My boy
The Temple of the First Light rose four hundred feet into the crisp morning air, its alabaster walls catching the dawn's rays like a pearl growing from ancient stone. The structure, nearly eight centuries old, dominated the skyline of Sylvara, the third largest city in the Selenian Empire. Twelve spires, each reaching a hundred and fifty feet, surrounded the central dome like a crown, each representing one of the founding houses of the elven realm.
Wild moonflowers and silver thistle pushed through the carefully maintained cobblestones of the courtyard, their persistence a constant battle for the temple gardeners. Sundrops created seas of gold between meticulously arranged meditation paths, while stone benches, worn smooth by generations of contemplative elders, dotted the landscape at precise intervals of twenty paces. Traditional beliefs held that wild flora growing near sacred spaces signified the land's blessing.
Within the eastern courtyard, beneath a colonnade stretching ninety feet in length, twelve elder members of the High Council gathered. The colonnade's thirty-foot-high columns, carved from single pieces of moonstone, created long shadows that striped the marble floor. Each column bore the history of Sylvara, carved in spiraling text that began at the base and wound its way to the capital.
Elder Lyra, her silver hair bound in traditional braids that signified her eight hundred years of age, sat at the head of the crescent-shaped table. The table itself was a masterwork of engineering – a single piece of transparent crystal, forty feet long and eight feet wide, that seemed to float six inches above the ground.
"The matter before us today," Lyra began, her voice carrying easily in the acoustically perfect space, "concerns our Queen Maeris and her... recent difficulties."
The other eleven elders shifted in their seats, their formal robes rustling like autumn leaves. These were the most powerful elves in Sylvara, each having served on the council for at least two centuries. Their combined experience represented over seven thousand years of governance.
"Three months have passed since her return from the Crystal Falls expedition," Elder Valeria noted, consulting a scroll of fine parchment. "While she suffered no physical injuries..." Her voice trailed off meaningfully.
"The queen hasn't been the same since," Elder Thenna finished, her dark eyes troubled. "She barely leaves the royal chambers, refuses most audiences, and when she does appear..." The elder gestured helplessly.
"Yesterday," Elder Lyra said, "she spent hours staring at the reflection pool in the Moon Garden. When her handmaiden approached, she asked if the water had always been 'so impossibly blue.'"
Through the courtyard's eastern archway, they could see the sprawl of Sylvara below. The city's distinctive architecture - buildings of white stone with sweeping curves and delicate spires - housed artisans, scholars, and traders from across the empire. Markets bustled in the lower quarters, while the upper terraces hosted academies and research facilities.
"There's also the matter of succession," Elder Calia interjected. At seven hundred and fifty years old, she was among the younger council members, but her voice carried weight. "Queen Maeris has reached three hundred and twelve years without producing an heir."
This prompted a longer round of worried whispers. Every elf knew that their kind reached reproductive maturity at one hundred and fifty years – the age when their bodies developed the ability to self-reproduce asexually. This biological gift had been central to their society's stability for millennia.
"The window of peak fertility," Calia continued, consulting her notes, "typically lasts from one hundred and fifty to four hundred years. Queen Maeris has less than a century remaining to produce an heir through traditional means."
"And in her current state..." Elder Thenna left the implication hanging.
"The guard captain's report is frustratingly vague," Lyra added. "The queen's personal guard was found unconscious, with no memory of the attack. The queen herself speaks of shadows that moved against the wind and voices that sang in colors."
"Poetic," Calia remarked dryly, "but hardly helpful."
"There's more. Three days ago, during a trade negotiation with the Merchant's Guild, she suddenly began speaking in a language none present had ever heard. When she returned to our tongue, she had no memory of the episode."
The council chamber fell silent save for the distant sound of morning birds. The implications were clear – their queen, their leader, the one meant to guide Sylvara through its ninth century, was losing her grip on reality.
"The Autumn Blessing approaches," Elder Thenna reminded them. The ceremony, vital for ensuring agricultural prosperity, required the queen to channel divine energy through the ancient crystal arrays beneath each major city. "Can we risk allowing an emotionally compromised ruler to attempt such a delicate ritual?"
