The Beginning
Toark was back again; the old bartender had been spending the greater portion of the past week at the cottage. He brought food and mead, but when it became clear that the two boys were not much interested in eating, he brought whiskey and pipe weed from the southern prairie. His visits were never long, but they had become a nightly routine. Toark would arrive just as the sun went down and depart about two hours later, when the supply of whiskey and prairie weed had dwindled. He would then turn a inquisitive face upon the two boys, seeming to delve directly into their minds, decide that whatever he’d come to discuss could wait until the next day, and would then vanish into the night.
It was enough to confirm within Eóvan’s mind that Anna had been correct in her statements: Toark was a strange man!
Tonight, Eóvan met the barman at the oak door just as the last of the sun disappeared behind the horizon; he had seen him headed up the road through the kitchen window, bottle of strong Southern Whiskey tucked under one arm, dark travelling bag draped over the other. They nodded curtly to one another as Eóvan bolted the heavy door shut behind the large man. A fierce wind had begun to blow through fields, marking the beginning of a mid-spring storm. The chill, which had entered the cottage upon Toark’s arrival, was enough to convince Eóvan to add an extra log to the crackling fire; the house seemed much colder now, lacking Anna’s pleasant smile for warmth.
Without uttering a single word, Toark settled himself in his usual spot next to the fire in a cushioned but ragged wooden chair. The bottle and traveling bag rested atop a long wooden chest that ran parallel to the chair. Eóvan turned to Bryynt while Toark busied himself with his bag. The older boy sat in the corner, face lined with pain and anger, gripping the polished wooden rocking chair in desperation and staring fiercely off into the darkness, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. Eóvan was not even sure that Bryynt had noticed Toark’s arrival.
Turning back to the old barman, Eóvan watched him load his pipe with a clump of prairie-weed produced from the traveler’s bag. From his place by the fire, Toark looked even more massive than usual; his torso filled the full width of the chair he sat in, and more. Long, curly black hair fell over the man’s eyes as he fumbled to light the pipe with a flint from the fire. After several failed attempts he finally succeeded, returning his full attention to Eóvan.
Dark brown eyes scrutinized the boy and seemed to know all. This was the longest Toark had gone without speaking and the silence was making Eóvan uncomfortable. It wasn’t the equal silence that lingered throughout the cottage during the day, as Bryynt and Eóvan struggled to busy themselves with meaningless tasks; it was a brooding silence that accompanied Toark’s visits, seeming to hide dark secrets within its shadows.
When the barman finally began to speak, it was in a low, dark voice that did not match the friendly and even tone of previous nights. A shiver crept up the young boy’s spine as the older man’s eyes bored into his own.
“I’m sure you’ve been utterly perplexed by my constant presence here, Eóvan,” the barman began. “I realize that my visits may at times have been…ah...” he searched for the appropriate word, eyeing Bryynt while doing so. “…unwelcome.”
Eóvan did not bother to contradict him. Outside, the wind picked up, knocking branches noisily against the glass panes of the windows.
“The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of interesting events; not just with Anna’s untimely passing,” he nodded his respects to Bryynt, who still did not acknowledge the old man’s presence. “But also within the kingdom as a whole.
“I’m sure by now you’ve heard whispers of the king’s forces being rallied, as well as rumors that another war might be brewing. It is with these pieces of information, along with others that I will not divulge at the moment, that I must unearth a secret that has been kept hidden for many years; too many, if you want my opinion!”
Toark had begun to ramble and it was several minutes before his grumblings died out. He then turned back to Eóvan, who noticed a spark behind the old barman’s eyes that had never been there before. The young boy could not ignore the flicker of excitement that nudged him.
"I think, Eóvan," Toark growled lowly, "it is time you learned exactly who you are."
Who I am? Eóvan thought wildly, utterly confused. He did not know what that was supposed to mean!
"A long time ago," Toark began, "Or perhaps not very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, the world was much different than today. Men did not exist in Loreacha. Instead, the world was inhabited by creatures of the void, which coexisted in peace. The Elves, Giants and Dwarves traded wares often, while other Loreachan enjoyed the peace that survived as well. That is, of course, until the arrival of Men." A cough sounded from the corner, and Eóvan looked up to see Bryynt hunched over with disbelief, shaking his head at Toark with anger.
"Those are nothing but legends," he hissed, returning to the cottage from his nightly reveries, "Firetales! Giants and Goblins? There is no proof that there ever were such creatures."
