When their first child was born, they did not know what to do with him. Yet it was very joyful to watch him grow, mature, and blossom, like grass and trees after a long winter. They became so absorbed in this process that they nearly missed the moment when the cold wind began to blow again.
Almost. By now, the man knew exactly what was coming and what needed to be done.
First, he dug a cave and began storing herbs, nuts, and animal carcasses inside. The woman helped him, and even the child ran about on his little legs, bringing whatever he found on the ground, like a pebble or a blade of grass…
The old man opened his eyes and looked at the dozen children who, after gorging themselves on berries, now lay on the sand, rubbing their bellies. One of them was wiser: he saved his share of berries and carried them into the cave, imitating the adults. He was trying to keep them for winter, unaware that they would rot long before it arrived.
The man also hadn't known that at first. Day by day, he gained more experience, which he would eventually pass on to his descendants.
With each new winter, their numbers grew. The first child gained a sister.
One day, a blue serpent ran across the sky and plunged into the earth with a mighty roar. Soon after, one of the youngest carried a Red Flower into the cave. It was fierce and spiky, yet warm, and thus indispensable in winter. The man fell in love with the flower, always feeding it and warming himself beside it, but the woman remained wary. One day, the flower bit her, and from then on she never approached it even in the harshest frosts.
She had always remained close to the man. He had grown so accustomed to her presence that even now he sometimes felt he only needed to turn around to see her again, hugging her knees and gazing warily at a fire.
And so he did. He heard a rustling behind him, turned, and saw nothing. The man's gaze fell to the ground. He knew that the woman was gone. Several years earlier, she had fallen asleep and frozen solid overnight.
At first, he tried to wake her, but she would not stir, no matter what he did. Then he resolved to guard her until she woke on her own. After all, every dream eventually ends, and even the green leaves that vanish with the coming of winter return to cloak the branches once more when they feel the warm wind.
And he waited. For a long, long time. Even when the woman began to darken and decay, he pinched his nose, breathed through his mouth, and waited. He even slept with her in his arms, his head spinning from the stench.
One day, after waking from a long sleep, he saw her again—bright, gentle, warm, and young. Enchanted, he watched as she handed him berries and lowered her eyes. Then he realized it was not the woman before him, but his daughter (or perhaps granddaughter), who had brought him something to eat. With that realization, an old memory flashed before his eyes.
It happened at the end of the very first winter. As he wandered among the barren trees in search of food, his gaze fell upon a small green apple. He reached out to pluck it, but then stepped on something. Looking down, he saw another apple beneath his foot, wrinkled and old.
The man blinked. That very day he carried the woman away and left her deep within the forest. Now he understood what life was and what death was. Like fruits, he and his descendants would one day fall and decay, and only the trees around them would endure for all eternity…
The man raised his head and looked at the couple who had returned from the forest. Then he turned toward the lake and shivered, feeling (or perhaps only remembering) the touch of the cold wind.
Winter was harsh. It was a season of cold and hunger. Yet it always carried with it memories of him huddling with the woman in the cave, trying to keep warm while terrible winds howled outside.
The man sighed, once again looking at his descendants. Some were busy with preparations, while others—mostly children—played on the beach. He could do neither. His body was too frail for any activity apart from tending the flame, and even that was becoming too hard for him, for he was prone to drifting into a dreamscape.
He was old. Very old. He knew that soon, just like the woman, he too would wither, decay, and lose his warmth. However, before his death, he longed to see winter one last time.
At the end, the man's wish came true. A month later, white flakes began to fall from the sky. Children ran along the beach, laughing as they caught them in their palms, while the adults frowned, their faces heavy with worry. One of them rushed to wake the elder, and then a cry of anguish echoed through the forest.
Soon, more than thirty elves gathered around his body. The elder lay upon the ground near the bonfire, his eyes half‑open, reflecting the cloudy sky and the gentle snowflakes drifting down…
Thus perished the very first elf. He died in a dark age, when no written language existed to record his life, yet he left a great mark upon his people, one that would not be erased even many years later, after the last of those who remembered him had also departed from this world.
They called him "Na." Why? No one knows. Yet whenever they spoke of him, his descendants would utter that sound: "Na." And when Na died, his son approached him, gently closed his eyelids, and slowly rose to his feet.
Now he was the new leader and elder.
Now he was the new Na.