The Road: Part 1

Here I am. Here again. Alone. At the end of this old moonstone road, as familiar to me as my own name: Elandriel. The pale dust remembers my steps; it lifts in soft ghosts around my boots. At least I may find some comfort here…some sliver of solace. Ten days from now, I am to be betrothed to someone I hardly know, nor desire. A suitor chosen for me, by my family and the Elden Coven. It is of no surprise, being a third-born; such is our village's tradition. It has been this way for countless ages. First-born daughters are predestined to devote themselves to mastery the magical arts; Every daughter thereafter is devoted first to a maternal life, and those who have not chosen a match well past the age of her maturity have one arranged. We are a dwindling people overall, and bearing children is counted a most important duty for the family trees. I care deeply for both kin and kind, but duty tastes like iron on my tongue. I want to fulfill my role…to be of use, truly. And yet, I feel great emptiness and grief—and a yearning to tread beyond the borders of this familiar road that once filled me with wonder and a sense of home. 

The wind combs the grasses, laying them down in gentle ripples. A thrush clicks from the hedge, and then falls silent, as if awaiting my answer. Now the road feels like a binding tether, while the pathless green that stretches beyond pulls at me, beckoning me to unmake the life that awaits me back home.

I feel selfish. It wouldn’t be a terrible life. The elf I’m set to marry is a fair artisan from a fairly prominent lineage. There is nothing necessarily wrong with him—nothing remarkable either. But, I have always dreamed of marrying someone who greatly inspires me: some lone adventurer with an highly exciting life, worldly experience and hard-won wisdom! My parents call me an silly, abstract dreamer; my older sisters, a fantastical fool. In a way, they are not wrong. In our rather reclusive village, even for the elves, it is unheard of for any of the females to marry outside the village bloodlines, and rarer still for the males to leave and return as successful adventurers. Most join the village defense or become skilled laborers or artisans, like my husband-to-be, Thomirin—a wood crafter who carves trinkets and animal statues, and enjoys singing to himself while he works. He’s a good elf—the home loving sort—eager to marry and start a family. But if I am to be his wife, then all my hopes and dreams will be just what my family has said time and time again. A silly, fantastical dream that never came to be.

The thrush clicks again. The wind turns. And the moonstone beneath my feet holds a memory of light, as if waiting to record which way I will go...