Visiting Syltar

The morning sun bathed the village in a warm glow, and Amukelo set about his chores with a sense of purpose, determined to lighten his mother's load for the day. Mikal and Jarek were already out in the fields, contributing their share to the family's daily needs. As Amukelo was busying himself around the house, Lyna approached him, her expression thoughtful and serious.

"Amu," she began, using her affectionate nickname for him, "I've thought about your request. You can go to see that elf, but promise me this: if you encounter any danger, or if something doesn't feel right, you will come back immediately. Do you understand?"

Amukelo's face lit up with a mixture of excitement and relief. "Thanks, Mom! I will," he promised eagerly, already mentally preparing for the visit. "I'll finish up my chores, and then I'll go."

Lyna, seeing his enthusiasm, smiled gently and shook her head. "Don't worry about that today. I'll take care of them for you," she said, her voice light.

"Are you sure, Mom?" Amukelo asked, wanting to ensure his responsibilities were met.

Lyna laughed, the sound soft and loving. "Only this time," she affirmed. 

Amukelo nodded, his heart swelling with gratitude and love. "Thanks, Mom," he said, rushing off to find Eagor, his steps quick with anticipation.

As he sprinted out of the house, he shouted over his shoulder, "I love you, Mom!" and didn't stop to see Lyna's tender smile follow him out the door.

He soon found Eagor, who was equally excited about the adventure ahead. Eagor shared that his parents had also given their permission, adding an extra layer of assurance to their plan. Together, they retraced the path to Syltar's house, a journey that took considerable time but was fueled by their high spirits and vivid memories of their last encounter with the enigmatic elf.

The forest welcomed them with its familiar, verdant embrace, and eventually, the boys arrived at the moss-covered house that had been etched in their memories for two years. It stood just as they remembered, seeming both ancient and somehow outside of time.

Amukelo knocked on the door, his voice carrying a mix of respect and nervous excitement. "Hello, is there someone?" He repeated the question a few times, but the silence that followed left them feeling uneasy.

Just as they were about to give in to their worries, a voice came from behind them. "Who are you, and what do you want from me?" The suddenness of the question made both boys jump back in surprise.

Turning around, they saw Syltar emerging from the shadows of the trees, his expression inscrutable. Upon recognizing the boys, his stern demeanor softened slightly. "Oh, that's you? Have you defeated a hog?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and challenge.

Amukelo nodded vigorously, proud yet still catching his breath from the fright. Syltar regarded him thoughtfully, stroking his chin as if weighing the truth of the boy's claim. "I don't sense any lie. Well, that's impressive. How old are you?" he inquired further.

"We're twelve," Amukelo replied, standing a bit taller.

"Very impressive," Syltar conceded with a nod. After a moment's pause, as if making a decision, he gestured towards the open door of his home. "Well, in that case, come in."

Elated and relieved, Amukelo and Eagor followed the elf inside, their hearts pounding not just from their brisk walk but from the anticipation of what this meeting could mean for their futures.

The interior of Syltar's hut was modest, a clear reflection of the solitary life he led deep within the forest. The small space was meticulously organized, containing everything essential for one person's needs. The bed, though simple, was ingeniously crafted from several layers of dried animal skins stretched over a sturdy frame of branches, providing a surprisingly comfortable place to rest. Adjacent to this was a small kitchen area, where a makeshift stove crafted from stones and clay stood against one wall, a few pots and utensils hanging neatly beside it. Shelves lined another wall, holding jars of herbs and various implements that hinted at a life intertwined with the rhythms of the natural world.

The most striking feature of the hut, however, was the stand holding Syltar's great sword. It was placed prominently, the blade gleaming with a quiet menace and a beauty that spoke of countless battles and adventures. The weapon was not just a tool of defense but a piece of art, reflecting the depth of the elf's long and storied past.

As the boys entered, their eyes were immediately drawn to the sword, but Syltar motioned them towards two chairs he had prepared. Settling himself on the bed, his age-worn face broke into a gentle smile, touched by the boys' clear admiration and curiosity. "Okay, so what do you want to hear from me?" he asked, his voice soft yet carrying an echo of authority.

Amukelo, his eyes still flicking back to the sword, turned his attention fully to Syltar. "We want to hear more of your stories. Your last one was amazing," he said with genuine enthusiasm. Eagor nodded eagerly beside him, his excitement palpable.

"Very well," Syltar replied, his eyes twinkling as he prepared to weave them into the fabric of another tale. He paused, collecting his thoughts, then began, his voice lowering to a mesmerizing timbre.

"In the village of Cliffhaven, perched on the edge of the sea, there lived a stonecutter named Evran. He was a master of his craft, beloved by all for the beauty he wrought from the unyielding rock. But beneath this well-loved exterior simmered a rivalry that few knew about, one that would lead to tragedy.

One evening, under the cover of darkness, his envious rival, consumed by bitterness, set fire to Evran's home. The flames consumed everything, taking with them the lives of Evran's beloved family. Devastated and overcome with grief, Evran's heart hardened. He turned away from those who sought to comfort him, vowing to avenge the unjust deaths of his wife and children.

Years passed, and Evran lived only for his revenge. He tracked his rival across lands and seas, his heart growing colder with each passing day. When he finally confronted his enemy, the battle was fierce and unforgiving. Evran emerged victorious, his rival's demise bringing him bitter satisfaction.

But the cost of his vengeance was high. When he returned to Cliffhaven, he found it a shadow of the village he had left. His relentless pursuit had alienated his friends and neighbors, who had once cared for him deeply. Finding the village devoid of warmth for him, and with no family to return to, Evran was consumed by his loneliness.

One day, unable to bear the weight of his solitude and regret, he walked into the cliffs that once echoed with the laughter of his children, disappearing into the mists that shrouded the shoreline, never to be seen again."

As Syltar concluded his story, the room was steeped in heavy silence, the tale's moral lingering in the air like a soft mist. Amukelo and Eagor sat transfixed, the impact of the story evident in their wide eyes and somber expressions.

Syltar looked at them thoughtfully, then noted the fading light outside. "It's getting darker. Go back quickly before it gets dark," he advised, a hint of concern in his voice.

As the boys stood to leave, Amukelo, moved by the story and the storyteller, asked, "Can we come more often to listen to your stories?"

Syltar considered this for a moment, then nodded. "From time to time," he allowed, a smile briefly crossing his features.

Grateful, the boys hurried out of the hut, their minds alive with the images and emotions evoked by Syltar's storytelling. They moved quickly through the dimming forest, the weight of Evran's story adding gravity to their steps, each boy quietly contemplating the lessons of love, loss, and the prices paid for revenge. As they emerged from the forest and back into their village, the echoes of the tale mingled with their thoughts, shaping their young minds with newfound wisdom and a deeper understanding of the complexities of the human heart.