Every Dawn has a Dusk

[TwilightWolf 883]

 

"The deer may pant for water even after it has drunken its fill from the river."

 

     These were true and wise words, in her mind, spoken centuries before even her birth. The elder had indeed drank her fill from the courts and cliffs of elvish legacy, ever thirsting for the purest, spiritual quench. Yet, it is the second, lesser known curse of elves that rots Titania's soul: the perpetual limbo of watching her people rise and fall in a cyclical hell of prosperity and stagnation. Gone were the days of Laurelin, the triumphs of the Undead Wars, the great cities of Normandor and Leumalin, the united banner of elves.  She had served, and led, with her best efforts with the circumstances given to her. And yet, with crowns and titles to her name, she thirsts.

 

     Titania easily ceded the empty halls of her kin to the Crown. Where there was another family in need, Hawksong would forever provide that which is not absolutely needed for their survival. She couldn't help but look to the paintings of her kin that she had neglected to see in years, to the dust atop the mantle of the great hall with a sinking sense of doubt: this was not survival. This was the Dusk of their cause: an oath that had been sworn before her birth.

 

"...and our lances will ever point to defend the shining legacy of the ancient father. The House will live and die for the throne of united Mali."

 

     Atop the back of silver steed, the Lady of Twilight looks remorsefully towards the city she was leaving behind. What could have been, what is, and what may yet come to pass. Even in her age she felt the intense pull of emotion, as if the city literally shone with the cherished memories of her mind's eye. To the veil of temptation shining against the waterfalls and verdant trees, she turns her head away and sheds a tear, addressing her kin.

 

     "The cost of spending our labor, love, and loyalty has become too much to bear. We waste away, our culture rotting so that our folk may uphold an oath to a nation that no longer exists." the golden voiced elder speaks. The wind blows upon their backs, like a sacred blessing for what she was about to convey. To those that had gathered upon their beloved steeds, she finalizes their unanimous decision. 

     

     A single lance had been placed in the throne hall of the Woodland Prince. An old and storied weapon, with secrets among the tattered red tail of banner fabric beneath the spear-tip. A scroll of fine parchment is tied to the weapon with golden thread. There, it waits, ready to share its quiet proclamation.

 

     "On this evening, the children of Andaeren's line, fourth son of the Elven Father, have retired from our sacred charge; the service of the heirs to the one elven throne. This is not without regret nor remorse, for there is no greater pain than understanding that a cause that one has faithfully served since time immemorial no longer exists. It is the curse of long life: to see many dusks without dawn. While the kin of elves prosper among those new ideals that their banners fly for, our own has faded into distant memory. To what cost do we allow ourselves to rot for pride in an oath for those that have passed from this world? For our House, that cost has become too expensive, and out of love for service and duty, we depart for greener pastures. We depart for purpose not yet known."