Naga

:::Prologue:::

Westerwyn Palace stood high on a cliff, overlooking an ocean as blue as the skies above it. Like most days, this day carried with it a clear sky with two suns, one being twice the size of the other, chasing each other in a slow, endless circle around the earth. A light breeze carried the smells of the ocean, ingraining the sent into every surface it touched. Out over the clam waters of the ocean, seagulls cawed, searching for food and relaxing in the warmth of the day.

The Palace itself was tall and elegant, large in it's spread and secured its fortified walls. There were a total of seven sky reaching towers, six surrounding one in a large circle. The center most tower was the largest, and at the very top was an open alter for the High Priest and Priestess to pray and worship. The other six towers were of the same height and width as each other, though still smaller and shorter than the seventh. They stood proudly and represented each of the six Major Clans within the High Elven Kingdom.

Celebrimbor, the Tower that represented that of the Earth Clan, stood facing the South East to where the Cimborians lived in towering trees larger than that of even the main Westerwyn Tower. Elrohir, the Tower representing the Fire Clan, faced the south, towards where the Elrians lived in the ever spewing fire mountains that ran in a large chain that ended right before Worlds End. The Luthien Tower, representing the Lutiens of the Wind Clan faced towards the North, where the Valley of the Gales Storm was located. Aranel Tower, representing the Water Clan, was to the West, where it was closer to the ocean and to where the Arels dwelled. Itarille Tower stood close to the Celebrimbor Tower, facing eastward, and represented the Itails of the Forest Clan that dwelled near the Cimborians. The Hors were represented by the Huor Tower. Facing towards the South West, the Animal Clan lived in close proximity with the humans and their domesticated livestock.

The final and seventh tower that stood in the midst of all the other clans, was the Tower of Eldalote, the Tower of Light. Representing the Eldarians that ruled in the Westerwyn Palace, they were the one Clan closest to the gods. Their ireth and beauty were greater than those of all the other Clans, having been blessed by the gods many lifetimes ago.

Below the spiraling Clan Towers, was the Main Palace. Smooth white stones, kept clean by the ireth of the many strong mages currently on duty, twirled into staircases and impenetrable walls. The High Priest and High Priestess ruled Weterwyn Palace from the Great Hall. It was a large and open room that allowed a breathtaking view of the ocean. The room was currently empty. The sound of the waves could be heard crashing against the nearby cliffs, making the quiet and still room seem even more empty. Between, and slightly behind the two thrones of the High Priest and Priestess stood a statue. The statue, thought to have been made in eons past, when the Dark Elven and the High Elven were once one, depicted two elves of unparalleled beauty.

A Dark Elf with large symbolic white wings lifted towards the heavens, with a sleeping High Elf carried in his large muscular arms, looked like he was about to leap into the air at any moment. His facial expression was one of pain and sadness. Clear green eyes wide with emotion, white brows drawn low in what seemed like despair, dark tanned jaw clenched tight and full mouth pulled downwards. His hair, pure white, fell over his right shoulder, spilling onto and over the chest of the slumbering High Elf. She was nearly the exact opposite of the Dark Elf. Serene and peaceful, mouth slightly pulled up at the corners, thickly lashed eyes softly closed. Her left hand rested gently against the bare chest of the elf holding her, as if she were trying to calm him. She was obviously of the Light Clan. Her hair was the same gold spun hue as those of the High Priest and Priestess, her skin as milky pale. She was draped in the gowns of the ancient Guiders, those who taught the teachings and beliefs of the gods.

The life like statue was a mystery. It's crafter and origins were unknown to any, which lead many to believe it was crafted by the gods themselves. But why a Dark Elf with wings? Many often wondered. Or, why was the Dark Elf more stunningly beautiful than that of the High Elf? Unheard of.

The Dark Elves that were scattered every which way, were twisted, deformed creatures of darkness. Living in caves or swamps, they wrecked havoc along with their cousins, the Orcs, on any creature that was unfortunate enough to cross their paths. But the statue of the elf was a Dark Elf, many believed, because of the unique coloring. Dark skin, light hair, light eyes were traits of the Dark Elven Clans.

To many of the elven folk that visited the Great Hall, it was a place of awe and beauty. The mastery and craft work that went into each of the golden engravings and painted ceilings and the numerous other statues that filled the hall was unequaled. Not even the dwarves could scoff at the splendor. But, if one had enough ireth to truly listen and see the Great Hall, they would see the darkness and pain that filled its every crack and crevice.

They would have heard the mournful voice, silent yet strong in it's cry. A voice that sounded through the halls, unheard and unheeded for more than a thousand generations...

'I am aware,' it has said years upon years.

'Like so many things living, though unmoving, I am aware.' Does anyone hear it? No, no one has the strength anymore to hear the voice as it tells of it's suffering and pain, over and over again.

'Endless is the pain I have been encased in. Endless is the ever so slow movements of my wings, as I try with all my might to lift myself into the air, and away. Away from a danger that has been gone for countless of generations. Away, carrying the only important thing in my miserable life, to a place where we could live together in peace, but also knowing that that peace will be torn from my grasp. For my one most important treasure was ever so slowly, dying in my arms.'

'How long has it been since I saw him? How many generations has it taken me to move my eyes even a centimeter lower, trying to look at my lovers face? A single eye movement was slow compared to that of a heartbeat. A single heartbeat. That's all that was left between my treasured love and the dark fate of death. How long would I stand here, holding him? His smooth skin, still warm and alive against mine, how long was I willing to feel him with me? Knowing, even though I could not see him, that he was as aware as I was, as alive as I was.'

'A heartbeat.'

'How long could a single heartbeat last?'

Why dosen't he end it? You may wonder. Isn't he strong? Doesn't the Ireth that flows through his veins like liquid flames strong enough to break the spell cast upon him and his lover?

'I can't let him leave me...'

And so the statue remains, silent and still. Unwilling to let that single heartbeat echo through the halls...