No one knows for certain exactly how the seven Races came to be. Some say the legendary High Elves were ultimately responsible: first, by creating the Elves in their own image; then, molding the Orcs to be their servants, and the Dragons their pets. The Small Men were their farmers; the Drow, their miners; the Dwarves, their builders.

As for the Tall Men? According to those myths, they alone were not of the High Elves' creation; instead, they had been invited from somewhere Beyond. For only a Race that wasn't of Their own bloodline could offer up truly new ideas: growth, conflict, change.

And change the Races did, in ways the long-gone High Elves couldn't have foreseen. The ebon-skinned Drow retreated to the deepest mountain caverns, never to willingly brave the sun—or their fellow Races—again. The Dwarves, forced to assume the dual mantle of miner and builder, became surly and withdrawn. The Dragons and Orcs took note, and one day simply abandoned their erstwhile masters, settling however and wherever they chose. The Small Men, cheerful by nature, found new joy in their position as ambassadors; they were the only Race that all others trusted. And the restless Tall Men—filled with the urgency of the shortest-lived—became merchants and explorers, hunters and scientists, conquerors and kings.

The Elves saw all of this, and took note. For to them (and them alone) fell the talent of the Song. The world was the Song, and the Song was the world. No wild beast, no angry storm cloud, not even the thick curtains of the future could catch them completely unawares; for the Song was carried on the drifting wind, to any ear sensitive enough to Listen.

This was not magic; there is no such thing. Are the Dwarves performing magic when they pull precious metal from unforgiving stone? Do the Tall Men make magic when they breathe?

However, while it was certainly true that the Tall Men made no magic of their own, it was even more so that—as they became more numerous, and less restrained—their actions were bringing disharmony to the Song. Nature can forgive some discord; but the Tall Men's deeds were threatening the very health of the world: and therefore, the interwoven threads of the seven Races themselves.

And while all the Elves could Hear (in fact, could not ignore) the ever-louder jangle of the coming-to-be, only one in particular could Hear through that noise to the faint but sure thread of the might-become. Her true name was a long and achingly lovely Song that described both her physical attributes and inner nature; in the common tongue, out of tradition, she shared only the first three Notes: Aiyiah.

She was of course beautiful; no Elf is not. Reed-slender, with alabaster skin, and platinum hair to her waist. Gigantic eyes (only the Dragons have larger), with irises of new-leaf green; and of course, delicate windswept ears coming to a gentle point. Typical for her Race, she was a full head taller than a Small Man, which still left her rather more than a head shorter than most of the Tall Men.

It must be said that the radiant Aiyiah, barely two centuries old, had no special talent above all others to perceive that single hopeful thread. Rather, she knew from the first that she was Hearing the march of her own destiny. From deep within the immense forest known only to the other Races as the Elfhome, she set out unerringly—and with no trace of hesitation—on a journey to intercept the one man who might prove to be the salvation of the world.

Following the thread of her Song, it took her three arduous weeks to come upon the mortally wounded Tall Man, alone and barely an hour from death, in a deeply shaded meadow on the fringes of the Elfhome. No one knows (save perhaps Aiyiah herself) his name, much less what had led him to his miserable fate; in the end, does it really matter?

Having come upon her target in his hour of need, she wasted neither time nor unnecessary movement. First, she weaved pieces of the Song into a protective bower, that she should be able to work undisturbed. Then, once more bending the Song to her will, she tended to his wounds: applying its threads to the work of healing with all the speed and skill of a master chirurgeon—moreso, for she could Hear the various distresses within the anonymous Tall Man's body, and Sing as necessary to repair the damage.

Even so, it was long work; and at the end of it, they both slept.

No matter how short the night, all Elves awaken at sunrise, and Aiyiah was no exception. The glory of the day's new Song burst forth with the first warm caress of the sun's rays, with the drowsy awareness of the creatures of the forest: and she drew much-needed strength from that. For, having satisfied the Tall Man's greatest need, it was now the time for him to repay the favor—perhaps the greatest favor an Elf had ever asked from one of his kin.

She wasted no time, calling upon the Song to ease the stranger into wakefulness. Weak but whole, he could do little more than watch and listen; though he could not of course comprehend the significance of what his non-Elven ears couldn't properly Hear.

First, at Aiyiah's insistence, the Song unwove the very threads of his garment, reforming it beneath him as protection from the cold hard ground. Then, with but a few more Notes, she unwove the fabric of her own outfit, exposing her pale skin to the new day—as well as to his befuddled gaze.

Through the Song, she knew what it was that he saw. She was indeed the very picture of loveliness, a rare flower even among her own kind. But while—even at her tender age—she could easily lay claim to tenfold the length of his mortal coil: her very slenderness, short stature, featureless chest, and perfectly smooth cleft caused him to perceive her in like manner to a child. A Tall Man's girlchild, for which he would not—could not—have called up the needed spark of desire.

Fortunately, this too had been anticipated. Seizing once again upon the relevant parts of the Song, Aiyiah wove the threads as necessary. First, she caused his perceptions to change; no longer did he view her as a child, but as an older—and highly desirable—woman. Then, she manipulated the Song to insert lustful feelings deep within his roiling and chaotic mind.

She was rewarded; as he rolled fully onto his back, his slumbering manhood unfurled to full tumescence. His eyes fairly glowed as he listened to her Singing with what amounted to rapture. Only his weakened physical condition prevented him from reaching for her as yet, while she prepared the final stages of their impending encounter.

Once more she Sang, effecting changes gross and subtle within both their forms. Two soft swells appeared upon her previously unembellished chest; not large, and certainly not functional, but definitely emphasizing her femininity. Her mating channel altered its shape, becoming both longer and broader in anticipation of their imminent conjoining. A sweet-smelling dew formed at the entrance, ready to ease the first penetration. Similarly, the Tall Man's life-creating fluids were stimulated almost to overflowing, just as a surge of energy gave him the stamina to do what he now knew must be done.

In that unnamed bower, filled with the flames of passion that Aiyiah had so carefully fanned, the nameless stranger reached up, inviting his Elven mistress to sit astride him. His mind entrapped in the Song of passion, he impaled her without reservation, thrusting upward to his very root. It did not occur to him to wonder at the strangeness of the situation, or at her ability to accommodate him at all; his mind was beyond (or perhaps more correctly, beneath) such thoughts.

Caught up fully within the Song, Aiyiah also had no choice but to give her own self over to ecstasy. Their passions rose together, and while the forest around them crescendoed with the early morning's activity, the two lovers urged each other onward to the climax that the Song itself had dictated.

Despite their mutual wish to maintain this single coupling for as long as possible, its completion would not be forestalled. His thrusts grew quicker and more insistent, as she Sang the final Notes—or, as many have debated since: at that penultimate moment, was it instead the Song that was Singing her?

Explosion. Bliss. The perfect Chord, which could not—could never—have lasted long enough.

At last, their duet complete, they allowed themselves to separate. Aiyiah wove the Notes once more; her body reverted to its original shape, even as their clothes reformed as new. Only she knows what else was said between them (if anything at all) before they parted ways forever. For she had what she had come for: his seed, and with it the fulfillment of her destiny.

She would nurture that seed within herself for the better part of two years, in the manner of her kind. And her daughter, the first of a new breed, would be granted the unique gift of moving at will between the conflicting worlds of Elf and Tall Man.

The joyful news spread rapidly upon the wind; by the end of the day, nearly every one of the Elves would at last have Heard the soft counterpoint that had urged Aiyiah to set herself upon her chosen path: the music of salvation; the rising chorus of hope.

And thus did I come to be conceived.