Queen of Leaves, Queen of Pearls

The night was heavy with silence, the heaviest Fara’sin had watched over in more than fifty years.  It pressed down on the branches of the Great Willow like a weighty blanket and saturated the leafy floor of Seran’vine, lightened only by spatters of moonlight.  Even the breeze, which normally whistled through the open, ornate constructs of the Wood Elf homes was demure, while the usual nocturnal choir of creatures had taken a leave of absence.  In previous centuries, such silence would have been a comfort to her, a rare respite from the natural noise of the forest.  But in this age of chaos, silence was too often a harbinger of turmoil.  Fara’sin’s mind strayed to the borders of her homeland, where the unified Orc Horde was becoming ever more brazen in its posturing.  They were not so strong as to brave an assault just yet, but they were too close for comfort, and growing closer every day.  For once, Fara’sin wished she could hear them grunting and barking amongst themselves, if only to know that they remained unchanged, unlike so many denizens of the new world order. 

There were other, much safer distractions for a Queen’s comfort, though, and so she motioned for her Maidenguard to bring the newly-arrived Arlecchnio.  This was a clear sign of her discomfort, for the tales of the Arlecchino, so often tainted with a bias toward their “High” brethren, were often dull and sometimes insulting to her, and the actor visiting her at the time was known for being particularly cocky.  Nevertheless, she could not allow her mind to wander into anxiousness, and figured a pleasant voice and selection of fine dancing would do the trick.

When the Arlecchino arrived he found her lounging with deliberate disinterest on her dais, absently fondling the many petals and bulbs that grew from it.  She stared up at the moon, partly out of fascination and partly determined not to show the Arlecchino even a glimpse of favor.  He approached her, picking his way along the branch walkway, and gave an unusually humble bow.  That caught the Queen’s attention.  She turned to the see the Arlecchino and was immediately moved to pity.  The flamboyant figure she had first encountered some 150 years ago had been replaced by a sad, stooped creature in worn out clothes.  Long gone was the proud, erect posture and graceful air of superiority that had distinguished him even among his own kind.  She immediately regretted setting him up for a cold welcome; it was easy to forget how far the other members of Elvenkind had fallen, cloistered as she was in her wooded paradise.

“Arlecchino,” she said softly.  “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for summoning me, your Grace,” he responded, still looking down.  “I had hoped to gaze upon your beauty again.”

“Has my beauty fallen to the floor?” she asked.  She immediately regretted the attempt at humor, noting how it only seemed to make the Arlecchino more uncomfortable.  “Never mind,” she continued, waving her hand dismissively.  “Our lands have grown too quiet tonight.  Do you have a song or a dance, maybe a tale that can occupy my hours?”

“Of course, your Grace,” he replied with another feeble bow.  “Would you like a history?  A tragedy?  A comedy, perhaps.  Seems we could all use a dash of humor these days.”

“To be honest, Arlecchino, I’m not sure what I want.  I am loathe to cause another Elf offence in these trying times, but I have to confess I have not always appreciated the way your order has catalogued the history of our people.  You skew too much in favor of the High Elves, I find.”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he responded sheepishly.  “You are right.  I have learned many lessons in these new years.”

“Haven’t we all?”

The Arlecchino remained quiet and still.  Fara’sin turned away, gazing up at the moon once again, searching for something else to say that would bring them both some comfort.  What she found there was not a path to more small talk but rather a reminder of a long and unpleasant association.  The pearly white orb in the sky summoned memories of her counterpart, a being she had long since resolved to forget.  She had trained herself to quickly suppress any such encroaching thoughts, but in that moment she found them strangely comforting.  She turned back to the Arlecchino, half hoping he would find it comforting as well.

“Tell me the story of me and her,” she whispered.

At last, the interest of the Arlecchino was aroused, as was that of her Maidenguard.  The Arclecchino cleared his throat with well-practiced delicacy and prepared for an inquiry.

