Emarian: A Fairytale

[Angelicious]

((This is a fairytale, for those of you who didn't read the title. Also, on Word, it's 10 pages long. I wrote this about 4 or 5 years ago for my English class. My writing style is... Much different now. I still know how to speak the languages, which kind of surprises me. Not sure how often it's actually in here, though. Much of this had different font faces and was italicized and whatnot, but Id didn't add it in... Sorry if it looks kind of out of place.))

Emarian

Once upon a time, there was a world known as N’rang (ner-ang) Carth, and its capitol, Emarian. Emarian was a world where the future loomed before all people like a spear: Only death awaited them.
There in Emarian, evil dwelled in the shadows, waiting patiently for a hundred thousand years, much as a predator waits in the bush for its prey to come close. This evil, too, waited for its opportune moment.
This ‘evil’ was a long line of Elves, known as the Ilonil (ill-O-nil) Elves. Millennia ago, the Ilonil split from the other Elves, for they all felt a gap between themselves and the others. This lead to massive inbreeding, meaning everyone was related to the king, the queen, the war heroes, their neighbor, the vagabonds and right down to the village idiot. They had one, single common trait among them, though, that ran deeper than their common blood – or, perhaps, it was the very fact that they all shared the same blood that they had this common desire. All the Ilonil need a never ending for ultimate power and the will to stop at nothing to get it. The captains of the armies were forceful, the royals had the thirst for domination and the people had the faith that their leaders would bring it all to pass.
Other than that, they are as different as any family line can be. The first of the Ilonil was also the first person to ever be born with such a lust, with such a need, for so much power. Langraln (lang-grawl-n). The first Ilonil Elf – or the first living being - to actually conquer Emarian was Langraln’s great grandson, Hepanian (hep-an-EE-in).
There was one hope, though. An elf from the very line of those intent on destroying the freedom of Emarian. Arícen (are-EE-sin). An Elven "prince", a direct descendent of Langraln. He had his famous family trait of a lust for power, yes. But he did not wish for this… This need. So, instead, he decided to lust for a power all people wanted, though few actually had: freedom.
Emarian was, in short, a world where evil ruled, and those of the light were few in number, weak, and where their hope for freedom was dying out fast…

Year 390 D.S.
Naemara (neigh-M-arah) Ly’Crasheen (lie-crush-eng) lived in a larger part of Emarian, almost on the outskirts of town. Though it was about 40% of Emarian’s population, it also contained about 50% of the poor people in all of N’rang Carth. Her "village" was rather poor, and for miles, all the eye could see outside of the small town was dust, dirt, and wilted grass – it almost a desert, actually. But inside the town, flowers and trees resided. Neither the houses nor the people were a sight for sore eyes. The houses were mainly made up of rotting, or termite-infested wood. Sometimes, houses were made of about 1-inch thick walls of mud. (Usually, because it was basically a rain forest without the forest, it rained, so dirt was nearly impossible to find.)
Had you entered the town, you probably would have been surprised at the varied shapes and sizes of people. Poor town though it was, it was not in short of "big" people. Not giants, not ogres… It was people who ate all too much, all too often. However, in contrast, there were people who paid more attention to their animal’s supply of food than they did to their own. One man’s horse could be all skin and bones, and the man could be large and fat – and NOT fat with muscle. For another man, it might be the other way around.
But there were more and more soldiers coming to the town on the edge of Emarian. Socrano (soak-ran-O), the evil Elf-tyrant, was now searching every last inch of N’rang Carth for possible over-throwers. His beady eyes would scan over every person as he was pulled around in his carriage by his team of 8, pure black Shire’s, all the exact same size. (He would take no other horses.) A slave always drove his carriage, and he was able to enjoy himself on his luscious, black velvet seats. The best of wine and the best of food were always plentiful in that carriage, as was lots of money.
