Chapter Two: The Iron Path

Aidan slowly pushed himself out of the dirt and raised his hands, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. These were the vicious little creatures he’d imagined in his mother’s stories, jabbing their tiny weapons at him. Frankly, he didn’t think brooch pins and toothpicks could mortally wound him. On the other hand, his nose was still smarting where Twig had thumped it earlier. Perhaps these creatures were much stronger than they looked. He already knew their needle-like teeth were well equipped to draw blood, which was enough to leave him quivering like a pup in the snow.

While he was still frantically trying to plan his next move, one of his Lilliputian attackers sprang forward without warning and poked him in the kneecap with a pair of brass nail scissors. Aidan yelped in pain and tried to stand automatically to get away from the Treejumper, thwacking the top of his head soundly against the roof of the cavern. The impact made him see stars, and shook a handful of loose dirt down upon the army of Treejumpers. They scurried backward chirping in fright, still brandishing their tools at him.

After rubbing his sore scalp, Aidan sat back on his heels (which was all he really had room to do) and held up his hands with a sigh. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he promised, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Er… as long as you promise not to hurt me, that is.”

A different Treejumper stepped forward, pulling their overzealous, scissor-wielding comrade back into line with the others. They were armed with a bone cutlass the size of a sewing pin, most likely forged from the rib of a small rodent. On their head was a golden thimble decorated with feathers and dried flower petals. Like Twig their wings were silver, while most of the other Treejumpers' wings were clear as glass with spots of green or brown at the tips.

Thimble-Head poked their tiny sword against Aidan’s uninjured kneecap. The pokes were sharp enough for Aidan to feel them but not hard enough to break through his trousers or skin. They felt experimental, cautious even, like the Treejumper was trying to figure out what exactly Aidan was. Their large eyes narrowed and their irises glowed an inquisitive purple as they jangled at him. Although he had no idea what the creature was saying, Aidan was certain there was a question in those high-pitched jingles.

“I’m an Elfkin,” he said, although he wasn’t sure if the Treejumpers even knew what an Elfkin was. “I don’t have any weapons, if that’s what you want to know.” He tried not to squirm as the pokes moved to his bleeding kneecap. “Easy, that hurts!”

Despite his protest, Thimble-Head seemed fascinated by the trickle of blood dripping down his knee from the tiny cut. They chimed resolutely to the rest of the Treejumpers, who visibly relaxed as a unit. They didn’t lower their arms though, and in fact seemed bolstered by whatever Thimble-Head had told them.

“Yes, I bleed.” Aidan barely covered a hiss as he gently nudged Thimble-Head away from his injury. “…and I feel pain, too. Knock it off, okay?”

Nail Scissors tinkled menacingly at him and leapt forward, trying to jam their tiny weapon into his gut with all their might. His belt buckle took the brunt of the attack though, allowing him to pry the nail scissors out of their microscopic hands before they could do any real damage. As a show of good faith, Aidan gave the scissors to Thimble-Head right away, who wasted no time using them to thump Nail Scissors on the back of the head.

The argument between the two Treejumpers that followed was surprisingly loud and painful to Aidan. Of course, he had no idea what it was about but he had an inkling it involved him. While their arguing reached a crescendo, Aidan took the opportunity to better examine the cavern he'd fallen into. Well, “cavern” might be giving the cramped space too much credit. It more resembled an oversized fox den with its curved walls and hard-packed earthen ceiling. There were even a handful of sharp roots poking through that had scratched his scalp when he'd struck it.

Aidan pawed the ceiling above him slowly and carefully. He was looking for the trap door that had spat him out here, which blended in seamlessly with the rest of the ceiling after it had closed. While not at all claustrophobic, his body was already feeling sore and stiff from being folded up in the cramped little den.

On second thought, he wondered if he would be better off staying underground. All that lay above him was the Forest of Enq: endless darkness, fear, and – of course – Nobody. Aidan was not at all eager to face that entity again. At the very least, the Treejumpers had lots of light here down in the den, glowing from torches the size of matchsticks studded all along the earthen walls. It was much warmer here too than the rest of Enq, which was bitterly cold even though it was the peak of Midsummer beyond the borders of the Forest. All in all, it was quite cozy... apart from the army of tiny, winged monsters threatening to kill him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime near his hip. Aidan looked down with a start to see Twig balanced on his upper thigh. They were still wearing his handkerchief, but took it off somberly as they crawled toward his knee. His heart softened into warm goo and collected in a puddle at the bottom of his stomach as they dabbed his injury with the corner of the bright yellow cloth.

