A few days after the last gathering, as calm routines took hold, a quiet curiosity stirred in Rowan’s mind—and, indeed, in the minds of several villagers. With all the easy intimacy unfolding between humans and elves, and with talk of elven longevity, one wonder rose to the surface: why, with such abundant sexual freedom, did the elves not seem to have many children? In fact, no one had seen a single elven child appear during all these encounters.


    Rowan broached the subject gently one afternoon. He found an elven friend, Alenthial, sitting beneath a flowering vine, weaving slender leaves into a pattern of subtle beauty. Nearby, a few villagers lingered, ears pricking at the question. Lieris and Wera especially were curious, as was Ildan, who had begun to consider what these intimate freedoms might mean in the long run.


    Rowan settled beside Alenthial, clearing his throat softly. “May I ask something personal?” he said quietly, not wanting to offend. The elf looked up and smiled, inclining his head for Rowan to continue. “We’ve seen how freely you share love and pleasure. It’s beautiful, but… we’ve also noticed we haven’t seen elven children. If you share so openly, how is it that more children aren’t born? Is there some kind of herb you use, or a spell?”


    The villagers leaned in, curious. Humans, after all, were used to pregnancy being an expected result of certain unions—if done often enough, without precaution. They wondered if the elves were practicing some subtle form of contraception.


    Alenthial’s laughter was like distant chimes. “Ah, that question. We wondered when it would surface,” the elf said, voice warm with understanding. “No, we do not use herbs or spells to prevent conception. Such interference would feel like a denial of life’s natural flow. We cherish nature’s wisdom too much to thwart it artificially.”


    This answer puzzled Rowan and the villagers. Lieris frowned, “Then how…?”


    Alenthial waved a slender hand, as if calling forth a memory of ancient truths. “We elves live long lives, as you know—centuries of watching trees grow tall and fall again. Our bodies, intertwined with the forest’s rhythms, have their own quiet wisdom. Conception among elves is a rare event. It does not happen simply because two bodies join. It occurs only when all elements align: a deep desire to bring forth new life from both partners, a harmony of the forest’s energies, and certain subtle conditions—times when the forest itself seems to sing differently.”


    The humans exchanged baffled glances. Wera’s brow furrowed. “So you could have intimacy every day, with many lovers, and never conceive unless… what? Unless your hearts and the forest both ‘decide’ it’s time?”


    Alenthial nodded serenely. “Precisely. Without that confluence, no child is formed. It is not about controlling nature—it is about nature not rushing us. Our species, living so long, does not need frequent births. The forest nurtures balance. When a child is truly yearned for and the forest senses this readiness, conception becomes possible. Until then, pleasure is shared without fear of unintended offspring.”


    Ildan blew out a breath. “That’s… unbelievable. You mean there’s no worry about children arriving unplanned?”


    Alenthial smiled kindly. “For elves, it rarely happens that way. Children are precious, arrived at after long contemplation and mutual longing. Our bodies respond only when that longing aligns with deeper harmonies. It is a gift, ensuring every child is born into a world of readiness and devotion, never as an accident of lust.”


    Rowan and the villagers were stunned. They had grown up with the idea that unprotected intimacy often led to children, that desire carried the possibility of new life whether or not it was wanted. The human approach to sex had always included a measure of caution, or reliance on external methods to prevent conception if they weren’t ready for parenthood. Now they saw a world—an entire species—for whom love and pleasure were not chained to the worry of unexpected children.


    It was then that Lieris hesitated before raising her hand, her voice carrying a note of cautious curiosity. “And… what about a child between a human and an elf? Is it possible?”


    Alenthial tilted his head, considering the question carefully. “Yes, it is possible,” he said slowly, “but under the same conditions as for two elves. The forest must harmonize with the intent and longing of both partners. Such unions are rare, for they require an even deeper alignment between species—an agreement not just between the parents, but between the rhythms of human and elven natures.”


    The humans exchanged glances, their curiosity deepening. Wera asked, “So, in essence, the same rules apply? If the harmony isn’t there, it just doesn’t happen?”The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    “Precisely,” Alenthial said gently. “Human-elf unions, while they can be beautiful, are almost always free of conception. Only when everything aligns perfectly can life spring from such a bond. It is exceedingly rare, and thus not something you need fear in casual or even deeply felt connections.”


    Ildan leaned forward, eyes wide. “So if a human and an elf share intimacy without that harmony, there’s no risk of a child?”


