Orrillimmirr ambled along the village path leading from their house to the rest of the settlement.
Sorrinn was perched atop his father’s shoulders as always when they went out.
The day had a chill. It was cloudy and gray, so not many were out in the village. Beyond the one-off mandilleer lugging a cart alongside its master and the species diverse groups of children running amok, screaming, and playing in the fields around the village outskirts, it was a quiet day.
They took a route they didn’t usually take during their excursions. His father led them deeper into the village, closer to The Giving Tree than Sorrinn had ever been.
The tree sat atop the hill of a small island in the middle of a large pond. Its thick, surface-dwelling roots covered every stretch of the island and submerged into the pond water. Something of its influence dyed the pond a cloudy milk white.
Walking beneath its vast canopy was an experience within its own right. Its pale white-yellow ombre, weeping willow-like, feathery leaves descended and graced in the breeze like silken clerical vestments. Its odd, down-reaching lower branches bore branch-ends reminiscent of Human hands in size and shape. Hands which held rotund, round fruit with sunset golden flesh in their cradles as if offering bounties to those traveling amidst the streaks of radiance piercing through its canopy. The fruits didn’t grow anywhere else on the tree but at the lower branch-ends, in the cups of those palm-like niches. The way the silvered sunlight beamed through the canopy kindred to rays of divinity only added to the otherworldly ambiance and ethereality while passing through. The place felt akin to stepping into a different world.
Sorrinn took the chance to accept one of its offered fruits. It was perfectly ripe, pristine in every way. “Paba, what kind of tree is this one?” He pointed at it if he wasn’t clear enough.
“Excellent question—one I’m unfortunately unable to provide an answer to.” Orrillimmirr paused on the path to observe the tree on its throne at the village’s heart. “The Giving Tree is one of this world’s great mysteries no one in the village knows the origins of. It possesses the unique quality of being able to produce fruit in any austere condition, as well as the ability to sustain the freshness of the fruit it bears indefinitely whilst it remains attached to the tree—hence its name. A true wonder it is, indeed, little one. I was kindly informed by the caretaker that it predates the village’s founding by several million years. Its proximity to the Great Forest of Titania suggests its origin to perhaps a pre-enlightenment era mystic life-form of some sort, but I’ve been unable to pinpoint its identity or make contact with it in all the time I’ve been here studying and observing it. I’ll uncover its verity one day, I hope and aspire.”
Sorrinn placed his hand over his father’s eye. Whenever Orrillimmirr started rambling, that usually snapped him out of it. “Paba…” he playfully moaned.
Orrillimmirr laughed through his nose. “Apologies, apologies. It is a magnificent specimen, though, is it not?”
“I guess…” Sorrinn had a chomp of the golden fruit. The juices burst the moment his teeth sunk in, swelling his mouth with a rich juice that tasted of sweet, creamy banana and vanilla. It was delicious, comparable to melted ice cream. He inhaled the fruit clean in a few bites, which was easy since all of its insides were of a soft flesh—no seeds at all.
His father continued along the path, looking up toward Sorrinn. “I know they’re tasty, but careful not to eat too many of them, little one. One of its bounties instills your body with all of the sustenance and energy it requires for a day. Eating too many will make you fall ill.”
That was unfortunate. It was so good, he was already thinking about eating another. But, when he thought about it, he was quite full after only having one. “Kay.”
Their journey led them to the northern tip of the village. They crossed through the outer crop fields, through the fields of pasture, toward the forest’s treeline to the far north of the plain. That forest sprawling across a distance too vast to attach a number to wasn’t the Great Forest, he believed. The Great Forest of Titania was the expanse of colossal trees lording over the south. In comparison to the Great Forest’s trees, those trees were old but standard-issue. The plain began to climb into hills around there, toward the mountain-clad, tree-brushed highlands which dominated the northern horizon.
There, at the edge of where the forest met the plain, was an isolated cottage, billows of smoke rising from the chimneys. It hid behind wooden fences and had some well-tended garden land and a stable where black-scaled mandilleer rested.
The land around The Giving Tree was rather nutrient rich. He wondered if its presence had anything to do with that fact.
They approached the cottage’s front door, at which Orrillimmirr knocked thrice.
After some time, someone answered the door—an oddity of a woman, draped in a beautiful, all-black, kimono-like robe-dress with a black leather-cinched waist and long, falling sleeves that swallowed her hands whole. Her entire head and face, aside from the snow white-skinned lower half of her face, was wrapped in a dark, loose-fitting fabric reminiscent of a hijab. On top of that, the large black hood of her robe was drawn overhead, the shadows of which further veiled her visage from the light of day.
