Broken Century

I am in despair.

So much it is drowning me. It leaves me breathless and my eyes dull with greyness. I feel the well water below me going back and forth. It is dark here under the well. The little light from the moon offers me only a tiny comfort of what cruelty is happening to my village.

From the well, I hear the dreary screaming of my elf kin. I desperately try to climb upwards, yet the walls are too slippery. My fingers are all bloody from my tries. And each failure only becomes more torturous than the last. The exhaustion is slowly claiming my every last bit of energy.

I recall my mother's genuine smile as she pushes me down the well in her blind attempt to save me.

"Mom, please be alive…"

Most often, the temptation of screaming comes to my mind, but I dare not for it will only invite the attention of any human raiders in the well's proximity. I bitterly regret the times I didn't practice archery, tree climbing, or any of an elf's inherent skills.

I am too complacent all too busy with my daydreaming, reading poetry, and writing stuff. I don't want to be a hero, so I didn't look either at the sword or a bow. I will never be a villain, as I am too aware that I lack the abilities. I am too happy with being an extra luxuriating myself with sloth.

I am 92 years old, and all I have in my name is a broken century. Elves are a long-living race, though by human standards, I am about in my 20s, it still wouldn't excuse the fact that I have memories totaling past a hundred years.

I love living slowly.

Now, I am dying slowly.

I smell the burning wood, the bloody slaughter, and the salty sweat mixing with the wind. I visualize what is happening above me as the sounds of crying and shouting creates a picture for me.

I punch the well's wall with my small fist. I shudder as the physical pain wakes me from the illusion of despair. I cannot be in despair yet. I have to do something!

I grit my teeth and climb.

My fingers slips, but I didn't let it bother me. I force my nails if need so, and thus, I climb. Abrasions accumulate on my palm as I grip the walls that are slowly getting a shade of red. I feel my skin peeling every time I slide down in failure. The tips of my nails are getting bloody, not to mention the small bits of dust getting on my open wounds.

Only in the light of dawn did I manage to rise from the well.

But it is too late.

No longer is there any crying and screaming, only small sobs coming from the lost and defeated. I see uncle Trudviar, the single warrior of our village, carrying his bloody daughter in his arms. I see a world of ash all too broken.

The human raiders didn't show any mercy to my people.

I stumble forward with the little strength that I have left. I see pikes with heads of familiar elf kin. My neighbors, friends, and… my mother.

Her face is ferocious, yet the only expression I see is gratitude. Her smile to me as she pushes me down the well is all that I see… is all that I want to see. I cannot imagine the pain she must suffer as she fights with her last breath.

I want to scream! To cry! Yet, I cannot bring myself to… This is the inevitability of my weakness. I wish to be strong, but I know that is impossible for I am all too aware of what I cannot do. I look at the ruins of what remains of our humble village.

I should do something.

So, I spur myself from the despair. I annihilate the sadness encumbering my shoulders, and replace it with happy memories. I reminisce about the times when this is but a peaceful village of elves. I can almost see it. The primitive huts, open clearings, and tall trees.

Under the illusion of the past, I move. With my bare hands, I dig on the earth. My already bloody hands soak the dirt its color. I reject the pain and continue digging. I come to my mother's pike, remove her head and gently place it in the hole. I similarly do the same for the others.

"We should burn them."

Uncle Trudviar tells me in his deadpan voice while he buries his daughter in my designated graveyard. I ignore him and just continue digging the graves for my elf kin to lay in rest.

"We should burn the heads. The humans toss their bodies on the flames. If our elf kin to receive peace, shouldn't we leave them to a place where their bodies will be?"

Trudviar while burying his daughter persistently convinces me we should just burn the heads. I look at him, and then at the pile of corpses forming a small hill. It burns so brightly. The elf kin doesn't have any concrete faith to adhere to and has a shapeless form of worship. Thus, their grave rites are shallow and lack rituals.

I continue burying the heads because this is how I want it done. I sneak a glance at Trudviar.

"We should bury them. Because that is the way of things. When someone dies, we bury them. We do not burn them. We aren't born of fire. We are born of the earth so it is only right that we return to earth…"

I finish digging the graves. I use the pikes to mark their graves. Trudviar stands in silence beside me as the two of us silently mourn.

I want vengeance, but I am well too aware of how impossible it is. I don't have any grand powers, not even a plot armor, so what good would be desiring revenge come from me?

I look at Trudviar. Thus, I come to enlightenment. Maybe if I am alone, I will not be able to do it. Of course, Trudviar and I alone will not also be able to do it. But what if it is just not the two of us?

Our village population originally is about 40 people. This is quite plenty already by elf standards. Surely, however, we aren't the only elf village in this forest. There will be other groves too. If I gather all of the elves in this forest, there might be a chance for me... for us...

Revenge? It is possible.

"Trudviar," I call to him with a smile. "Offer me your fealty."

Trudviar looks at me with confusion.

I know this is not how a younger person should address their older counterpart, but currently, Trudviar is in his most vulnerable state. If I wish to take a hold of his heart, now is my only chance.

You cannot build charisma over just in a day, but you can concoct a lie in an instant and make others believe in it for eternity.

"From henceforth, I shall declare myself the King of Fae! I am the destined child of a world beyond ours. I am Arthram Fae Zorun. My elf kin, receive me as your King and I shall point you to a path forward!"

I proclaim with a strong conviction to the point that I too am believing it. I raise my nose a bit higher projecting an illusion that seems to be looking down on Trudviar.

The momentum carries me. The unyielding confidence that transcends arrogance plainly reveals itself to Trudviar. I feel the breeze around me causing my hair to flutter, and my little wounds to feel a bit of stinging at the touch of the wind. I didn't wince as I cannot break my act at this crucial moment.

Trudviar goes down to one knee, and finally… he swears his allegiance to me.

"I am Trudviar, the sole warrior of Yoretree Village."

Trudviar bows his head solemnly and stretches the hatchet in his hand to me.

"I offer my fealty to you, the first King of Lorekleim Forest."

From henceforth, I become King.

And therefore, ending my broken century.