed. It was the same all over, but she felt sad for Applecross, the village that she had stayed for so many years, and had come to love.

A pair of footsteps sounded behind her, and a younger looking girl came out, her face flushed. She was about a head shorter, and frail-looking. Her face was pale and soft as a petal, and seemed to radiate an unearthly glow. Her silky, golden hair flew behind as as she tiptoed out of the stone cottage in a haste.

"Aelanor!" she whispered, urgently.

Aelanor didn't seem to notice the urgency in her voice; her eyes scanning the neighborhood and then realising that there was none who could have possible heard, she said, "How many times do I have to tell you, Nimuel, I am not Aelanor. Aelanor is dead, and I am Emilia." She looked down as she said it.

Nimuel didn't get offended at her, in fact, she never did. And today, she had more important things to discuss. Aelanor could not die, because she was needed.

"Aelanor," Nimuel ignored the irritated huff, and plowed on, "we need to go!"

"Yes, I know. We can't stay at one place for more than fifteen years, lest the neighbors get suspicious of us not getting any older," Aelanor gave a sad sort of chuckle, "who, by the way thinks that immortality is a blessing."

"Aelanor, you mother is dying," Nimuel informed, bluntly.

Her eyes popping open, Aelanor gave a start.

"Have you started drinking ale, Nimuel? How on earth can I otherwise account for the words that come out of your mouth?" she stared at her, apparently lost at words.

"I am serious, Aelanor. Cugu came with a scroll tied to her legs, and it was from my mother. She says that Queen Gaelemar is sick, and the healers are unable to cure her," she said.

"But Nimuel," Aelanor gasped, still trying to make sense of the nonsensical words that were being issued from her mouth, "elves can't die. Death doesn't pay a visit to the The Eternal Utopia."

"I know, but the world is changing. Perhaps Death will finally be welcome to The Eternal Lands," Nimuel said and looked towards the horizon too, which was being tinted with dark clouds from the new factories along the coast: a new plague to the human civilization.

A few minutes passed before Aelanor took a deep breathe, and said, "What about my father, Nimuel? Is his head still inflated with his colossal pride? Or is he ready to behave like an honorable parent, after all these years?"

"I don't know, princess," she replied, "but knowing your father and my uncle, I'd say, it would take much more than banishing his only daughter to the realms of the men to die for him to come around."

"I wish I could die as easily as he hoped I would," Aelanor said, "but the mortal world can only do so much. I would get older, and die, but slowly, too slowly. You should not have come with me, Nimuel. You didn't deserve to be punished for my misdemeanor."

"I would rather have a limited life with you, my princess, and my cousin, than a thousand eternities with the tyrants." Nimuel gasped, and said in a hurry, "I didn't mean to call your father one, princess."

"I didn't hear you calling him one," the princess smiled.

Nimuel smiled back and then seemed to come out of her reverie. Then she jumped.

"Hurry, cousin. We have a long way to go."

Aelanor stood up and dusted her long, white gown that had turned yellow in the tainted air of Applecross, and went inside the house. Standing in front of the cracked mirror on the wall, she looked at her reflection.

An elegant but strongly built humanoid, with a tanned, olive skin stood in front of her, her brown, thick mane of hair touching the back of her calves. Her light brown eyes were full of a fierce fire that came with the lineage of the House of Zauarn, or The Children of Fire. Her lips were full and pink which contrasted drastically with the rest of her strong build.

Aelanor parted her hair behind her ears, and unstuck her ear out of the glue that concealed them. There! She had no more reason for a disguise if she were going back to her homeland.

She unclasped the rustic brown belt and slipped out of her dress. The silver box that she had packed and brought from her home the night she was banished by her dear father was as light as paper, and she was opening it after some hundred years.

The elven clothes retained strength and luster, and Aelanor's forest-green unitard and brown vest looked as good as the day it was sewn. She got dressed in less than a minute and put her hair in a thick braid. She was just tying up her boots up her knees when Nimuel came in, already dressed in a rose gold gown, carrying a brown hood made of thick fur.

"I hope you have packed everything, Aelanor. The roads to The Eternal Utopia aren't very friendly," she said.

"Oh!" Aelanor said, and crouched on all fours to look under the bed. There, in the farthest corner of the room, was an age-old bow, and twelve arrows, glistening in the dark. She had forgotten about them; they were of no use in the mortal lands, if you were prudent enough. She pulled them towards herself, gave them a sharp look, and got ready to move out of the house. At the very last moment, she remembered the locket her husband had gifted her.

"There you are," she said, as she spotted it near her bed. The tarnished silver smiled on her hand, and she clutched them in her fist.

"I would have come back for you," she promised.