The air around her was… off, to put it lightly. That was the gentlest word that surfaced in Sorrinn’s mind. Something about her was wrong—odious—and it was as if that repugnance emanated into the space surrounding her, branding her as something repulsive—something which didn’t belong. The world was rejecting her existence before his eyes.
“Orrillimmirr.” her flat, toneless yet gentle voice said. “What brings you here? And you’ve brought company, I see. What do I owe the privilege of this visit?” Her head hung low. Even if she wasn’t blinded by the opaque headwrapping, the only thing she was focusing on was the ground. She shouldn’t have known Sorrinn was there at all. Somehow, she did.
“Forgive me for disturbing your peaceful days, Lua.” Orrillimmirr gestured his hand the woman’s way, saying, “Sorrinn, I would like you to meet an old friend of mine, Lua. Lua, this is my second-born son, Sorrinn.”
Sorrinn was too disconcerted by her presence to be amiable. It soured his face ugly. He clung to his father’s head a little tighter.
“The pleasure is all mine.” The woman named Lua dipped her head even lower in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Sorrinn.”
It wasn’t as if she was an awful person. She seemed to be nice enough. If a goody-two-shoes like his father thought of her as a friend, that confirmed she was a good person. Why did he feel how he did? Baseless disgust and sourceless fear potent enough to get his heart rate jumping, lip trembling; it wasn’t like him. He hadn’t even reacted that harshly when he first encountered that bird Eldradimon.
“It would seem he’s inherited quite the exalted mantle within the realm of Creation. He’s already arising into his mystic potential at such a nascent age. As a master of Creation yourself, I was hoping you would be willing to accept him under your tutelage and take him on as a protege. I’m certain he’ll become a skilled imbibitor either or, for The Mystic Force and The Ancestor wills it, but…” Orrillimmirr closed his eyes, shook his head, and exhaled, his charming smile incredulous. “He’s already put a hole through the house. I cannot help but to experience trepidation over the thought of what other ‘renovations’ await if we leave him to his own devices.”
“I understand. I owe you a great deal, Orrillimmirr. Nothing would make me more joyous than to repay my debts owed.” Lua said that, but her unshifting tone of voice and non-existent body language wasn’t convincing of her inner ecstaticism. “If all you need is for someone to offer him direction in his mystic development, it would be my privilege.” She raised her hand to chest-level, allowing the long stretch of fabric to fall back. The same as the lower half of her face, her delicate hand was snow white. There wasn’t a tinge of red accenting her skin. It was as if it was dipped in paint. An immense concentration of mystic energy raveled around her index finger, so dense, it was perceptible to the untrained eye in the image of a torch of radiant blue smoke enshrouding her hand. “If you would lower him?”
Orrillimmirr hoisted Sorrinn from his shoulders, easing him to his feet.
The woman dipped to Sorrinn’s height. She reached and Sorrinn instinctively backed away with a fearful frown, arms restricted to his chest. Nonetheless, she donned a smile before his apprehension. A subtle thing, for sure, but a smile, nonetheless. The air surrounding her was cold and unsettling, but that smile was wonderfully Human in its warmth. “May I?” she requested kindly.
It wasn’t fair to her. He bounced his chin, conquering and stowing those inane fears into the back of his mind.
She set a few engulfed fingers against his chest. With naught more than a touch, the full force of her mystic energy surged into the deepest reaches of his existence. Her energy invaded his mystic pathways, rushing through them in a flash, highlighting specific routes through the ever-diverging branches. After the first, she emitted three more bursts of energy, each hinting the way toward a new rudimentary spell.
Standing upright, she silenced the flare of energy rising from her hand. “I’ve communicated four minor spells of Creation of each primary element to your body: Firebolt, Aqua Shot, Stone Shard, and Wind Burst. Spend the next two months learning and mastering them as much as you can manage, then return to me. You’re always welcome here. Never hesitate to knock.”
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Magic homework. How fun.
No, that wasn’t sarcasm. He was very much so looking forward to diving headlong into the sauce.
Something interesting he noticed: All of the spell routes Lua highlighted all branched from the same tree. When he thought about it, there were ten base channels leading away from the basin which endlessly diverged into expansive trees of splitting tributaries. There was the one that seemed to always be flowing with mystic energy and didn’t have any branches, then the other nine which did. And there so happened to be nine schools of the mystic arts. Coincidence? He thought not.
It was likely each of the nine channels referred to a unique school. The one flame spell The Mystic Force taught him and the spells Lua imparted all belonged to the same tree—merely following unique branches of the tree; rather simple ones consisting mostly of straight lines at that. The fact all of his channels were in good enough condition to receive his wealth’s flow probably testified for a lot in regard to his potential. It wasn’t difficult to imagine, for some individuals, some—if not most—of those channels would have not existed or wouldn’t have been as defined. That was perhaps a solid indicator of mystic affinity. He needed to return to The Place Within to investigate each channel.
