I have a photographic memory. It is a rare condition, even though elves were deemed to have better memory. I remember my mother, still in her 20s, dancing whilst holding me in her arms. I remember when I was 5, I shot my first arrow. I remember that on my 14th birthday, I beat both my parents at archery. I remember the Ethelyn Disaster that occurred 3 years later. Everyone said the river ran red for four days and nights, but it was so much worse in my memories. 

The night sent goosebumps up my arm. The moon’s shine was suffocated amongst the rumbling clouds. The sky was left at darkness’s mercy. Black clouds roamed the skies. 

I sat on our balcony and stared with worry, father beside me. He sewed a tapestry, the thin red line weaving through the fabric with grace. Both my parents excelled at the arts involving a needle, a gift that somehow didn’t pass on to me. 

He must have sensed my distress when he spoke, “It’s the Storm of Ethlyn nearing us. Nothing out of ordinary. Sugar, you haven’t told her the story?” 

A story? 

The door creaked as mother entered the balcony, shaking her head as her silver earrings clashed and sang. 

“She was only 2 when the last storm came,” mother deadpanned. Sometimes, even I couldn’t understand whether she was joking or not. 

“Why don’t you tell me now?” I beamed a smile, hugging her waist. 

Earlier, Mother went for a stroll with her friends, so she was still wearing her favorite dress. The milky silk glimmered, undulating and flowing like water in my hold. I suspected the dress was one of the family heirlooms; neither mother nor father confirmed this theory, though. 

Speaking human speech, the dress is “to die for.” Even now, I could tell Father was shamelessly staring at the gown, the tapestry forgotten. 

Father zoned back and explained, “It’s your classic elf-and-human love story. They met and spent 10-ish years peacefully. The human dies, and the elf, Ethlyn, cries and fades. The storm is just a cycle of the story. 15 years of peace and love, then Ethlyn cries again.” 

“You make it sound so boring. I want to hear Mom. She’s much better at telling stories.” I teased, imitating Gadriel’s accent, my mother’s hyper-sensitive and bratty friend. Mother spent the day with her and a few others. Mother and I like her, but Father doesn’t because Gadriel gives him a headache. 

“Perhaps another time; I’m exhausted right now,” Mother sighed, rubbing her temples. Perhaps Mother became old enough to get headaches, or perhaps Gadriel is extra loud today. 

Mother turned to Father, “Did anything odd happen today?”

Father frowned in puzzlement as I followed suit. 

“Gadriel sensed something. I did too. It was only for a second, but it’s not something good.” Gadriel is always right on the sixth sense. Humans call it a “women’s intuition,” like when the husband cheats, the wife always knows. Whatever that is, Gadriel has it. The last time she screamed. She pointed at the river and ordered Father to swim; an elven boy was found and saved from drowning. 

Mother’s smooth hand wandered atop my head, mindlessly stroking. My hair is messed up at this point, but I didn’t notice. 

I did notice Mother’s scent. The familiar rain and oak carried a hint of something odd, an indistinguishable yet present scent. 

“Nothing, maybe it’s the storm,” Father shrugged as I brainstormed non-weird ways to tell Mother she smelled different. 

Maybe it is the storm. 

I hummed as my shoulders relaxed. The wind stilled. 

A thud came from behind us. Father dropped his tapestry, his hands shaking, and his face paled. Mother urged us into the house. I wanted to ask before I sensed it too. 

Rotten stench mixed with jealousy and regret. Agony-filled shouts. Thumping steps, bringing dirt, mud, and blood. 

Mother disappeared out of the bedroom and came back with several weapons, her silky white hair tied back. She held her sword, her knuckles whitened as they tightened around the handle. She handed me my bow and a dagger. 

“When this shines blue, orcs are nearby,” Mother gestured to the dagger, her voice unnaturally commanding and steady. 

I nodded, pulling the dagger out. The blade shimmered with pale blue, flickering like an almost burnt-out candle. 

Mother noticed the glow. Her eyes darkened as she sighed yet again, murmuring to Father. I found out much later that flickering blue meant at least an army of orcs. 

Father took his sword and bow from Mother. He held the same determination and commanding demeanor as he addressed me, “Hide it will. Men will slaughter for such magic.” 

A crash came from downstairs. Mother cursed under her breath and handed me a package, the ones we would use for traveling. 

“Go from the backdoor and to the rivers. Follow the river downstream until you see human settlements. Remember how Aunt Clement moved to Minas Tirith? Go find her.” Mother instructed. 

“Take the barrels and float down the river,” Father inputted. The stench worsened, making my stomach tumble. It smelled like blood and sweat. The once-beings-of-light reaped out of every elvish trait. Orcs. Elven magic still runs deep in every orc’s blood. We were taught in school that every orc was once a friend or family, familiar yet twisted. 

“Are you trying to get her killed?” Mother barked in time with another crash down the hall. The trotting of orcs, their barbaric mewling, neared our room by the second. 

“It’s safer than being in plain sight,” father explained. 

“Go. Now.” The orcs screeched. I caught a glimpse of pointed ears and their distorted features. Father shoved me away.