I have to watch my step as I lift my foot over a gnarled root that is in my path. It has been a long day of travel, and my muscles are starting to ache. As such, the shift in my centre of balance, combined with the weight of the rucksack on my shoulders, almost causes me to stumble. I reach out, and my gloved hand presses against the rough bark of the tree that has so offended me with its disorganised roots. I let out a sigh, offering the tree an unimpressed glare, and my breath lightly mists in the late autumn chill.
I press on, and I see that my companion has stopped to wait for me. Not out of concern for my fatigue, of course. But instead because she has found another way to test my patience.
"See here, human," she says. "Regard the moss that grows upon the bark of this birch tree. Tell me, are you able to consume it safely?"
I take heavy, plodding steps, crushing the thick grass under my boots as I go, to come up beside her and look carefully at the growth she is now indicating for me. It's green, is about all I can intelligently tell of its nature. Has she used this one before in one of her little lessons? I truly cannot recall. I look to my teacher, then, for some sort of clue.
Miriham's fair face somehow looks down on me, despite her being a head shorter. Her alien, violet eyes are keen and piercing, and her sleek, lavender hair not at all mussed by our extended hours of harsh travel. The dirt of the woods does not dare mar her creamy, pale skin. She does not carry belongings, as she is easily capable of foraging for herself while in this, her forest domain. And her clothing is a gorgeous, silken tunic, woven magically with the golds and greens of the woods about us. The intricate lacing and subtle embroidery evidence what may have been a lifetime of tradecraft, for a lowly human. Her tights are thin, hugging her slim form in deep, rich tan, and her shoes are soft. Not walking clothes at all. And yet, she easily outpaces me in our journey. She could still step unprepared into a king's ballroom and eclipse the beauty of any human noble woman in attendance.
The tight scowl of her sharp features, the point of her nose and the much more dynamic points of her long ears, tell me that I am not to receive any hints to support my answer, so I relent. I run a gloved hand over my chin thoughtfully, and even through the leather can I feel an undergrowth of stubborn hairs growing in. I am normally clean shaven, but this has been a journey of a full week, with another week yet to go. And Miriham has made it clear that she cares little for my appearance, so I have allowed myself a touch of neglect.
"You can eat it safely, yes," I nod in answer to her question. "But not comfortably."
She narrows her eyes at me, the curve of her brow like a flow of liquid porcelain. "What do you mean by that?"
"I guess that... it gives you stomach trouble."
"You
guess
?"
I shrug again. Days ago, I was overwhelmed by my elven guide's beauty and grace. Now that I have gotten to know her, I am less impressed. "I don't really know, so I'm taking a guess," I admit to her.
Miriham chuckles mirthlessly with a dismissive toss of her lustrous hair, and then sets off again between the trees. I follow on without looking back at the green growth that has so embarrassed me.
"For a creature of such limited lifespan, you are distressingly cavalier with your eating habits," she declares. "Harken, human. 'Lulwy's Verdant Gaze, the Earthen Pit does not Restrain Her'. Or, in your vulgar tongue, 'gravemoss'. It has little nutritional value, but may be utilised in an emergency where no other food is available. However, it also..."
She hesitates curiously, expression hidden, before continuing in a lower tone. "It also contains a mild irritant which may cause... some upset."
I stare after her. Miriham's flowing gait is mesmerising, the roll of her subtle curves artistic. But I had been right! I was so seldom right! Grinning to myself, I plod on in stubborn pursuit.
It is the eighty-fifth year since the defeat of the Demon Lord, the scourge of all peoples and all nations, who in death shall be utterly forgotten, even down to their sinister name. My home is the walled city of Layman-on-Waters, also the place of my birth. I am told that we were not touched so viciously by the Demon Lord's terrible campaign of chaos and murder, and that we had our elven neighbours in the nearby forest to thank for such grace. Following centuries of superstitious mistrust between our people, the humans of Layman and the elves of Ilvarith, Her Shining Glow Consumes All in the Light of a New Sun, found common ground in our hatred of the calamitous armies of the demonic. For a while, elves lived among humans, brandishing silver spears and crafting glorious magical mail from the tree sap of their misty woods. Though they held themselves at a distance from their human counterparts, interacting only rarely and as needed, their presence had been impossible to ignore, my elders say. The elves marched out to war in response to the signing of the Accord of Regents alongside loyal men of Layman, and many of both species returned with armour dented but unbroken. Then, the war done, the elves disappeared back into the forest. I was born about half a century later.
