Archibald
As Archibald’s eyes flicker open after waking from a rare dreamless sleep, he does not get up. Not immediately. Laying beneath the scratchy cotton sheets and atop the straw mattress isn’t particularly comfortable. His lips are dry, his throat is parched but his bladder is full to bursting. Just remaining there is a sort of effort, holding back those urges, but it is lesser than that of getting up. So, for the moment, he remains.
He stares up at the ceiling, stretching out the pains in his legs as he does so and praying to the gods that he doesn’t get a cramp. His bruised shoulder aches, thankfully not broken, and every little movement sends a tiny reminder of pain just letting him know it's there. It isn’t terrible, not even enough to make him wince, just… there.
It isn’t cold, nor is it particularly warm. A sign, perhaps that the days of summer are coming to an end, or maybe it is just one of those days. Dull, white light shines in from behind the thin curtains and he can hear the pitter-patter of rain coming from outside. Not loud, not intense, not… interesting, just a boring drizzle.
Glancing over at the table he sees his pack which he had thrown upon it, most of his clothes which he had been all too happy to shed after days of travel. They needed a wash, stained by mud and sweat and a little blood, but unfortunately he only brought the one set, in such a rush was he. The thought of climbing back into them brings a sort of exhaustion to Archibald that no amount of sleep will fix.
He sees his dagger, standing upright stabbed into the wood with little care for Gregory’s property. That’d been after he’d had a few more drinks and perhaps been a little hasty in crawling into bed. Not that the innkeeper would probably notice it amongst all the other scratches and nicks in the table, but Archibald briefly considers apologising to the man.
Then he realises that will only draw attention to it, and it’d just be something of an odd thing to do in general. He sighs, returning to look at the ceiling.
He recalls speaking to that man last night, the traveller. It is a constant source of amusement and, in a way, disappointment for Archibald to see how difficult some people find it to keep their thoughts from their faces.
But as he remembers his dagger at the man’s throat, he cringes to himself. That had almost been bad, had been bad. A cock-up brought about by his own lack of vigilance, which had in turn been a product of exhaustion.
Though he managed to turn it around in the end, he knows people don’t just forget things like that. People don’t like to be reminded of their own mortality, of how easy it would be for them to lose their lives if they were just unlucky one day.
Whether forgiving or not, Leroy and Gregory will always look at him as a threat, even if not intentionally. They’ll be wary of his every move and word, a natural instinct they might not even realise, and it is that sort of vigilance that will prevent them from ever really letting their guard down before him.
Not a big deal, were they two strangers he’d never see again in his life, but apparently Leroy knows something, or so Archibald suspects. The timing is too perfect, and the man just a little too shifty at the mention of an elf.
Archibald doesn’t like to place much stock in things like fate or destiny, but he knows well enough there is no such thing as coincidence.
He should be pleased, after all, does it not prove him right? Vindicate his decision to chase down a long-shot lead, and prove that Phobos was right to name him Hound?
But he isn’t, not really. Satisfied, perhaps, but not pleased. After all, the only reward for success is more work. There is the promise of a place beside his master in the future, of course, but if he is being honest with himself he doesn’t see it as too likely of an outcome, success or otherwise.
He’ll still strive for it, of course, because not to do so would mean letting Phobos down, and he is too attached to his limbs to do something so foolish. But the urge to survive alone, whilst more than enough to motivate him to keep plodding on, isn’t nearly enough to make him pleased.
With that thought, and a sigh heavier than a horse, he rolls himself up from lying down. Sitting at the edge of the bed wearing nought but his undergarments, there is a small chill on his skin that motivates him to finally stand and begin preparing for the day ahead, though not before another few deep breaths.
By the time he is plodding down the stairs it is with rather more vigour, the cobwebs brushed from his mind as he focuses on the day ahead. He woke up rather late, he notices, which is to be expected given his recent trials but still a little embarrassing as a few heads turn his way with unspoken judgement behind their eyes, imagined or otherwise.
His eyes scan the room, in which several tables are occupied by those enjoying lunch but most remain empty, catching on the portly fellow he acquainted himself with the previous evening. He sits with his empty plate pushed to one side, leaning back on his chair with his gaze cast down to a small leather-bound book in his hands.