“I mean, it Arlecchino.  Tell me our story.  I am in a strange mood tonight and it has been a long time since I dwelled on my sister from across the divide.  Remind me of where we come from.”

Immediately, Fara’sin was awash in long-unwelcome sensations.  She clenched the soft, hemp fabric of her dais while being transported back to the days of the Old Empire, when she was being raised, or rather drilled, to be the next Queen.  The Wood Elves, then united with the other folds under one canopy, albeit a patchy one, were desperate to see one of their own on the throne, and had put her through training in conversation, beauty, poise, and courtly intrigue, all the skills a good Queen and a good lady should have, so they said.  She was vying with a direct rival from the High Elves for a marriage to the Prince of Vemerea, the scion of the oldest family of Elves in existence, the pin that held the shaky Empire together.  Her teeth clenched at the thought of being groomed for life as an accessory to that foppish buffoon, but for a time it had been all she knew, and she understood clearly that the hopes of her people rested on her shoulders.  It was a burden she would never shed, even after her family’s efforts to wed her to the Prince dissolved into bickering and treachery, the same forces that ruined her rival’s chances and sent the Old Empire spiraling toward a permanent split.  It certainly did not end contest of power between her and her counterpart, both of them coming into their own, however reluctantly, and finding solace in more than just fine manners and good looks.  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end just thinking of the many hours spent pacing across the branches turning matters over in her mind, trying to anticipate her rival’s moves months, years, even decades in advance.

“Your Grace,” the Arlecchnio said, yanking Fara’sin out of her wandering haze.  “May I suggest something else?”

“I have already made my request, Arlecchino.  Do not fear offending me with the mention of her name – only tell the truth as you see it.”

“The truth, your Grace – and I have been wondering whether or not mention this – the truth is that there may be a new chapter being written as we speak.”

Fara’sin’s well-honed composure kept her from leaping forward in eagerness, though it did not keep her chest from seizing in shock.  She waited a moment, her eyes roving the Arlecchino’s tired face, searching for some hint of a jest, or perhaps the subtle beginning of his performance.  He seemed genuine, though, and so she prodded.

“What do you mean, Arlecchino?”

“It is only rumor at this point, your Grace, but there is a presence growing in power to the East of here, beyond the reach of the Orcs, the Spice Aisle, or these infant human kingdoms.  It’s in the Uran Oasis, or rather she is.”

“How do you know it’s her?  This has better not be one of your shows, actor – I am not in the mood to be teased.”

“Again, your Grace, these are only rumors, but consider this: they say she moves in the lands about her, a wandering, white-clad figure with luminous blonde hair.  She is only glimpsed in her travels, but her presence is keenly felt.  The people, however common they are, sense her power.  It is otherworldly to them – many probably don’t even know the Elves exist!  They would have no idea who they are looking at, nor would they know why there are reports spreading through the kingdoms that artifacts are going missing.  Mysterious, old remnants from a fallen civilization, very, very valuable – all of a sudden, they vanish.  Without a trace.  She whisks them back to the Oasis where she has made a home for herself, and we know, do we not, that only the most powerful magical beings can make a home in such a place.  The people call her the Mad Queen, and no wonder – who wouldn’t go mad after all she has seen and done?”

He finished his case and stared at her, wide-eyed with excitement, his entire body lit up for the first time since he shuffled into her presence.  He seemed genuine, but his energetic display raised suspicion in her.

“Master Arlecchino…” she began, getting slowly to her feet.

“Please, your Grace, call me Syth’aren,” he interrupted, clasping his hands together imploringly.  “Please.  I have not heard my true name said by another being in so, so long.”

Fara’sin paused, the pity she had felt for him giving way to pure sadness.  His desperate eyes told a story of loneliness, despair, a cataclysmic loss of self.

