E L I J A H

W I L L I A M S

Silverthorne's mother was an Eshu, and it shows in the ebony skin, the broad, high cheekbones and rounded features of his mortal seeming.  She was a renowned storyteller who had sailed the seven seas, walked the seven continents, battled a seven-headed Hydra and lived to tell her small son of it.  From the start he was immersed in the world of dreams, and so it was no surprise when he emerged as a creature of the Dream himself before his fifth birthday.

His mother was overjoyed, though her son was not of her Kith.  She taught him well: of honor, of courage, of the stories that make the Dreaming beautiful, of the songs that keep the Dreaming alive.  She was, after all, an Eshu.

We say was because she is dead now, and dead forever, slain by cold iron.

That's the day he became a man.  He still remembers it - still dreams of it, when the moon is dark and the night howls with nightmares.  He still sees the burning blue eyes behind the mask, still hears the laugh, still feels the burn of the cold iron blade across his throat - a blow meant to kill him.  A blow that would have killed him, had his mother not pushed him aside and taken the brunt of the damage upon herself.

She managed to get a final blow in before she died: a rake of her battleaxe, Fleetedge, a treasure of the fae which could heal as well as it could harm, across the bridge of the masked intruder's nose before his sword point thrust through her heart.  Silverthorne nearly cried out, but his will was strong, and he lay still...as still as if he were dead.

The man in the mask left him for dead with a gash across his throat, and fled into the night.  But he was alive.  He dragged himself to his mother, but she was gone.  Her mortal body lay dead, turning cold; her fae seeming had shattered and vanished, never to form again.  He tried to call her name and found his vocal cords irreparably damaged.  Never would he sing again, or tell the stories his mother taught him.

He clutched her hands, still wrapped around her axe, and he made a vow he could never speak.  Vengeance.

Then Fleetedge gave the last of its power and healed what would have been a mortal wound, but the cold burn of vengeance took its toll on the holy weapon.  Its edge turned black, and its power changed to devastation, and only devastation.

By morning, Silverthorne left home.  He walked north, following the trail of the man who had taken his mother's life, never looking back.

He was twelve.

S I L V E R T H O R N E