The Archives

The long, wooden dining table in the main hall of The Golden Manor was decorated with an assortment of delicacies. As Aelanor and Nimuel sat down on either side of the table, with Lady Saelther in the front, they felt like they could inhale everything in front of them.

A thick soup made of the elm greens, onions and heavy cream, sprinkled with dried herbs. Roasted emus and platters of baked and fried potatoes piled on with cheese. Southern beef stew made with Mapleshire wine, and beans. 

The mortal food was good enough, but Aelanor had missed the elven spread a lot, almost as much as she has missed her home. Gorging herself on the fare in front of herself, she lost herself in the flavors for a moment, before engaging in the dinner conversation that was going on around her.

"...the islands in the South China Sea, Mother! All the fruits there were so delicious."

"You preferred the oceans to the mountains, my dear? You father would laugh; he has spent more than three quarters of his time in the hills."

"He doesn't feel the cold, Mother," Nimuel pouted. "I prefer a place that is sunny and warm. Aelanor does as well."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I like the mountains quite a lot, but they feel too green, you know? The open skies on the seashores, the transition of colors from yellow to red and purple- I feel like I could just sit down and keep looking at the horizons all day and night," Aelanor said.

"Interesting. I have never been to the mortal lands myself, but Lord Dalyor brings me stories from his journeyings."

"Do you still prefer poetry, Aunt?"

"Well, I still have a much too love for the sung words, yes. But now I can certainly appreciate your views of prose. Poetry conveys something different to every single being. And I learnt it the hard way when I try to write one on a person's melancholia, and someone thought it was about the royal stables and how the horses are being treated."

Aelanor chuckled. "Yes, that is one trouble I could never oversee. I also find it extremely difficult to find phrases that rhymes."

"Poetry is not about their rhyming scheme, my child. It's more about what you are not able to express in words, either because you are afraid, or because words don't seem enough."

"But poetry is composed of words, how can that be enough?" 

"Nothing can ever be enough, my dear. But poems do try. Also, poetry is not just words," she smiled.

After dinner, the three elves went back to the Archives. It was well past midnight by then, and there was a ghostly silence. Lady Saelther took a seat on one of her reading chairs.

"Nimuel, search the shelves for The Magic of the Mortals. It should be on your left. Aelanor, your mother sent me a message saying that the Shaman had returned, and he prophesized some dire event. I need you to write down everything he said, everything you remember." 

Wasting no more time, the two females set out to work. Nimuel picked up books after books from the shelves, with wooden and leather covers, while Aelanor pulled a stack of sheets towards her and wrote down all she remembered. The former came to the desk after a while, holding an enormous, moss green colored book in her hands. She needed both of them to hold it.

"How weak have you grown, my child," Lady Saelther sighed.

"And yet, I am immune to this disease that is advancing on the undying creatures. I believe you would like to alter your observation," Nimuel winked.

Lady Saelther smiled, "That is one thing I am really grateful."

Aelanor was perusing the book cover to cover. She looked up and said, "Do you think this book holds answers to the riddle, Aunt? Do we have enough time to solve it, if at all?"

"I do not think we have enough time to solve all of it, child. And even if we do, we can't. This is not a question that can be solved in a library." She picked up the scribbled notepad with the lines of the poem. 

"This can only be solved during the course of the journey, solved only by the chosen warriors."