And the dust settled again. The men had left, and now Sheru carefully extracted herself from the rock pile she had hid in. She felt a small tug on her shawl and turned, to see Mehr-hi. Mehr-hi asked, “Why must the men kill us?”
“I do not know, Mehr-hi,” said Sheru. She picked the little mer up and walked, looking at all the faces of her dead people, decimated by the men, the raga they called themselves. Mehr-hi clung tighter to Sheru when he saw the bodies of his parents. She walked faster then.
She walked throughout the night, and Mehr-hi held on, for what else were they to do? The raga had destroyed their home and all who had lived there and Sheru and Mehr-hi were the only survivors. Survivors, because they had stayed hidden while the others had fought.
As dawn broke on the next day, Sheru's legs trembled such from the walking that by the time she saw a house in the distance, she almost fell as she forced herself to go faster, waking Mehr-hi with the new movement. Surely they were safe now, for here was shelter!
The house was plain and unadorned, and inside was bare save for the essentials. There appeared to be two rooms coming off from the main one, and both were empty save for the left one, which had a few sheets of fabric lain on the floor. They seemed to be hiding something, so Sheru set Mehr-hi down and pulled away the sheets. What was there was a sword, but it was the strangest sword Sheru had ever lay eyes on. It was not forged from metal nor mineral, but seemed to be shaped from air itself. She touched it, felt a strange sensation.
And then she heard someone approach. She took the sword with her to see who this was, and it was a man. He was covered in wounds and held no weapons, and he eyed Sheru closely.
“Ansei?” he asked, confused. He saw the shehai in her hand, for that was what it was, and he saw her ears. The thought that must be running through his mannish mind was: how can a Left Hand Elf be an ansei?