Jirnethelle had always been a wanderer. Ever since his first steps he had never stayed in one place for long. He spent his childhood roaming between his home village Zailmairia and the neighbouring villages Kzazk and Jayzeriah. As soon as he was old enough, he began visiting the forests on the west side of Aarainia, becoming fascinated with the different races and their cultures.
He had just spent the past two years with the Unicorns and then the Centaurs and was finally ready to return home to his mother and father for a time as he decided where in Aarainia to venture next.
Even a wanderer needed a rock--something ever constant to return to and as Jirnethelle mounted the hilltop that overlooked Zailmairia he expected to see a familiar sight: quaint cottages clustered modestly together, the blooming pinks of the cherry trees surrounding the centre market square, the distant glistening blue of the Zazk Lake that separated Zailmairia from Kzazk, and the Frost Mountains just a jagged line on the horizon.
Instead he saw a blackened blight. The remains of a great fire where his village used to lie and between the village and the lake, a graveyard.
Jirnethelle’s breath left him as he stared at the sight and he blinked several times, rubbing his eyes as if to remove the stain, but no matter what he did, the sight remained unchanged. His breath returned in ragged gasps as he stared, unable to imagine what had happened. Zailmairia had rarely ever changed and he had always known he could be gone for years and the Elven village would remain as constant and unchanging as those who occupied it. And now here it was, burned to the ground. His mind reeling, Jirnethelle scanned the wreckage from the hilltop, looking for some sign of life. Most of the trees were blackened poles and the houses were either nonexistent or had a few walls remaining, but to the east, near the edge of the village, he could see his house. Still standing, looking barely touched by the fire. His heart pounded and he ran down the hill into the village, stumbling over rubble, not stopping until he reached his parents’ house. The two-story cottage his parents lived in hadn’t been touched by the fire and neither had the surrounding yard, save for the cherry tree lined path that had led from the village to the house. The trees that had once blanketed the cobblestone path with pink petals were nothing more than charred stumps while the yard remained thriving, if unkempt.
Jirnethelle approached the house and tried the door to find it open.
“Mom?” Jirnethelle called as he stepped into the house. “Dad?” A sickening smell greeted him and he quickly put his hand over his nose and mouth as he tried not to vomit. Tears pricked his eyes and he tried to ignore the tightening in his stomach as he turned into the sitting room.
“Mom? Dad?” he called again and stopped. There in the sitting room, in her favourite chair, was his mother. Dead.
“No,” the word burst from Jirnethelle in a sob. “Mom.” He took a step forward, reaching out for her before recoiling his hand and clenching his fist under his nose, trying his hardest not to be sick. He closed his eyes. Surely this was just a bad dream and at any moment he’d wake up and find himself back in Kasasia with the Centaurs, the dream a result of one of their strange rituals. He opened his eyes and nothing changed. As he stared at his mother’s corpse he realised his father was still missing. “Dad,” he exhaled and hurried to check the rest of the first floor before venturing up to his father’s study on the second level.
“Dad?” he called and opened the door to the study. “What in Aarainia?” he breathed as he took in the sight. The entire study had been burned. Jirnethelle took a cautious step into the room. There was no sign of his father and all his books and papers were nothing but ash. Jirnethelle stepped out of the room and checked the rest of the house to find no sign of his father anywhere. As the head of the village, it was quite possible his father had gone into the village to try and help put the fire out and get others to safety. He would check the graveyard for any sign of his father, but first he had to bury his mother. He took a shuddering breath and gathered a couple quilts before returning to the sitting room, all the while wondering why his house was left intact, save for the study, and why his mother seemed to be the only one left. He hadn’t seen any corpses as he had run through the village. He spread the quilts on the floor before his mother’s feet and moved her corpse onto them. He started to roll her up when he noticed she was clutching something.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he said before prying her hand open and taking the letter she held. He unfolded it and his eyes widened as he read the contents. It was a letter to his father summoning him to a peace council. Jirnethelle read it several times before he checked for the date. He let out a sigh of relief and the tears rolled freely down his cheeks.
“Thank you, Mother.” The letter was dated eight months ago, which meant, with luck, his father hadn’t been in Zailmairia at the time of the fire. Jirnethelle tucked the letter into his pocket and rolled his mother up in the quilts before taking her outside and placing her on the ground near her favourite flower bed. He went to the shed, grabbed a shovel, and returned to bury his mother amongst her now wild flowers.
When the deed was done, Jirnethelle gave a final farewell to the place that had been his home and left Zailmairia, stopping at the graveyard. None of the graves were marked, but he took the time to say goodbye to those who had perished before he headed east.
If his father had been called away by the king then there was only one place where he’d either be or have been seen: Palaceide, Aarainia’s capital, home to her king and completely on the other side of the land. He had at least six months of travel ahead of him and that was just going by his father’s account and the maps he’d studied. He’d never been to the capital and now it seemed he had his chance, though he would rather it have been under better circumstances.