THE WAR WAS NEARLY OVER, and it looked as though our forces would defeat the enemies and come home with victory to show. The people of Erald had already begun to celebrate the coming end with lavish feasts and dancing, for soon the soldiers would be off again for what would be the final battle between the Elves and the Mallites.

Even the elf king could be found feasting with the admirals and commanders of his army; on plates of gold sat the plumpest specimens of meat roasted to perfection, and in the cups sloshed the richest wine from the cellars. Truly, it had been a time to rejoice.

On one particular night, a night that would come to shape my future in years to come, the king had invited all noblemen from his army, and the armies of our allies, to feast in his palace so that he could bestow his personal congratulations upon all. Sitting at one of the tables was a man by the name of Gregory Marr, Commander of one of the human armies that united with the Elves. He was dressed in full uniform with shining medals displayed happily on his chest, and sword hanging proudly at his waist. He was laughing with his fellow men, recounting stories of battles that caught the attention of anyone within earshot. He would stroke his salt and pepper beard, pretending to recall lost memories in order to tease his listeners, trying to hid the amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

Nearly fifty, Commander Marr was not married, at least as far as I know. It could be correct to assume that he had probably taken a few lovers in his day, as to my future dismay. He was handsome, striking even. I wouldn’t know for sure, for I had never met the man, but despite being a ‘well-rounded gentleman,’ he knew his limits and, apart from a few devilish glances, stayed away from the Elven women.

The Elves, you see, are very proud people. Seemingly arrogant at times, but only from being with the world for so long; from being immortal. They see the Earth though its joys and through its pain. Their pride partly comes from being one of the oldest races of time, and partly from being such an ‘unspoiled race,’ as they say. It is a fierce disgrace to mix the blood of an Elf with that of any other people, punishable only by death of the Elven culprit, as well as any resulting offspring.

When the meal had ended, the noblemen left the dining room and flooded into the brightly illuminated courtyard, where they were greeted with a ravish party already in progress. Soldiers and their wives chatted merrily, sipping wine and laughing. The beauty and grace of the Elves made the scene breathtaking, and Commander Marr looked around for a familiar face to engage in conversation as to hide his discomfort. His eyes scanned the crowd and settled on the woman he met the afternoon prior; Eriathwen. She was beautiful.

He approached her, he grinned his playful grin, and she blushed remembering the previous days’ encounter. He leaned forward and whispered, “You look deliciously ravishing this evening.”

She arched her eyebrows in surprise and took a few steps away from him. “Commander Marr, how dare you imply such a scandalous thing,” she said appalled, but a small smile hinted at the corners of her lips.

“I meant no harm,” he replied smoothly and the two settled into a light conversation whilst the party continued. The King, spotting Marr, dismissed himself and a handsome male Elf, and made his way towards where the Commander and Eriathwen were chatting.

“Commander,” he began and gestured to the Elf accompanying him, “I would like to introduce you to the finest admiral in my army. He will be joining with you in battle tomorrow. I can see you have already met his wife.”

Marr worked to hid the surprise in his face. He had glimpses of yesterdays memories; running into Eriathwen outside the palace; helping her carry the pile of books she carried; the taste of her lips as she kissed him half hidden in an alley. Now he found that this woman was married, and he could not feel more ashamed.

The King began to ask the Commander about the next days’ battle, and Marr tried to answer as accurately as he could, considering he was partially listening to the conversation next to him.

“Love,” Eriathwen whispered to her husband, “The evening grows late. I think we should retire now if I am to give you a proper farewell tonight.” She winked at him.

“Not tonight love,” he said stroking the side of her disappointed face, “Tonight it is too important that I prepare our men for battle tomorrow. I hope you understand.”

“But it is your last night here. I should wish to make it memorable.”

“There will be time for that when I return, love. In three weeks time, when this war is over, we shall start a family.” At this point the King dismissed himself and the admiral from the conversation. Marr looked at Eriathwen, who stood with a masked expression on her face.

“You did not tell me you were married.”

She turned to gaze at him, “I thought you would understand. He has been gone for so long…”

He did understand, unfortunately. He recognised her to be a woman who needed love, who had been alone too long, who needed to go home and get some rest. I cannot blame him. Pity is a notable flaw of humans; it is a weakness.

He offered to escort her home, as the first signs of tears appeared in her eyes. They walked silently together through the palace and the courtyard until they reached her front door. She spoke first.

“I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t ruined your evening.”

“I will hardly be missed. It seems that everyone has someone else they need to talk too tonight.”

“Yes.” Silence followed. She turned and opened the door slowly, “Would you like to come in?”

He gaped at her. “Eriathwen,” he spluttered, “we can’t… no. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” she whispered, “I need this.”

He replied with a slow nod and entered her home, closing the door behind him and the two of them crossed the threshold into the forbidden.

*****

They laid upon the bed as he played with her hair, twirling it around and around his finger. He traced the shape of her pointed ear, up one side and down the other. The moonlight filtered in through the window, illuminating her delicate face and sparkling eyes.

His voice was low and rough, “I need to leave before your husband returns from the party.” She nodded, but continued to gaze at his as he dressed, watching his hands as he fastened the buttons on his clothes. Once fully dressed, he unclipped his sword from is belt and turned to look at her.

“I want you to have this,” he laid the sheath on the bed.

She sat up, “Will you not need it in your battle tomorrow?”

He shook his head, “I can get another one. Think of this as something to remember me by. After the war is over, I will come to visit you sometime.” Taking her chin in his hands, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Until we meet again,” he said, and was off.

I can’t blame him for what he did. I am not one to wish that certain things didn’t happen, but I do wish that some things had turned out differently. The war, for one example.

The battle was disastrous. The enemy proved to be far more powerful then estimated. Although the Elves eventually conquered the Mallites, hundreds were lost, including both the Commander and the Admiral.

When this news reached the ears of Eriathwen, she shut herself away from the world for many months. She buried Marr’s sword beneath the rose bushes planted along the side of her home. But she could not grieve for long; there were far worse things to fret about.

She began to feel ill, sometimes so much so that she could not rise from her bead in the morning. She grew pale, drawing concern from neighbours. They dropped by from time to time, with herbs and spices that could supposedly help her. But Eriathwen knew what was wrong even before it began to show. She was pregnant.

When she could not hide it anymore, when she finally had to make herself some maternity clothes, everyone thought that she and the Admiral had conceived the child that faithful night before the horrid battle, and Eriathwen was not about to correct them, for on that night, she had fallen asleep before her husband had arrived home, and he had left before she had awoken. She knew who the father of her baby was, and she knew what decisions lay ahead of her.

*****

I assume that when most women give birth, they are so proud of themselves that they want everyone to know how much pain they went through to bring a new life into the world. I’m quite certain my mother did not feel this way.

I hope that most mothers do not fear they will give birth to a monster, whether that be a child with no fingers or a mental illness. According to my mother, her version of a monster was that with human ears.

When the midwife handed Eriathwen her baby, she began to cry.

“Oh love,” the midwife said, “may the happiness you have within you now stay with you and your daughter forever.”

Only they weren’t tears of happiness, they were tears of relief. Her child, her sweet innocent child was blessed with Elf ears. No one would be able to tell that her child was mutant, a crime on her behalf.

“Ethalduine,” Eriathwen whispered, “that is what I shall name you.”

“That is a lovely name, love,” said the midwife, busying herself with the linens.

This is how I came into the world; a baby without a chance.