    “Correct,” Alenthial said gently. “For most relationships between our kinds, the bond will bring only joy, connection, and shared pleasure—not children. However, should such a child ever be born, it is seen as nothing less than a living miracle. Both elven and human communities would celebrate such a life as a bridge between worlds, a symbol of harmony and shared futures.”


    This revelation led to hours of quiet reflection. Later that evening, Rowan and some villagers discussed it beneath a broad elm tree. Lieris ran a hand through her hair, thinking aloud. “If human-elf unions almost never lead to children, that’s a freedom we humans have never imagined. It could allow us to connect deeply without the same weight of responsibility we associate with intimacy. But even knowing a child could be possible, I would hope we’d treat such an event with the awe and care it deserves.”


    Wera nodded. “It’s beautiful for them. But for us, desire can lead to new life much more easily. Does that mean we must be more cautious, or that we must find ways to share pleasure while acknowledging our human biology?”


    Ildan leaned against the trunk, arms folded, contemplating. “Perhaps it means we can still embrace openness and trust, but also take responsibility for our choices. The elves don’t need contraception because their nature has its own checks. We humans might need to think about how to handle this newfound sexual freedom. If we spread this way of loving widely, we must also ensure we care for any children who might arise from it. Or find ways to prevent conception if we aren’t ready.”


    Rowan, who had been listening silently, now spoke. “This truth about elves reminds us that we cannot simply copy their behavior without understanding our differences. We must find our own balance. Sexual freedom does not mean we must abandon all care. We must cherish intimacy, but also acknowledge that humans can create life easily. If we want to celebrate love without fear, we must also be honest about fertility and raise any children born with love and stability.”


    Some villagers blushed at the frankness of the conversation. They had never spoken so openly of these matters before. Yet the elves’ example had made it impossible to ignore. Rowan added, “And not all intimacy need carry the possibility of new life. Humans, like elves, can find fulfillment in many forms of connection. Same-sex relationships, for example, or acts that focus on shared pleasure without involving conception, are as valid and meaningful as any other. Exploring such avenues with trust and respect can deepen our connections while easing the weight of unintended consequences.”


    A few humans suggested that if their community grew more comfortable with open, honest talk about sex, perhaps it could also address the needs of raising children more collectively. Could human society learn from the elves to share not just pleasure, but also the responsibility of nurturing life?


    Others wondered if herbs or safe methods known from old wives’ tales could play a role in their new world. The elves might not use them, but humans might choose to. If they did, would that go against the natural honesty they sought? Some argued it wouldn’t, so long as it was done with respect for health and nature, not as a denial of life’s possibilities but as a conscious choice of timing and readiness.


    Rowan again reminded them that there was no single answer. The elves’ way showed that love and nature could harmonize to control fertility. Humans, lacking that natural safeguard, might need to rely on their wisdom and mutual agreements. He urged compassion and patience. They were pioneers, after all, exploring a new approach to intimacy inspired by elves but adapted for human reality.


    Later that night, they formed another circle—less about passion this time, more about gentle closeness and talking through these thoughts. Humans and elves sat together, exchanging slow caresses and kisses now and then, but mainly discussing what the future held. The elves listened to the humans’ concerns about childbirth and seemed sympathetic, if a bit puzzled by how humans worried so much about something the elves never had to fear inadvertently.


    A male elf, who had previously danced gracefully between human lovers, suggested a metaphor: “Think of your human nature as a fertile garden. You must tend it, choose when to plant seeds, and care for what grows. With knowledge and cooperation, you can find balance.” The humans appreciated this image—it gave them hope that even with their fertility, they could still shape a world of love and openness.


    As dawn approached, the humans and elves parted with lingering embraces and thoughtful smiles. The question of children had reminded everyone that not all elven truths could be adopted wholesale. Humans would have to build their own path, guided by honesty and consent. Some might choose careful methods to prevent unwanted pregnancies, others might embrace the risk and raise children in a community of shared responsibility.


    Rowan was satisfied. He had come seeking a new way of loving, and he had found more than that: he had found a delicate tapestry of understanding, one that acknowledged differences in biology and culture. The elves showed that love need not be shadowed by fear of life’s consequences, but humans, being human, would have to find their own balance—a harmony of body, desire, and responsibility.


    In the morning light, as the villagers and elves returned to their tasks, it was clear that a new era was dawning—one where love, far from being repressed, would be guided by wisdom, empathy, and a willingness to learn from nature’s subtle teachings. Rowan felt hope stir anew, knowing that while challenges remained, this shared journey had already planted the seeds of profound transformation.