His carriage was a large box-shaped golden closed carriage, and white on the outside. Thousands of jewels were encrusted in a wave along the sides of the carriage, and the handles – on both the inside and outside of the carriage – were made out of pure gold. The key to it was also pure gold. (As mentioned earlier, the seats were made of black velvet, and they were large.) The driver seat was fancy, and the slave driver was dressed in rich, fancy clothes. This was not, however, because Socrano actually cared about the driver; it was because it was not enough to be the richest, most powerful person alive, and perhaps the richest and most powerful person to ever live for him. No, he wanted to LOOK the part, too.
In front, and to the side of, his carriage was his hundreds of soldier-guards. In front, was his 20 guard dogs. The dogs were all huge and strong, and fierce-looking. Every one of the 20 animals had been trained to NEVER get over fifty feet away from something attached to the carriage. The horses had been trained to not be bothered by the dogs, and not to bother the dogs. The horses were punished severely if either happened. (If the dogs attacked the horses for any reason, they went unpunished; no one wanted to even TRY and discipline those canines, for the fear of being attacked themselves.
Behind the carriage, traveled more guard dogs. Those dogs had not been so strictly trained, and often went out to get themselves a bite to eat. Sometimes that ‘bite’ was someone’s livestock, or sometimes, another of Socrano’s dogs. Many times, the dogs in the back of the carriage would get into "pit fights" and both would be killed. In such an event, the other dogs in the back would eat both animals. After they had made sure that nothing was left, not even bones, the dogs would catch up their master’s carriage. That, and that alone, scared off any possible attack from behind.
Naemara entered her family’s small stable, feeling rather helpless, as did most people. Her long auburn hair gave off a helpless gleam as the seemingly dim sunlight reflected off of it. It was midafternoon, on a normal day. Nothing sad had happened, well, nothing any sadder than the usual, anyway. And yet, everyone around her (including herself) looked as though they were attending a funeral.
The stable was small, with only five stalls. They had three mares, and one stallion. The fifth stall was the foaling barn. Every foal was sold, unless they had an old horse. Outside the stable were three small pens, one slightly bigger than the other two. The biggest one was a "pasture" for the horses to graze in. The other two contained goats and chickens. The goats were used for milk, money, cheese, and meat. The chickens were, likewise, for eggs, money, and meat.
Just outside the stable, Socrano traveled around in his golden carriage. He was dressed in nothing but black – except on his fingers. His hair was long, sleek, and a shimmering, almost beautiful shade, of black. His hair made the darkest night look gray in comparison. His tunic, pants, cape, and boot were all black, though not nearly so dark. On his fingers were many shimmering, expensive rings. Much unlike the people around him, his belly looked full, the way it was protruding from his tunic. Every one else was basically skin and bones, and most of the people (Naemara not included) were dressed in rags, almost literally.
She flinched inwardly as Socrano had someone executed simply for looking at him with a "weird" gaze. Apparently, his soldiers were back to killing off anyone looking suspicious, or anyone who wasn’t working hard enough to earn their country more money. (Or, who weren’t working hard enough to earn more money for Socrano, at least.) Gazing interestedly at the male guard dogs was a stray female Labrador. She trotted along a few feet away from them, tail wagging somewhat slowly, tongue lolling out gently in the slightly hot village. She was constantly being fed and petted by villagers – she was very sweet, though slightly annoying and distracting at times. Nature taking over forced training, the guard dogs did nothing more than growl. One of them, a Doberman, laid his ears back and growled slightly louder than the rest, but that was as bad as it got.
Life was a living nightmare, even for those closest to Socrano. After all, the closer you were to him, the better chances you had of him finding some fault in you. Socrano finding a fault in you – even something so stupid such as your hair being too short, your clothes being too fine (which would, God forbid, perhaps make them seem richer than he was). Even something like your children being too old or something else you couldn’t help too easily – would most likely also mean execution.
