A COMING OF AGE

[The Media Wizard 2954]

 

 

 

The moon hung in the sky like a saucer thrown in slow motion. Rays of pure white wrapped the woodlands in starlight and the coolness of mid-winter. Snow was not common in the south, but the wind bit at the tanned skin of Amaesil Vuln’miruel like that of the Rimeveld.

 

The young elf stood silently on the balcony of the Warden Keep. His right knee had healed faster than was expected and the black marks around his throat from his former foe were starting to turn a less abrasive onyx — a sign of healing. His left ear remained clipped. His eyes looked skyward toward the slow-moving lunar body as it danced across the endless abyss of starlight and stygian.

 

So much had occurred in Amaesil Vuln’miruel’s first fifty years of life. He had trained alongside Celiasil of the Silver City, become an Oathblade, found true love, begun the Wardens, ran for High Prince and served as Lord Commander for the nation that had given him every advantage and opportunity to make the best of himself. Tonight, though, was the night that would bookend these accomplishments. The moon was set to reach the peak of the winter sky. After that, Amaesil would be an adult.

 

An adult, he thought silently to himself. To think that I was seen as a child through all of this.

 

A foolish child, welp! The Voice burned in the back of the young elf’s head. It was shrill, feminine and omnipresent. The druids were correct. You nearly got us both killed and now you’re a failure! The Hound howls forevermore. You ought to just give up and move on.

 

An amused chuckle would escape the elf as the moon suddenly struck the climax of the sky like a clocktower striking midnight. No bells rang, but the heartbeat that pumped in Amaesil’s ears was enough. You spend so much time punishing me, Voice. I am glad you are here. You’ve made my will stronger through your insults alone.

 

A shrill laugh would sound, but the Voice would give no rebuttal. Two moths danced around the elf’s head as he continued to stare up toward the moon as it crossed downward now across the night sky. Amaesil Vuln’miruel had come of age. He was 50-years-old and had finally reached the true beginning of an elf’s life. The Young Fox had outlived his epithet. Whatever came next was a mystery.

[Unwillingly 11148]

Gailien, within his stone home looming over the shores of Elvenesse, quietly thought to himself.
 

"He's very calculating. Quick-witted and just, though barely younger than I am. I feel like we could be friends one day.

...

Maybe he could teach me a thing or two about valor."