The Elf Bride

Your engagement has been called off.

Spring grass is beginning to sprout in the great grasslands.

Mythra is preparing to herd sheep in front of a tent when the chief makes that announcement to her.

Holding her whip and reins, Mythra can't quite grasp what she has just been told. She stands there in a daze for several moments before the meaning of his words finally sink in.

Um, you mean the one we discussed the other day . . . don't you?

A proposal had come recently—one for her to marry into the household as a concubine of the deputy chief, the successor to the great chief who united the elf clans and ruled the Steppe region. Mythra, who had been unable to find a marriage prospect, had no reason to refuse, and thus had accepted the proposal.

You apparently don't meet their requirements.

This doesn't come as a surprise to her. The chief's explanation is far too brief, but it's enough for Mythra.

Elves prize pure bloodlines above all else and despise mixed heritage. They refuse to form blood ties with other races—humans, dwarves, and the like—whose appearances, lifespans, and very nature differ so drastically from their own. Naturally, those of mixed blood, the half-elves, face the same rejection.

And Mythra is exactly that: a half-elf.

Given that her maternal grandmother had been a princess, Mythra is the only living member of the clan who carried the bloodline of the great chief. By blood alone, she should have been celebrated as a princess herself. But her father was human, and so her standing within the clan is anything but favorable. Her marriage prospects are virtually nonexistent.

When a proposal finally did come, it was only for the position of concubine. Though it meant being secondary to the main wife, Mythra couldn't afford to be choosy—receiving any proposal at all was better than nothing. But apparently even that had been some sort of mistake.

She'd sensed this might happen, but that didn't make the disappointment any less real.

With her weak position in the clan, the prospect of remaining unmarried indefinitely, of clinging to a place where she'd never truly belong, is hardly appealing.

She carried out her duties faithfully, but being a half-elf already meant facing cold attitudes from others. Lately, some seemed downright fed up with her presence. She should be grateful they hadn't simply driven her out, but she couldn't stay here forever. Mythra knew this all too well, yet . . .

Honestly, thinking someone like you could become a concubine was foolish from the start.

Mythra could only remain silent in the face of the cheif's disgusted tone.

She stands beneath the open sky, looking up at the endless blue as she clutches her whip and reins.

She even considers abandoning the idea of marriage entirely and simply leaving. She thinks of going somewhere, anywhere else.

But she knows the Steppe is too harsh a place for anyone to survive completely alone.

Even so, she cannot stop herself from thinking about it. About going far, far away.

***

By the way, Aslan. There's a girl I'd like you to meet . . .

. . . What?

On an afternoon in a room at the Royal Institute of Alchemy in the capital, the capital's alchemist, Aslan Bariscos-Alchimistis, responds with a dumbfounded voice to an elderly man's words.

As an alchemist, Aslan's work involves researching materials and minerals used in alchemy, which meant traveling to various locations to collect specimens and investigate their properties. He'd just returned to the capital after an extended period of fieldwork, and when he went to see his mentor, that had been what he'd greeted him with.

Very funny. I just got back, I'm exhausted, so could we do this some other time?

But that wasn't a joke . . . my boy.

. . . It wasn't a joke . . . ?

Aslan's already tired face shows even more exhaustion.

Hmm.

His mentor makes a puzzled sound.

. . . Your reaction is rather strange.

Isn't that because you always saddle me with some problem or other and then disappear?

Aslan found this rather annoying.

Oh?

His mentor raises an eyebrow.

Don't you trust me?

I'd rather you earn my trust with trustworthy actions and words first.

Aslan's head is beginning to throb. He presses his temples and sighs.

Didn't you learn your lesson after you were criticized for asking another researcher why she hadn't gotten married yet? I thought you might be taking that same tone with me, and it was rather . . . tiresome.

Hmm. That researcher wouldn't happen to be Drea, would it?

It was indeed Drea. But just to be safe, Aslan decides to be cautious.

Who knows?

He plays dumb.

If you keep teasing people like that, someone is going to snap eventually, you know? Anyway, that kind of thing . . . actually, no, you ought to just stay quiet. You know what they say, silence is golden.

Yet eloquence is silver, my boy.

Yours is just cheap plating!

Now see here, my boy. Plating is a wonderful technique, you know?

I know that. I'm an alchemist too, after all.

Aslan feels exasperated with his smooth-talking mentor.