He nodded. “Okay.”
Orrillimmirr looked down at Sorrinn, somehow paler than he already was. “Just try to refrain from practicing the arts in the house please… You can go to the fields outside the village with your brother if you wish to practice your spell-casting.” His gaze leapt for Lua. He briefly lowered his head in respect, then showed his palm in farewell. “Thank you, old friend. We’ll remove ourselves as impediments of your solitude now and leave you.”
She dipped her head once more before seemingly floating backward into her home. The door closed before her.
Strange woman.
Orrillimmirr held Sorrinn’s hand where they stood in her yard. The pair began on their walk home.
As they strolled, Sorrinn looked up at his father, the urges of a question arching his brows. “Paba?”
“Yes, son?”
“What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?” The feeling still twisted his stomach into knots. He needed an answer to be his torch toward surmounting those instincts.
His father allayed his concerns with a shake of his head. “Yes and no. Lua originates from a people known as Eldorin, you see—a line hailing from an ancient group of Humans who once found themselves cast into the everlasting darkness of a wretched place known as the End with no means of escape or reprieve. The End is home to many ancient evils and unfathomable horrors most may only pray to never encounter in their lifetime. Those Humans sentenced to the End were preserved from absence erosion and enslaved by those entities, transformed and poisoned by The Void’s virulence across the millennia, and robbed of their humanity as they slowly evolved to exist in their new home generation after generation. That ‘sickness’ you sensed from her is the pollution of her soul reeking like odor in a world to which it doesn’t belong. There exists no Radiance in the End as it does so abundantly here. So to them, it’s almost akin to a slow-acting poison.”
His eyes fell Sorrinn’s way. He placed his hand atop his son’s head, gently folding it over his eyes with a playful smile.
Sorrinn pouted and tidied his hair up to shape. “Paba…!”
“Don’t feel bad for being afraid, little one. Though some of her people may abhor the fact, Eldorin are by nature beings forged by the powers of darkness and will always be so from now and hitherto. We are beings forged by the powers of light. Phobia and repulsion are deeply ingrained survival responses one must learn to overcome—when they are unjust. Lua hosts an insalubrious effluvium, but all she yearns for at heart is a life of peace. I hope you’ll grow into one who is able to respect that enough to surmount your baser instincts as a living thing raised beneath nourishing Radiance.”
*Bing*
[+1! Wisdom has increased to 42!]
Yet another fascinating race inhabiting that fantastic world. Seemed like Humans got into bed with all manner of forces. They were evolving left and right like Pokemon. Beast-blood. Eldorin. What was next? Elves came from Humans too?
No, Elves originated from that ‘The Ancestor’ fellow his father mentioned. It was in the name.
Sorrinn’s expression had scrunched up as he attempted to slowly repeat: “Insal— In-sal-ub-ri-ous ef-flu-vi-um…?” Someone was showing off their vocabulary. He was tripping like big shoes just trying to pronounce it. “What that means, Paba?”
Orrillimmirr had a good, graceful laugh. “What does that mean?”
It was his brain, Sorrinn promised. He promised he wasn’t stupid. Things were a little funny when he wasn’t actively trying to problem-solve. “What does that mean?” he enunciated.
“It means being near her makes beings of light feel as if they’re in imminent danger, almost as if the fear response permeates the very air around her itself. Insalubrious effluvium: An odious-smelling outpouring of a substance or energy one senses is unconducive to their continual wellbeing.”
“O… Okay…” Keep speaking your fancy words, magic man. How lucky he was to have the father he did—kind, loving, supportive, full of knowledge, bursting at the seams to enrich his childrens’ minds with it at every possible turn. Knowing someone who always had the answer was right there overseeing his growth was an interesting feeling. Caleb had never known such a sense of security in all of his lifetime. Speaking of knowledge: “Paba, can you teach me how to read?”
Orrillimmirr was so inwardly ecstatic, he forgot to keep walking for a second. His smile stretched three sizes for it to quickly shrink back into its poised image. “Absolutely. When would you like to begin?” His father was visibly vibrating with excitement despite his efforts to remain graceful.
“Uhmm… When we get home maybe.”
The vibrating intensified. “Perfect.”
They walked home a little faster after that.
