The Boy From Dromstad
Dromstad: May, 2025
Dromstad was a town of fishermen, boatbuilders, and tide-watchers. It clung to the rocky shores of Tindon Inlet like a barnacle, braced against the wind. Smoke rose from clay chimneys, gulls wheeled above the boats, and nets dried in the gray morning sun. It was not a cruel place—at least, not deliberately. But it was not a kind one either, not for boys like Bernard.
Bernard had grown up like any other child in town. He ran through the alleys barefoot, fished with string and hook from the breakwater, and brought home bundles of firewood to a small cottage just beyond the edge of the square. His mother—quiet, warm, with a faraway look in her eyes—had left when he was seven. No one said why. His father never spoke her name again.
For a time, Bernard believed he’d grow up to be a fisherman like everyone else. But by the time he reached his teens, things had changed. He had grown tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones and a strange light in his eyes. The other boys began to mutter behind his back. His ears, once rounded, now had a slight point. Not enough to call him an Elf—not officially—but enough to make people stare too long and look away too fast.
The word they used, when they thought he couldn’t hear, was “Half Elf.”
They didn’t mean it kindly.
His father was the first to grow distant. “You’re not strong enough for the nets,” he said one evening after Bernard spilled a basket of mackerel onto the dock. “Always staring at the sky, like a dreamer. This town needs workers, not wanderers.”
Bernard didn’t argue. He never did.
The breaking point came on a bitter spring morning. The sea was rough, and the men had returned early with a poor catch. Bernard, exhausted from trying to repair a torn sail, sat at the edge of the hearth, hands blistered. His father stood over him, jaw tight.
“You’re no good here,” he said. “You’re not like the rest of us. You’ve got her blood in you, and I can’t look at you anymore. Take your things and go. You want to wander? Then wander.”
There was no shouting. No final hug. Just a door that closed too hard and didn’t open again.
Bernard packed what little he had: a tattered blanket, a wooden carving of a stag his mother had made, a handful of dried fruit, and a map he’d drawn of the coastline. He slipped away before dawn, the town still asleep.
He thought maybe he could live in the woods for a while. Maybe the stories of Elves building homes in the hills were true, and they’d take him in.
He was wrong.
The woods were vast and tangled, full of thorns and unfamiliar sounds. Bernard had no training as a hunter or a tracker. The small knife at his belt was good for cutting twine, not catching rabbits. The first day he followed a stream inland, hoping it might lead to something—anything. By nightfall, he was cold and hungry.
The second day was worse. His feet ached. He found a patch of red berries and ate them quickly, though they tasted sour. The map he carried was useless—he hadn’t drawn this far inland.
By the third day, Bernard could barely walk. His legs trembled with every step, and his vision swam. He tried to sing to keep himself alert, but his voice cracked with thirst. The trees whispered above him, their branches bending in the wind like disapproving elders.
And then, just as he collapsed onto a mossy slope, he heard footsteps.
Not heavy like a human. Light. Intentional.
Bernard blinked up into the soft golden light of afternoon and saw a figure standing over him—slender, alert, dressed in deep green. A bow was slung across one shoulder, and a long braid of dark hair draped over a shoulder.
The Elf crouched beside him, one eyebrow raised.
“You’re far from the harbor, aren’t you?” he said gently.
Bernard tried to speak, but only a croak came out.
The Elf produced a waterskin and held it to Bernard’s lips. “Drink. Slowly.”
Bernard drank until the pain in his throat dulled. Then, trembling, he whispered, “I’m… not lost. Just not… welcome.”
The Elf studied him closely, eyes resting on Bernard’s face, his ears, his hands.
“I know what you are,” the Elf said finally. “You’re a Bernard.”
Bernard blinked. “A… what?”
“A Bernard,” the Elf said again, smiling faintly. “Rare. Very rare. But unmistakable, once you know what to look for.”
The Elf introduced himself as Fenril, a scout from the nearby woods. Not from Dromstad, not from any human village, but from Lone Pine—one of the old Elven places, hidden by leaf and snow. “Come,” Fenril said. “You’re safe now. And there’s food.”
Bernard didn’t argue. He let Fenril lift him to his feet and support him as they made their way through the trees. That night, they camped near a crystal spring, and Fenril shared hot broth, fresh bread, and dried fruit. Bernard devoured it all, barely managing a thank-you between mouthfuls.
“I don’t understand,” Bernard said, wrapped in a proper blanket and staring up at the stars. “Why would you help me?”
“Because you’re one of us,” Fenril replied. “Not quite Elf. Not quite Human. But something both…and more. You were born with a purpose, whether you know it or not.”
The next day they reached Lone Pine.
It was nothing like Bernard had imagined. The village was quiet, built high among silver-barked trees. Homes were shaped from living wood, and lanterns glowed with soft amber light. Children darted between walkways made of braided vines. Everywhere he looked, someone was whispering.
By nightfall, the entire village knew who he was.
“A Bernard,” they said, some in awe, others in curiosity. “It’s been generations.”
That night, the elders of Lone Pine asked Fenril to escort Bernard farther north.
“To Santa’s Village,” one of them said. “They will want to meet him.”
Bernard didn’t know what to expect. He had heard of the Village, of course—stories told by traveling traders and whispered by children during winter festivals. A place where reindeer flew, toys were made by hand, and snow never melted. But it had always seemed like a dream.
They set out the next morning. The path twisted through icy hills and forests filled with whispering pines. Birds that spoke in riddles flitted overhead, and once Bernard saw a glimmering trail of dust where no foot had stepped. His strength returned with each step.
Finally, after two more days, they reached a rise overlooking a broad, snowy valley.
Santa’s Village gleamed below—a patchwork of rooftops nestled among evergreens, smoke curling from chimneys, laughter echoing through the air. A sleigh whizzed past overhead, trailing red fairy dust. Reindeer grazed in fenced fields. The scent of gingerbread wafted through the wind.
Fenril stepped aside and gestured forward. “Go on. They’re waiting.”
At the gate, an Elf with a clipboard blinked in surprise. “Is that—? It can’t be.”
“It is,” Fenril said. “We found him.”
The Elf turned and blew a silver whistle. Bells rang in the tower. Doors opened. Figures emerged—tall Elves in heavy cloaks, a few Shoe Elves peeking from behind posts, and a True Elf woman in a candy-striped apron who gasped and dropped her cinnamon roll in the snow.
“Get Bernard!” someone shouted. “No, the Bernard! The elder!”
Within minutes, a crowd had gathered. A dozen voices spoke at once. “He’s here!” “A Bernard?” “How old?” “Where from?” “What’s his name?”
Bernard stood frozen, unsure what to do. He felt suddenly smaller than ever.
And then a voice cut through the chaos—warm, deep, and calm.
“Well now,” it said. “Let the boy breathe.”
The crowd parted, and an older figure stepped forward—an Elf unlike the others. He was broader, more grounded. His beard was flecked with white, and his eyes twinkled with tired wisdom.
“I’m the Bernard,” the Elf said. “But not for much longer, I suspect.”
He stepped closer, placed a hand on Bernard’s shoulder, and nodded.
“Welcome home, son.”