Plating is a technique for creating metal coatings—it protects strong but rust-prone base metals, reduces wear, and improves their appearance. Any alchemist knows it is wonderful.

But that's basic knowledge.

Well, isn't that fine then? Silver eloquence, gold plating—either would be good.

I suppose so. Though silver does tarnish easily.

Even oxidized silver has its own charm, doesn't it?

In your case, it's more like poorly maintained silverware. And gold plating peels off easily, you know?

Despite Aslan's sarcasm, his mentor remains completely unfazed.

That's harsh.

He feigns innocence.

Sly as ever. But you really shouldn't tease young people so much.

Aslan pauses, then adds:

If you don't change your behavior, people will start to dislike you.

His mentor pauses for a moment.

. . . Mm. I'll consider it.

He gives an unusually straightforward response. It seems he has some degree of self-awareness after all.

So . . . what were we talking about again?

Ah, yes, that's right. I was saying there's a girl I'd like to recommend for you.

I heard that part . . . but why me specifically?

Hmm? Why would you doubt it?

Well, I mean, there are quite a few researchers at the institute who want to get married more than I do. If we're going in logical order, wouldn't you ask them first?

Well, that's certainly true.

I've never expressed any particular desire to get married, either . . .

Aslan honestly expresses his doubts.

Aslan's job centers on fieldwork. With so many long business trips, marriage hardly seems practical. Furthermore, suitors tend to avoid alchemists as marriage partners. Their work and the ways in which they earn their living aren't well known to the general public, making people rather wary of them. He understood this well himself; from the moment he took this job, he'd never seriously considered marriage.

It's quite urgent, you see. And certain circumstances dictate that I can only bring this to you.

Only to me? What do you mean by that?

Well, you see, the girl . . . she's an elf.

What? An elf? She's an elf?

Yes, a nomadic elf girl.

His words catch Aslan by surprise.

Nomadic elves. He's heard tell of them before.

Long ago, elves earned their living by hunting in the forests.

But eventually, they began capturing, raising, and breeding the very beasts they once hunted.

Thus, they left the forests behind.

They expanded into the grasslands and gradually came to dominate the Steppe at the center of the continent.

They were a people who lived by following grass and water with their livestock.

They were, if he recalled correctly . . .

Aren't nomadic elves obsessed with bloodlines? They would never let one of their own marry into a human family.

Perhaps due to their mobile lifestyle, nomadic elves indeed prioritized clan unity above all else.

To ensure absolute cohesion, it is customary for related elves to arrange marriages among themselves to strengthen blood ties.

They deeply despise mixing with outsider blood—those of different races such as humans or dwarves. Their reverence for pure blood borders on hatred of humans is common knowledge even beyond the Steppe.

That's why I said there were certain circumstances involved.

So what are these certain circumstances?

The young lady in question—she's a half-elf.

Aslan's expression darkens momentarily, but he quickly shakes his head.

. . . I see, so that's why I was the only one you could come to.

Aslan lets out a deep breath. Half-elves were rarely born among the pure-blood-revering nomadic elves, but they still appear from time to time.

And now he could understand why this proposal had only come to him.

You have elf blood flowing in your veins. You understand her circumstances somewhat—I thought that would make you better suited for her than someone who doesn't understand at all. I believe she would prefer that as well. What do you say, Aslan?

Well, I do have elf blood in me, that's true.

Elf blood did run in his veins, but only one-eighth of it. His ears are round, and he looks completely human in his appearance.

However, he does understand the circumstances of half-elves to some extent.

But even if that's true, I'm not going to accept just anything, you know?

Oh?

I'm saying I might refuse depending on what you tell me.

Even though Aslan is single, he still plans on refusing if the conditions were too harsh.

However, his mentor just laughs.

That won't be the case.

You're such a good person—you won't be able to abandon her, will you?

Please consider what will happen if I can't accept. Someone's life is at stake here.

That's something that won't be a problem at all if you accept.

Why are you already treating this as a foregone conclusion? You never stop talking, do you?

His mentor shoots back pointedly.

I don't want to hear that from you.

Anyway, please give me the full details.

Oh, so you're willing to listen now?

I've been listening!

While making this point clear, Aslan waits for his mentor to continue.

***

Ah . . . In the end, I actually went through with it . . .

Aslan is sitting side by side with a woman he had met for the first time today.

In the end, Aslan has been pressured into getting married.

No, he hasn't been pressured into anything. To think such a thing would mean that his mentor had gotten his way; he can imagine his mentor's smug satisfaction, and it is a terribly unpleasant thought.