"Ah," Toark nodded at Bryynt, head slightly tilted. "Creatures like that don't exist anymore Bryynt, at least not in our world. The race of Men has seen to that. I think, if you'd let me return to my tale, you'd understand."
"Rubbish!" Bryynt snapped, returning to the sulky gloom of the corner.
Eóvan watched Toark in amazement. He had heard these stories as a child. Never from Anna, of course, she didn't believe in such things; but traders, farmers, and children spoke of them often. He wondered how Toark believed they were related to him.
"One day, the race of Men entered this world. Nobody remembers where from, that knowledge has long been forgotten. Nevertheless, when the presence of Men was discovered, the leaders of all the races joined to meet them. They welcomed Men into Loreacha, which was known by a different name then, for there were many valleys and mountains that still lay undiscovered around them. They invited the leader of Men, a young warrior named Fallon, to join their council. All were promised peace, so long as Fallon and his kingdom did not interfere with their way of life. Fallon agreed, and for many years all five races seemed to live in harmony. Fallon’s rule passed to his son Donaug upon his death, and then to his grandson, Caleidon. The race of Men was growing rapidly, now covering all of the previously uncharted regions of Loreacha. Caleidon began to demand more land from the council. When he was refused by the other leaders, Caleidon grew angry and began to take the land by force. The conflict soon turned to war, with the great population of Men now overpowering all the other races.”
Toark paused for a moment. His pipe had burnt out and he was struggling to relight it. Eóvan grew impatient but tried desperately not to reveal this flaw. Once accomplished, Toark continued as if he had never stopped.
“The Giants were defeated, the remainder of their race fleeing from this world; for although Giants were large and incredibly strong, they lacked the skills and brain power of soldiers. Seeing their imminent defeat, the Dwarves escaped through underground Loreachan sanctuaries; abandoning all of their cities above ground. Soon the only races left in Loreacha were Elves and Men. Without pause, Caleidon continued his attack on the Elven kingdom for years. He now desired for total domination over the entire world. He drove the Elves over the mountains where they vanished from all knowledge.
“For a short time, the fighting ceased, and it seemed like there might be peace once again. The Vausthelm rule passed to Caleidon’s son Morrigan, who governed a prosperous reign. But something soon happened that Morrigan could never forgive. His youngest daughter Clare, the favorite among all of his seven children, met a young Elf while wandering the Great Cliffs near the sea. The Elves had been keeping watch on the Vausthelm Kingdom. When Clare met the Elvin prince Paladin outside the castle walls, she ran away with him. Heartbroken and furious, Morrigan had his soldiers scour the lands in search for her. They soon found her wandering near the Greathorn Mountains.
"The Vausthelm soldiers returned Clare to Morrigan's household, but she was never quite the same. She told Morrigan that she had run off with a lowly farm boy, who had turned her out upon learning her identity. But in her sleep, Clare spoke of magic and enchantments, talking about Elven kingdoms and majestic mountains. Morrigan worried endlessly about his favorite daughter, watching over her day and night. Yet his own age had caught up with him, and upon his death the peace of Vausthelm was passed to his eldest son, Ragnar.
“A few months later, Clare learned that she was with child. Ragnar tried desperately to cover up the scandal, but the news soon spread among the people. Ashamed and embarrassed of his disgraced sister, he turned Clare out of his house, disowning her completely. He instructed his guards to follow Clare, and when she was safely outside of the kingdom, to do away with her and the illegitimate child. Ragnar then returned to his victorious kingdom and never spoke of his youngest sister again.
“Yet Ragnar’s unease at Clare's ramblings and mysterious pregnancy could not be silenced. He toiled for years, searching the mountains for any sign of the magic his forsaken sister had rambled about. No such kingdom was found however. No mortal that now lives in the world of Men has ever encountered the lost races. The Elves, Giants, and Dwarves seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving no trace of their continued existence or whereabouts.
“The Vausthelm Kingdom has grown over the years, doubling in size and grandeur. Sadly, it seems the magic of the old days has been lost forever. Nobody lives who remembers where the Elves and Giants were banished to, and no Dwarf dwelling has ever been discovered."
The silence lay heavy upon the air as Toark's last words echoed into silence. Eóvan shivered slightly, unsure if it was the fading warmth of the fire that had grown dim or the grim beginning attributed to Men in the story that had caused the chill. He had heard bits and pieces of this tale as a young child, but never in such completion. Toark seemed to know a great deal about the legend.
