The trees were hating me.  I could feel their anger flow from the leaves to the tap roots, knowing that I was using them to hide.  The aspen were always smarter than normal.

But I had to hide.  If the humans saw that I was a Half, who knew what they would do?  My dear sweet cousin (the Wood temper seeping through, again) had heard that her dearest love (a jerk if ever I knew one) had a bit of a cold (he sniffled, once!) and he could not go and patrol the borders (as he is supposed to do, sick or not).  Unluckily, he had been chosen to watch the western border, right next to the path that runs north and south.  People travel that path.  Humans and dwarves and dark things travel those paths (though no one would ever see the dark things: they are too well-blended into creatures that look similar but nothing like deer.  I think I heard one being called a word like donkey.  See, evil one with a name like that).  

So there I was, seated underneath the aspen and the oak tree, knowing that if any other elf was to pass by, I would probably never even have been noticed or spoken of, no matter how much the trees hated me at the moment.  The humans were out on the road, just sitting, just off the main path, eating.  Some of the foods they had were known to me, though terribly cooked, meat that was dried and smelled from this distance like leather.  There were other foods, though, foods for which I had no name.  There was a smooth, gently rounded rock that was easily cut into, leaving the brown outside layer for the softer inner white.  This was obviously not a rock, though, for I have yet to see any knife that can cut rocks and make them soft enough to chew.  Besides the rock, there was a round object, looking almost like a slice of the sun, with the golden yellow color.  Yet once again, it could be easily cut by almost any knife, and it looked like the humans were enjoying it.  

Curiosity sated, I focused on the main problem.  They were going to go too close to our borders.  The road passed from the north to the south along this forest edge, before the course changed and it swung swiftly to the east, into our forest.  The road was the edge of our borders.  What was in the forest to the north of the path was not of our concern, but we had to watch anyone who came too close.  That is the reason I was sitting in a grove of aspen and oak that hated me.  The oak would have never known that I was using them to hide in, however, if the aspen had not told them.  The aspen are the gossips of the trees, telling everything to every other tree nearby.  

Talk about flora loyalty.  Not even the promise of never being used while alive will get an aspen to tell what it had seen to an elf.  Not even the promise of never being used ever by any elf would make them speak if they did not want to, which is usually enough for most trees.  For that reason, I was safest in the aspen grove.  The only way to make an aspen speak is to make it need to speak.  In other words, leave it all alone with only the grasses (terrible gossipers, by the way) to talk to.  Eventually, it will break.  Eventually.

Suddenly, a man came from the north, running down the road to join the other humans.  There was a look of terror in his eyes, and he was gasping heavily.  He was round about the middle, too, which probably did not help his running or the hacking gasps he took as he leaned over.  

Gold and leaf, I even know not to do that after running hard.  It makes all the blood go to the head, and then, sitting up becomes horribly painful as the blood rushes away.  Then again, I have never felt the need to bend over after running hard.  In fact, I do not think I have ever really run hard in my entire life (and the rabid deer did not count, I hid most of the time).  

"A body!" he screamed in his rough, bouncy human speech.  "A body in the road!"  Even the trees underneath me shivered at the idea of what the body could mean.  Armies coming that would chop down the forests and burn the wood for fires.  Dark things from the far north that were used only in stories to scare little ones to bed (and the irony was that they would be safest out of their beds).  

Yet why would a body just be sitting out in the middle of the road?  Every elf who found a body had to investigate (technically, I did not find it.  The human did).  If we could have prevented it, it would be best to know so that war would not descend upon our forest.  Leaning back in the aspen tree, I silently debated over what it could mean, besides the obvious: my cousin's dearest sweet love (the lousy jerk) had seen it and decided to come back with the sniffles.  

Drat.  That is correct, I said drat.  That is the closest my Imperial heritage will let me come to spitting out vulgar words in my annoyance, and I believe that I have a perfectly good reason for being annoyed.  I have to go and make sure a dead body is dead, and find out what killed it.  Then I have to report it to the chieftain of our tribe, if whatever killed the body does not kill me first.  

I thought it would be best if I let the humans investigate for me.

Yet the cowards began to gather their things when they heard a body was in the road.  They packed their food and turned around, heading south, away from the body and the mystery.  

Oh, I would love to live as a neighbor to these humans.  Yes, that was sarcasm.  No, I did not just lie.  The humans were cowards.  I just had a valid reason not to investigate the body, which involved fear and the fact that I had yet to see it.  No, I am not a coward.  Yes, that was sarcasm-free.  

Sighing, I left the safety of the trees to scout out for the body.  All that I knew was that it was in the road farther north.  Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the dirt path, and waited.  

