Kevin Hearne: Trapped

Even literature got it wrong. There are only a couple of passing references to dark elves in Sturluson’s Prose Edda , but they’re a bit confusing since they seem to conflate the dark elves with dwarfs. I have often wondered how much of that was intentional; in my mind it’s impossible to make such a mistake. They didn’t look a damn bit alike, if my sources were correct.

To be fair, Snorri Sturluson had priorities other than filling in the history of the dark elves. He wanted to preserve his country’s myths and culture without upsetting the Christian authorities of the time. He had to stretch like Mr. Fantastic to make the Norse gods descendants of the Trojans—and thus, to the Christians, not really gods at all, merely heroes—and he probably couldn’t figure out a way to explain the dark elves satisfactorily. Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Svartálfar had paid him a visit while he was writing the Edda and encouraged him to elide their existence all he wanted—perhaps more than he wanted.

The reason that there is so little information about dark elves is that they tend to keep to themselves, and, in truth, from what little I have heard, this is rather kind of them. Any interaction they have with humans tends to ruin the humans’ day.

“I know a bit about them,” Manannan said. “I got the short version o’ their history from one o’ the Álfar.”

“The Álfar spoke to you? Why?”

“This was some time ago. I had the story from a treasure hunter who wanted my help in locating wrecks at the bottom o’ the Irish Sea. Since he wanted a map, I asked him for a map in kind. I never could figure out where the nine realms were located on the World Tree, so he gave me a map that he swore was truth and told me a story about how the Svartálfar were born. Would ye like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would—and I’d love to see the map as well. If the dark elves are actively searching for me, I’d prefer to be armed with as much knowledge as possible.”

“That is wise, especially where fighting them is concerned.”

“Why so?”

“Patience, Siodhachan. I’ll tell all, even as he told it 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 acknowledge our debt to you and will gladly repay your generosity. But we will not subject ourselves to your rule when you are none of our own.”

Perhaps a less prideful king would have found the strength to negotiate from this point. Perhaps the dark elves had said enough to provoke any king beyond all endurance. Regardless of might-have-beens, the king of the Álfar roared for his champions to take the dark elves and throw them in his dungeon.

“We wish all here to remember that we did not begin the violence and that we offered to pay our debts to the Álfar,” the spokesman called loudly. “You cannot prevail against our martial art, Sigr af Reykr . Send to Svartálfheim when your new king wishes to talk in peace.”

It was an odd thing to say, since they had yet to move, but the reason for it became clear shortly. When the Álfar champions tried to seize them, the Svartálfar became incorporeal, their white robes falling to the ground and their silver hair ties clinking after them, as something like coal dust bloomed where they had stood. Their strange knives did not fall to the ground but transformed with them. The dark elves became solid again outside the ring of champions, naked, holding those wicked curved blades, as black as their bodies. They could have slain all the Álfar then with a twitch of their wrists. Instead, they waited for the champions to turn, and this time the champions tried to use their weapons. Swords and axes swung at the dark elves but swished through nothing but black mist. Four clouds swirled back out of reach, but one wove sinuously through the air toward the king. The spokesman for the Svartálfar became solid at the bottom of the steps leading to the king’s throne, black knife in his left hand.