It is not in my nature to speak of my past. What is done is done. And there have been those that have pried, asked questions of my childhood, my parents, why I am what I am.

I say only, so that others might not be.

You will not believe this, but I was a sickly child, prone to tears and sniveling. I am not ashamed to admit this, to those rare few. I was my mother’s son, loved and beloved, and Durias, my elder brother by two years, was my father’s son. They were musicians, living just on the outskirts of Kisah, in a small cottage set in the woods.

Those are the details.

My parents are dead, slaughtered by humans. This happened when I was eight years old, hiding behind bushes near our cottage. They came in groups, perhaps two dozen in total, while my brother and I rushed home. We saw them, and hid. It wasn’t brave or courageous, but it spared us our lives.

There are things that happen to all people, that remain forever branded into their hearts and minds. That day was one such for me. But I remember the little things. The flash of sunlight on a blade, as it descended towards my father’s head. Crimson blood, spilled into the vague outline of a bear. The scent of burning wood and charred furnishings. The look in my mother’s eyes as she met my wide stare.

These are things I shall never forget.

Durias couldn’t stomach to watch. I cannot blame him. I couldn’t bear not to. I saw when they beat my father like a dog, when they raped my mother and strung her up to die. I watched as they robbed and burned our cottage, taking all that we held dear. I watched and I listened, and I hated.

It was on that day, I became an adult. No longer was I crying and sickly, needing my brother’s protection. No, on that day, Durias wept, and I held him close, murmuring words I had heard countless times from his mouth, singing elven lullabies to soothe him.

I buried her body afterwards, my mother’s. After the humans had left. I wish I could remember their faces, even now; seek out their sons and grandsons. All I remember is that they wore yellow and that they laughed, as they killed my parents.

Some would say it hardened my heart. And it did. Some would say it made me ruthless and cold. And it did. But it also made me love all the more, it made me capable of reaching my potential. For I do love, all that is elven and beautiful and perfect. All I do, is for that end, so that no other elven child will live through what I have, so that no other elf will hate, cry, bleed, grieve, or mourn. So that my people, my beloved people, can laugh and sing, as my parents used to…as I used to.

Call me a monster, call me cruel. I have lived through far worse. Years in prison, years running from my home that hunted me like a dog, years alone and unwanted. And yet I survive, to continue, to persevere, and yes…to succeed.

Elves like me exist so elves like them may eat cake and point fingers with a clear conscience.