Once they were home, Sorrinn made himself cozy at the dining table per his father’s instructions. Orrillimmirr brought out two books from his study, a scribing slate, and a chalk pencil. One of the books was in Human Common Tongue, while the other was in Elven Common Tongue. As it would turn out, the book he used his [Transliterating Glass] on was in Elven Common. Human Common was something different entirely. It was his choice for which he wanted to learn, and he, to his father’s jubilance, opted for learning both—Human Common first. Although the moment Orrillimmirr began going over the basics of Human Common, describing the first character of the alphabet as ‘A’, he was so relieved.
Once his father had the whole alphabet drawn out, there were only a few key differences from the English he knew. One: The letter C was read as ‘Chay’ and strictly made the ‘Ch’ sound. S and K weren’t having their territory encroached upon in Human Common Tongue. Two: The ‘Sh’ and ‘Th’ sounds each had their own unique letters in the alphabet—read as ‘Shol’ and ‘Thad’. Three: There were a whole host of common diacritics used as well. Rather than writing a letter twice to express its enunciation in multiple syllables, there was a diacritic that indicated a double-enunciation. Sounds like ‘ai’ or ‘oo’ or ‘eau’ were never scribed, but denoted through the use of diacritics. As such, the words of Human Common were generally shorter than longer. Everything else beyond the difference in symbols was, as far as his knowledge went, one-to-one with English. Once he had the new symbols and rules memorized, he’d be right back to reading at the college level.
Orrillimmirr was quite impressed with how quickly he was able to pick up on it, unknowing his son had twenty-four years of experience with it. Though he imagined having to spell ‘the’ with one less letter would trip him up for longer than he’d like to admit.
The panic emerged when Orrillimmirr got started with Elven Common in the aftermath of his gleaming success with Human Common. Nothing was the same. Literally nothing. In fact, its base was founded in something a planet distant from latin. It had thirty-two letters, and the sounds were all strangely musical for some reason. When his father spoke a sentence in demonstration, it was almost as if he was quickly sing-talking the melody of a song in mellifluous gibberish. Lots of elongated, soft, breathy sounds from the throat and nose which were achieved through shifting the positions of the tongue, lips, and jaw, rolling into one another as they tunefully alternated in pitch—with a noticeable absence of short, sharp sounds. The vast majority of those letters consisted of stretched, open vowels either succeeded or preceded by consonants—haa, ruu, oos. Some were long vowels that were sounded out by themselves—aa, oo, ii. Few were predominantly elongated consonant sounds—imm, ann.
Their names, for example: Orrillimmirr, Asammirr, and Sorrinn were traditional Elven names that had meanings in Elven Common, which were more so sung when spoken in Elven Common.
Another scary thing about Elven Common: the pitch someone spoke an Elven Common word with sometimes alternated the word entirely. So a word spoken with a higher pitch could become a different word when spoken with a neutral or lower pitch. Some words also had what his father called shifts, which was the gradual/sudden declination or increase of pitch to alternate the meaning of a word. Elves apparently had delicate senses of hearing and innate perfect pitch, so it was something that was an integral part of the language—something that made it near-impossible for non-Elves to master.
When he questioned the melodic nature of the language, Orrillimmirr assured him it was intentional and the Elves were simply enamored by the sounds of music enough to found a language around it. To them, conversation was a duet and scores of voices in kind discourse was a symphony.
His favorite thing about it personally was how expressive it was. One would growl when speaking a word expressing anger or let the sounds drop and hang at a low pitch when speaking a word expressing sadness. Contrarily, the Elves took great joy in melodies, so the act of speaking the language to another in general was perceived as an expression of happiness and a great privilege. Hence why it was necessary to be emphatic when expressing something other than joy.
When he thought about it, Elven Common script did have a striking resemblance to sheet music when written. Many of the symbols reminded him of music notes if they were heavily embellished and scribed in cursive.
It was scary. To not only be learning a new language, but also to be kind-of-singing at the same time. But some part of him was genuinely eager to learn the language. He had the voice and the ear for it far more than he gave himself credit.
*Bing* *Bing*
[+1! Intelligence has increased to 57!]
[+3! Wisdom has increased to 45!]
Learning about Elves and music, was the fact Maeve was once a bard the thing which drew his father to her in the first place? All he could imagine was Orrillimmirr stopping by in a tavern one night, hearing one of Maeve’s songs, that dorkily adorable smile rising across his face, and him leaving with a girlfriend because of that Elven poetry he often spoke. His parents were precious.
His numbers going up made him happy. Every “Bing” was a hit of dopamine. The dining table was where he remained the rest of the day, practicing scribing his Human Common on the slate. A lot had happened in the day, nonetheless. Toward dusk, his eyes weighed heavy, and soon, he was out cold, snoozing at the table.
*Bing*
[+1! Dexterity has increased to 17!]
Orrillimmirr carried him up to bed, leaving him to dream sweet dreams with a kiss on the forehead.