“It’s okay,” he said, gently taking the square of fabric from them while he had the chance. “It’s just a scratch. Don’t worry about me.” As he folded his handkerchief up to return it to his back pocket, his fingertips brushed the delicately embroidered stitching along the edge. In that moment, a childlike yearning overcame him. He realized what he needed to do… what he’d wanted to do from the moment he set foot in this miserable forest. “I gotta go home, Twig,” he said, surprised at how badly his eyes were stinging. “My mother will be waiting for me. Can you show me the way? Please?”

Thimble-Head snatched Twig off his leg a moment later. They chirped at Twig in a chastising manner, pointing at Aidan every now and again. Twig just folded their arms defiantly and chittered back sharply, their irises flickering back and forth from red to pink. It struck Aidan then how similar Thimble-Head and Twig looked to one another. Both had the same spiky black hair, pale skin, and round faces, although Thimble-Head was much bigger than Twig. In fact, Twig was smaller than any of the other Treejumpers by a fair margin. After a few more angry jingles back and forth, Thimble-Head tugged on their oversized ears and stamped their feet, then waved at Nail Scissors with a defeated tinkle. The flaxen-haired Treejumper hopped to the largest root over Aidan’s head and tugged on it, which to Aidan’s surprise made the wall behind him open up like a book.

With a soft cry and a swear, Aidan tumbled backward into a stone chamber just large enough for him to stand up in. It was quite dark, but he could just barely make out three passages of matching carved stone branching from his position – two ahead of him, and one behind. His back crackled and popped as he straightened with a wince, chafing the pins and needles out of his legs. “Thank you,” he said. “…but I still don’t know the way out.”

Twig hopped onto his shoulder in a single bound and pointed to the wall on his left. He followed their tiny finger to a metal plaque screwed into the rock, illuminated by the light of a cobweb-covered bronze lantern. Three kinds of runes were engraved upon it, but he could only understand one: the language of the Elfkin he’d learned in school. Even so, the plaque was very old and some of the letters were worn off, requiring him to squint to see them. “Follow the Iron Path to find The Light,” he read slowly. When he was certain he’d read the message correctly, he checked below his feet. There was nothing there however except more stone. On instinct, he then cast his gaze upward.

A thick vein of glimmering silver metal sparkled over his head, with tiny offshoots spider-webbing in all directions. Aidan’s hand was drawn to it automatically, which left microscopic flecks glittering on his finger pads. Curious, he brought his fingertips to the tip of his tongue, then spat to remove the familiar metallic twang the flecks left behind in his mouth. “Iron,” he deduced. He took the lamp off the wall and held it before him, shedding more light on the glittering river embedded in the stony ceiling. The long sparkling path ran down the length of the right-hand tunnel only, until it disappeared into the darkness. Lifting the lamp a little higher allowed Aidan to see that the end of that tunnel angled upward a bit more than the other two. “Alright,” he breathed. “Iron Path; got it. Well, here goes nothing, I guess.”

Hours must have passed while Aidan was in the tunnels. It was most likely well after dark, and he’d missed dinner based on the deep, nagging rumbles coming from beneath his ribs. The Iron Path seemed to stretch on forever, though. Just when he thought it was angling upward more and he was nearing the surface, it would dip down and level out again for another hundred yards. Aidan’s legs ached from walking, and he’d nearly worn through the thin leather soles of his boots. Part of him wondered if it wouldn’t be better to stop and make camp in the tunnels, then resume his journey in the morning. His instincts told him doing so was a bad idea, however.

There were sounds of movement in the dark just beyond the edges of his lantern’s glow. Every time he moved the light, the quiet scratching and scurrying would echo down the tunnel toward him. When he would turn to see what was making it however, the noises would cease. Some deep, instinctual part of him knew that if he stopped to rest, whatever was causing that sound wouldn’t be able to resist overpowering him. A hunger lingered in those tunnels; one that was deep, nameless, and ancient, and that could never be satisfied. And so, Aidan walked a little faster despite how weary he was, keeping the lullaby on his lips to ward off the darkest shadows.