Nothing happened.  Everything was calm and quiet.  Drat.  I had half-expected a flock of insane birds to attack me for entering the domain of those that are not Wood elves and not Halves.  Drat.  Then I would have had a valid reason to go back to the tribe and report.  Or at least the damage I would have inevitably would tell the story for me.  

Drat.

I then began the long walk toward the body, wherever north it was.  Maybe, maybe the thing that killed it was gone.  After all, the round man had managed to run away without serious injury.  Maybe it was gone.  Even better, there might be an attack on the tribe while I was gone.  When I come back and the tribe is cleaning itself up, they could ask where I was, then I would respond how I had been investigating the body so that they would know.  Then the idiotic rule would be repealed, and I would never have to investigate a body again.  Then I could have stayed in my nice, safe tree grove, no matter how much the trees hate me.  Anything would be better than walking toward certain doom.  

My quiver and bow began to weigh heavily on my back, and I took that as a sign to string the bow.  I always listen to my instincts, even if they are hypersensitive (my cousin calls them a coward's nerves, but I trust my instincts.  I am still alive, am I not?).  Pulling the sinew-fiber string around to the notch at the top of the bow, I continued walking, ignoring the sharp, shooting pain in my arms from the force.  I have done this many times, and I know that a person who has not learned to string a bow could probably take hours to string it the first time.  A learner to shooting a bow would be exhausted from simply stringing.  

I have lived off of my bow.  I know how to string it quickly and quietly.  This is why I know how to string it without difficulty, and while walking nonetheless.  According to the southern border guards, who have had more contact with humans than those to the west or north, the humans struggle to string bows or to twine the strings.  To the Wood elves, it is as natural as walking.  Many of our young ones are twining and stringing bows before they have left the care of their mother.  Once again, our biologically directed interests and tastes play a large part.  I took a little longer to learn to twine and string, as I am only half Wood elf.  

I really am surprised I did not see the body before I did.  The path was straight, and the man was wearing dark clothing.  He stood out against the pale dirt of the path, yet he had been virtually unnoticed until I nearly stumbled upon him.  Obviously some workings of a dark one, one of the powerful dark ones (not one of the dark ones that walk the roads, but a darker one than that).  A dark one could possibly use a power to make someone unnoticed, a power that would only be used for offensive attacks.  We have had some of our elves fall to a dark power like that; some of our elves have just barely escaped as an unnoticed attacker picked off their scouting party.  

Yet why would he have the arrow in his back?  I kneeled over him, studying his dark hair and pale skin.  Assassin, it appears, for though his skin was obviously pale, there was dirt and mud smeared over his cheeks and forehead.  He was trying to blend into the dark, even with the power of the dark ones.  

He feared that thing that he had attacked.  Why else would he not trust the power that obviously worked even after death?  Long after death.  He had been dead since at least the middle of the last night.  

He had a quiver over his shoulder, and a bow lay next to his outstretched hand.  The arrow in his back had not been aimed.  It stuck out of his back far away from chest or shoulder; he must have had a terrible time before he finally passed out from blood loss.  It would have been terribly painful.  

I leaned over his body, and then I saw the footprints.  Somehow, the dirt had not been disturbed from the night until midday.  His footprints showed that he had been running, and then a great force propelled him forward for a few paces before he fell where he now lay.  

He had been hit in the back, running away.  Either he had missed, or he greatly feared that which he hunted even after hitting it with his arrows.  

I really hate touching dead bodies, but that was important.  Wincing and bracing myself, I grabbed the arrow and pulled.  

It was stuck in his body.  Something twitched as I tugged again.  Did it get caught in the system that controlled body movement?  That would cause the twitching.  

Or, the man was still alive.  I glanced at his eyes again, but they were glassy from death.  Taking a deep breath to steady my flying nerves, I pulled again.  With a disgusting squelch, it pulled free and fell into my hand.  

It was not a human arrow.  Humans did not use such small arrowheads.  Theirs were heavier, bulkier, shaped to cut through armor.  Dwarves never used arrows, and if they did, the arrowheads would be bulkier than a human's arrows.  The only option left was that it was an elven arrow.  It was not a Wood elf arrow, though.  We hardly had need for arrowheads.  A sharpened branch will do well for us.  In a battle in the forest, anyone would be hopelessly outnumbered.  We would never run out of arrows.  

An elf killed the assassin.  The assassin had been after an elf.  What kind of elf, I do not know.  I have not heard much of Water elves or Imperial elves using arrows (Water elves much prefer blades, and the Imperial elves are normally healers).  

Now the question was, did the assassin miss, or had he hit his opponent?  

