As they continued on J'role saw more and more of the people, all clustered in groups, all staring. Some were following the entourage now, but from a distance. Straining to get a better look at them, his eyes darting from side to side trying to catch glimpses of the thin strangers, he did not notice the clearing until they were almost upon it.
Sunlight poured into the clearing like a heavy-rainfall, washing it with golden clarity. At the center towered a circle of eight giant trees, trees bigger than anything J'role had ever seen, their trunks as thick as taverns. The branches of the trees wound around each other in intricate patterns, as if they had been grown to become ordered and through the order, beautiful.
Flowering vines grew between the trees, beginning on the ground and climbing high overhead. The vines grew thick enough to create walls-walls covered with huge green leaves and white and violet flowers at least two hand-widths in size.
Throughout the wall of vines were openings, like windows, each covered in elaborate spider webs. The webs caught the gold of the sunlight and broke it into a rainbow of colors.
The whole structure, J'role suddenly realized, was a castle. Though he had never seen one before, his father had often spoken about them. The castles in his father's stories were made of stone, however, not a single one supported this structure. It was all grown and made from the living earth. Its beauty caught at his throat.
Next to him, Bevarden spoke a single word, his voice that of someone who feels finally justified in some secret argument with himself. "Elves," he said, and dropped to his knees His eyes were wide, as though trying to suck as much of the sight into memory as possible before the image suddenly vanished. Seeing his father's face, J'role realized how much Bevarden's tales had ment to him. His father hadn't considered them mere stories at all; he must have needed to tell them as much as the villagers needed to hear them. The need for hope had prompted him to give hope.
And so another legend that J'role had dismissed as pure fancy was proven true. Would the elves be as beautiful and kind as his father had described?
Opening outward at the base of the castle were two tremendous doors made from rose bushes grown so thick they blocked- all light. A flight of broad white steps led down from the doorway to the clearing. Staring at them, J'role realized the stairway was made of bones- bones of so many shapes and sizes he could not imagine- what kinds of creatures they were from. These strange, rare bones had been fitted and formed with careful craftsmanship to create flat tops and sides.
At least sixty of the people-elves-who had followed them through the woods entered the clearing. They wore gowns and cloaks made of vines and flowers; and their skin was studded with sharp points, which J'role assumed to be some kind of armor. Some of the elves were quite human in appearance, with hair and stern faces. But others had leaves for hair, or arms formed like branches, or were not very human at all, seeming closer to being trees, walking on roots, with faces only visible when they blinked, revealing their knots to be eyes.
As they arrived in the clearing they knelt, facing the opening doors.
The thorn man next to J'role gestured down with his spear, and J'role thought it best to join his father and the others. The creature in his thoughts snickered at the display of respect. "Strange what you all think is important," it sighed.
From the castle door stepped eight more of the thorn men. They flanked either side of the stairway, one guard to the side of each step. Then several elves walked out, each more elegantly adorned than the last, their elaborate garments created from roses and purple-flowered vines and wearing capes of lilacs that trailed to the ground.
Following these came four elves with human shapes, but whose bodies seemed to be both flesh and tree bark. As the four moved stiffly down the stairs, they grimaced in pain as the tree bark shifted against their normal flesh. Their mouths and eyes were severely distorted, as if their bodies had not grown quite correctly. Each one wore the brightly colored robe of a magician. The robes were scarlet, and shone as if moist with blood.
The magicians and the other elves took up positions on the stairs. Then all turned toward the door. From the pitch dark of the doorway emerged a phantasm of white and red; a woman so beyond life that for a moment J'role stopped breathing. Her flesh reminded him of the white walls of the mysterious city; her red hair flowed down around her shoulders like watery fire. The wide white skirt of her dress was sewn from countless petals, and like the clothing of the other elves, it covered her, but left just enough bare to make her flesh enticing. Her long limbs aroused J'role, and rendered the ring that rested against his chest nearly impotent in its ability to focus his desires.
He looked to the elves gathers in the courtyard, all kneeling. Their faces were upturned, staring at the woman. They did not smile exactly, but each wore an expression of profound comfort as if by her presence the woman bathed them with grace. From the way their bodies arched toward her, leaning forward slightly, straining, J'role knew each one longed for her approval, and that any one would, if need be, leap up and die for her at a moment's notice. Without thought.
The woman stood on the white steps, slowly sweeping her gaze across the clearing, bestowing smiles on her subjects. They accepted the smiles like a lover's kisses. Finally her gaze came to rest on Bevarden, an old, tired man who stared at her with a plea in his eyes, and J'role, a young boy so afraid of showing his desire that he had made his face into a mask. She then walked down the last of the steps and crossed the clearing.
As she drew closer, the rustle of her dress flowed into J'role's senses, and he felt himself swept away by the possibility of being near her….
The small, winged woman flew to the beautiful, red-haired woman, and they spoke softly as the woman in white continued to approach.
And then she stood before him.
"And so you have come to my forest," she said. Her words were in the dwarven tongue, but from her mouth the rough language seemed as beautiful as light rainfall.
J 'role looked away, afraid of revealing too much, as if she could read his thoughts if their eyes met. But the temptation was too great…
He gasped when he looked up at her. Beautiful she was, yes. But, like the small woman with dead leaves for wings, thorns also grew from her flesh. Long, thin thorns. Each one pure white, and each splitting her beautiful flesh from the inside out. He realized that what he had thought to be armor from a distance was actually these thorns that grew from within the bodies of the elves. Droplets of ruby blood rolled down from the thorns of the majestic elf before him. The droplets remained suspended for an instant on the tips of their thorns, then fell off, dripping down the woman's skin and clothing, but leaving no mark or streak of their passing. Only the woman's face betrayed the truth: a slight twinge of pain, almost completely masked as if by years of practice. She smiled like a gracious hostess.
"Do I startle you?" she asked. Coyly. Mock surprise. Perhaps hurt. It was impossible to tell.
J’role could only nod. He sensed her mood shift from generosity to sharp anger to soft playfulness. Like a wind in spring, he thought. She frightened him, and he wanted suddenly to be out of the forest.
Then she lowered her hand to his cheek; her delicate white hand, the thorns small but razor-sharp. Just the tips of her fingers touched his flesh, the thorns so close, but not quite touching …