My Servant Is An Elf Knight From Another World

Chapter 607

Chapter 607: An Elf’s Tale, Part 1

Come the next sunrise – and the man had kept true to his claims.

Before she could even properly awaken, a resounding slam that shook the walls had rattled her upright, breathing hard in alarm. The sun hovered on the distant horizon as a peering orange smudge in a sky still draped in the late of night.

A pair of stark yellow lights weaved and flitted across the muted darkness of the room, creeping steadily closer with a hard edge to the way it glistened back at her. The silent strain of unease ached her muscles yet again as the realization and familiarity slowly dawned in with the pouring sun.

It was the Elf from before, taking another step into the dim light from the window, her long reddish-brown locks like slivery streaks of flames basked in the glitter of sunlight, but she wore different – no longer cladded in chunks of hefty silver, instead she was outfitted with some kind of long pleated garment, with frills and curls of plain white that reached all the way to her legs.

She looked too different, and if not for the long narrow ends giving a quick flutter on either side of her head – almost too human.

Just as with the previous intruder that had last passed beneath her doorway, Eshwlyn found her facial muscles rippling into the increasingly familiar shape of a glare, and impulsively, a hand flew down to the side of her hip, feeling nothing but the subtle protrusion of a fading scar.

The Elf halted near the side of the bed, dropping something on the crumpled sheets that landed with a soft thump.

.....

“Change into this,” her voice echoed sternly. “Do it now,” resonated an even fiercer command.

Eshwlyn did as she was told, her stained and bloodied garb spattering around her feet in a tattered mesh of loose strings. Under the tense watchful gaze of the Elf, she fumbled awkwardly with a similar-looking weave of soft fabric that covered her arms and draped her legs completely in hems of fine silk.

Feeling it, wearing it, she honestly much preferred her ruined clothes.

“Silvir mel...” Eshwlyn spoke lowly. “Dom’makur fultur ra – ”

Suddenly, a loud crack whipped sharply across the air, and in an explosion of white pain, she landed hard on the ground with a dull boom of wood. A rapid blink, a gasp of escaped breath – and she found herself pressed from high above with a looming stare of deep disapproval.

“You were warned once already,” a cold callousness cut through the heavy silence. “Now, kindly amend your words... and try that again, why don’t you?”

Eshwlyn bit back the searing agony flaring from her cheeks, and scouring the incessant pounding of her head with a struggle, spoke out with audible resentment, “What... happen... me now...?”

“Now?” answered the dry apathy in her voice. “Now you will be taught, you will be trained – every day without relent, your body and mind will be battered with the customs befitting that of your would-be function. You will be granted skills, as well as the proper education to utilize these aforementioned skills. And most crucially, you will learn to be loyal, you will learn to be faithful – every fiber of your body will be honed to adhere to the commands of your most gracious Master.”

That word. Eshwlyn unsteadily rose to her feet, her pointed ears almost as if twitching in aversion, as she permitted the word to shape her lips, “Mas... ter...?”

“It is to his request that you will be adorned as a Knight. And it is to my eternal pledge that my Master’s every request would be met no matter the cost... just as it will soon be yours.”

Even from what little she could grasp from her words, Eshwlyn understood that what this Elf was spouting to her was completely and utterly deranged. To be a willing tool, an obedient slave to the humans – it was disgracing, degrading, there should not be a single Elf existing willing to live under such reprehensible circumstance.

And yet... worn in their clothing, speaking in their language, and immensely loyal to their cause, stood before her living, breathing proof to the contrary. She recalled to the hushed stories she’s overhead, to the Elves that have turned their back upon their own kind, how such a prospect seemed so incomprehensible to her back then.

Now she was to become one of them.

No.

Never.

“Die,” She growled, finding the words coming to her almost naturally. “I rather die. Ne’s vil ultama!” She added in defiance, baring her rage with gritted teeth. “Traitor.”

Eshwlyn was met with an impatient sort of indifference. A weary sort of shimmer rippling across her yellow stare.

Then, another shrill crack, a sudden agony erupting once more in a blinding crippling sensation that sent her crashing into the hard edge of a small wooden structure set against the wall.

“Such resilience...” slipped in a faint mutter amidst the ringing in her ears. “Or perhaps just foolish stubbornness? Perhaps you believe yourself tenacious, unyielding? If so, then I advise you ask yourself, ponder deeply, how long do you truly believe you’ll last before you inevitably give?”

Eshwlyn ignored the pulsating pain, the thick coat of pouring crimson from her forehead and smudging her vision. Seeing literal red now, Eshwlyn glanced back up at the Elf, a silent yet deafening contention strained between their piercing gazes.

“No matter,” The Elf said, turning away with a dismissive glance while lightly stroking the back of a reddened fist. “For now, let us work on your eloquence so that you may better express my vile act of treachery? Forgive me – our vile act. Now kindly, rise if you would.”