Naemara wore a brown tunic, dark brown pants, and tall black boots. Already, at age 18, she was faster and stronger than most boys twice her age had ever been. Unfortunately, she wasn’t all that smart, but speed and strength were what counted at a time like this for a non-wizard, non-witch, or non-fairy. She was human. A plain, old, mortal, boring human. No wings, no magic, no immortality of any sort. No size to brag of, no lineage to be proud of, and no reason for any other being to fear or respect her in any way. Not only that, but her family was poor, she had a small family, and she and her parents lived in a small hut with thin wooden walls. In short, she was the lowest of the low.
But her and her families low ranking did not disturb her all that much. She was the stable apprentice, even though she sort of owned it. It wasn’t large, or fancy, and it wasn’t worth much at all. However, in the minds of the animals at her stable, the ones whom she considered to matter most, she was the highest of the high.
She had only two friends who were not stable animals – Farcie (far-see), a blonde, strong Giman (her mother was a human, her father was a giant), and Yutoa (wha-tow-ah), a princess of elves. Yutoa was not an Ilonil elf, but she hated being a princess, nonetheless.
* * * * * Meanwhile * * * * *
Arícen fearlessly, almost boredly, mounted Halnu (hawl-new), his newest horse. Halnu was an average sized brown Arabian mare, a war-horse, and she was still fairly young. Plenty of battles were left in her. She had been in one before, which was good – she wasn’t an amateur.
His tack for her was plain and simple. At least, THIS pair was. Halnu’s fancier pair was laden with gold and silver and other jewels. But plain saddles and bridles were better for this type of attack… A silent attack, a surprise attack. Any possibility of them being discovered had to be removed. Even in the dead of a moonless night, their small torches could reflect off of a jewel of any sort. Same with their armor, which was why it had to be taken off. They were headed to a small fort of Socrano’s without armor, and without any powerful weapons to speak of. (Powerful weapons were often noisy and very slow.) Their mounted troops were in the back – the mounted archers were ahead of the basic calvery. The infantry were in the front with their pikes. All archers were on horses, which was probably a wise decision- it meant a faster escape route for their best forces, and it meant it would be easy for them to adjust locations. They couldn’t hide as well, and they were bigger targets that were easier to hit, but at least they were faster and higher up.
The army trotted through a small forest, where the nocturnal animals’ noise covered their own. Suddenly, the forest ended, and the "small" fort came into view. The sources had been wrong! This wasn’t small! This was Socrano’s main base!
The night sky was suddenly lit up with fire-tipped arrows. Oil was spilled from walls extremely high up. They couldn’t even see the top of the castle from the ground! Horses shrieked, and men screamed. The night stank with death as the oil allowed the fire to spread with increasing speed. Socrano did not even need to send out his own infantry – what was already out was enough. Or so it seemed… Whoever was still alive tried to flee, only to be met by an entire ARMY of giants! HUNDREDS of them!
Arícen gazed up into the eyes of a huge giant. All manner of fear and amazement were thrown aside carelessly, as the war-elf pulled out his sword. His golden sword. The one he wasn’t supposed to have brought. But no one would have cared – he killed the biggest of Socrano’s giants with that blade.
Another giant stole a single glance at Arícen and realized he had to die. This warrior was eliminating their best forces! In a rage, the giant picked up a Giants’ spear (which are about three and half times bigger than a human’s pike) and rammed in at Arícen. The Giant, being stupid (otherwise known as being "true to nature"), it missed. Socrano’s Giants were used to swinging their axes, or whatever weapons they had, in huge circles, killing hundreds at a time. Whether they killed enemy or ally, it did not matter. This time, though, he was aiming for a single, small being. That was hard for any Giant, especially for one of Socrano’s Giants..
So, instead of hitting the warrior, he hit Halnu right through the neck. It did not kill the animal instantly. The mare screamed it terror and pain, as she reared, pawing at the sky. The blood flowed freely from her chest in a waterfall-like motion, as Arícen tried hopelessly to calm her. It had no use, though, and he, himself knew it. She would not calm down; no one is calm while they are being murdered. Perhaps it would have been better for Arícen to let Halnu rear until her death… Maybe it would have given him time to get off… No one knows, and no one ever will know now.
