The Dark Forest, Part 1

this is a story i wrote that's too short for a book, so i'm doing it in serial format here. i'll post it in three sections, one a week. cheers! it's called the dark forest.
-enna


The Dark Forest
Prologue
The Advent of the Dark Elf

People speak of evil in hushed tones. They never say its name out loud. Even if they know it is there, they won’t acknowledge it. Or they don’t recognize it when it walks into their lives. It’s easier to simply ignore the evil, and hope that it doesn’t become so great that it must be stopped. By then, it is too late.

We did not recognize evil when it walked into our forest, that day long ago. I was unable to recognize it; I was not even a day old. But I have heard the stories.

In the months before I was born, a tall, dark stranger entered the village. No one had ever seen him before. They said he was a sorcerer, an elf. He never gave a name. He simply walked around the square a few times, muttering under his breath, then left without speaking to anyone.

No one thought anything of it, until our beloved king grew sick. He clung to life for two whole months, then died quietly. That very day, the dark stranger, the elf, came back and took over the castle. It was not a difficult job; the king had no heirs, and the army feared his skills with dark magic. Starting that night, the darkness began to overcome the daylight. At night, fearsome creatures began to prowl. No one went out after nightfall.


I was born the same night the king died and the Dark Elf took over. My parents had been waiting eagerly for my birth, my mother having gone through two miscarriages already. However, something went wrong that night. She died, not fifteen minutes after I was born.

So I came into a world of encroaching darkness, and the Dark Elf began his reign. Father moved out of the village not long after Mother’s death, into a small cottage about half a mile from the village. Here, he raised me. He and I, and the rest of the villagers, cowered in the darkness and prayed for the daylight to overcome the darkness.


Remember what I said about people being unable to uproot evil once it has taken hold? I was wrong. There is one way that evil can be overcome once it has a solid hold, and that is by a supreme act of that which is stronger. Someone just needs to find it.

Remembrance
After finishing the milking, I walk through the door of the little cottage my father and I share. He looks up from his seat at the table and smiles at me softly, then beckons to the chair next to him. A place is set, with steaming oatmeal and an empty glass.

He doesn’t talk much anymore, my father. He said once that sorrow was best expressed in silence. Sometimes, I’m treated to a rare story of my mother, or the happy days before the darkness. I hope to hear one today. He is a gifted storyteller; he used to be a minstrel before he met my mother, before the darkness covered our forest.

I pour myself some of the new milk, then sit down to eat my breakfast. For a little while, the only sounds are my spoon against my bowl, the scratching of my father’s pen against parchment as he makes a list of what he needs from the village, and the birds chirping outside. As I finish the oatmeal, I hear his chair scrape against the floor as he stands up and walks to a cabinet.

“What are you getting, Father?” I am confused; we rarely have anything other than oatmeal with some form of berries for breakfast.

He turns, smiling. In his hands is a small cake, a deep, rich brown with little red spots. “I didn’t forget, Amarie. Chocolate with cherries, just...”

“The way I like it,” I finish with him, smiling. I get out of my chair and give him a hug. “Thank you.”

He kisses my forehead gently, then hands the cake to me. He makes an effort to smile as he says, “You are eighteen today. I hope...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I know why. It was my mother’s eighteenth birthday when she had me, and died. I know how he wanted to finish his sentence: “I hope your birthday is better than your mother’s.”

I set the cake down and hug him tightly. He hugs me back, and we stand there a moment, each grieving in our own way.

He finally lets me go, and hands me the cake again. “Go ahead and eat it. I need to get to the village.”

I nod. “Hurry back. The sun will set by noon.”

He smiles. “Nothing will happen to me, Amarie.” With this final word, he is gone.


The Town Burns
Today is a hard one for me. As I celebrate my daughter’s birthday, I try to show only the happiness I feel for her, not the sorrow within my soul. I loved my wife almost more than life itself. Amarie is the only thing that gets me out of bed each morning. She looks so much like her mother, her namesake. Her hair is just the same, a flaming gold that cascades down her back and refuses to be tamed. Her eyes, though, are mine, a blue of glaciers and ice.

I set out for the market at a brisk pace. Despite my words to my daughter, I know that if I do not make it back to the cottage by noon, when the darkness becomes complete, I will not live to see my daughter again.

As I near the village, I hear screams. The closer I come, the warmer it becomes, although it is never warm enough for sun-loving plants to grow. I begin to sweat, not entirely from the heat. Another scream prompts me to break into a run. Once I come within sight of the village, though, I stop and begin to go more cautiously.

The village proper is in flames. Most of the buildings have already been burnt to the ground, but haystacks, wagons and a few of the buildings still throw sparks into the air. I have not heard any screams for a while now. I begin to go toward the village, leaving the cover of the trees, when a hand grabs the back of my tunic and pulls me back.

I spin around, my hunting knife in my hand in an instant. A villager, one I know well, holds up his hands. “Kristof. It’s me. Ildar.”

I lower my knife. “Ildar. It’s good to see you.” As I walk towards him, he crumples to the ground. I rush over to him, and only then do I notice the terrible wound across his scalp bleeding freely.

I start to rip a piece of my tunic to make a bandage, but Ildar places his hand on mine. “Kristof, no. It’s too late. You need to know though...” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then continues quietly. “The Dark Elf is looking for your daughter.”

Amarie? “Why is he looking for her?”

“You know the legend about the sacrifice?”

I nod, and he continues, stopping every other word or so to catch his breath. “He thinks Amarie is the one that is meant to be the sacrifice.”

I catch my breath. The legend he speaks of is a sacrifice to the dark god Pyragmon. It is said that if a girl with hair of flame and eyes of ice is sacrificed on a night with no moon, the forest will be covered in darkness forever. And the sorcerer thinks that my daughter, my lovely daughter with her flaming golden locks, is to be the sacrifice.

“NO!” I turn to run, but his hand is on my tunic hem, pulling me close. He speaks so softly that I can barely hear him.

“Beware the Dark Elf. His power is dependent upon darkness. The darker it is, the stronger he is. He knows where you live...”

His hand loosens as his eyes glaze over in death. I stay, caught with horror, then turn and run up the south path to the cottage, where my unknowing daughter waits for my return...and where the Dark Elf is going, even now.