Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [16]
He began to cry once more.
Why?
Why did they treat him this way? He was different, but all he wanted to be was like them-an elf. Why couldn't they see that? Even the elders, though not cruel like their children, treated him like a strange thing-as if he were a snowfall in summer-and they did not seem to know what to make of him.
He was tired of it-tired of the veiled insults and the sidelong looks. After only ten seasons among the elves of Avaelearean, he knew that he would never find a place among them unless something changed-unless he accomplished something that even the most tradition-bound elder would be forced to recognize.
It was then, beneath the rustling leaves of an elf grove, with blood from a dozen cuts trickling down his skin, that the half-elf made his first vow.
By the time he reached the sprawling tree home of his foster father, Taenaran had locked away his tears.
* * * * *
Music filled the elf-wrought bower, spilling wild and free like a swirling spring rainfall. Aelrindel's calloused fingers skipped and danced across the golden strings of the dark yew harp, calling forth note, phrase, and sprightly theme. The elf's eyes were closed, his sight and senses turned inward as he followed the trail of his song through his heart's twisting path. He was often like this-lost in the music. Whether he held a sword or a harp, both were weapons in his hands and gates to another realm.
When at last the elf opened his eyes and saw his arael'vae, his heart-son, standing before him, he ended the song abruptly. Dirt and mud were caked on the lad's leggings and tunic. His shoulder-length hair clung to his head, matted with bramble-burr and mossdew. It was Taenaran's blood, however, running like red tears down the length of his shoulders and arms, which aroused a familiar rush of pity and anger in the elf's breast.
Aelrindel placed the yew harp gently on the window-sill and prepared to go to the half-elf. For in times past, when the boy would come home ragged and crying, he would launch himself into his father's arms, seeking comfort.
This time, though, was different.
Something in the cast of the half-elf's eyes stopped Aelrindel's motion. He saw resolve and steel in their amber depths-and perhaps something of the adult that Taenaran would become. The elf grieved, for in that moment he knew that his relationship with his son had changed forever. Even though, Aelrindel thought, it was ever the way between fathers and sons, still he grieved.
"Who did this, Taenaran?" was all that he said-though carefully.
The half-elf might be only a decade old, the merest babe by the standards of the elves, but he held within him human blood and was already sprouting like a young sapling. He did not wish to wound the boy further by treating him as a complete child.
Taenaran gazed at him, eyes red with the aftermath of tears.
"Does it matter?" came his son's response.
Aelrindel frowned at that but could not gainsay the youngling's words. In truth it did not matter. The elf children had always been cruel with their games where Taenaran was involved-and that likely would continue. He had spoken with the elders and parents of the community, and those who felt pity or compassion for an a Tel'Quessir foundling spoke, in turn, to their young.
Yet children were, after all is said and done, still children.
"They will never accept me," Taenaran said, breaking through the elf's thoughts.
Aelrindel tried to respond, tried to say that such acceptance would come in time, but his son cut him off.
"They will never accept me," the half-elf said in a steady voice, "unless I do something to make them accept me."
The elder elf raised a pointed eyebrow at his son's assertion.
"What," Aelrindel asked with true curiosity, "will you do?"
Taenaran inhaled deeply then hesitated a moment before replying.
"I wish to become a bladesinger like you," Taenaran said. "Like my father."
Aelrindel stood for a moment-speechless and stunned-before pride bloomed within his heart like