short story

With a resounding thud that claps him between the ears like thunder, Astyanax's head slips from his palm and smashes into the oak desk beside his elbow. Every pair of eyes in the room turns, and even the stalwart Professor abruptly pauses his lecture to look the young man over with amusement and contempt.
"Are we keeping you awake, Sir?"
"No," Astyanax stammers, "no, I just slipped. I'm sorry."

A few snickers from the other students, and the Professor shakes his head with continued mirth before resuming his discussion on the lifestyles of tree spirits and other forest denizens. The remainder of the lesson seems to crawl by at an agonizing pace as Astyanax rubs the growing ache from his jaw. But another hour brings the sweet release of dusk.

Walking the perimeter of the castle walls, the young man tries half- heartedly to recapture some fading remnants of the day's class, but they drift away like a dream as the final vestiges of afternoon pass into night. Astyanax scans the forest walls surrounding the Elven stronghold. Amongst the shadows he barely catches the flit of a stag racing across the grass before it disappears into the freedom of the darkness.

A shadowy silhouette flits against the lower masonry of the fortress wall. Along the damp earth, it darts in and out of the twilight darkness, constantly keeping pace with Astyanax' meandering stroll. The arrogance, the superiority of this fair-skinned dupe disgusts the ebony figure, as he eyes down his quarry with amused hatred. He can barely keep from chuckling at the fool walking along the parapet, completely oblivious to his presence.

Soon, he thinks. So soon will it all be ours. His black lips purse as the bitter taste of adrenaline surges through his body, lighting him like an exquisite bloodlust. Just a few more preparations before all the impertinent whelps kneel before me. He forces himself to cling to the shadows as he fantasizes, and adjusts his piwafwi before stealing away into the night.

By some lucky chance he happens upon a stag, grazing peacefully in the verdant grasses just beyond the walls of the small city. The very irony of this portent is more than he can stand. Still as an unwanted kiss he waits patiently for the moment to strike.

I will eat well tonight, tonight on venison, tomorrow on the Lord's blood. Sensing his opportunity, the rouge Elf flies from his hiding place. His slender, muscular legs carry him across the green with but a whisper, and the whirling scream of his rapier being drawn flashes out to skewer the stag with a resounding twang.

Twang? The sound slashes out, another whistle against the dead silence of the evening haze, this one terminating in a soft thud that sends the assassin writhing to the meadow floor. As he clutches his throat, he feels the warm silk of life and the sweet tang of breath become one and drain from his body. The first evening stars dull and the trees grow taller and more menacing above him. Within seconds, the world is reclaimed in the shadows he has learned to hate.

Astynax arrives with strong strides to claim his quarry, his bow strung once again across his back. He practically trips over the warm corpse as he enters the clearing. Glancing around in bewilderment, the young warrior can hardly believe the sight before him. His arrow points squarely through the neck of the mysterious killer, while the dark elf's sword has only barely completed its gash across the dying stag's gullet.

Astyanax composes himself. He examines the body of the dark visitor momentarily to assure himself of the undeniable truth, and then breaks again for the castle gates without glancing behind him at the pairs of shadowy eyes already surveying him from the shades.