Eóvan longed to ask him questions and learn more, but was having trouble regaining his thoughts. Bryynt, nevertheless, seemed to be less befuddled, although he too seemed a little foggy about the eyes.
“You claim to know much about this folklore,” Bryynt accused, darkly.
“The stories have been passed down through the years,” Toark replied. “I simply try to keep them alive.”
He took no notice of Bryynt's hostility, but rather looked back at Eóvan with sad eyes. Eóvan noticed something there that caught his attention.
“You said in the beginning that this had something to do with ‘who I am’,” he implored. “What did you mean? It seems to me that this is as much about you and Bryynt as it is about me!”
Toark shook his head slowly at boy.
“You weren't listening closely, Eóvan. Did you hear nothing I told you about Clare? Has Anna told you nothing of your own history?” Toark's words scolded, but his eyes searched Eóvan face anxiously.
“What about her?” Eóvan scoffed. “You said that she was murdered.” The quip about Anna stung his heart with a new surge of sadness.
“Aye, lad, she was.” Toark explained. “But Ragnar's guards made a grave mistake when tracking her. You see, Clare was no fool. She knew that her ruthless brother would have his guards follow her, and quickly sought to lose them. When the soldiers finally caught up with her she had already delivered her baby and hidden the child safely in the household of a trusted friend.”
“So you're saying that I'm somehow related to Clare's child?” Eóvan asked skeptically. Toark was crazy!
“No, son.” Toark answered, shaking his head. “I'm not saying that you're related to Clare's child. I am saying you are Clare's child. You, Eóvan, are the son of the Elven prince, Paladin.”
A few moments of silence passed after this profound proclamation, and then Bryynt began to laugh hysterically.
“Eóvan, the son of the Elvish prince and nephew to the human King? You've been smoking too much prairie-weed, Toark!” Bryynt managed to choke out his incredulity before collapsing back into a state of laughter.
Toark said nothing, but filled his pipe yet again. Eóvan was still staring at the old barman in disbelief.
“That is simply impossible, Toark,” he stated rationally, shaking his head at the large man.
“And why is that?” Toark growled, his head snapping up at Eóvan’s blithe remark.
“Well, first of all, my mother's name wasn't Clare,” Eóvan explained patiently. “Secondly, she died giving birth to me.”
Toark shook his head once more.
“That is what Anna told you; that is what Anna told everybody! If the King or his court had known you existed,” the old man shuddered, “it would have been very bad. Very bad indeed.”
Eóvan glared skeptically at the barman, but could think of nothing else to counter the claim. Bryynt came to the rescue, however.
“If Eóvan is who you say he is, why haven't any Elves,” he emphasized the word, “come looking for him?”
“I am left to believe that Paladin has not yet learned of your existence, Eóvan. I am sure that he would have come if he had known.” Eóvan's head was spinning, it was too much information to take in all at once.
“My name is Elvish, isn't it?” he asked. “Eóvan.”
Bryynt stared incredulously.
“You can't actually believe him,” the older boy insisted. “He's shadowing the dragon, Eóvan.”
Eóvan glanced at Bryynt, whose last comment seemed to strike a chord within the cottage; he then looked at Toark, debating.
“Prove it,” he demanded of Toark at last. “If you can prove it, then I will believe you.”
Bryynt snorted at the remark, but otherwise remained silent. It seemed that he wanted to see how far Toark would take this story as well.
“Alright then,” Toark said, stroking his beard in thought. He remained that way for quite some time. “Yes,” he said at last, “that should do it.” He looked down at Eóvan, drawing closer. “Paladin gave a token to Clare when they first met, a symbol of his undying devotion to her. A token which, I'm sure, she would have passed on to you before she left.”
Eóvan stared at Toark in wonderment. He had such a token! Anna kept it in her locked bedroom chest for safe keeping. She had said that it was very rare, and very valuable.
Eóvan jumped up and ran out of the room, into Anna's. He was back before Bryynt could holler in protest. They hadn't entered that room since Anna had died. In his hand, Eóvan held out a small swirling diamond, carved perfectly in an orb, a pigment of dark cerulean blue. It hung from a thin black rope, sparkling off the light from the fire.
Both Toark and Bryynt stared at the token in wonder.
“May I?” Toark asked, respectfully.
Eóvan handed it to him, cautiously. It didn't seem right to have another person handling it, if it really was the token that Toark spoke of. Toark turned the diamond over and over in his hands, holding it very close to his large brown eye, examining it.