Truly, it was a most harrowing ordeal. Unsteadily, she was led through a vast array of winding corridors, unable to even properly indulge in the slight liberating relief of having finally been allowed free from her prison – for deep inside her mind dwelled still that dominating force repressing her, reminding her of her captivity.

She couldn’t fight it, nor suppress it in the slightest, her will no longer her own as it dragged her shambling legs deeper into the recesses of a human domain.

Then by midday’s ascent, she was forced back into her confinement, her head pounding with newly-acquired thoughts, and her body aching and bruised for her attempted acts of dissent.

“A slow start,” said the Elf with a reproving glance. “Master will not be happy over your sluggish progress, which surely was your intended goal from the start.”

Eshwlyn said nothing, collapsing into bed and keeping firmly to herself.

“Your task – ” continued her spiritless drawl, a flutter of thick pages streaking across the air before a rattling impact briefly shook the bed in place. ” – refine your pronunciation, expand your vocabulary. You will find this helpful if you wish to avoid incurring further punishment. Master is keen to properly converse with you as soon as possible. I will quiz you upon my return. Fail this, and the consequences will be quite severe.”

But came the hazy rays of dusk, and the book remained untouched where it sat by the foot of the bed.

That night, the minutes, even the fleetest of seconds, felt stretched to an unending eternity. Torture manifested in form of red-hooded figures surrounding her on all sides. That night, her grating screams filling the air were only evenly matched by the cruelty resounding in their jovial laughter. That night, she learned a valuable lesson... one that she would continually be reminded of as the days passed her by.

Magic was cruel.

Almost every evening of every day, Eshwlyn would be reduced to nothing more but a writhing ball of anguish on continuously blemished sheets, tasting the strong flavor of blood in the back of her throat raw and worn from her screams that would pierce the quiet of the night.

Yet in spite of it, every morning pouring into the next, her refusal to cooperate, her stubbornness on full display continued to hold firm – like a short tale repeated over and over again never ending.

She remembered her words, remembered her question: how long does she think she would hold? The answer was simple, unchanging – the answer was forever.

Every day, her eyes would glimmer with this same resolve, always meeting the Elf’s, whose patience was steadily, dangerously wearing thin with every passing day of failure.

“I wonder – do you truly believe pain is the only penance you’d serve for your continuous insubordination?” The Elf asked her one day, a similar view of a rising dawn pouring in from the window, highlighting the red of her flowing locks. “That if you persist in your stubbornness, somehow... you will be granted your wish?”

Eshwlyn slowly peeled away her dress that clung to her skin in a rusted mixture of blood and sweat, replacing them with fresh clothes always dutifully provided.

“If you truly believe this is the extent of human cruelty – mindless brutality – then I must regretfully inform you that you have not even scratched the surface of their true potential.”

Her hand tensed merely trying to brush away her hair from obstructing her eyes, how they twisted and misshapen it the night before... even now, she still couldn’t move her fingers.

“You will not emerge from this victorious, there is not a chance of triumph, what you have pitted yourself against,” declared as irrefutable fact, the Elf’s stoic tone continued to convey. “You will despair, and you will crumble. What you would have to bear should you choose to continue down this path... you will wish that you have conceded yourself long ago.”

“Why?” abruptly crackled the grit of her husked, gravelly voice, wide bloodshot eyes scowling, fuming. “How... do you know?”

Calmly, blankly, the Elf returned her reproachful gaze, asking her a simple question of her own. “How is it do you think that I know?”

For once, in a moment that lasted far too short, Eshwlyn did not see the cold, callous traitor she had grown far too accustomed to seeing. Within the Elf’s glittering golden gaze faintly stirred something she couldn’t quite place, but then it died away... and once more, only vacant apathy peered back at her face.

“My reports to Master have been leaving him increasingly unsatisfied,” The Elf spun away, ambling out towards the hall, and out of practiced habit, Eshwlyn trailed after her close by. “Should you prefer continuing to displease him, that would be your most regrettable choice, and your most regrettable choice to make alone.”

“Good...” muttered Eshwlyn, if nothing more than out of bitter spite. “Let him see... his mis... take...”

Then, in the middle of an isolated corridor, the Elf halted dead in her march, hastily spinning back, her hands curled tight into quaking fists, and briefly, Eshwlyn braced herself for a debilitating blow to strike – but it did not come.

“I am telling you this for your own sake,” The Elf quietly said, her voice, her stare, suddenly heavy with reluctance. “Whatever adversity, whatever infliction you believe you are ready for – you are not, you will never be. I implore you, I beg of you, and I speak to you, from one bound prisoner to another... felmil’dur nacht to tem...”

Wide golden shining eyes stirring with that gaze again, a gaze that Eshwlyn finally recognized as pure, unadulterated fear.

“So, please,” The Elf whispered again, warning again for the final time. “Do not do this to yourself.”