It was autumn on the day that Cyren Valgella son of Eroleth Valmor and Aya Ryella and nephew of King Hadmir Valvaris was born. He was a happy, giggling, baby with rosy cheeks and the most elegant point in his elven ears. Eroleth and Aya were terribly proud. At least they were until Cyren reached a certain age.
The kingdom of the elves, known as Treakha, was unkind to those creatures of half blood. Not even half-elves were spared. Half-orcs worked the fields while half-elves worked as servants. Cyren Valgella didn't understand why this was and as he grew older he started to ask questions.
"Mother?" he asked.
"Yes, sapling?" His mother smiled. She looked up even as her fingers continued to play over the strings of a harp. She had such a lovely smile, always painted rose red, and it shined lovingly in her eyes.
"Why do the half-elf children have to work? Can't they come and play with me?"
Her fingers slipped on a string. Her smile no longer reached her eyes. "Of course not, Cyren. Elves should be among their own kind. Besides, those children will not be as clever or as civilized as you. You would not like them."
Cyren pressed his lips together, thinking it over. He dug his bare toes into the strings of the carpet. It swirled in a pattern of colorful constellations. It was a map of the stars that hung over the palace grounds where he had lived all his life. "Are you sure about that?" he asked.
Her smile went away leaving Cyren feeling cold as though he had said a terrible thing. "Of course, my child. Mother knows well what the half creatures are like." She nodded and took a breath. She didn't look at him as she went back to her playing.
Cyren wasn't convinced by his mother's words. He kept asking questions and so his parents sent him away every chance they got and the young elf was nannied by whoever would take him. Most of whom were the very half-elf servants they warned him away from.
A seamstress named Lilac was the first to invite him into her little family. Her husband had been taken to serve in the army, yet with her three children she was never lonely. She had so much love to give and so Cyren never went without feeling love even if it didn't not come from those who should have loved him unconditionally. He played with the children whose grandfather had been human, who were considered less than he because of this small impurity to their bloodline. They treated him as a brother. Over the years, all of the half-elves who lived at the palace became his family more than his own blood ever did.
Cyren grew into an adult who carried himself with compassion, with understanding for others. He did not believe in the entitlement of 'pure-blooded' elves. Nor did he see reason to believe that those who were different were less than him.
So when Cyren came of age he rallied his friends, the half-bloods, and left Treakha. Two hundred half-elves and half as many half-orcs followed him into the dangerous forest of Sundermond Grove, but King Hadmir would not let them go quietly. Not only did he swear that Cyren had stolen his property, but he proclaimed that Cyren meant to declare himself king and take up the fortress on the other side of the grove.
Cyren had no such violent intention, but violence found him regardless.
The battle lasted nearly a week. In the final moments, Cyren stood among the bodies. The forest floor was stained with blood. Arrows stuck out of corpses while others had been sliced to bits. He walked among them, bile rising in his throat. There he found his mother, Lilac, and her three children. He broke down, falling onto the ground beside them. The hardness he had been forging in his heart over the many days of battle shattered and became shrapnel which left him wheezing. He closed their terrified eyes and ran his hand through the soil. With a gentle hand he smeared each of their foreheads with dirt. He had failed to save them. All he could offer them was dignity in death. He sat beside them and cried for many hours until he felt numb.
Field hands and servants weren't fighters. He should have known better. He should have known the king would send his army after them. These deaths were on him, their blood on his hands, their bodies on his shoulders. Cyren could not live with the carnage he had wrought. So few had survived and those that did had been taken back to Treakha. His attempt to free those who were innocent had failed. And so Cyren Valgella was left to rot among the carnage. Only Ayen Fenfir left the forest alive. Fenfir, for it had been the name of the only mother who's love he could remember.
Ayen traveled alone speaking to few and giving even fewer his name. He might have become a mystery if anyone looked at him twice. Half-elven refugees from Treakha were common enough and no one considered that he might have been the royal traitor.
Since few people looked twice at him and Ayen was used to a life of keeping his head down, stealing came easy. It was hard to feel bad about it when he knew that the more money a person had the less moral they became. He had seen it himself. It wasn't only the elves who lived in the palace who were cruel. The Lords and Earls and Viscounts he had met were all the same. Taking from them came with a feeling of justice even if the loss of a few coins was only a small misfortune to the rich.
Ayen traveled between cities, putting as much distance between himself and Treakha as he could. He didn't see as much of the same disdain for differences here. Surely, it was there in the half-elves who were forced into slums and the half-orcs who were looked down on. Yet, this divisiveness often began and ended with the wealthy and powerful. Humans were the most abundant everywhere he went and he was admittedly fascinated by them. Humans were broad, hairy, folk with booming, often deep voices. Such excellent storytellers they were, too. Each city had its own stories and its own heroes. Some had tales of dangerous criminals or beasts that lived in nearby caves. None of them spoke the name Cyren Valgella. They told no tales of a thieving young Lord.
Parlin town wasn't home, but nowhere was anymore. Still it was a place that was unruly and unregulated. The city guards were corrupt drunkards who didn't care who did what unless money was involved. So Ayen honed his skills over several years. None of his crimes came to any trouble until he was twenty-three and it had been five years since he left Treakha.
"That's the one! That tree-fucker's been stealing off my cart for weeks!" His accuser was a merchant from the coast who brought jewels and pearls from the shore. How he'd caught Ayen swiping pearls behind his back, he had no idea, but now the city guard was after him because of course a merchant like that would have the funds to pay them off.
Ayen ran down winding streets until he reached a trellis covered in morning glory. He climbed up onto the roof and leaped to the next one over. The guards weren't brave enough to climb, but two of them had bows and they weren't afraid to murder a potential criminal.
"Haven't you ever heard of innocent until proven guilty?" Ayen called down to them, dodging an arrow that almost clipped his shoulder.
"Come down and we won't hurt ya!" one of them called.
Ayen rolled his eyes. "How stupid do I look to you?" They both reached for another arrow and Ayen ran before he could get hit. He spent much of the night running and hiding. No one offered him any help, but he couldn't blame them as arrows whizzed past his head. When fatigue threatened to ruin him, Ayen found a place to hide among the rubbish bins behind a book binder. The bins smelled like old glue and paper pulp, but it was better than a jail cell.
The next day, he knew he couldn't stay in Parlin Town. The next city down the road was known as West Catoig, a place considered terribly unlucky for thieves, but Ayen was sure he could prove them wrong.
"You make your own luck," Ayen told himself. Then he stole a tent and a bedroll right off a sleeping traveler's back and a loaf of bread from a baker's stall and he set on, down the road.
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