Eladon the Bright

Eladon was born to the aristocracy, and by all accounts he was blessed. His mother was the Lady Erestia Hirumfael, purported to be even more wise than she was fair if that were possible. Her eyes had beheld the young world before the coming of man, and she had given her heart thrice to great heroes of the ages past without the blessing of a child. None doubted that some sore sorrow had been placed on her to have been denied motherhood so long.

It was whispered at court that the upstart Galadon, a tempestuous youth of no certain heritage, could not possibly bear proper purpose when he sought to woo the Fair Lady. By this time the Lady was more a trapping of the court than a participant, so far lost in reverie that all were certain that this world held no more luster for her, that soon she would pass over into the West. Many thought it disrespectful for Galadon to hang about near the Lady, boorishly relating bawdy anecdotes. Several times he was ordered to desist by the Prince. It was after one such jibe of such scandalous content that the Prince himself flushed with colour to hear it that the whole court clamored for Galadon's incarceration. It would have been a curt end to Galadon's callow antics had not the court's scandalized throng been silenced by the clear, beauteous, perfect ringing of the Fair lady Erestia, laughing merrily.

The populace was torn by this new dalliance of the Fair Lady. On one hand it was shameful to see one of the icons of history cavorting with such a rakish figure as Galadon, but on the other it was impossible to deny that he had indeed reignited her flame. No longer was she the quiet alabaster statue that sat motionless at court, rarely deigning to so much as nod or scowl at the din of the common political discussion and never bothering to interject or even utter a faint hum of agreement. Now their Fair Lady was a vibrant and joyous creature, her laughter echoing through the streets as she danced across the cobblestones with her uncouth but merry beau. One of the Eldar was alight with the spark of life, and her zest for life was like a window to the lost ages.

None in the kingdom were able to able to believe when word came that the Fair Lady was with child. Who could dream that the Lady could by any fortunate chance end her sentence of barrenness? How could it happen at all after so many years, especially after so many failed attempts? What strange gift did three of the greatest legends of antiquity lack and yet Galadon the jester possess? What would it mean to the Prince’s claim of governance, would the Lady revoke her endorsement of her sister’s 8th generation heir in favor of this new bastard child? And what if her spark faded once more, as it so often did with these late autumn rekindlings? Would she take an immature and unwizened infant across the Sea? Would she take the last Hirumfael ship into the West alone, leaving her progeny stranded in the grey world, severed from Fate itself?

All these questions were laid low when the child arrived well ahead of term Midwinter Eve in the heart of a savage icy storm. The midwives could not be held accountable for the tragic event, for they had no way of knowing what complications lay within a womb as old as the world itself. They did what they could, they saved the child, an angelic boy of perfect temperament. The nurses marveled that the child could be so serene as the world around him raged at his coming, as the women wailed at the passing of the Fair Lady, as the priests screamed petitions to the Gods to return the Fair Lady to this mortal realm. Yet there was no prayer that could return the ageless spirit to this world, for the curse that had haunted the Fair Lady for so long was not that she could not bear a child, but that she could not survive the ordeal. She had before known great loves with great heroes, but none had been fit for the task required. Great warriors they had been, but not great fathers with their violent tempers and rash suicidal bravery. Only in Galadon had she seen one who could surmount the tragic doom fortold. No sword could unmake this evil machination, no shield could divert this childs aching loneliness. The boy would need the kind of hero that could drive away the shadows not with spear and axe, but with laughter and love. The child did not need a suicidal champion of battle, nor a great unflappable stoic demonslayer, nor a cunning Machiavellian mastermind. The child needed a father who could sing lullabies with fresh tears on his cheeks, and the child found that in Galadon that night.

