Ralph and the Pixie

Elgar paused, remembering.

‘Once here, she didn’t live long, though she had well earned many years’ respite for all the hardship she’d endured, much of it on my behalf. She died broken, betrayed by my father whom she loved, betrayed by her own people; and in the end, she cursed her own life; though dear to me, it was nothing but pain to her; pain she was past caring or wanting to endure, having left her empty, alone, and utterly wretched in the hopeless misery that had become her habit, in utter violation of her gentle, happy nature.’

Birin, not one for what he termed “emotionalism,” averted his gaze, his thoughts disparaging where the present melodrama was concerned. He was about to respond with what he thought would be appropriate words, when the sound of heavy footfalls forestalled him. Ralph joined them, holding a small wooden chest, waiting for a chance to speak.

‘Excuse me, Ralph,’ Birin said impatiently, ‘Elgar and I are having a private conversation.’

‘It sounds more like the two of you are talking at each other, as usual,’ Ralph replied. ‘I think that I might have a solution.’

Both leaders turned to him, questioningly. With a grunt, ignoring the Elf captain’s look of consternation, Ralph shifted the heavy box into Birin’s arms, and left them.