I turned and followed the tracks back to where they had come.  He had a long stride, I noticed, longer than mine when I ran.  That meant he had been taller than me (which is not saying much, the Wood elves are short to begin with), or he had been in worse danger than I have ever experienced.  After all, the arrow that hit him had been blind: wearing dark and covered in unnoticed power by the dark ones, and he still ran and was terrified.  

Who was this elf?  Or more specifically, what?  What was this elf that the assassin would fear him?  A warrior?  Obviously: maybe a blind warrior to not be fooled by the darkness and unnoticed power.  And with a power like that, to throw the man forward from this distance, he was a strong warrior.  

Turning back, I could dimly make out the form of the dead man; the power to go unnoticed was fading.  Even I could hit the man from here, though, so maybe the warrior was not that strong.  

His tracks stopped suddenly, where he had stood for the time it had taken to fire at his adversary before turning to run.  The standing prints were scuffed, as if he had to turn and run quickly.  

However, other than that, his prints to that point, coming from the forest to the west of the path, were calmly walking.  He had simply walked out onto the road, shot, and then realized his danger before he ran.  Apparently, he had not gotten far.  

Now, to find the warrior that had been attacked.  If the assassin had walked straight into the road to fire, that meant the attacked had been in the road as well.  So, all I had to do was wander farther north to see where the warrior's prints would be.  Simple.  

Except that, the assassin apparently had a good aim.  Drat.  There was no body in sight, and the tracks on the path were still older than last night.  That meant that he could shoot from a long way away, which meant more walking for me.  Heaving a sigh, I continued north on the path, keeping my bow accessible and my fingers ready to draw an arrow from the quiver.  

When I began to reach a point that I would have trouble hitting the body at, I began to get worried.  There was not a trace of anyone.  Maybe the attacker had missed, and the attacked was hiding in the bushes, ready to attack me and kill me for simply investigating.  Maybe it was a crazed monster, not an elf, and the assassin was actually a hero, saving a village from its insanity, and the monster had dodged the arrow and promptly attacked the hero for trying to kill it, and now the village was lying in smoldering ruins.  If the monster could actually dodge a hero's arrow, then it could most certainly dodge my arrows.  

Drat.  I really did not want to patrol the western borders that day.  I really wanted to blame my preeminent death on my cousin's beloved.  Before I died, I was going to scratch it in the dirt with my blood so that all will know that they can punish the lousy jerk as much as they wish.  

I am a Half.  I doubt they would have punished him for my death.  

Yet there was still the possibility that the assassin had actually hit the person.  I smiled and heaved a sigh of relief.  Good, not a crazed monster that was going to eat me.  Though, I suppose when I look back, it still could have been a crazed monster.  

A few drops of old, blackened blood would not have proven a monster or an innocent creature, yet my mind clung to the image of the warrior, struggling to save himself as he fought against the horrible assassin.  

Crouching down, I studied the blood, noting the spill.  It had a few good-sized blotches facing south, and then a thin trail swung around to the north, as if the person had been hit and then spun to face the attacker.  Then, between both blotches, there was a small impression of knees and a hand.  Some dried blood had pooled in the impressions around the knees.  Maybe the attacked had sat down for a while, before crawling off the road, leaving a small trail of blood.  

Curious, I spread my hand and laid it down inside the impression of the hand.  It was so small.  My hands were just barely larger than this person.  Obviously, if he was a warrior elf, he was a small warrior elf.  I am small enough already.  

On the other hand, maybe he was a renegade Wood elf.  Wood elves are small people.  Most humans tower over us (or at least that is what the southern border patrols tell us).  A warrior Wood elf.  What a tale this would be for the elves around the fire.  

There was only one way to know for certain what the attacked was.  I followed the tracks and blood for a while into the forest before it faded away.  For it to stop that way, either the wound was not bad, or the wound had been covered up.  

I really hoped, then, that the wound was not bad and that I was on a pointless journey.  

Glancing up at the trees surrounding me, I moaned and then decided to try deeper into the forest.  It was mostly aspen in the grove.  The trees would not speak at all to me.  

After heading deeper, I found exactly what I had been looking for: a patch of ivy.  When it has no trees to cling to, it will spread over the ground and blanket the earth so that nothing beneath it can live.  Yet, ivy still is one of the easiest plants with which to get along.  

Gently reaching out, I brought to my mind an image of blood, asking the ivy for direction.  I was not expecting the response I got: it screamed at me, in total pain and terror.  

Where?

Here!

A section of ivy screamed the loudest, and I quickly reached for it, only to find the leaves falling away under my fingers.  It had been ripped up from the roots, and underneath, I could see hair.  

I swept the remaining roots aside and could only stare.