He just never expected that he wouldn't meet his bride until their wedding day.

The journey from the nomadic elf territories to here takes weeks, sometimes even months. With such an enormous distance involved, arranging casual meetings is impossible, so this outcome should be obvious. Aslan's thinking is shortsighted on that point, so he can't really complain.

Aslan glances toward his bride.

Her bridal gown is beautiful. The embroidery on the veil is magnificent, with designs of blooming flowers, intertwining vines and stunning geometric patterns. Even Aslan, who knows little about such things, is impressed by the craftsmanship. However, it prevents him from seeing his bride's face.

According to nomadic elf customs, the bride's face must not be shown to anyone other than the groom on the wedding day.

From the very start of the ceremony, the bride's face has been firmly concealed behind a veil.

The bride is so well-protected that even the groom cannot see her face.

While Aslan fully intends to respect tradition, emotionally this situation is quite hard to endure.

When they exchange cups just after the ceremony begins, he catches a glimpse of the bride's mouth for just an instant . . .

He can see only small, pale pink lips and a delicate chin. That is truly all.

When it came time to exchange cups, Aslan had thought its contents would be kumis, as is customary among nomads, but instead it is a butter tea with an unexpectedly salty taste. Had he not been told beforehand, he didn't think he would have known it was tea.

Anyway, regarding his bride . . .

Since she has elf blood, she's probably beautiful.

Is his first thought. His next is . . .

 . . . I wonder what kind of person she is?

Gradually he becomes more curious about his bride's character than her face.

The ceremony is solemn, hardly the kind of atmosphere where one can strike up a conversation; but once something starts bothering him, it cannot stop.

And so Aslan keeps glancing at the bride beside him, waiting for a chance to talk.

Insania is a frontier city on the northern edge of the Arvand Kingdom.

The former Royal Institute of Alchemy training facility sits in the suburbs, not far from Hara Berezaiti. The dragon-dwelling mountain towers between the nomadic elf territory of Medias Elfiana and Arvand.

The facility now serves as home to Aslan, both alchemist and researcher.

Right now, Aslan's wedding ceremony is in full swing.

I'm hungry . . .

Luxurious dishes stretch out before him. Skewered meat, meatballs, dumplings—all prepared by the bride's relatives despite their long journey. There is plenty of meat; having skewered meat at a wedding felt very much like the nomads. Here, one might find skewered meat at street stalls, but apparently the elves served it even at formal occasions.

He assumes that it's mutton. If only there was some rice to go with it . . .

Just as the thought crosses his mind, someone sits down a heaping pile of pilaf.

Of course—rice is essential for celebrations. Wheat is plentiful in Arvand, and as a result bread is the staple of its peoples' diet. Due to their smaller harvests, rice is served only on weekends and celebrations. And Aslan absolutely loved rice.

However, despite the feast spread before him, Aslan cannot eat any of it.

Aslan's stomach had begun growling after the ceremonial cup exchange had ended, yet he cannot touch the food. As groom, he has duties to attend to (such as ceremonies, greetings, and the like), and so he hardly has the time to indulge in delicacies.

Aslan still hasn't been able to speak with his bride. More than that, he cannot casually approach her. The atmosphere around them remains solemn, especially with the bride's family, the nomadic elves.

No, tension might be the better word.

The nomadic elf men all wear stiff expressions. They look like soldiers delivering a hostage to enemy territory. Insular by nature, they'd left their homeland in the Steppe to enter this human country, and probably are unwilling to let their guard down easily.

Aslan can understand their reasoning, but their attitude is making the entire ceremony tense.

Well, that's probably not the whole story.

Aslan glances at his bride, then at her nomadic elf relatives.

The elves barely acknowledge the bride they'd brought with them.

Given this atmosphere, they are probably at a loss about what to do with this half-elf bride.

Her position within the clan is obvious.

With everyone around them in such a state, certain words became difficult to express.

I'd like to see your face.

It feels hard to say.

In the end, Aslan can only sit quietly, unable to speak to his bride or see her face.

Though to be fair, part of this atmosphere is also Aslan's fault.

Currently, the only guests on the groom's side are work colleagues he'd asked to attend just to meet his quota. There hadn't been time to call his family. Aslan's new home is in such a remote location that just attending the ceremony would require quite a long journey. No, that's just an excuse. The truth is that, at the very last minute, he'd sent them a message simply reading:

I'm getting married.