Halnu fell to the ground minutes later, ramming Arícen’s leg against the ground, immobilizing it completely. Arícen was trapped – permanently. The Giant turned to face the warrior and his dead horse.
"Ikol teht?" He smirked. "Ru dod yua rifepr ot iod htow e reips flisryua?" The Giant grinned, as he kneeled, now grinning straight at the dying warrior. He stank of grime, and he didn’t seem to have washed in months. (Well, perhaps in a bath of blood, but that didn’t really count.) His breath stank of such a mix of disgusting things that it was amazing in itself that Arícen did not puke or faint on the spot. He did not, however. The creature’s face was huge, and perfectly circular. It was a disgusting shade of puke green, and had only a few strands of blackish-gray hair that rested on top of its head. It could hardly be called hair, really. The Giant only had about twenty strands of it.
"Iod wun, yua hsoluuf fli. Yua ire tun dittomrip ut llok Giants ikol teht… RIVIN!" That said, the Giant stood up. He stole even the respect of being killed by a blade from Arícen. The monster raised his foot, and stomped it on his face, smashing his skull in, killing him. The Giant did not entirely succeed; Arícen felt only fear before he died. There was no pain. The elf warrior died instantly. Simply killing an enemy (especially one so powerful as Arícen) was not enough. They had to die in pain. It was an offense the Giant was later murdered for.
That elf was never again seen, though his death angered those who opposed Socrano more than the death of all the other warriors who died that night combined.
* * * * * A Week Later * * * * *
Naemara walked home in a sulk. Arícen had been killed. The news had spread quickly. He had been their only hope, their only chance of victory, and now he was gone. She sighed unhappily as she opened her door to her small wooden hut.
She quickly forgot about Arícen’s death, though. Her eyes widened in shock, and she began to tremble from head to toe. Her mother’s body was on the ground, her arms and legs stuck out at odd angles, and blood dripped from her head. No breath escaped her, and her heart did not seem to be beating. She was dead. Her father’s body was no where to be seen, but it had probably met the same fate.
Their table and chairs and all their food were all strewn across the floor. And in the center of it stood a big, fat, ugly, tall, strong-looking Minotaur. A big, fat, ugly, tall, strong-looking Minotaur who had a very big, ugly, sharp axe in one hand, and a large sword in the other. Behind his dark hairy face, a grin was not suppressed.
"’Ello," He said, in a falsely sweet, almost British-like, accent. "Wanna join me feh dinnah?"
She shook her head, and backed up. He did nothing except laugh. She stepped back again, and grabbed for the door, though missed by several inches. At this, he only laughed harder. Finally, Naemara grabbed the door, stepped out, and slammed the door shut. The Minotaur murderer did not come out, though his laughs leaked through the wooden doors of what had been her home like a water leaking over the edge of a waterfall.
She ran over to the stables, tears blinding her vision. She did not notice the bright sun, the chirping birds, the talking people, the cloudy sky, or anything else, for that matter. All she noticed was the absence of two of the four people who had loved her. She jerked the stable door open, and walked straight past her favorite horse, Skye, and went right into the calvery armory, which was in the back of the stable. Without thinking, she took up the biggest sword she could find, and took a sheath for it. She stole a long, green velvet cloak and belt, as well. Attaching the sheath to the belt as she walked back out the stable, she threw the cloak over her to hid it. As she walked out, the cloak billowed out behind her, though still did its job of hiding her sword.