What Eladon remembers of his father is patchy at best, but he does recall a strong image of a dashing elf with a constant smile and a quick laugh. People tell him that Galadon was a harsh man and a danger to Eladon, that he was tyrannical with the servants in the early days, firing several. They tell Eladon that he was a paranoid psychotic who toward the end would not allow elves onto the estate at all. They tell him that there was suspicion that Galadon was responsible for several servants disappearing without a trace, that Galadon moved Eladon to a country ranch in order to have less scrutiny as he did horrible things to everyone near him, but Eladon remembers a sweet, loving father who never raised a hand against him. When they took Eladon away, they told him that Galadon had butchered the whole staff in the name of some fell creature and was going to use Eladon for a horrible rite that would blight the land, but Eladon held fast to his fond memories of the funny man he called father. He somehow knew that as he left the estate he was leaving his whole life behind him, the life of an aristocrat made to want for nothing. All he had to remember this life was a tiny gold locket that his father had given him years ago for a birthday that he could not hope to remember.

Eladon didn’t tell anyone about the locket. It was very plain, and there was no chain to make it easy to wear, but he never let anyone find it on him. The barristers didn’t find it when they checked his body for signs of his fathers oft proclaimed abuses, the foster families didn’t find it when they regularly ransacked his possessions and even his clothes for pilfered silverware or drugs, his teachers didn’t find it, his schoolmates didn’t find it, even the big brown rat that watched him from afar didn’t know about his guarded secret. Eladon never let his guard down for a second, because he was such an unfortunate lad. Things often fell from precipices when he was near, stray target arrows would come out of nowhere, strange figures would try to entice him away from his lackadaisical guardians, but he was always alert. He learned to listen to the little voice inside his head that whispered wordlessly like an echoing wind, a beauteous feminine voice that would warn him “All is not right with that one.”

In time the inner voice became stronger, and he lost the round-shouldered timid gait of an emotionally isolated orphan to the powerful frame of a young adult. Despite the protestations of his somewhat shifty guardians and others who made admonitions that the boy was “devil-touched”, he was relieved of temporary guardianship and enrolled with the church for devout study. Eladon liked the church, he felt safer in the church. The inner voice became all but silent, and in short order the clergy recommended him for the Palatinate. Eladon loved the studies of the Paladin, not because he excelled at the disciplined drilling or the harsh studies (which he did), or because he was unmatched on the melee ground (which he was), but rather it was the afternoons in the stalls, shoveling manure and brushing the horses. Eladon loved the horses with their clear, untroubled eyes, and their amazing strength and grace. He relished the chores in the stables far more than the other apprentices. For this the master singled Eladon out even more, using him as an example to the others. “You see Eladon there? You see how he shames all of you with his skill, yet does not brag and posture at every opportunity like some of you? Even when he has achievements and glory enough to risk a little pride, he does not. He wades in the filth and cares for that steed. That is why he will eclipse you all.”

Eladon did not like being used as an example. He did not seek the master’s accolades, he did not want to be the mirror that showed the others how lacking they were. He knew that it was envy that made the others shun him. He heard the old whispers of “devil-touched” and he heard the familiar voice warning him to be cautious in the lavatory, to not trust the special roll that the new cook’s assistant had saved just for him. He felt the shadows growing longer in the austere building, and he knew somehow that his time was short. Time was short but he was loathe to leave this place that had sheltered him so well. He hesitated, and in hesitating he did not notice the noose until it was almost too tight to escape.

It was almost dark when he heard the scream. Dinner was over, and he should have been studying with the others, but he didn’t feel right being indoors while the sun was painting such a glorious farewell to the day. It came from the stables, and without a second thought he pulled a practice sword from the rack and ran at full speed. He could hear the inner voice, not whispering but shouting this time, and he knew that this was no practice, no test of resolve concocted by the master.

When he reached the stable he could already smell the smoke. The horses were terrified, and he could see the black billows coming from the loft. He had expected a stray lantern and a confused stablehand, but he was not ready for the scene that greeted him. A wooden stump had been placed in the center of the loft, and on it was restrained a half-elf who may have been pretty once. Eladon took an involuntary step backward at the sight of her now. She was nude, but the nudity did not offend Eladon. What offended him was the foul script covering her body and face, clearly no tongue of elf or man. The markings were definitely diabolic, his training confirmed that, and the ink was obviously the girls own blood as he could see the fine calligraphy brush sticking out of the gaping wound in the girl’s stomach. Eladon moved to untie the poor girl until he realized that she was not tethered, but rather pinned to the wood block by four of the church practice knives stuck brutally through the girl’s limbs. He reached for the first blade, but pulled his hand back just as another weapon creased the air in front of him. Whatever monster had done this was still here.

