A New Path

Nulli's latest picture over on her website tempted me in two ways: I could either write about my favorite yummy elf, Lysavar, or my favorite precocious pixie, Sapphire. I bounced ideas in my head around working on my current project and settled on Lysavar. He's healed from the battle with General Malphas of the Seventh Circle, but is missing one major thing:

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Characters:    Lysavar Tinueth
World:            After the Reveal
Word Count:  395
Prompt:          Picture - A sword on a crimson cloth
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Lysavar folded the last item and placed it in the small bag with a sigh. He hadn’t packed for a trip since he had mastered dimensional pockets. After conquering all the intricacies of the most difficult incantation, he found himself back to utilizing the tools of the child, the commoner, the human. His magic, the singing power that bent to his will and fueled his greatest dreams, was gone. The greatest healers in the Fey Lands could not explain why, but he saw the look in their eyes: a mixture of pity and satisfaction. They promised research but he knew it would reveal nothing. His magic was gone; it was time to forge a new path.

With a final look around the elegant chamber, the handsome elf tied the flap closed and hefted the bundle onto his shoulder. The weight felt strange on his back, but was inconsequential compared to the weight upon his soul. He was Lysavar Tinueth, Royal Advisor to King Urúvion of Kedaunnor, the Arbiter of worlds and the King of all Elves. He was the High Shaman of the Kedaunnor Court. He was… nothing. Stiffening his spine against the useless self-pity, he tightened the straps that bit into his slender shoulders. He would find a new path.

Turning towards the door, Lysavar passed the case displaying his father’s sword. He ran his fingers along the flowing enchantment etched into the dwarven silver blade. As he lifted it from its velvet cushion, the twin fangs of the cross-guard snapped open in preparation for battle. Lysavar swung the blade in a wide arc, twirling it in an elegant circle and then returning it to a defensive stance. Sweat beaded his upper lip as the activity pulled on his freshly-healed wounds but he pushed the pain aside. Snatching up the scabbard, he slid it onto his belt and then sheathed the sword with a snap. Since he had left his own with the vampire, Blake Simons, during the battle with the Seventh Circle demon of the Infernal Plane, he needed some means of self-defense.

With his innate spark of mystical power absent since his recovery, the sword would become his new passion. He would not return until he had mastered its every nuance. Otherwise, he had nothing to offer the one he loved but himself.

And thus far, that had yet to be enough.