Mythilda and the others fled to the Elvenhome. Word of what had occurred soon spread throughout the district. Trouble was coming.
The elves readied themselves. They had faced trouble before. They knew how to weather such storms. Runners scurried through the City Proper, alerting the elves who were at work of what was brewing. En masse, elves abandoned their jobs and returned to the Elvenhome. There, they stood in the streets and alleys. They linked arms with those who stood beside them, creating a living barricade. Their intent was to deny the City Watch access to the Elvenhome. Such a tactic had worked before. The elves were confident that it would work again.
Mythilda, Olwen, and the boys, meanwhile, were secreted away in shelters that had been built for such a crisis. No one suggested that Mythilda should be handed over to the Watch. The Line had been crossed.
Before long, the City Watch arrived. They halted upon reaching the barricade of elves. The two sides glowered at one another—one armed with stones and fists, the other with swords and halberds. Each waited to see what would transpire.
Through the years, elves had mastered the art of peaceful resistance. That was how they had won their freedom from slavery. And they had used the same technique to rebel successfully against the worst abuses imposed by the Holdings. Even so, Elvenhomes were kettles ready to boil over. A person could take only so much abuse before they erupted. That a spoiled brat had attempted to molest one of their youths was the spark that caused the elves to explode. Someone threw a rock. And a tempest raged through the Elvenhome…
“How bad was it?” asked Mythilda.
It was eleven o’clock at night. The riot had ended for the most part when night fell. A few guardsmen patrolled the streets in the Elvenhome. Isolated bands of elven hotheads peppered them with rocks on occasion. Everyone else had gone home to tend to the injured and to make plans to rebuild.
Mythilda’s parents, Lynette and Math, and Elder Gareth had joined Mythilda in the damp, tiny cellar that served as her hiding place.
Mythilda sat upon a stool, her elbows pressed against her knees. The palms of her hands cradled her forehead. She looked at the floor as she spoke.
“Very bad,” answered Gareth.
“Did anyone die?” said Mythilda.
The adults glanced at one another.
Lynette rubbed Mythilda’s shoulders and consoled her, “Nobody blames you, Sweetheart. You did the right thing.”
“That’s right,” added Math. “I’ve no problem with my girl clobberin’ a lecherous nob. I’m proud of you.”
“Oh gods,” whispered Mythilda. “How many died?”
“Four,” said Gareth quietly. “Scores more were injured. Several houses suffered damage. A few were destroyed.”
Mythilda shook her head in dismay. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry.”
Gareth kneeled beside her. “I understand why ya want to blame yourself. But yer parents are right—this wasn’t your fault.”
Mythilda looked at him, ready to protest. When she glimpsed his eyes, however, she burst into tears.
Gareth pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and used it to dab Mythilda’s eyes.
“There. There,” he said. “No more of that, Wee Lark. Hmm. I guess ya’re too big to be called that now. It seems silly for me to call ya that when I have to look up to see yer face.”
Mythilda chuckled despite her grief.
“There we are,” said Gareth. “There’s that smile I so adore.”
“I’ll always be your wee lark,” whispered Mythilda.
“Good,” said Gareth, “because I’m too old to change my ways.”
He stood up. “What’s happened has happened. We canna change that. All we can do is mourn those we’ve lost and rebuild. There’s still a problem, though. One we must deal with right now.”
“Another problem?” said Mythilda, looking confused.
“Aye,” said Gareth, “Lord Falkirk. He’s not likely to forget that ya bested his beloved son. He’ll keep huntin’ for ya.”
Mythilda’s shoulders sagged. “Oh gods, he’s going to make our lives miserable because of me, isn’t he? Everything… all of this—it’s my fault.”
It’s my fault. Elves had endured centuries of slavery. Following that, they suffered through decades of being treated like animals. Then a lark went awry. An awful man allowed his hand to wander to where it was not welcome. A young woman defended herself. And a millennia’s worth of resentment exploded all at once.
Tell me, Mister. Whom do you blame for the tragedy that befell the elves that day? Was Mythilda responsible for it?
No, of course, she was not. Mythilda may have been the catalyst for the riot, but she was not to blame for it. Yet to Mythilda, it was “my fault.” This sentiment would spur Mythilda towards her fate. For the rest of her life, she tried to atone for what had transpired on that tragic day. Because she believed it was her fault, she would become a hero called Myth.
“We’ve dealt with humans like him before,” said Math. “We’ll survive, as we always have.”
“Aye, that we will,” said Gareth. “But it’ll be some time before Lord Falkirk forgets what happened today. And we canna keep ya hidden for long. The Watch is keen to find ya. So we…”
Gareth sighed.
Looking at Lynette and Math, he said, “Maybe it’s best if she hears it from ya. Besides, I don’t think I can say it.”
“Say what?” asked Mythilda as she looked from one adult to the next.
“Mythilda, Sweetheart,” said Lynette. “Gareth and your father and I had a talk before we came to see you. There’s no easy way to say this, but…”
Lynette paused and dabbed her eyes.
“Dawn isn’t a safe place for you to be in right now,” she went on. “And it won’t be safe for you to be here for a long time. W-we think you should leave as soon as possible, tonight actually.”
Silence inundated the cellar. Mythilda covered her mouth with her hands and stared, wide-eyed, at her mom. Was this the end? Was she really going to lose everything she held dear: a loving family, caring friends, a good job, a home? All of it gone because a ruffle-wearing brat tried to molest her?
“Y-you want me to leave!” cried Mythilda.
“No, of course, we don’t,” said Math, his voice quavering. “I canna imagine how awful it will be to wake up tomorrow and not see my girl’s smile. But you’ll be alive. That’s more than can be said if you stay here.”
…Listen, I am going to skip over the goodbyes Mythilda said to her parents and to Gareth. Some things are too personal to recount in a story. You understand, do you not? Good.
Mythilda was outfitted with travelling clothes, two daggers, some coins, and as much food as she could carry. Once she had packed, Mythilda sneaked out of the Elvenhome by crawling through a drainage ditch. She fled from Dawn, and never returned to her girlhood home.
When she was well away from the City Proper, Mythilda turned and glanced at the only home she had known. The city gleamed in the moonlight. She told me later that Dawn had looked like a city that had appeared out of a fairytale.
Are you familiar with fairytales? No! Well, a common feature in fairytales is that a child discovers a way to visit a fairyland. It’s always a child, never an adult. The child enjoys plenty of adventures while he or she is there. Usually they have to defeat a witch or some other evil being that’s threatening to conquer the fairyland. But, in the end, the child leaves the fairyland. They return to their world. And they never visit that wonderful place again. But they always remember it. They look back fondly on the adventures they experienced there. And they wistfully recall that they had to leave it.
That’s an allegory, you know. It illustrates how it feels to grow up. The fairyland is childhood. Everyone ages. But nobody forgets that charmed time when the world was full of enchantment.
I think this was what Mythilda felt as she glanced at Dawn.