Story: A Dark Angel Falls

It was nighttime again.

In a lofty tower of a mansion inside of Felwithe, a petite lone figure sat in a window, eyes upturned to look at the sparkling stars as they began to appear. She was small, slight of frame and delicate of beauty; her skin was like an alabaster statue that had been dusted with apricot fuzz, her white hair shimmered in waves down her shoulders and back, ice blue eyes sparkled like the stars above, while her full lips were touched with a slight frown.

The girl couldn’t have been more than eight years old, so young for a mortal and extremely young for a Koada`dal. The child wore a simple white nightgown, which she hugged to herself as if she were afraid it would fall off when she let go. In the moonlight, she rocked back and forth rapidly, as if she were waiting for something to happen.

Slowly, the door opened with a soft creaking sound, causing the little girl to rock back and forth even faster; she did not turn around, because she already knew who was there. For as long as she could remember, he had always come into her room at night, had always done the same things to her and she knew he always would.

“How is daddy’s little girl?” she heard him ask softly, though his voice was like a razor to her ears.

She said nothing, and just continued rocking and looking out at the stars. As his hands came to rest on her shoulders, began to pull at the nightgown she wore, she wondered if somewhere out under the stars was someone who would make him stop someday.

Her distance didn’t seem to bother her father, as he carefully continued to undress her, moving her hands and arms away so he could tug off the nightgown. Even as she continued to stare upward at nothing after he pulled the fabric over her head and tossed it aside, he continued to smile his twisted smile.

With a sigh, he began to run his hand through her hair, his fingers brushing against her back gently as he did so. His other hand reached down to her shoulder, forcing her to stop rocking while he petted her back and tussled her hair; soon his hand slide downward, coming to rest on her flat chest, fingers idly toying with the small bud of her nipple. She tried to keep rocking, tried to ignore the feeling of his hands touching her, tried to put her mind somewhere else where she might be safe.

Bending forward, he wrapped the first hand around her side, fingers forcing their way beneath her rear as he lowered his lips to kiss her ear. As his mouth traveled down her neck, his hand reached up between her thighs and began to stroke her mound; tears began to slide down her face as he lifted her up and turned her to face him.

Reflexively she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling, and buried her face into her arm. As always, he either did not see or did not care about how tear streaked her face was, as his hand rested on her rear to hold her close and keep her from falling while his second hand continued to pet between her thighs. Though she continued to cry, and the tears slid from her face and arm down to his chest, her father continued without even a pause – she knew that he didn’t care that she was afraid, that he was hurting her, and her helplessness made her angry.

Finally, he put a hand over the child’s mouth before forcing himself into her body; she screamed but it was barely audible through the large hand that nearly suffocated her. She tried to bite down in his hand, but only ended up biting her lip; she tried to kick him, to pound her fist into his shoulder and back only to find she wasn’t strong enough to do more than exhaust herself. Tears of shame and anger slipped down her cheeks, drops rolled over his hand, but he continued until he finally spent himself.

Each time after he finished, he seemed to be shaken, distant in some sort of haze of unreality. Mechanically, he lifted her upward and removed himself before dropping her onto the bed; he would then turn with a jerking motion, and stumble out of the room, leaving her a sobbing heap upon the bed.

Curling upon herself, the child sobbed herself to sleep.



“I can teach ya to figh’, girlie.”

The Feir`dal was a year or two older than she was, and they had been friends for the past few years. His skin was darkly tanned, and his eyes were like two dark pools of forest green that danced with the freedom all wood elves seemed to possess. Messy and unkempt, his sandy blond hair fell wildly about his head, its tips brushing his shoulders from time to time. Though he was barely eighteen, his voice was honeyed smoke and more like a grown man’s than a teenager’s, tinted by his woodsy droll.

“Good, but ya ain’t gonna like the reason why I’m askin’ ya to?” she replied, her own voice tinged with smoke and shadow.

She was sixteen now, and though she was lithe and wiry, she was not nearly as tall as the other Koada`dal her age, nor many of the Feir`dal her age. Long white hair fell down her back in waves, brushing the middle of her thighs constantly, held back only by a band of cloth and thin metal wire. Her features were sharp now, and held a rather alluring quality a siren would envy, heightened by how gracefully and fluidly she moved.