Needless to say, they aren’t able to make it in time.

So there are very few attendees on the groom's side. Given the difficult circumstances, there's nothing he can do about it.

It feels more like a funeral . . .

The elves surely didn't want it to be this way either, but this is what it has become.

The ceremony proceeds purely according to tradition and established customs. Prayers are offered, heads are bowed, and attendees simply watch the couple in silence. Then, when their turn comes, they step forward one by one to offer formal greetings.

The ceremony proceeds slowly, solemnly.

Somehow awkward, somehow distant, somehow restless.

That's what the wedding is like.

***

After the wedding ends, the bride's relatives hastily finish cleaning up and offer ceremonial farewell greetings. Then they quickly depart without so much as a backward glance at the bride.

The colleagues Aslan had invited also offer their farewells.

Well, that was brief.

Let's have a proper banquet sometime soon.

Whether they mean it as consolation or not, they depart with these parting words.

As for the feast, nothing remains.

His colleagues had completely devoured all the nomadic-style delicacies, leaving nothing for Aslan to taste.

As the newlywed couple sees them off from the entrance, Aslan begins to feel more annoyed with his colleagues for not thinking to save some food for the bride and groom than he feels saddened by their departure. He mourns the feast he never got to eat.

Suddenly, Aslan and his half-elf bride find themselves alone together.

It is past midday, but the sun still hangs high in the sky. The bride stands quietly beside Aslan, her face still hidden behind her veil. Aslan has been staring at it long enough to notice the embroidered plants and flowers were done in a chain stitch. Despite all his earlier frustration about not being able to see her face or speak with her, now that they are finally alone, he isn't sure where to begin.

That was over so quickly . . .

For now, Aslan tries some harmless small talk.

The bride continues to look down, her veil still in place. Should he push a little more? As he is lost in thought, the bride seems to gather her resolve. She looks up, steps in front of him, and pulls away the veil away from her face.

Um, it's nice to finally meet you. I am Mythra of the Hanshuyima-Bag, the Clan That Races Across the Endless Plains, Daughter of the Golden Hero, Bagtour-Dofuto.

Then she adds,

I'm looking forward to our new lives together.

She bows her head politely.

It is a formal elven introduction, but Aslan cannot respond right away.

He's stunned by the girl's unveiled face.

She has pale skin and long ears, with wisps of her golden hair peaking out from beneath her veil. Her features are incomparably more refined than those of the humans ones he'd seen before—they look truly elven. However, her eyes are green rather than blue, perhaps because of her human blood. Those eyes seem to glisten with moisture and carry a hint of melancholy.

He finds himself spinning elaborate observations in his head, but such detailed analysis don't matter.

Simply put, this girl is breathtakingly beautiful.

. . . Um . . .

Seeing Aslan's vacant expression, the girl calls to him with a worried look.

Ah, sorry! I was spacing out!

Is there something wrong with me?

No, no, not at all. You're perfect!

Sure, he'd heard before that she was beautiful, but this exceeds all expectations!

Naturally, Aslan hadn't put much stock in secondhand accounts—such things were just for reference, and only seeing for oneself was truly reliable. While Aslan continues his usual internal rambling, Mythra looks down thoughtfully, then raises her face.

. . . Was my introduction too confusing since I mixed in Elven?

Oh, it's fine. I can understand the nomadic elf language pretty well.

I see, that's a relief. I was wondering what I'd do if you couldn't understand . . .

Well, your way of introducing yourself is quite different compared to my country, so I was a bit surprised . . .

Aslan gives a diplomatic smile.

The wedding ceremony went on for quite a while, too.

Ceremonies like that can be pretty tiring, right?

He deflects with reasonable excuses, and the girl seems satisfied with that explanation.

I agree, yes.

She nods.

Even though she is his wife, he feels too embarrassed to admit he has been staring at her.

For now, he decides to change the subject.

Sorry about that.

He scratches his head apologetically.

Not at all.

She smiles.

It wouldn't be fair for my bride to be the only one to introduce herself.

Aslan straightens his posture formally.

Aslan Gios-Kaplan Alchimistis-Tuvohra. I am Aslan, son of Kaplan, Alchemist of the North. Pleased to meet you.

. . . Ah, yes. It's nice to meet you.

Mythra bows for the second time, but then she pauses.

Hm?

She furrows her brow.

. . . What's wrong?