Thankfully, it began to drizzle. That would cover all suspicions that would have been risen very quickly. After all, who wore a cloak on a warm, partially sunny day? No one, that was for sure. Naemara opened her door, only to find the Minotaur gulping down some of their bread, his back to her. Anger engulfing her, she whipped her sword out and threw it (she knew she would not be able to deal with sword-to-axe-and-sword combat) as hard as she could at the monster. The sword stuck in his back, and a thundering roar was emitted from his mouth. Before he realized it had been her, she opened the door, and ran out into the rain. The monster ran to the door, trying to find the one who had injured him so severely, but it was no use. It was pouring now, and he couldn’t see her even though she was only five or six feet away. She turned to run, but not before she heard a large, "BOOM!" as the Minotaur’s body fell to the ground. She had just slayed a monster. And she had never felt so proud; she had avenged her parents’ deaths.
Getting wet didn’t bother her, and she could have found her way to the stable in her sleep. Once at her beloved stable, which was now her "home", she sat down in Skye’s large stall. The huge black Andalusian mare gazed down at her. In seconds, Skye was laying down, her head in Naemara’s lap like a puppy. As Naemara began to stroke Skye, an idea began to take form in her mind. Death had a much larger possibility than life did. It was a reckless idea… But maybe, just maybe, it was reckless enough… To succeed.
* * * * * Two Days Later * * * * *
Arícen’s death was mourned by all; especially the elves. All over Emarian, the elves could be heard singing.
Naemara heard them loud and clear as she walked towards Farcie’s house to tell her of her plan.
"Arícen, am drul, am ruoves, am dug, am g’nok… Yua llow rivin ib nittugruf, soht O isomurp yua…," They sang their song in a soft, low, lilting voice. It was a song of sorrow, and of loss. Even for those who did not know of Arícen or his greatness would have known that, had they heard it. Even though she did not know the song, it brought tears to her eyes. Slowly, then speeding up, the words began again. She couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from; they echoed around off of nothing, and seemed to come from everywhere at once. This time, the words were different. It was a song of joy, a song of hope.
"Hgy’uht yua llow tun ib nittugruf, ryu iful llow ug nu! Soht O isomurp yua! Ryu iful llow ug un, sia to llow, O isomurp yua!" It was still sung in a beautifully soft, lilting voice, though this time, it was sung in a much more powerful, loving way.
Smiling, Naemara stepped up to Farcie’s door, and knocked. Her old grandmother answered the door, as she walked slowly up to the door, showing her milky white eyes. She was blind.
"Is Farcie here?" She asked, peeking behind the frail old woman.
"Ferkey? Yas, ce ys chere…" She moaned, in what sounded like a painful manner. Her voice was creaky and slow, and she mispronounced every word. Yet, Naemara understood every word, having partially grown up around her. (What Farcie’s grandma had meant to say was: "Farcie? Yes, she is here…")
"Farce, I have a plan." Naemara began as soon as her blonde friend appeared. "We’ve got to attack Socrano." And as she described her plot, Farcie could have sworn she saw a figure move behind their house.
* * * * * Five Months Later * * * * *
"Back, step, lunge! Good." Naemara and new her war trainer, Naledi (naal-EE-dee) Alshrin (all-shrine), bowed to each other. Naledi was female, about five years older than Naemara, and she had long, black hair that matched her dark olive skin beautifully. They were done with their practice. "I’ll see you again in three days, right?" Naledi asked, as the two girls placed their fake swords on the table.
Naledi was, as usual, wearing her long, black cape that hid most of her body. On it, was "σΦ¥∞¢¶ φ¤ ΦδΘ §£¢¥" which, when said in Elvish, was pronounced something like, "Nedoeim To Fuu Kreedsin." The Elvish words were set onto the black cape in golden thread that almost seemed to glow. Had Naemara known what was enscribed upon the cape, she would have left Alshrin and her teachings far behind her. Unfortunately, she lacked the knowledge of the Elven language.
