Trapped

to me. «
    Ages ago, even before the Tuatha Dé Danann had come to Ireland, the king of the Álfar—for there was only one kind of elf back then—commissioned a map of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil. Asgard, Álfheim, and Vanaheim at the top were well known, but less was known of the six lower realms. The lowest three, in particular, were almost complete mysteries. Niflheim was a land of ice, and it was within that realm that Hel reigned over the moaning, inglorious dead; Muspellheim was a land of flames, where Surtr and the fire jötnar lived, awaiting the day of Ragnarok, when they could burn the whole of creation; but there was another land, both between and underneath them, subterranean and dark, beyond the jaws of the great wyrm Nidhogg, that did not even have a name, and no one knew what waited there in the black silence.
    The largest party of Álfar was sent to explore this land, and none returned. All other parties returned and the map grew into an atlas, yet the king was displeased by the loss of the last crew. Another party, half again as large, was sent to seek them after forty years, but they did not return either. Ailing and old, this king—whose name has been purposefully forgotten by the Álfar—sent out a series of single adventurers. They were told not to explore but rather to discover the fates of their forebears and report back.
    The answer to the mystery came three years later. Five strange beings appeared at the court of the Álfar king. Dressed in robes of a white material that looked like silk yet shimmered so that other colors reflected from its surface, they very nearly sparkled when they moved.
    The beings appeared to be elves, except that instead of the light flesh and light-blond hair of the Álfar, this company had skin of obsidian. Each had a single queue of jet-black hair growing from the very top of his head, bunched together in places with silver circlets and falling down to the waist. Their eyes were green and abnormally large. They carried weapons unlike any the Álfar had seen, longish curved daggers that were not quite fit to be called swords, crafted not of iron or bronze but of some dark material; hilt, blade, and guard were all made of the same inky substance.
    Approaching the throne, the strangers bowed but did not kneel to the king. He demanded to know who they were.
    The one in the middle answered: » We bring greetings from Svartálfheim, the ninth realm of Yggdrasil. «
    » What do you say? Explain. «
    They were descendants of the first party he’d sent to the subterranean world, the entrance to which lies between the Ylgr and Vir rivers, and they had come to tell him and all Álfar that it was named Svartálfheim.
    » You’re elves, then! « the king cried. » My subjects! «
    » No, not your subjects. The sons of your former subjects. «
    The king was not pleased by this show of independence but not inclined to argue the point. He was not sure he wanted them for subjects, for in his eyes they were strange.
    » How came you to look thus? «
    » We were given the Gjor at Reykr , the Gift of Smoke. We are now Svartálfar, as you are Ljósálfar. « This was the first time the distinction was made between the two races.
    » What nonsense is this? « the king demanded.
    » Svartálfheim is nothing like Álfheim. The caverns have changed us. We are no longer like you. But, for the sake of our former kinship, we would have ties with you so that both our kingdoms may flourish. «
    » Both our kingdoms? « the king spluttered. His face grew red and he stood from his throne. » You have some king other than I? «
    » Of course. You are Ljósálfar, not Svartálfar. We would not suggest that one of us lead your people. «
    » And that is as it should be! But you owe me your allegiance! I funded your expedition! I supported the families left behind! « Thinking of this, the king decided they should be his subjects after all. » And, despite your dark skin, you are Álfar! Acknowledge me as your sovereign! «
    » Our sovereign is in Svartálfheim. We are but ambassadors of his goodwill. «
    » Goodwill would be acknowledging your rightful king. If I am not your sovereign, then you and your ancestors are deserters and traitors. «
    The five Svartálfar stiffened. » We are none such, « one of the other dark elves said. He was not the spokesman, but none of his companions bristled at his interruption. » We are a different people now, as your senses must clearly report. We