"A ruler who cannot rule," Elder Calia summarized, "who has yet to secure the succession, and who appears to be..." she hesitated, then forged ahead, "declining mentally. We all know what must be done."
Lyra surveyed the gathered elders, her expression grave. "Then let us put it to a vote. Those in favor of initiating the Vote of Succession, raise your hand and let your voice be recorded."
One by one, hands rose into the morning light. The decision was unanimous – for the fourth time in Sylvara's history, the High Council would challenge their queen's right to rule.
As the elders began discussing the procedural details, none noticed the small figure hidden behind one of the massive columns. The handmaiden's eyes widened as she heard their plans, her heart racing. She had to warn the queen – if she could find her in a lucid moment.
The handmaiden slipped away as quietly as she'd come, leaving the council to their deliberations. Above them, the sun continued its climb into the sky, its light catching the crystal table and sending rainbow refractions dancing across the ancient columns, their carved histories silent witnesses to another pivotal moment in Sylvara's long existence.
****
The royal chambers occupied the highest floor of the western tower, a suite of rooms that normally basked in sunlight through tall, arched windows. Now, heavy velvet curtains in deep purple – the color of mourning in elven culture – blocked out all but the thinnest slivers of light. The darkness seemed to pulse with each whispered word that fell from the queen's lips.
Queen Maeris, ruler of Sylvara for three centuries, sat curled in the corner of her bedchamber where the moonstone walls met. Her ceremonial robes, worth a small fortune in silver thread and star-gems, pooled around her like spilled moonlight. The fabric, unwashed for days, had lost its usual ethereal sheen.
She was beautiful still – elves always were, even in despair. Her features held the classical perfection of her bloodline: high cheekbones, lips like rose petals, eyes the color of dawn sky. But those eyes now stared unseeing at the shadows, their usual sparkle replaced by a glassy sheen of unshed tears.
Her silver hair, traditionally worn in elaborate braids befitting her station, hung loose and tangled around her face. Strands of it stuck to her tear-stained cheeks, but she made no move to brush them away. Her fingers instead traced endless patterns on the floor, drawing shapes that existed only in her fractured memories.
"They killed her child..."
The words emerged in a singsong whisper, a broken lullaby to the darkness. Her voice, once known throughout the realm for its bell-like clarity when giving proclamations, had grown hoarse from constant repetition.
"They killed her child..."
The shadows seemed to deepen with each iteration, as if responding to her grief. In the corners of the room, ancient tapestries depicting the founding of Sylvara stirred without a breeze. The air grew thick with the scent of wild moonflowers – though none grew this high in the tower.
"They killed her child..."
A shaft of sunlight penetrated a gap in the curtains, falling across her face. For a moment, her eyes focused, really focused, on something beyond the room's confines. Her lips trembled, and a single tear traced its way down her cheek.
Then, in a voice roughened by emotion and carrying an accent no elf had ever spoken with, she whispered:
"My boy..."
The word 'boy' hung in the air like smoke, alien and wrong in the elven tongue. Their language had no gendered terms for children – had never needed them in their all-female society. Yet she spoke it with such raw conviction, such profound loss, that the very stones of the tower seemed to shudder in sympathy.
Her hand clutched at her chest, fingers tangling in the royal pendants that marked her lineage. For three centuries those symbols had defined her existence – daughter of the previous queen, ruler of Sylvara, future mother to the next in line. Now they felt like chains, binding her to a reality that no longer made sense.
Because she remembered. Not clearly, not completely, but in fragments sharp enough to draw blood from her soul. She remembered a different life, a different body, a different child. A child with eyes like summer storms and a laugh that could chase away shadows. A child who had been...
The thought slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving only the ache of its passage. Her face crumpled, and she curled tighter into herself, her forehead pressing against her knees.
"They killed her child..."
The words resumed their endless cycle, but now they carried a different weight. An echo of another loss, another grief, bleeding through from somewhere – or someone – else.
Outside her chambers, the sun continued its journey across the sky. Palace life went on – servants bustled, guards patrolled, courtiers schemed. But in this darkened room, time seemed to pool around the huddled figure of their queen, as she rocked back and forth, lost in memories that shouldn't exist.
"They killed her child..."
"They killed her child..."
"My boy..."