Damien sat with Kallus and the family at supper. The dining room matched the motif of the manor, complete with its own chandelier and tall candles along the table. Each light glinted off the expensive dinnerware, the white linen was soft to Damien's touch. He noticed the elves were dressed in more formal clothes than they had been earlier. They all sat silent as they ate, though Damien suspected they wanted to speak to him, get to know him.
He kept forking the strange meal into his mouth: roasted venison covered in this thick brown sauce, steamed vegetables, and plenty of sweet rolls to give him a stomachache. Apparently, that huge meal was just a main course, and while he waited for the dessert course to be brought, Lanara asked him a question.
"Where were you born, Damien?"
Damien was shy to look at her. She had a set of gentle, sapphire eyes that made him wish he had known his real mother. "I don't know for sure," he said truthfully. "But my earliest memories are all in Ëolnir."
"Ëolnir? The land of the dark elves, you mean."
"I know it's strange," he shrugged. "I've been getting that a lot lately."
Kallus crunched his brow. "You were brought up in Ëolnir? What would the dark elves ever want with a human?"
"I don't like talking about it." Damien put his arms under the table. "I was a prisoner to them, that’s all."
"Very well then." Lanara shifted in her chair. "What do you like to do for fun, Damien?"
The word meant little to him. There was no room for fun in his life, so he shook his head. "Did you not hear me? I was a prisoner."
"Yes, but surely you know what you enjoy," Lanara reasoned. "You've been in Lorianthil for several days so I hear."
"Lanara, let us not push the boy," Kallus said.
Damien picked up a sweet roll from the basket and bit into it. "I enjoy this food," he said with a grin, and it caused the girl elf to laugh beside him. Damien caught her stunning smile and gestured to her.
"Lila, right?"
The pretty one smiled at him in approval. "You remembered my name."
"Yes." Then he looked over at her little brother sitting across from them. "But I can't remember your name," Damien pointed. "Nayleon? Nimerin?"
The young, spiky-haired elf shook his head. "It's Níhilan. And it's actually not that hard to remember."
"Does it mean anything in the common tongue?" Damien asked.
"Hm, no it doesn't translate. But I can't say the same for you, Damien. Your name translates to 'slave' in the common tongue."
He noticed the mischievous look in Níhilan's eye. Damien discovered then another thing that he enjoyed: bantering with Níhilan at the table.
"You have a terrible sense of humor," Damien said, then was cut off by Lanara's warning stare.
"Alright boys, that's enough," she said. "We respect each other at the table." Then she gave Níhilan a pointed look. "You need to be an example. Save your harsh words for the training field."
After supper, Damien was accompanied by Níhilan as they went upstairs to their wing of the house. It wasn't quite time for bed, but Damien was tired and wanted to be free of all these rules for the time being. He found himself facing Níhilan across the way, standing in front of a twin bedroom like his own. The two rooms were separated by a small bench and a window.
"What are you staring at?" Níhilan glared while stepping forward. Damien flinched back a ways, then heard the elf's mocking laughter. "Psh, you're so scared of everything. You're like a baby, not even worth my time." Then Níhilan disappeared into his room and shut the door.
16 September
Damien had a good night's rest. Having gone to bed on a bulging stomach, he was ready for his first full day in the House of Kallus. After getting dressed, Damien went downstairs and found the Lor elves sitting around their table again, eating a meal they called breakfast.
Lanara, the mother, smiled as Damien came into the opulent dining room.
"Look who's finally awake! How do you like your room? Are the bedsheets soft enough?"
"Uh," Damien rubbed his scalp, "yeah. It's a nice change."
He pulled out a chair, sat down, and started eating this strange morning meal. How many meals would he be expected to consume each day? Back in Ëolnir, Damien had one daily meal—and sometimes not at all considering how unreliable their food system was, or lack thereof. But these people—these Lor elves—had so much food at their disposal. How was Damien supposed to stomach it all?
As he ate, he noticed Lila, the sister, staring at him with such curious eyes, like observing a deer as it ate berries.
Damien looked at the girl and lifted his brow. "Uh...did I do something wrong?"
"No." Lila kept her gaze on him, her chin resting in her palm.
"Why are you staring at me?"
"It's fascinating," she said. "And I like fascinating things."
"I'm not really used to people watching as I eat," he said.
"Lila..." The girl's mother caught her attention, "don't make him uncomfortable, and don't be rude."
"Rude?" Lila frowned. "It's not rude to look at someone. I have eyes, you can't tell me not to use them."
"But I can tell you to go and get dressed for your training," Lanara pointed, "now run along."
"Ugh." With a groan, Lila left the table and disappeared into her room on the first level.
Lanara shook her head when the girl had left. "Every day I am closer to madness."
When breakfast came to a close, the family dispersed to their daily tasks. Lila and Níhilan were escorted off to their training exercises, and Kallus brought Damien downstairs to his forge.
The space was neat and organized, all the tools were in their proper place. Kallus approached his anvil while rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, then he stoked the forge-fire and let it erupt with flame. It spewed heat onto Damien's front side, leaving ash on his clothes.
Damien brushed off the embers and heard Kallus speaking to him while sticking a simple metal bar into the fire.
"Today's lesson is balance," the elf said. "How long do you think that needs to heat up?"
"I gather not long," Damien answered, inching closer to the forge fire.
"Careful," Kallus warned. "Best to roll up your sleeves."
"Um...okay." Damien sighed before making the choice to comply and expose his wrists. He sensed Kallus' alarm right away at the sickly-looking veins under his skin, but the elf said nothing and placed the boy's grip around the bar.
"You decide when to pull it out. If it's too hot, you fail. If it's too cool, you fail."
"How do I know if it's too hot or cool?"
"A lack of balance.” Kallus reached for his work hammer. “An imbalanced shape will not be easy to work with."
"Isn't that obvious though?"
"Perhaps not right away,” Kallus said. “Take my children for an example. Níhilan can be too hot at times. The lessons I teach him do not often stick to his shape. Lilathanor, on the other hand, is stubborn. She often believes her current shape needs no tempering or improvement. I would expect better from you, Damien. Allow me to teach you, and your shape will be perfect."
"Is there really such thing as perfect?" Damien wondered.
"For a shape, always.”
Damien waited as long as he dared before pulling the metal out of the fire. Its nose was now a bright red and he could feel the heat by holding it near. Kallus took the bar as it was and put it onto his anvil. He hammered to test the temperature of its shape, and when he was done, he looked at Damien with approval.
"You're a natural at this," he said. "This piece will form nicely."