Naemara nodded. For four months she had been taking lessons, and definitely felt stronger, but she still didn’t feel comfortable with a blade. She had killed a Minotaur, but she couldn’t slam her teacher in the chest with a bendable, completely harmless sword. Actually, she was beginning to think she was weak, and as a coward because of it. She had admitted these feelings to Naledi, who had replied with, "Well, it’s because you like me, or, at least, know I wouldn’t ever hurt you. That Minotaur had killed your only family. Of course you wanted to hurt it. Don’t worry, you’ll get it eventually. Just remember… Killing is not always as easy as it may seem."
Naemara walked to her stable, where Skye was the only animal in sight. All her families other animals had had to be sold to pay for Naledi’s teachings. Naledi was nice, and a good teacher, but the day she let anyone – even her own father – take lessons free was the day pigs would fly.
She leaned up against Skye, the one thing she would never get rid of. Her father had given Skye to her for her 14th birthday. She was 19 years old, and Skye was 7 years old.
Yuatoa had been forced to begin her role as future Queen, and as such, was not permitted to "hang out" with commoners. At least Farcie could still take part in her plans. Just as she was thinking of how lucky she was to have Farcie as a friend, the blonde Giman entered her stable.
"Naemara, we have to start now. The recruits are ready, and they won’t wait much longer. We have to go NOW." She said, wringing her hands together nervously.
"Seriously?!" Naemara’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected to leave for Socrano’s castle for at least another six months…"But, but, I’m not rea-" She began to say, but was interrupted by Farcie, who was looking even more nervous than she had before.
"No, Naemara, you don’t understand!" She whispered, lowering her voice until Naemara had to read her lips to know what she was saying. "Socrano’s guards suspect something. They’re waiting for an attack. They’re powering themselves up – they won’t give up, not even if we wait six years. We have to go NOW!" And with that, the plan that had been in motion for so long was finally going to happen.
* * * * * Three Days Later * * * * *
The calvery trotted, the infantry marched, the trolls carried the tons of crossbows for the archers for later in the battle, and the giants pushed the large weapons that would be used to break down the castle walls. Naemara led one section of the calvery, and Farcie led another. The infantries three sections were led by Faranor, a Magician, Helogreith, an Elf, and by Urat’Ian (your-eat-E-an), another Giman.
Almost as soon as the castle came into view, a guard started yelling out for the army. Their best archer aimed a single arrow at him, and before the guard could get four words out of his mouth, he was dead.
Thanks to the archers, 99% of Socrano’s guards were dead or severely injured. This alerted the army, but that did not matter much. They had already injured the opposing army – THAT was the archer’s job. "Hurt Socrano’s army before he could hurt yours." It was an old elven saying that had been tossed around since he had come into power. (Being an elf, which meant he was both immortal and immune, that had been a long time.)
The stone walls looked rock solid, but the boulders would easily break them, or so Naemara hoped. Thinking of the boulders made her glance sideways to look at our catapults. The chains that would release the boulders (and stumps that would soon be burning) were tied down with plenty of slack. When the chains were pulled – which the giants pushing them would have NO trouble doing – whatever was in them would be released towards the castle. If they worked, that was.
Before anyone knew what had happened, the giants began their attack. The catapults’ chains were pulled, and the boulders flew through the air. The stuff on fire would come later, when the walls were broken.
Soon, Naemara’s archers were shooting down the oncoming enemy with their arrows. The catapults were now throwing fire boulders. The giants had run out of stumps, which was too bad, because stumps stayed on fire longer than boulders did. The trolls were now passing out their crossbows to the archers, as they rammed their opponents in the head with their massive fists. Meanwhile, Faranor, their ONLY Magician, was dealing with three of Socrano’s Magicians at once. He seemed to be doing a good job, too.
It was then that the Tyrant himself appeared. He was dressed out in black, as though going to a funeral. Which, in a way, he was. A sort of… Pre-funeral. Where the people died, not where people mourned their deaths. His long black cape trailed the ground he walked on, and he carried a large, shiny mace. His boots were so black, they made the night seem gray in comparison. A large hood surrounded most of his face, but for two black slits, and a bit of skin surrounding them. Those slits were all that were visible of his actual body. Apparently, the slits were his eyes, but it was hard to tell. It just… Didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem right at all for such an evil person to have something so common as eyes. Especially in the more-than-common evil shape as slits. That’s what the bad guys always had in legends and myths. But Naemara paid no attention to that fact.