The tunnels themselves fascinated him. They were clearly dug out by some sentient race long ago, most likely during the Time of Darkness. What Aidan couldn’t figure out was who had dug them. Men were barbarians, who had neither the skill nor the tools to build something like this. The Elfkin could have done it, but the rough-hewn stone lacked the signature polish of Elfkin craft that he knew so well. Besides that, there were precious few Elfkin who enjoyed traveling underground, and the passages were much too low and squat to accommodate the typical Elfkin’s tall, willowy frame. “Dwarves,” Aidan murmured to the tiny creature on his shoulder. “Dwarves made these tunnels, Twig… but why?”

To his knowledge, the ancient Dwarven Kingdom lay far to the East, on the other side of the World. The Dwarves were all but extinct too due to their nasty habit of intermarrying with the Men who lived on their borders. That was half the reason that the Higher Born Elfkin despised them so much, because they refused to keep their bloodlines pure. For a moment, Aidan automatically stopped walking, lost as he was in his thoughts. “What are Dwarven tunnels doing this close to Elysium? These shouldn’t be here. Unless…” His eyes widened, as Kyden’s old stories came flooding back to him. “…‘The Dwarves found The Light underground, and with the aid of the Elfkin hammered it back into the sky where it belonged’,” he murmured, echoing the words of the bedtime story he knew by heart. “Could those stories actually be true?”

The scratching and scurrying echoed behind him again, this time much closer than before. Aidan spun around to face the noise with a gasp, backpedaling at what he saw. A tendril of shadow that looked frighteningly like a large, skeletal hand with claws slinked away from his light, almost faster than his eyes could catch it. “We’ve gotta get out of here,” he panted. Aidan stuffed Twig into his breast pocket for safekeeping, which earned an irate chirp from the Treejumper, then bolted down the tunnel as fast as his legs would carry him.

Aidan didn’t stop running until he was totally out of breath. Even then, he slowed to only a light jog as he was too afraid to stand still in the tunnel for even a moment. Thankfully it had started sloping upward again, and kept doing so until he came to a heavy set of wood and iron doors. Thick layers of rust and mold coated the lock and hinges, and small roots wormed their way through gaps in the rotting wood. The heavy lock was completely seized with rust; there was no way the tumblers inside it would budge even if he had the key to it, which he didn’t. After studying the hinges for a moment, however, Aidan reached into his tool belt for his screwdriver. Twig cheeped from his breast pocket in confusion, but he ignored them for now.

“C’mon,” he grunted, prying at the first rusty pin from the lower left hinge. “Just a little more, and –… yes! Got it!” The pin popped free and crumbled in his grip after a bit more leverage, and the one above it did the same. Aidan laughed dryly and blew the dust off the head of his screwdriver. “Looks like Kyden taught me something useful after all.” He shook off the thought as he put his shoulder to the door, not wanting to owe anything to the miserable old Elfkin. After a few good shoves the door buckled with a loud squeal and a clunk, allowing Aidan to scramble out of the tunnels and into the fresh air.

To his surprise, he was back on the hilltop not far from where he entered the Forest. He rolled onto his back and laid there in the grass for the longest time, breathing deeply of the warm summer air with his eyes closed and trying not to weep. There was a moment or two down in the tunnels where Aidan wasn’t sure if he would ever taste fresh air again. Now he was certain he wanted to taste nothing else for the rest of his life. His brow rumpled with confusion after a few moments though, when a new scent was carried on the salty/sweet perfumed wind: the odors of smoke, ash, and copper.

When Aidan opened his eyes and sat up to look toward the Glimmering Sea, his heart jumped into his mouth. The great Floating City of Elysium was a smoldering ashen crater. The flames that had consumed Lesser Elysium had all but burned out, but smoke still plumed thick and angry from the shimmering quartz spires of Greater Elysium. The smoke stained them a dull, lifeless grey, making them resemble enormous granite tombstones in the pale light of dawn. From where Aidan sat paralyzed, blood-curdling screams carried on the wind directly to him… cries of agony, and great sorrow.

Aidan’s cheeks were damp with tears as his body rose off the ground like a puppet on wobbly strings. “Mother,” he whispered, stumbling forward. “Mother… Mother!” Every time the word left his lips his arms and legs pumped a little faster, until he was sobbing it like a child and running full speed for the gates of Lesser Elysium. He had to find her. He had to make sure she was alright. The heat of the ashes was still intense enough to stagger him when he reached the docks of Lesser Elysium. Most of the boats were gone, suggesting some people at least had gotten out. The carnage that greeted him however showed that most were not as lucky.