“Syth’aren,” she said, forcing a small smile.  “Perhaps you are putting too much stock in these rumors.  I understand how tantalizing a story like this is.  We have all lost so much and few things would be comforting than to have some of that back, even our enemies…”

She stopped, standing over him as he looked up at her expectantly.  The silence had returned to the Woods and it suddenly occurred to her why that quiet felt so empty: she missed her.  She missed the thought of her, the idea that while the Queen of Leaves was tiptoeing through the forest, the Queen of Pearls was doing the same in her gleaming tower.  They had spent so much of their lives walking in circles around each other that it made the past 150 years seem empty and listless by comparison.  She suddenly realized that even the brief reminiscence with Syth’aren had enlivened her more than anything she could recall from the past few decades.  It was exhilarating, delightful to feel that familiar tension rush from her spine all the way to her fingertips.  She never thought she would miss Elven politics.  It really was a strange, new world after all.

“Arlecchino…Syth’aren,” she said, absently rubbing a stray leaf between her forefinger and thumb.  “What can I pay you to learn more about this Mad Queen?”

“Nothing,” he responded immediately.  “Nothing, at least not in coin.  Your trust is enough.  All I want to is to give.  My craft is useless now.  No one wants to be entertained, no one wants to hear our stories, no one wants to listen to an old, worn out has-been like me…”

The last of Syth’aren’s composure broke, sending him into a fit of uncontrollable weeping.  Fara’sin caught his arms as his knees buckled and fell to the ground.  He leaned into her, his whole body shaking with grief, and she held him tight.  The Maidenguard moved to take him away but a look from the Queen sent her back into her place.  Hot tears were already rolling down her own cheeks as she saw the Arlecchino for what he really was: a vision of what had happened to Elvenkind, once proud and powerful, a gift to all nations and peoples, now a hollow shell looking to regain some significance.

“Please, your Grace,” he sobbed.  “Please, I know it is her.  It has to be.  Let me go to her.  Let us join hands with her and rebuild our people.  We cannot afford to be apart anymore, not in this day and age, not with the Dragons on the loose and the Orcs growing more and more arrogant by the minute.  I can still be of use to our cause, I can…”

“I know, Syth’aren,” she whispered.  “I know.  You have already been a good servant.  You have already done so much.  The world may have forgotten the service you gave in its defense those years ago, but I remember.  You have service yet to give.”

“Yes,” he began, slowly turning back to himself.  “In fact, I can give more now.  I have been in contact with one of my old companions – the Half-Elf assassin – he has received a vision from on high.  There some pieces that must be gathered together.”

“Pieces of what?”

“I don’t know, but Ko believes it has something to do with the Dragons.  Perhaps there is some weapon, some device that can give us the upper-hand in our conflict.”

Fara’sin’s thoughts turned instantly to something she had heard about long ago, perhaps when she was still just a girl.  The details were hazy but the idea – dominion over Dragonkind – rang clear as a bell.

“I believe there is,” she said, half to herself.  “Perhaps we are meant to find it.”

“Perhaps any number of people are meant to find it.  I have heard in my travels – I am a master of disguise and can penetrate almost any institution or encampment, as you know – that there are great movements throughout the many kingdoms.  The Horde is gathering force as we know, but there are still the Dwarves as well, seeking to reestablish their alliance, and Dragonborn to the South East, and the aristocrats of LaSelle Island, and the criminals, as well – they are all sifting through their documents and treasures, taking stock of what they have.  People are searching for something.”

“And we need to find it before they do.”

Fara’sin got to her feet and began her ritual.  She padded down the path away from her dais at first, turning her fingers this way and that, hearing the twigs and branches and leaves rustle at her command.  Her mind was already abuzz with maps, catalogues of allegiances, the names of figures great and powerful.  She had gathered every last bit of intelligence she could from her network of spies and now it was all starting to come together.  She turned on her heel and started back toward the dais, a cloud of leaves twirling and billowing around her, her eyes no longer focused on her surroundings but on the names of key figures in this new game.

