The Tale of Elric Thorn

In the Vale of Eldenmoor, where the mist won’t clear,

Lies a tale the villagers still whisper in fear.

Of a boy named Elric, quiet and lean,

Eyes like dusk, and skin moonbeam.

He lived on the edge, past the weeping trees,

Where wind speaks only in mournful pleas.

His father was lost in the monarch’s war,

His mother no more than a ghost at the door.

Elric, the strange one, who talked to crows,

Walked barefoot in winter, where no grass grows.

He would hum to stones and sleep in the glade—

And smile at the monsters the children played.

One dusk, with the sun sunk red in the mire,

Elric followed a trail lit faintly by fire.

It whispered his name through roots and rot,

Promising secrets the village forgot.

He stepped past the place where the dead men knelt,

Past the shrine of bones where old magic dwelt.

Thorns parted wide as if knowing his name,

And a cold voice welcomed him into the flame.

Down he went, through a path never trod,

Guided by whispers, not beast nor god.

The trees grew sharp, like iron and glass,

Their leaves sang secrets no one should ask.

He passed stone giants with eyes aglow,

Guarding a temple buried below.

A voice like thunder and river foam

Cried, “Elric Thorn, the forest’s own!”

He turned and beheld a woman of flame—

Eyes of quartz and breath of name.

“You are the seed,” she said, “once cast.

Now the forest claims you—son of the past.”

She touched his chest, where his heart once beat,

And vines wrapped 'round his hands and feet.

The earth beneath him opened wide—

The forest roared, “Our prince must not hide!”

Roots pulled deep, down into the mire,

As his skin took bark and his breath took fire.

The wind grew still, the sky turned black,

And no one knew if Elric came back.

Yet near the weeping trees at night,

A figure stands bathed in emerald light—

Whispers soft in ancient tone,

Of a boy who claimed a forest throne.

Thank you for reading.