“That's an Udarion diamond,” he pronounced at last, handing it back to Eóvan. “I'm sure of it!”
He then noticed the confused looks that both boys reflected back on him.
“They’re very rare, found only in the mines of Unden, the Dwarves' underground fortress,” he added when he saw the quizzical stares that followed his statement.
Eóvan took the token and tied it around his neck.
“You're going to wear it!” Bryynt yelled, aghast.
“Of course,” Eóvan said simply. “It was meant for me to wear, wasn't it?” He had no more protests. While it still seemed absurd that he could be related to two different royal families, something about the rigid proof of the diamond had convinced him to finally believe Toark's story.
“You've both gone mad.” Bryynt muttered cruelly. “I'll not listen to another word of this!”
He jumped up from his chair and stalked out of the cottage, into the tiresome wind that pounded against the heavy stone walls of their home. Eóvan rose to follow him, to explain, but Toark's massive arm blocked the way.
“Let him go, lad,” he said quietly. “It's a lot to absorb in one night.”
Eóvan nodded and sat back down. He had so many questions.
“How do you know so much about...” Eóvan paused for a minute. He still couldn't quite believe he wasn't dreaming. “...about Clare?”
“I had the fortune of meeting her several times in my youth,” Toark replied, eyes clouded over with memories from the past. “She was a wonderful woman.”
“So it's true!” Eóvan accused. “You did use to work for the king!”
“Where did you hear that?” Toark grunted.
“Ceana mentioned it,” Eóvan replied, cowering a bit. Toark's size seemed to double when he was angry. “In passing,” he added after a minute of thought.
“Well yes,” Toark admitted curtly. “I did; but that was a very long time ago.” The tone of his voice told Eóvan not to push the matter, so he changed the subject.
“Why didn't you tell me this before? Why didn't Anna tell me?”
“It wasn't my place,” Toark threw another log on the fire. “But like I said before, Eóvan, Anna wanted to keep you safe. If you had known, would you have been able to resist telling everybody?”
Eóvan reddened in embarrassment. Toark was probably right.
“But why tell me now?” he challenged. “Anna's death seems hardly a reason to blow a secret she's been harboring my entire life.”
“If it were that simple, Eóvan, I wouldn't have said anything. However, the situation in Loreacha seems to be darkening. All the signs are showing that Ragnar is preparing for another war.”
“What,” Eóvan gasped. “Another war? But with whom? You said that all the other races had disappeared from this land.”
“Aye, son. They disappeared from human knowledge, but that doesn't mean they aren't still there. They had to go somewhere! My guess is they've been biding their time, just as much as the Vausthelm King has been.”
“So you think King Ragnar has found the Elves?” Eóvan implored.
“Doubtful,” Toark scoffed. “The power of the Elves has grown in their solitude. I doubt a living soul could find their cities unless the Elves wanted them to. No, Ragnar could not have located their hidden fortress.”
“But how does telling me who I really am help anything? What is the purpose?”
Toark frowned at Eóvan’s inability to follow the facts through to conclusion.
“Eóvan you are the link between the two royal families; the bridge between the two larges races in Loreacha! You have the power to unite the kingdoms and bring peace to this land once more!”
Eóvan's blue eyes, so opposite Toark's brown ones, froze in shock.
“Are we not already at peace? There is no war going on! Why reveal myself and start a full fledged massacre?” Eóvan was beginning to panic slightly at his predicament.
“You would call this peace, Eóvan?” Toark wondered. “Farmers being taxed so greatly that they cannot even feed their families? Hundreds of creatures banished from their homeland in order to satisfy a king whose only ambition is power? Men imprisoned for misdeeds that their grandfathers committed? You would call that peace?”
Eóvan shook his head, eyes wide with horror.
“No, Eóvan,” Toark continued, “we are not at peace.”
“I can’t do it, Toark,” Eóvan whispered, shaking his head in denial. “I cannot restore justice to all of those people. That is not me! I am not a warrior, I am not anything; I am just Eóvan.”
“You hold more power that you think you do,” Toark growled insistently. “You're name alone gives you the strength to fulfill this destiny.”
“My name?” Eóvan marveled. “How does my name do that? What does it mean?”
The young boy held his breath. He had long since wondered the truth behind the foreign name.
“In Elvish, ‘Eóvan’ means ‘gracious leader’, ‘a well born fighter’.”
“How do you know?”
Eóvan's voice had dropped below a whisper, but the old barman did not answer. Eóvan sighed with frustration. The secrecy was beginning to irritate him.