Every home he passed was a charred husk of what it had once been. He had to look away from the countless twisted, mangled bodies in the streets, and the catatonic faces of their parents, siblings, and life mates who held them. None dared look his way as he passed by; they were all frozen in shock and grief, their faces stained with ash and tears. Aidan kept swallowing to chase back the bile crawling up his throat, and to stem his own tears. What could have caused such devastation? Some of the bodies that he braved a glimpse at had been slashed with a blade, while others had clearly been attacked by a large animal. No fire alone could have created wounds like that. Someone… some thing… had done this.

Most of Greater Elysium was left untouched. There were a few fires that the Higher Born were feverishly working to put out, and plenty of dead based on the shrieks and wails drilling his ears. Lesser Elysium seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage, however. It made sense, as the upper half of the city was more heavily fortified than the lower half. The Higher Born were the elite, after all: the diplomats, the architects, the law-keepers, the trained soldiers. They needed more protection than the helpless artisans, merchants, and fishermen that populated the Lower Born, didn’t they?

At his sides, Aidan’s hands curled into fists. “Cowards,” he whispered to no one in particular. “Hypocrites… You let the Lower Born die to save your own hides! How could you?!” He held in his anger and disgust as well as he could, scrubbing his face with his knuckles and palm as he found his way home. The handsome beechwood gates marking the manor's entrance hung crooked and broken on their hinges as if they’d been kicked in, much like the front door. To Aidan’s horror, blood splattered the entryway and the handsome white marble staircase beyond. He raced in with his guts in knots, looking for any sign of life. “Mother?!” He called. “Mother, I'm home! Where are you?!”

From the family room to his right, a hoarse, gurgling cough answered him. He followed it, running so fast his feet never touched the ebony floors, then skidded to a stop when he got there. Kyden lay across the rug in front of the fireplace, gasping and beaten within an inch of his life. His thin, bony hands clutched his torso between his navel and ribcage, trying to stem the flow of blood bubbling from the deep hole in his gut. Beside him, Lavinia’s favorite chair was overturned, and the contents of her sewing basket strewn about the floor.

Aidan quickly knelt by Kyden’s side and pressed his hands tightly on top of the old Elfkin’s. Even if he hated the crotchety bag of bones, Kyden was still the only father he’d ever known. “Try not to move,” he said, holding back a gag at the hot flood of ichor seeping between his fingers. “I-It’ll be alright, Father! Wh-Where’s Mother?! Is she–?” The words stuck sideways in his throat, refusing to be spoken.

Kyden growled, bringing more foamy blood pouring from his lips, as he knocked Aidan’s hands away. “Don’t,” he gurgled. “Filthy… mongrel…! Your fault!”

Aidan winced at the old Elfkin’s stinging words, but tried his best to keep a brave face. “Let me help you,” he spat. “You’re dying, you stubborn old skeleton! Tell me where Mother is, please! Is she safe?”

Kyden’s face twisted with anguish, and for the first time in Aidan’s life he saw tears leaking from his turquoise eyes. “Gone,” he coughed. “T-Taken… because of you!”

The old Elfkin’s words were a knife to Aidan’s heart. “B-Because of me?” he repeated. “How? What could I have done to cause all this?!” He gripped Kyden by the shirt front and made him sit up, resting the old man’s bony back against the polished marble hearth behind him. “Who took her, Father?!” he demanded. “Who did this?!”

Kyden’s harsh eyes moved to the upturned sewing basket beside him, which he reached a shaky hand toward. Before Aidan could stop him, the old Elfkin grabbed a seam ripper and raked it sharply across his son’s knuckles.

Aidan fell back with a cry of pain and confusion, cradling his injured hand. “You venomous old fiend!” he snapped. “Why did you do that?!” A few moments later, an icy chill of realization washed over him. The stains on his skin left behind by Kyden’s blood were a deep cerulean, but the blood oozing from his fresh wound was bright red.

With every ounce of hatred he possessed, Kyden snarled, “Not… my… son.” The seam ripper dropped from his hand as his head lolled to the side with one final, rattling breath. His eyes clouded, his jaw slackened, and his body grew totally limp... never to move again.