The Elephant King’s mind was unsettled—though it wished to be settled. His body was sated, both by sparring and the flesh of a woman he cared for. There was a time when this had been all that he’d wanted: emotional attachment, successful training, and a purpose in life. He had abandoned the death he thought he had accepted; fled beneath the sharp horns of those he betrayed and sought vengeance on in the Great Plains. His flight, as damning and cowardice as it was, had been for this. For the very thing that left him unsettled: children, love, and purpose.

And he had found purpose here in Helovia; found it in multiple layers of responsibility. He had sought it out, seized it, and shouldered it on his massive back. And he wouldn’t have it any other way, despite responsibility pulling him away from matters of the heart. He was glad to beseech the Moon for a Quest, and he was even happier to see those in the Edge rise to her tasks. He was proud (though he hesitated to use the word, for pride often breeds darker, more corrupt things) of the Edge and (more so) of his herd mates. And he endeavored to balance his power with guidance— to guide the Edge rather than dictate it. The Elephant did not know if he entirely succeeded, but in such abstract matters, attainment is often less important than effort.

So the Elephant had, in the wake of his cowardly flee, found purpose. But had he fulfilled the other primal needs that had ripped him free of death beneath his demons’ fists? He had found love—or something like it— the moment he crossed the Threshold, in the eyes of a woman whose appearance and grace whispered of Mara. And they had shared intimate promises, providing the foundation of a new life full of hope. But the foundation shook and fell, leaving him baseless but for the Edge and Mauja’s confidence.

And for Mauja? The tangle was thick, knotted, and sickening. His horn still vibrated with the click of ivory against sternum. He didn’t think it was a sensation that would soon leave the loosely spiraled length of black ivory. He shook his heavy head, bringing his mind to the present instead of letting it fold inward and downward on shadowed paths. Navy eyes sharpened on the stone that resonated beneath his great hooves—what had he entered a cave? How long had he been walking? How far had his thoughts taken him?

He vaguely remember fording a river (less full than previous years due to the hot Birdsong) while walking across the Thistle Meadow. But where was he now? Dark eyes studied the crystal walls around him, ears no longer deafened by inner turmoil. Instead, they were deafened by the roar of heat and flowing, molten rock. Suddenly realizing the heat that prickled his skin, the thick hide twitched as patches of buckskin darkened to brown as his black skin shone through.

This was part of Helovia the Elephant had never traveled; which was strange because, as eyes reflect the reddish-orange glow of molten rock, this very substance birthed out of his chest in the form of his namesake. To the man of the plains, who grew up with more practical ideas than the mythical magic that impregnated Helovia, it seemed that this place (rather than the black rock of the gods) was the source of his explosively hot magic.

The dull ring of his heavy hoof falls was lost beneath the din that echoed off the cave’s walls. The roar, though tolerable at first, slowly swelled and grew in his ears until it a low ache spawned in the base of his skull, expounded by the heat that slicked his coat. And Mbwene, who as of this moment had been but a quiet and comforting murmur in his laden mind, suddenly made her discomfort known with an uncomfortably tight squeeze of his hock by her trunk. So on the Elephant and his companion marched, leaving the supposed birth of his gifts and traveling deeper into the caves—how large were they?

His sweaty, heavy body was drawn to the cool, damp air that billowed out of a dark, awning mouth. He passed by a room filled with flickering light and etched walls and Mbwene was drawn to the dancing light. Perhaps the man should have paused to peruse such inscriptions. But, alas, he is more a man of action than of learning, and so he continued towards the cool currents.

Though, once he broached the source of such chilled relief, it gave only his body a reprieve, for the vast cavern he entered was filled with a roar of a magnificent waterfall. For all the primal beauty of ancient walls and their fragmented light, the Elephant’s dark gaze was drawn to a movement and thumping— the sound somehow easily resonated over the fall’s roar.

The creature was a rabbit, formed of rock and quietly glowing from within. Steam wisps curl from its slabbed skin. After a silent (and futile) command for his elephant to stay behind him, he his head dropped to the Rock Rabbit’s level, quickly following Mbwene’s tasseled tail. The calf’s trunk was outreached, curious bright eyes watching the rabbit’s thumping leg, though her trunk paused in it’s movement as it felt the heat begin to radiate from the rabbit.

Tembovu’s brows raised as his nostrils flared to scent the creature, “Hello, little one,” his greeted the odd creature, though curiosity spiked through his low rumble.

Tembovu

the elephant king