Dark green eyes looked into pale ice blue with concern that deepened when he found fear and anger reflecting back to him.

“Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, Angel?” he asked.

It was then she finally hesitated, panic washing over her as her eyes darted about the area to be sure they were alone. Not satisfied with the distance between themselves and the guards, she grasp his wrist and pulled him deeper into the Faydark woods. After several minutes, when she was sure there was no one near them, she turned to face her best friend.

“Willam, ya gotta promise not to get angry, an’ that no matta what I tell ya, ya’ll let me take care of it,” she practically begged.

The older elf looked down at her, clearly shocked by how she was acting. They had been friends for some time, and he knew her as a tough as nails girl with eyes that were far to haunted for her age. He had never seen her cry, never heard her scream in terror, and never had her act so paranoid.

“What is it, tell me. I promise ya e’erythin’ ya asked me,” Willam replied nervously.

She took a deep breath, unable to speak for a long moment. He put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, only to have her jerk away and look up at him with frightened eyes. She had always been a bit avoidant of intimate physical contact, but he’d never really bothered to ask why, nor had he ever tried to do more than knock her in the shoulder or pat her hand. But her reaction still surprised him, and several alarms within his mind went off all at once.

“Ya can’t tell a soul, Willam. Not a soul, not e’en the King if he e’er asks ya,” she began. “But for as lon’ as I can remember, my papa’s come into my room each night an’ forced himself on me.”

Rage rose up behind deep green eyes, and strong hands balled into fists at his side – every muscle in his body was tense, ready to dash back to Felwithe and beat down her father. She could see the change in his demeanor, and she grasped his wrist tighter, a hand rising to turn is face so that he was looking at her again.

“No, Willam! Ya hafta let me do it! Ya hafta teach me how to fight him off, how to make him stop!” she begged, tugging at his wrist.

Willam looked down at her, his mind racing with images he never thought he would see, images of her father molesting her, images of her crying in pain and anguish as it happened. Everything in him was screaming to go take it out on her father’s hide, but after a few minutes, he realized why she had to be the one to do it.

“Tunare as my witness, girlie, I’ll teach ya ta figh’ betta than anyone in all o’ Faydwer,” he growled. “One o’ the men from the Ashen Order taugh’ me e’erythin’ he knew, though he said he was only done half his trainin’, an’ now I’ll teach it ta ya.”




For weeks, high atop the mountains of Faydwer, William pushed Mornië through an intense training course, teaching her everything he knew about fighting as quickly as she could remember it. She had told her parents she was taking a trip into the Butcherblock Mountains to study the flora and fauna there for school, and the two had set out to the highest summit on the continent. There were many undead all over Butcherblock, most of them relatively brittle and easy to fight; they became practice dummies for the pair, and soon she had learned all William had to teach her.



“Ya know they ain’t gonna like ya doin’ this, Angel,” William said quietly.

The two elves stood outside of the entrance to Felwithe, down the small hill slightly, where the guards could not hear them. In the weeks they had been gone, Mornië had begun her last growth spurt and her muscles had become hard and wiry; anyone who was familiar with martial arts like those used by the Ashen Order or the Silent Fist monks would recognize where that muscle structure had come from.

“I know, Wills. But I ain’t gonna let him have his way any more,” she replied in a whisper. “A’sides, I know ya’ll come save me a’fore they kill me o’er it.”

He reached out and tussled her long hair, giving her a small grin before gently putting a hand on her shoulder and pushing her forward.

“Go get ‘im, tiger,” he said quietly.

The wood elf stood on the hill, watching his friend as she walked into Felwithe. Her training had changed her, and she seemed to walk taller, with more confidence than before – if someone had told him that would happen, he would have laughed, as she was already the most confident woman he knew.

Dangerous as it was, it was the only answer they had. Her mother’s reaction confirmed what they were afraid of – that no one would be able to believe someone as upstanding and righteous as her father could molest his own daughter. She would be scolded for accusing him of such things, and his abuse would continue even after she’d spoken.

When the justice of a city becomes flawed, it is up to its citizens to find it on their own.