I think I remembered your title wrong . . . I thought it was Alchemist of the Capital.

Oh, that.

Aslan chuckles in response to Mythra's apologetic words.

That's exactly what I was talking about—the difference between how we and the nomadic elves introduce ourselves.

What do you mean?

Here it's, personal name, father's name, place of residence and occupation. I was living in the capital until recently, but since I'm getting married, I've established my home here in the north, so . . .

So that's why you're the Alchemist of the North now!

That's right.

When Aslan nods, Mythra's expression brightens now that the mystery has been solved.

Then Aslan has a realization.

Huh?

Could this girl possibly be more cheerful than I'd thought?

Because of her half-elf background and the fact that she'd been sitting quietly until just now, he'd assumed she was very reserved—or, to put it less kindly, gloomy—but somehow that doesn't seem to be the case anymore.

While he's lost in thought, Mythra peers at his face as if she's trying to read his mood.

So . . . um, my lord?

. . . Yes?!

Lord? Who? Me? He's momentarily confused, but she must be referring to him.

Despite his confusion, he manages to respond, though his voice cracks.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did I startle you?

Mythra looks apologetic.

Ah, no, no, that's not it.

Aslan shakes his head. He's surprised, but that isn't the problem.

Well, I was surprised by how you addressed me. Or, uh, rather, I'm not used to hearing it . . .

Not used to it?

It makes me feel restless, or like there's this weird disconnect where it doesn't feel like you're talking about me? Something like that . . .

Um . . .

His explanation must be unclear, as it causes Mythra to furrow her brow thoughtfully.

I'm sorry. I thought it was normal for a wife to call her husband 'my lord' . . .

Mythra says apologetically, and she's right. There isn't anything abnormal about it.

The thing is . . . maybe it's because my mother never addressed my father that way, but 'my lord' sounds strange to me. I'd prefer if you just called me Aslan.

Oh, if that's the case . . .

Mythra readily agrees, and Aslan breathes a sigh of relief.

By the way, what did your mother call your father?

Hmm, I think she just called him by his name?

Ah, alright. Well, then, I'll do my best . . .

He can understand her discomfort; calling him by name without any titles may be quite difficult for her.

So . . . when you called out to me, did you need something?

Mythra's face lights up at Aslan's question.

Oh, that's right!

She replies enthusiastically, but then immediately grows fidgety, glancing at his expression. Whatever it is must be difficult to say.

What's wrong?

Aslan says gently.

Um . . . would it be all right if I went to check on the livestock?

Aslan finds himself momentarily speechless.

Huh?

It takes him a moment to process what she said, the concept feeling both familiar and foreign at the same time.

Sorry! You did say you were bringing them!

Mythra nods.

Yes . . .

That's right, she mentioned bringing livestock.

I thought it might be inappropriate to bring this up so soon after the ceremony, but . . .

That's completely understandable. You brought them such a long way, and they're living creatures—of course you'd be worried about them.

Yes . . .

They must have traveled several hundred miles, if not more—it's only natural that she wants to check on them. Besides, even though they were part of the betrothal gifts, there is no way an alchemist like Aslan can handle livestock. Mythra, who already knew how to care for them, would inevitably have to take charge. Most importantly, the wedding ceremony is already over.

Go ahead.

Really?! Thank you so much!

Mythra's face lights up completely. With that bright expression and lively voice, her eyes that had seemed teary just moments before now sparkle like dewdrops on fresh morning grass.

Well, um, these clothes are hard to move in, so I'll go change!

With a cheerful bow, she heads toward the back of their new home. Watching his new bride disappear into the house, Aslan calls after her.

Take care!

. . . Yes. She really is more energetic than I expected.

He murmurs to himself the moment she's out of sight.

Aslan had somehow assumed she would be some kind of tragic beauty, but she's nothing like that.

She does seem a bit reserved, though. Considerate, maybe.

Mythra had been nervous.

Fidgeting around . . .

She was watching his reactions quite closely before.

Of course, Mythra isn't bold enough to be too forward with someone she'd only just met.

Aslan reflects on the situation.

I guess we can take our time getting used to each other.

He murmurs, stretching to ease the tension from the ceremony. Perhaps this is exactly the stroke of luck he needs.

She's absolutely beautiful . . .

A smile spreads across Aslan's face.

I wonder when she'll be back from changing?

He leisurely waits for his new bride.

However, Aslan has no idea he's about to discover firsthand what it truly means to be married to a nomadic elf.