For a quarter of an hour there was no sound in the cottage save for the crackling fire and the puffing of Toark's pipe. Eóvan stared into the dancing flames, pondering the meaning behind all he had learned.
“And if I choose not to?” he challenged. “If I choose to ignore this responsibility you so casually place on me, what then?”
“Then you doom the entire population of Loreacha to a bloody ending!” Toark snarled. “The Elves’ power has increased, but so has the Vausthelm King’s! They would embrace each other in a battle so brutal that it would wipe out all means of survival! There would be no end to the fighting, and hundreds more innocent lives will be lost!
“You're mother gave her life and saved you because she believed in the equality of all races, Eóvan. If you would turn her sacrifice to dirt, you are not who I thought you were. Are you really that selfish, boy?”
Eóvan ducked his head in shame. Toark was right; he was being selfish and heartless. He may not have asked for the weight of this responsibility, but it was his just the same.
“I wouldn't even know where to begin!” Eóvan whispered. “How am I supposed to find the Elves and stop a war before it starts?”
Toark’s eyes were gleaming.
“There is another story that explains that. One that is less known, if you would like to hear it.”
“Yes,” Eóvan nodded eagerly. “Of course I would!”
Toark grunted and reached inside his traveling bag once more. When he found no more prairie-weed, he frowned and abandoned his pipe. Eóvan was more than grateful that Toark had exhausted his supply for tonight.
“These facts are less certain,” Toark began, Eóvan hanging onto his every word. “But it is said that Clare first ran away to avoid an arranged marriage. She had gone to the Great Cliffs in search of an answer. The cliffs were her one sanctuary from the castle life. Clare went there often to be alone and to think.”
Toark cleared his throat. He seemed to lack confidence with this story. Perhaps it was the absence of his pipe that made it so.
“Morrigan had arranged for Clare to marry one of his greatest soldiers, a man who had risen to the top of the army in just a few short years. The man was not much older than Clare and Morrigan thought him to be a fine match for his favorite daughter. Clare did not agree, however. She was loathe to marry against her will and rejected the man at every advance. When Morrigan ordered Clare to accept the soldier's proposal, Clare ran away in desperation.
“As usual, Clare ran to the Cliffs. Only this time, she encountered a group that she did not intend. A small outpost of Elves was camped on the highest cliff, well out of sight from the prying eyes of the Vausthelm Kingdom. They had been keeping watch over the land since their defeat, sending envoys once a year to observe the kingdom. The Elves were determined to be prepared if the king launched another attack.
“The group that Clare met was made up of Paladin, the Elvish prince, and a guard of four others. When Paladin saw Clare's beauty, he let down the magic that was concealing their presence and revealed himself to her. It is said that the two fell in love at first sight.
“Paladin took Clare back to the Elvish Kingdom with him. However, when the Elvish queen learned of this union Clare was turned out of their realm; not because the Elves did not approve of their relationship, but because the Elvish queen knew that Morrigan would not stop searching for Clare until she was found. Her presence left their entire race vulnerable.
“Although Paladin and Clare were deeply in love, they both agreed that their union would break the peace and secrecy that had survived in both worlds for so long. They parted ways and Clare returned home to Vausthelm.”
Toark’s eyes were sparkling with tears but he did not wipe them away. Instead, he turned a watery eye upon Eóvan.
“You know the rest of the story from there, lad.” Toark whispered.
Eóvan nodded in agreement. His own eyes were swimming with tears as well. He fingered the token around his neck, a lump growing painfully in his throat. Never before had he felt so close to his mother. Anna's stories had always been lacking information, and Eóvan now knew what that information was. He looked up at Toark, still confused.
“But that does not explain how to find the Elves,” he protested quietly.
The magic of Toark's stories was beginning to take its toll on Eóvan's energy.
“Ah,” Toark replied. “Yes, I had almost forgotten. When Paladin revealed himself to Clare on the Great Cliffs he bound himself to her, giving her the same token that you now wear as a symbol of that promise. If Clare ever had a need for him, she was to return to the Cliffs and call for him. Paladin’s promise was the he would hear her cries, and would return for her.”
... firstly; pipes aren't disgusting :p... well actually what I just wanted to point out is that it's probably not a very good idea to have Toark lighting the pipe with a match since matches as we know them were only inventet a couple of hundred years ago. Unless it's a fantasy world with gunpowder and steamengines you might wanna say that he lit it with a wooden splinter lit at the fireplace.
) 
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