She was paying more attention to the person next to him. For right next to him stood a dark-skinned woman, wearing a long, flowing black cape that she had seen before.
"I told you we’d see each other paying attention to anything, ect) towards the fight a cause for laughter. Perhaps, though, they feared Naledi’s wrath, and managed to hold their laughter in.
"Llok rih, am adil! Llok rih!" A Giant shouted. Elves and Giants spoke in the same language; it was the only way in which Giants could be considered "smart".
"O wunk! TYHS PY!" Naledi roared in angered response. Even while she spoke, she began to circle Naemara like a lion, never removing her eyes from her former student. "Ready wheveva’ you are," Naledi smirked, as though she knew she’d win. Naemara had little doubt that she’d lose, too. It was probably the only way in which they were similar at that moment.
Then, they both began to circle each other. Naledi patiently waited for Naemara to make the first move. Secretly, Naemara wanted Naledi to make the first move. After a jeer from a Giant ("Aiht nec tun nivi thgof sivlismiht, nimuw! SG’NOLKEIW!"), Naledi lunged.
In a panic, Naemara jumped back all too quickly, dropping her sword in the attempt to keep her balance. This earned her several laughs from the enemy, several groans from her allies. They were, more than likely, wondering why they had followed her into battle.
Blushing, she stood up, and grabbed for sword. She was luckier than she had been with the door when she had met the Minotaur, and she managed to take hold of it the first time. Gulping, she swung, not aiming, not looking, not taking any precautions, not showing skill of any sort, and she simply HOPED she’d hit the traitor. Not surprisingly, she missed by a mile.
"Yua llow iveh ut art ridreh neht teht, ilttol inu!" Naledi cooed, and swung her own sword, a vicious, hungry glare in her dark eyes. Without leaping back this time, or bringing her own sword out in time, her sword clashed into Naemara’s leg without trouble. A large gash was in her upper thigh now, and the sword had gone almost all the way through.
Naemara’s eyes shot open in intense pain, and for a moment, she lost her breath. The blood was flowing down in extreme amounts within seconds. From blood loss alone, she almost fainted. Naledi wouldn’t stop… She kept swinging her sword… It whirred through the air, seeming to sing out its danger. She felt it collide with her arm, and she fell to her knees. For a blissful moment, an odd, glazed over sort of happiness stole over her face. The pain was not felt anymore. Distantly, Naemara saw Farcie fighting Naledi, though it was like she watching it through someone else’s body.
She fell to the ground, and suddenly, instead of clutching dirt, she was holding bits of things that felt like cotton… And the clashing of Farce’s sword to Naledi’s sword did not ring in her ears anymore… Nor did the jeers of the giants. She felt her heart slowing… Her every breath came shorter, and the span between them was longer… Finally, the last breath left her... Her eyes dimmed, and one last thought went through her head before she was gone… So… This is what it’s like… To die…
again in three days, Naemara." She mocked, a grin coming to her uncovered face. Naemara just stared at her. She couldn’t move. This couldn’t be happening.
"N-n-nal-ledi?"
"That’s right. ’Back, step, lunge…" She whispered. "I gave you all you needed to know. USE IT! I do not kill weaklings." Naledi yelled, pulling out her sword. "Remember this?" She asked, swinging her cape around, pointing to the "σΦ¥∞¢¶ φ¤ ΦδΘ §£¢¥" on her cape.
"Know what this means?" She asked, another, bigger, grin coming to her face. She didn’t even wait for Naemara, who was now paler than a ghost, to shake her head. "Maiden of the Dark. Had you learned Elvish, perhaps you never would have trusted me in the first place… You would have been much wiser to do so. But you did not… Tut tut," She said, a wicked grin coming to her face, waving her finger at Naemara in a reprimanding sort of way.