“There are others who will be taking this seriously,” she said, her speech clipped with urgency.  “The first is Grago, the Horde Chieftain.  They say he has Giant blood in him and I don’t doubt it; he is remarkably strong, but also cunning and charismatic, as he would have to be in order to bring those savages together.  Then there’s Broomhilda, among the Dwarves.  She’s the only one I can imagine who could rally those people together.  She’ll do whatever she can to protect them and their treasures, including paying a ransom for a treasure like the one I have in mind.  Then there’s Prince Aradonda on LaSelle Island.  He’s still just a boy, which means his and chief vizier still has him wrapped around his finger.  They will want to protect their own lands as well, but they won’t come to the mainland unless there’s something truly special to take.  Then there’s the Scarlet Sisters, of course; if this is what I think it is, they will want to dispose of it as soon as possible.  Who am I missing…?”

“I have heard of others,” Syth’aren chimed in.  “Criminals, kings, necromancers.  There are some who followed Nerodeus that got way in the end.”

“Of course.  There was a Tiefling, if I recall.  His kind have usually died by now but necromancers have a way of cheating death at every possible turn.  You should keep your eyes out for someone like him.”

“They won’t catch me, your Grace.  No one’s looking for a washed up actor these days.  They will see me neither coming nor going.  There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m afraid I’ve rather lost the edge of my tongue.”

Fara’sin stopped her usual routine and turned back to him, letting her accompanying cloud of leaves dissipate around her.  She smiled genuinely for the first time that evening, not to cut, not to uplift, but because she felt pleasure – small pleasure, yes, but real pleasure.  She approached Syth’aren again and took his smooth, sculpted cheeks in her hands.  He hesitated to meet her gaze at first but soon complied, looking into her eyes with awe, affection, and maybe even a bit of relief.

“You will get that edge back soon, my friend,” she said to him.  “One day they will sing songs of what you are doing now.”

“We can be sure I will sing songs of it, if I pull it off.”

“There, you see?  Already your wit is growing strong again.”

He took her hands from his cheeks and brought them to his lips, kissing them delicately as he took a knee.

“I will serve you with all I have, your Grace.  My hands, my eyes, my voice – my very life is yours.”

“Do not give me those things, Syth’aren,” she answered softly.  “Give them to Elvenkind.  It is they who are truly in need.  Now go.  Serve our people once again.”

Without a word Syth’aren stood as straight as an arrow, a broad smile on his face.  He bowed low, with a flourish of his hand this time, then turned and bounded off into the night.  Fara’sin watched him go with a faint warmth flickering in her heart.  She had made someone happy.  Queens rarely got to do such a thing in her experience, and certainly never got the opportunity when caught in such dire circumstances.  She dwelt on it a moment, reveling in the satisfaction, knowing that it could be a long time yet before she would feel it again.  Her moment over, she turned to the Maidenguard, cool water rushing through her veins to extinguish the sentiment.

“Summon my advisers.  We are re-evaluating our strategy.  I think these filthy Orcs have encroached on our borders enough.”

The Maidenguard nodded and scampered off to do her mistress’s bidding.  Fara’sin, meanwhile, slowly sat back down on her dais cushion, running her hand over the soft, worn fabric.  She traced her fingers along its surface and down toward the frame where they met the smooth, thick leather of a handle.  With a flourish she pulled the handle and released her sword, Moonthorn, from its scabbard, beaming as its blade twinkled with majestic malice in the light of its namesake.  She had only put it there the previous night and yet it felt different to hold it this time.  It was a weapon again, not the accessory it had become while lying dormant for so many years.  She twirled it in her hand, listening to it sing as it sliced through the air.  Even then, 700 years after she first held it, she could not help but marvel at the craft.  It was proof that Elvenkind had beauty yet to give the world.

She turned one last time to the moon.  It was still there, hanging in the sky like a great pearl seated in velvet.  She wondered if the Mad Queen – if Emarelle – was out there somewhere looking at the same moon.  Perhaps she was holding her staff close, feeling it heavy with purpose once again.  A peculiar thought, to say the last, but again, it was a peculiar world, and it gave Fara’sin some comfort, not to mention a little bit of hope.

Hope.  A precious commodity in the Age of Chaos.