"Mr. Ronan, you needn't worry," the elder began, his voice a soothing counterpoint to the rustling leaves overhead.
"As a precaution, I dispatched a messenger to the Sword Village two hours ago. They should return within a week. Experts will then verify the sword's authenticity and instruct you on its proper use." He paused, a slight furrow appearing on his brow.
"I've seen the Hero's Sword myself, but that was centuries past. Memories, alas, are fickle things; I may well be mistaken. Those from the Sword Village are the true authorities on such matters. Until their arrival, please, consider this village your temporary haven."
The sincerity in the elder's words was palpable, a quiet urgency underlying his carefully chosen phrases. The weight of responsibility rested heavily upon him; elves, by their nature, were ill-equipped to directly intervene in matters concerning the Hero. However, the imminent arrival of the Sword Village delegation would fundamentally alter the situation.
Even if the sword were ultimately deemed inauthentic, the elder's actions held a deeper purpose. Ronan, being human, could not remain indefinitely within the elven village. The unchanging rhythm of elven life, the centuries stretching before them like an endless, verdant tapestry, would inevitably prove stifling, even maddening, to a human accustomed to the dynamism of a shorter lifespan. Unless, of course, he were also a creature of immense longevity – a possibility the elder swiftly dismissed.
Ronan, oblivious to the elder's carefully constructed strategy, interpreted his words as a genuine expression of concern. He nodded, a thoughtful expression settling upon his features. "Thank you," he replied, his voice quiet but firm. "I overheard last night that your village is experiencing a food shortage. What transpired? I feel rather uncomfortable accepting your hospitality without contributing in some way. Perhaps I could be of assistance."
The elder hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his usually serene face. The silence that followed stretched, heavy with unspoken anxieties, before he finally yielded to the weight of the situation, his voice low and measured as he began to recount the events that had led to their current predicament.
"It began approximately five years past," he commenced, his gaze drifting to the distant horizon as if reliving the events in his mind. "The Demon Lord's army marched southward, disrupting trade routes vital to the sustenance of numerous kingdoms. While we elves possess lengthy lifespans and hold a deep-seated appreciation for agriculture, our resources are finite. The yield from our harvests is limited by the scarcity of seeds, compounded by the relentless onslaught of both natural disasters and the ever-present threat of conflict. Our population, however, remains static. This unfortunate confluence of factors has resulted in a progressively dwindling food supply."
He paused, his voice tinged with a weariness that spoke of centuries of accumulated burdens.
"We are now forced to purchase provisions from the nearby human settlements. These towns, however, are themselves grappling with food shortages; the demand far outstrips the supply, driving prices to exorbitant levels. To further complicate matters, elves, with our inherent appreciation for art and magic, have historically placed little value on material wealth. We have lived for millennia with a casual approach to resource management, a mindset ill-suited to the complexities of modern commerce."
The elder sighed, a sound that carried the weight of ages. "Human kingdoms rise and fall, their currencies fluctuating with each passing reign. Over the course of millennia, the monetary assets we possess that retain any genuine worth are few and far between. The prospect of engaging in manual labor to earn a living is utterly foreign to our culture; no elf has ever resorted to such measures. Yet, the pressing issue of food scarcity remains, a stark reality we cannot ignore."
He continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I had proposed a plan to cultivate the surrounding forests, a project that would require a decade, perhaps even several decades, to yield a reliable and sustainable food source. While such a timeframe might seem impossibly long to a human, it is but a fleeting moment in the lifespan of an elf."
Ronan listened intently, absorbing the elder's words, the gravity of their situation sinking in. The stark contrast between the elven and human perspectives was striking; what seemed like an insurmountable challenge to the elves was, to Ronan, a problem with a relatively straightforward solution. The absurdity of their situation hit him with full force; if the current trend continued, the elves would face starvation within a few centuries.
He let out a long, slow breath, the weight of the elder's words settling upon him. "If the problem is food," he said, his voice calm yet resolute, "then it's easily solved. Food is wealth, wealth is money, and I happen to possess a considerable amount. If you would permit me, I would be pleased to assist you in acquiring the necessary provisions."
He paused, his gaze steady, his words carefully chosen. He wouldn't simply hand over gold coins. Past experiences had taught him that freely given gifts are often undervalued. Furthermore, this wasn't a game; there were no second chances, no opportunities for reloads.
Moreover, while elves differed from humans, earned respect held a far greater value than that which was simply bestowed. And finally, he desired to explore this world beyond the confines of the forest. The image of finding an antique in a human town, selling it for a king's ransom, and returning laden with food supplies, seemed entirely feasible. It was a plan that held the promise of both resolving the village's immediate crisis and allowing him to experience the broader world beyond the forest's edge.
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You can read advance chapters in my: p@treon.com/Veora
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