A shiver was sent through Naemara’s spine as she pulled out her own long sword. Neither of them seemed to notice that every one, both from Naemara’s army and from Socrano’s army, had stopped to watch the fight between the two women. Indeed, many of Socrano’s army – including Socrano himself – found Naemara’s attitude (paling, not

* * * * * Two Weeks Later * * * * *
A few weeks later, several people gathered in a somewhat grassy plain. A ring of about 10 plain wooden chairs surrounded a long, fairly deep hole in the ground. Right in front of the hole was a tombstone, which read:
Here lies:
Naemara Ly’Crasheen
Pelena Ly’Crasheen x Tonocino Ly’Crasheen
Killed in action by Naledi Alshrin
371-391 AD
Several other rings of chairs were behind the first chairs. All of the chairs in the front row were for relatives, and for close friends. Only four would be seated there. Urat’Ian had also been killed in the battle. Faranor, Helogreith, Farcie, and, much to the disdain of her parents, Yuatoa would be seated there. Birds sang in the distant forest, and the sun was high in the sky.
The first, and last, funeral that Yuatoa would ever attend as a princess was this one. Any others would be attended as a queen. Her marriage had been arranged only days before, and so this was, in a way, the funeral to her freedom, as well. She was marrying the king of Fretcheon (fret-chee-on), a kingdom hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles away. The king there, Beretalemhu (bear-it-hal-imu) was said to be both extremely controlling and extremely powerful. And he was rich. Very rich. (Which was why her parents were having her married to him.)
But this thought didn’t even pass through her mind as one of her two REAL friends was carried down to her grave.
Skye had been given to Farcie, since the horse had seemed to like her the most.
Farcie sat down between Yuatoa and Faranor, feeling miserable inside, and it showed very plainly on the outside. She rested her blonde head on Faranor’s shoulder as the horses pulled the cart, which carried Naemara’s lifeless body, through the small rows of wooden chairs. Silent tears flowed down Farcie’s face, leaking onto Faranor’s grayed shirt, as she thought of Naemara’s plot to end Socrano’s rule. How it both prevailed and failed.
The idea had worked. Facie – with some of Faranor’s help – had killed Naledi. Naemara had not seen her die. She had left the world too soon. Naemara had died with a small smile on her pained face. No one was entirely sure why, since none of them knew of that moment where all pain left you, just before you died, but they at least knew she had been as happy as she could have been when she left.
Socrano had fled as soon as Naledi had been killed. He had actually been weak, they soon discovered. He had both feared and admired Naledi’s power, and so he had "married" her. She was the one who had had control over the armies, not him. However, she let him act the part because people feared a man more, where a woman could be far stealthier.
Regardless, seeing that she was able to be killed had greatly frightened him. He had been tracked down without a problem, though, for he knew nothing of how to hide his tracks. A very efficient mercenary had killed him. No one was sure of the exact details, because the one who killed him, Syrat’lan, had taken his own life before returning; a common trick of the mercenaries, to end their careers on the highest point they could so as to live out the ages through song and story.
In legend, it is written that Naemara did not mind her own death so much as some might have though she would. She had caused the end of the line of the Ilonil Elves, and that alone was said to have been enough for her. But whether or not that is true, we will never know for sure. It was passed down to children, after all; perhaps it was merely made up to soften the harsh truth that her death had been nothing but a disappointment.
This story of the old Emarian was passed down for those who died, for those who lived, for those who will forever be remembered, for those who sacrificed so much for a quest so likely to fail, and for those who will never forget the pains their sacrifices caused them. By vanquishing the dark lord and returning peace to their homes, everyone lived happily ever after.

[Ada Russel]

Wow, very long. I am going to read this...After I finish my homework! I am sure it's good though...

[Angelicious]

As I wrote it several years ago, it's kind of bland xD But I hope you think it is