Somewhere, over the rainbow ...

Greetings 'Inkers'! This week I was given the opportunity to challenge K. Syrah, who totally destroyed the prompt I gave her with her piece: Toes in the Sand
I was challenged by, Sunshine who just happens to be an important element that binds my story together. Her prompt is actually the title of this piece. Hopefully I stepped outside the box a little on this one, I hope ...?

"Long before the chaos and killing began there was peace, tradition and harmony. The world - though not perfect - was beautiful, fertile and full of possibility. Squabbling and fighting was unavoidable and other than battling for love or power, wars were raged for pride, against tyranny and dictatorship and soon, wars became distant memories and once again peace reigned for hundreds of years. There was balance ... for a while."

The story that Ilya's grandfather told him always began the same way: "Long before the chaos ..." The old man told tales of battles and wars, fought only a stumble from where they lay their heads at night. He always told the boy of the beautiful land he had no memory of, for the boy was born into the turmoil that began much more than fifteen winters past.

On the fourth winter the boy began his training with his uncle and father and by the eighth winter he was strong, fast and as clever as any of the warriors bred before him.

When the fourteenth winter came, the boy was ready.

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Ilya flipped the knife by its hilt, caught and sheathed it in his belt in one continuous motion that ended with pulling another knife from his belt with his idle hand, throwing it dead centre into the human’s heart. The blade went in, right to the hilt. It was a move his father had taught him: 'appear to disarm yourself while attacking' his father had called it, Ilya preferred to call it 'the whisper'.

Before the man fell he tried to speak, what he said came out in a painful gasp of air, and all Ilya could make out was a partial of a word; beginning with the letters - LEP.

The other boys on watch had slain the rest of the men almost as quietly, and had already begun dragging them away through the forest.

There had been more this time. Only last week several humans had tried to attack the village and steal more younglings, something they had been doing so long that it felt almost normal. And like most other warriors Ilya kept watch during most of his waking hours, only resting to train with the elders in the barracks before heading back to guard duty or a hunt.
Ilya and the other boys took the bodies to the cliffs and tossed them to the waters below. Even after the rest of the boys had left, Ilya stood at the edge of the sheer drop listening for sounds and smells in the wind. The village was never safe as far as he was concerned.

On this particular night Ilya's grandfather took him aside from the rest of the family leaving them to talk, eat and keep warm around the fire. He brought Ilya up to Teachers Hill and sat next to the boy under the stars, and they stayed for some time, not saying a word just looking down on the flickering fire-lights of the village below. Ilya, as always, kept an eye on the village perimeter.

"Ilya, there is something I must tell you, something I think you are ready to know."

"What is it grandfather?" Ilya asked, gently sharpening his favourite throwing knife on a piece of smooth sandstone, still watching the village below.

"We are not what we seem."

"What does that mean?" Ilya asked pausing his work as if to ponder what his grandfather just said before continuing with the blade.

"It means that we were once a peaceful race of people, playful even! We had magic a long, long time ago."

"Magic! Really grandfather?! Have you been eating Deena's squirrel tail soup again? You know how that makes you get after a bowl or two."

"Listen boy!" The old man scowled, rummaging in his robes, pulling out an egg shaped object that reflected the starlight and moon-shine from above.

"This was made by magic, our magic." He gave it to Ilya.

"What is it?" Ilya asked reluctantly looking at it.

"It was your great-great-great-great-great grandfathers, he made it with magic. It gets cold to the touch when humans enter our world."

"How grandfather?!" Ilya asked putting down the stone and knife. The thing was heavier than it looked and smoother than anything he'd touched before.

"If I knew how; I'd make one of my own, boy! In order to survive we had to adapt and over time our magic grew weaker, no one knows why but our powers began to fade a few hundred years ago. That's when the wars began and warriors were needed, warriors like you, Ilya." The old man picked up the knife and balanced it by the blades point on his index finger. "We have been making warriors so long," the old man continued, "we have forgotten how to fully harness our powers, this may have proved useful many years ago but as the power faded so did any hopes of getting it back. The humans found a way to get to our lands, all they have are the stories of our ancestors told by their own storytellers, they believe we still have magic and this is why they target our young."

"I was fortunate then, grandfather?" Ilya asked, placing the object on the ground by his grandfathers feet.

The knife had been balancing on the old man’s index finger the entire time. He flicked the knife in the air and with surprising speed for such an old man, hit the bottom end of the hilt. Ilya watched the blade impale into a thick tree maybe fifty metres away. "They did try to take you," his grandfather said looking up at the full moon, "but I was babysitting you that night."

"So what were their stories?"

"They believed and still believe we are very powerful, clever, playful, and quite small. They're correct on two counts but we've always been the same size as the humans, I suppose they made us small in their minds to make us appear inferior and give themselves confidence.

"They also believed that we had money and gold, lots of it too. This was only true if we decided to create the stuff, but in those days we preferred to invent things and always used a tiny bit of magic when our creations were too difficult to figure out."

"You talk as if you’ve used magic before, grandfather!"

"No, but I did have an excellent storyteller when I was boy, your great-great grandmother. She would talk until I fell asleep at night and leave me to dream about how we used to be. I often dreamt I had powers beyond comprehension, ahh ... the things I could do in a dream."

Ilya's grandfather picked up the sandstone and threw it without looking into the back of the blade, burying some of the hilt into the tree.

"Grandfather! It'll take me forever to get that out; I may have to cut down the tree!"

"Sorry boy, I was just thinking aloud."

Ilya sighed and flicked a few pieces of dirt off his sandals. The old man looked at him, his long white hair and beard, the frown lines on his forehead and wrinkles around his lips, and the scars on his neck; were in contrast to the intensity and youth in his eyes. Even though his grandfather was old, very old, the man hid his speed and strength well. To a stranger he looked frail and non-threatening but Ilya knew better.

"They, the humans that is; come from a far away land, hard to get to for us but for them it's relatively easy to cross over. Do you know how they do this, boy?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"Tell me."

"In their lands, when it rains followed by sunshine; a bridge is formed. All they have to do is locate the beginning of the bridge and cross before it disappears."

"And they attempt this dangerous journey because they want to harness our magic, and believe when we are still very young we have the potential to give them what they seek."

"I've heard father say such things, is it all true then?"

"Yes, when we are very young we possess a tiny amount of power, our training to be warriors begins early too and we are forbidden to cultivate magic in case it falls into the wrong hands."

"I like things the way they are."

"Because that is all you know, boy. What you need to know is that their world; where the humans are from is dying and a great storm is upon them. That storm will submerge their world under water and anyone left will use any bridges that will inevitably form once the storm clears. We expect an army like none we have seen before, and it will come, mark my words. We must be prepared!"

"But when!" Ilya asked anxiously.

The old man looked out beyond the village and far off into the distance where he knew the sun would rise the next day, and prayed for the night, this night, to never end. The object by his feet was no longer warm to the touch. "Boy ... it has already begun."