Pretender. That’s all he is. Or was. He can’t hold it back anymore. Not now. All the emotion from thousands of years ago came flooding back when they said her name. “Daehel.” It was a beautiful name that her mother gave her. But the name he gave her was more fitting. “Morien.” It was so like his father-name, Morimaite. And she was so much like him. She had his eyes, his hair colour, even his pallid skin-tone. She was the most precious thing to him.
Upon her birth, Morimaite felt a joy like no other. She was the first child he bore with Ithiliel, his wife. There was always a sense of bitterness amongst the Avari, even the younger ones, due to their mistrust of the one who asked them to follow. It came with a sense of pride and strength, but that felt rough and hard, unbreakable even. But she was a delicate flower amongst them all. Morien, daughter of Morimaite and Ithiliel. He hated to admit that she was his favourite child. Calithilion was their second, but he was a brattish child that put Morimaite’s nerves on edge, despite trying his hardest to care for the boy. His mother still loved him at least. Perhaps he did love his son too, but he cannot remember, not compared to the light of his daughter.
Growing up, Morien stuck to her father, idolising him even. The relationship between the two was special, everyone knew it. Morimaite was one of the Kindi’s hunters, gathering food for their tribe to eat. Life was so primitive then. But, it was what was natural to the Avari. His hair was longer then, reaching half way down his back. It was filled with delicate braids, with carved beads of bone. He had several looped earrings going up his ears, silver and glittering in the firelight that lit their world. Morien tried to imitate him, styling her hair in a way that imitated his. She even tried to pierce her ears by herself, but not before she was caught and scolded, for she was still only a child. Morimaite found her adoration of him endearing and it filled him with pride. As she grew older, into maturity, Morien wanted to become a hunter like her father. Fulfilling her wishes, Morimaite taught her everything she knew. She almost became his equal in skill. Almost.
That is why, when Morimaite came stalking through the woods, thousands of years later, face set into a snarl, longbow gripped tightly in one hand, she could not hide from him. Of all the places for them to meet again, it was in such a quaint, unsuspecting place, that knew not the true darkness of the world. Somehow, Bree-land had always avoided the worst of the world’s troubles. Morimaite had been watching over a company of men, at the request of his late friend, Aeirillen. One of them, Lheuwen, had told him that she and some others had met an elf that looked like him. “Daehel,” they said she went by at first, then admitting that she went by the name, “Morien,” also. It was impossible, he’d thought. She’d died. Although, as he thought about it, it had never been confirmed. Thousands of years ago, he’d ran into that clearing, seeing his dear Ithiliel weakly cradling their son’s head, his long, red hair flowing over her torso. At first, all he’d seen was his son’s blank eyes, glassy and staring into a void of nothingness. Then he saw the deep wounds rent into his son’s flesh. Morimaite met his wife’s eyes: they were filled with sorrow, silver teardrops streaking down her round cheeks.
Morimaite could not speak, stunned with grief. He wordlessly moved to sit by his wife’s side and that is when he noticed the pool of blood around her. He now saw how gaunt his wife looked, so pale and close to death. The look in her eyes told him there was nothing he could do, that it was too late. His only hope was that his daughter was still alive, for she had been with them. “Morien, where is Morien?” he mutter gravely, barely above a whisper.
Ithiliel, his beloved, leaned her head into her husband’s shoulder, tears spilling onto his clothing and her blood soaking into it. “She was taken.” That was all that needed to be said. Morimaite knew what it meant, for it was a strife that had affected their people for some time now. From the darkness within the Avari lived came something darker, malicious. It stole them and corrupted them, returning them as foul beings that didn’t even remember their lives before, turning on what had once been their own people. There was no hope for his daughter.
All that he had once cared for had been snatched from him, leaving his heart empty and hollow. Soon his heart will filled with a dark malice, that to rival those who took his family from him. He took up his bow and his dagger, will with a desire to hurt the one behind this as they had him. But, he could not. After all his efforts, all that he had was blood on his hands, black and red swirling together. He knew he could not be forgiven for what he had done. He could never forgive himself, for he knew he had enjoyed it.
As he followed the light tracks of his daughter’s footsteps, in the time when the age of his unforgivable deeds was long gone, the guilt crushed his shoulders and broke his back. If she was alive, then she knew what he did. Most of his people were gone now, but if she were alive, then she would know. She’d be the only other one who would remember now. He knew he had to do it, he’d sworn it when he’d thought she was dead, when he’d realised what he’d done. He would have to stop pretending, being something that he was not…