With painful effort Eladon pried his gaze from the helpless girl, and took in the sight of the fiend responsible. Eladon could tell immediately that this nondescript little man was the unholy beacon that had set his inner sense to wailing. He was not much to look at, a slightly homely elf with a bent nose. The first thing that struck Eladon was that this odd man was wearing a woman’s dress, covered in gore. It took a moment for him to realize that it was the girls dress, and the homely elf laughed at the puzzled look on Eladon’s face. This one did not have the merry wholesome laugh that Eladon barely remembered hearing his father make. This butcher laughed in a way that spoke of cruelty and hatred of life. The laughing elf tore the dress off and threw it in Eladon’s face.

“It’s about time you got here you little bastard. I was tiring of her screams.” He punctuated this by slamming a practice sword into the poor girl’s head, permanently silencing her.

Eladon shouted at the elf as he disentangled himself from the bloody dress. “Why are you doing this?”

The homely elf clucked his tongue disappointedly. “Come now Junior, ours is not to question why… Ours is just to bleed and die. Now be a dear and trade swords with me, would you?”

Eladon threw down the dress and wiped the gore from his eyes, charging the gloating elf. The elf laughed his cruel laugh and easily parried the off-balance charge. Eladon felt the skating of metal on his blade, then a sharp rap on his wrist caused him to juggle his blade. When his hand found its grip again, he noticed that the handle was slicker, and the elf laughed again. “So agreeable…. Thanks Junior.”

Eladon turned and scanned the loft, searching the expanding cloud of smoke. His eyes were tearing with irritation and rage, and his head was starting to swim. He teetered, and felt the ground give way as he fell backward out of the loft. He hit the ground hard and he tasted blood in his mouth. He struggled to focus up at the loft door, to not give in to oblivion. In the distance, he heard the cursing from above.

“Damn it Junior, you just can’t make this easy now, can you?” The elf reached into his vest, pulling out what looked to be a black egg. He threw the egg and it burst on Eladon, throwing forth a black miasma of palpable evil, pushing Eladon’s teetering senses over the brink into oblivion.

When Eladon awoke, he expected to be dying in the courtyard. Instead he was strapped to a cot, and his face seared with pain. He screamed himself hoarse, but no one came for him. He craned his head to survey his surroundings, but the darkness was too thick for even his elven eyes, so he resigned himself to the isolation, retreating into his mind, steeling himself for the eventual torture to come. In time the interrogators came, but Eladon did not understand why they were dressed as clergymen. Eladon could not comprehend why they masqueraded as holy men, why they did not torture him properly but instead subjected him to painful and exhausting exorcisms day after day. The exorcisms ceased after Eladon started reciting the complex liturgies with the priests; Eladon found it comforting, but it seemed to upset the clerics. Eventually the pain in his face faded, but later Eladon learned that the source had been a series of deep branded symbols of the sort used to protect against demons. The scar tissue was an unsightly black, and Eladon wondered at what foul enchantments they had used to corrupt his skin.

After an eternity, the clerics finally released him. Eladon later learned that it was only a decade, but the severity of the treatment seemed to have taken a lifetime. He was given his gear from the monastery, but was heartbroken to learn that he had been blamed for the death of the girl in the loft and the monster responsible had gotten away scot free. His training was functionally complete, but the church refused to ordain him or even allow him on the monastery grounds. He did not understand what was happening to him, but he could tell that despite the failure of the clerics to break him, he was still considered to be a diabolic butcher for this crime in the eyes of pretty much the whole kingdom. There was but one decision left for they young paladin: remain within the kingdom and live with the prejudice of the populace, or go into exile and try to actually effect some good in the world at large.

Eladon took a deep breath of the sweet fragrances of his homeland, and saddled up for the long ride ahead…