I am one of an increasing number of citizens of Layman who has taken on the learning of the elven tongue and the study of their culture as something of a hobby. I count myself rather good at their musical language, though I wouldn't dream of saying such or testing my skills in front of Miriham, who I am sure would have something contrary to say. She is plenty proficient at our "vulgar tongue", in any case. However, my study of the elves and my primary occupation, that of a bookkeeper for the castellan's municipal Apothecary Guild, have little to do with each other. Until this past week, that is, when the castellan summoned me to his meeting chamber and set upon me the task that has me traipsing through the woods as I do now.
The war is over, but humanity has learned much from her neighbours. It is the belief of the Accord of Regents that we should be doing all we can to preserve the kinship we have developed with the other species of this great land. My castellan would like to begin correspondence and meetings with the lord of Ilvarith on a regular basis. He has chosen me as a well-known local scholar of Ilvarith's people to act as emissary, to judge his interest in a friendship and to lay the path for a future alliance. A daunting task, but there is hope. After all, the lord of Ilvarith saw fit to send his eldest daughter to act as my guide through the mystifying forest labyrinth that hides his city from potential invaders. Surely he would not have done so, were he not eager to at least hear the case of his human neighbours.
Before setting out, I had envisioned Miriham and I travelling together as something from out of a fairy tale. She, a beautiful and regal elven maiden. Me, a homely but enthusiastic male human. Our romance, for I naturally dared to dream of such, would be the first of many between our people. Our love would be the spark of unity between man and elf.
No such luck, for Miriham is headstrong, arrogant and quick to put me in my place. I wonder at her haughty attitude, since there is nothing threatening about me, no sharp edges on me that she should need to grind down as she seeks to do. I am easy-going and calm, adverse to conflict and argument. Perhaps she is under orders to reduce my will, so that her father can use our meeting to seal my home into some form of bureaucratic subjugation. Perhaps, if Miriham had her way, my role in this diplomacy would be to trap humanity into unfavourable servitude.
I wish I was not so suspicious. But, Gods above, does she make it difficult!
"You wish to pause," says Miriham now as we come to a bubbling creek running north to south between the trees. A good place to refill my canteen. "You do not have to say so. I can hear it in the ludicrous rasping of your breathing."
I set my lips in a line as I walk past her and silently accept her invitation to rest. I set down my rucksack, containing the roll of my tent, some cooking supplies and a number of tomes I have collected on elven culture. A heavy burden. My back has grown strong from all this unfamiliar exercise. I remove my gloves and take a handful of icy water into my palms, raising it to my lips and drinking. A chill, but a welcome one, as I am heated against the autumn cold by the day's ordeals.
"You are aware, I hope, that my father will not permit the building of roads through our woodlands," Miriham says, standing over me with her arms neatly folded. I am cast into her shade as I drink. "When your castellan visits, he too shall have to walk the knotted path of the wilds. I dearly hope he is of more hale constitution than you, human."
I sit down upon the rocky grass and rest myself back on my wet hands. I look up at Miriham. They say that the elves have the ability to ensorcell lesser minds with the power of their mystical auras. But right now, I am feeling grounded by my exhaustion and frustration, and her glamour and good looks do not affect me.
"And what is that smirk for?" Miriham demands.
"You said 'when'," I reply. "
When
my castellan visits. Not 'if'. You seem confident our peoples are going to form a lasting relationship."
Miriham clicks her tongue and looks away from me. "If all your confidence is built on the shaky semantics of a tongue that is not my own, then I worry for you. My father will listen to your pleas only if you can make a convincing case to him. He will not allow humans to stand up alongside him as equals unless you can prove yourselves such."
"It wouldn't be so bad, Miriham." It's the sharpest I have ever spoken to her, but I'm at my limit. "We accepted the help of the Fair Folk in the war because we wanted to work together. Your father agreed to help because he saw the merit of friendship. And I think there's a lot we can teach each other."
"As in our journey? Where I have taught you plenty about the woods your castellan claims as part of his custody? And where you have seemingly only shown me new lows in the buffoonery of the common human?"
"You're very eager to make me out to be a fool, aren't you?"
"You
are
a fool," she glares. "By the standards of my people. Short lived, short of memory, thick of tongue and fingers."
"Then why are you so threatened by a friendship between our peoples?"
