All eyes in the room watched as another leaf broke loose from the tree and floated down to the soil below. The room was as quiet as a tomb.
“That was the fifth one to fall. She is dying.”
For what seemed like another eternity, no one spoke. Twelve elves stood around the oak tree watching and waiting. As another leaf began to fall another of the elves spoke, “And a sixth, we must intervene, or soon there will be nothing left.”
“That is impossible; we cannot aid her this time. One must die for another to be born.”
The elves stood silent as a wind blew through the room, swirling the dead leaves around the base of the tree. The head of this elven council turned away from the rest, walking over to his throne. He carefully sat down in the ornate throne, as if even the most sudden movement would break the chair, or his bones.
“She is in her final days, and I rename this council, as is my right. We will be known as the Council of the Setting Star from this period on.”
The rest of the elves slowly walked towards their seats as if floating above the ground. The bottom of their robes brushed the clean cobble stone of the room as they moved.
Once seating the elves nodded their approval of the name. The governor of the council waited as another leaf fell and then spoke again, “Her time to grow has come and past. I sat in this very chair as her seed was planted. I was given the task to watch as she grew, prune away the weeds which threatened to choke out her life, and to ensure she was given aid from Rian when needed. I have done what I must, but we cannot allow her sickness to spread to our lands. A forest is more important than a single tree.”
The governor nodded to a lone elf dressed in black mourning robes, “Call the others, and alert them to our decision. This is the will of the Council of the Setting Star.”
The elf walked with a quick step to an ancient looked horn covered in writings so old, even the most ancient of the elves could not fully remember what it said. The servant of the council pressed his lips up to the curved horn, easily twice his height and size. He forced the air from his lungs as if he was expelling an evil from his chest.
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Days earlier the governor of the council stood in the chambers reading the same thing in every report. The war machine of Varana was active again. Troops were amassing in the capital as if to ride into a new war. Scouts were advancing towards both Dasaria and Rian itself. At the bottom of this stack of reports was notice of a celebration being planned in Dasar to honor the Queen. In the centuries that the governor had lived, he had seen much of Varana’s will, and knew these events must be linked in some fashion.
Without warning, sounds of alarm echoed from the treetops, the call for bows and blades was rarely heard this far into the woods. As he rushed from his chambers he could not believe his immortal eyes, a Varanite column standing in perfect form carrying a banner of treaty.
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Outside of Dasar, the forest was alive with movement, if you only knew where to look. Occasionally out of the corner of the Varanite sentry’s eye he thought there was a flash of brown and green, but with falling leaves, he couldn’t be sure. By the time the sense that he was not alone had settled on his mind, the first dagger had cut his throat.
“Very good little brother, now only ten thousand more to go, and we will be close enough to see Dasar’s gates.”
“Rian will send troops, then it won’t be just us enjoying the hunt,” the younger elf whispered. “Now let us head back, I am sure the rest await our report.”
As the pair vanished back into the shadow of the forest, an echoing wave came over them. The elves put their hands over their ears to no avail. The calling sound of the horn seemed to fill their very body.
“It cannot be…” the younger elf hissed through locked teeth, “What is happening!?”
The pair ran west to the makeshift camp. Although only less than half the hour had passed, the camp was already breaking up. “Take only what we need, we have little time.” The younger elf stammered, “It is true then, they have made the call? But what of Dasar, what of those inside?” The scout captain did not pause in his movements, “Rian has called us to return, the choice is upon us all, Our Lady would not do so easily.”
The two brothers stood frozen for a moment, and then the elder began collecting supplies as his younger sibling only stood watching. He lowered his head, spoke to Ki softly, and then rose his head to call out to his older brother. His brother did not need to hear the words, for the immortal grace had already left his younger brother’s eyes, and already the burden of time had taken hold in his face. “You will only have perhaps a score of years before the end comes. I hope your life is worth this conquest brother. May Ki smile upon you.” The younger elf only smiled, feeling the burden of mortality already in his bones and joints. He turned, collected his bow, and headed back towards Dasar.
Across Dasaria the call had been heard. Elves of all kinds knew this sound, for it had been written and spoken of as a matter of lore throughout their history. Few of the elders had lived in times when it was used to call those of Rian back to her borders. In crowded towns and cities, the other races looked on in confusion as elves fell to their knees calling for an end to the tormenting noise that they alone could hear. Innate as the magic of the elves was this sound, only those of elven blood knew its meaning and could hear its beckoning call. Those of half blood heard it as faint as a whisper.
All that could hear this bitter sweet sound instinctively knew its meaning. Return to Rian, return to their Mother, or give away freely their immortal lives. The choice was each elf’s own decision, but the consequence was the same. Refuse to answer the call, and a natural death would come in short time.
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The Governor lowered his head as the wave traveled toward Dasaria. Her fate was now sealed, and the great tree in front of him foretold of its fall.
“As this oak withers, so will Dasar and her lands. There is little more which we can be done. As one thing dies, another will be reborn. The Empire of Varana has offered a treaty which we will honor, as our word is as immortal as our lives.”
The Governor watched as the oak’s leaves began to lose its lush green hue, and slowly the leaves began to yellow with age.
“In trade for our borders to seal for one generation of human time, they will leave our borders be. Our campaign against the Empire will cease, and our kind will remain as they always have. In time we will send our fair kind back into this new Empire, so we can see what the new sons and daughters of this Empire will be.”