Ralph and the Pixie

They reached the Elven city the next day in the first pale light of dawn. Their progress had been greatly slowed by the comings and goings of companies along the road, and they had to stop often to allow soldiers to pass. Always it was the same; the visage of Elf soldiers bearing a heightened aspect which spoke of the imminence of war.

Malina couldn’t help but be struck by the fact that the atrocities committed against her people had only been a precursor to this moment. It seemed that from the beginning, the Elves had really been at war with themselves. Their lesser Faerie kindred had simply been caught in the middle. The Elves were divided between those whose who wished to impose themselves upon the world, and those who saw themselves as being part of it. To her eyes, it seemed as though those who imposed themselves were holding the entire world hostage to their beliefs . . .

Malina mentally shook her head as this revelation sank in, her features colouring. For the first time in her life, wondering at her own audacity, she began to think of the Elven King and Prince Cir in terms less than awe-inspired.

The road became increasingly narrow, and with increasing frequency they came upon narrow stone bridges of remarkable architecture spanning deep chasms, and tunnels carved through solid rock, for as the roadway followed the Mirrow deeper into the foothills of the mountains, the river valley gradually became a chasm, the roadway having been gouged out of its stone walls. As they neared the city, the road turned sharply left, then came to an abrupt end at a sheer cliff face. On the far side of the canyon was a high stone wall, over which a few rooftops could be seen, some with pennants flying from them.