Archibald first gets himself a mug of water at the cost of a friendly smile and pleasant greeting to Gregory’s daughter, before walking over to the man upon which his interest lies.
Leroy sees him approach, licking his finger and folding the edge of his book before putting it to one side and meeting Archibald’s gaze. Immediately, with his face now raised, Archibald sees the look of a bored man grasping onto a newly presented distraction.
Not much of a reader, he notes to himself, more of a personable type. That is good, at least for his purposes. Those more extroverted in nature tend to have looser tongues, and be more easily provoked into sharing by the simple application of awkward silence.
“Archie!” he greets amicably, although Archibald can’t help but notice the flick of Leroy’s eyes down to his belt from where he had drawn his knife.
Laughing pleasantly, Archibald dramatically lifts up his jacket and does a spin for the man, making a show of the fact he is unarmed.
He isn’t, of course, but his knife is rather more subtly hidden by his ankle. Not optimal, if he needs to draw it in a hurry, but he doesn’t expect the portly merchant to cause him much trouble in that regard.
“Don’t worry, I left the knife in the room. Rather scared myself last night, never mind you. Thought I should probably keep it out of arms reach lest I fall unwittingly asleep once more.” His tone is joking rather than serious, and though Leroy chuckles awkwardly Archibald can tell he has, at least subconsciously, eased the man’s worries.
“It’s every man’s right to protect himself. Serves me right for startling a stranger like that, though I was rather deep in my cups. No harm done though. Please, would you join me?” Leroy responds with a smile, offering up the chair opposite.
Archibald smiles graciously back as he takes it. “How could I refuse?”
“I must say, I’m glad of a fellow traveller. Folk round here are polite, but they don’t seem too interested in striking up conversation.” Leroy says, leaning back in his chair.
Raising an eyebrow, Archibald replies. “Oh? I was snoring away for most of the busy hours of last evening so I can’t say I’ve had the time to notice. Doesn’t seem usual, that, folk are usually quite eager for the tales of a travelling man in my experience.”
“Aye, mine too.” Leroy nods with a frown. “Probably a story there, come to think of it.”
“Aye. Or could be we’re from the cities, I’ve known a few villages like this that don’t take too well to city-folk.” Archibald adds, very intentionally adding the ‘we’ in that sentence after what the man told him the previous evening.
Archibald was born about as rural as it gets, it is how he got mixed up with Phobos so young after all, but most of his adult life has been spent in a city so it isn’t so far from the truth.
“Could be, could be. There be some ruffians about that give us a bad name, I’m sure. We’ll just have to prove them wrong won’t we?” he asks rhetorically.
Shaking his head and chuckling, Archibald replies. “I’m afraid that task shall fall upon you, my friend, for I shan’t be staying long enough to make an impression, I fear.”
Leroy nods back understandingly, a note of disappointment in his eyes that Archibald interprets simply as mourning his future boredom. “Well, I do expect I’ll be staying long enough that I’ll have to.”
Archibald cocks his head. “I see.”
He could inquire further, but he doesn’t want to come across as nosy. Instead, he falls silent, tapping his arm with his fingers as he looks around awkwardly at the rest of the room.
“I’m… uh, taking a break from my usual work, helping a… a friend with something you see.” He explains, breaking the silence after less than half a minute.
Immediately, Archibald snaps his apparent attention back to the man, with a raise of his eyebrow. “Oh? If you’re having trouble with the locals couldn’t you ask this friend of yours to speak on your behalf? They might take more kindly to you if one of them vouches for you.”
Leroy sighs, and shakes his head. “He’s not a local either I’m afraid, so no luck there.”
“Forgive me for asking, but you have piqued my interest. If you are not local, and neither is he, why settle in a place such as this? It is comely, certainly, but as you say not the most welcoming of places.” Archibald responds, guiding the conversation towards his ends.
“I…” Leroy pauses in his answer, causing Archibald to frown inwardly as he realises the man before him isn’t stalling because he doesn’t want to answer, but because he doesn’t know the answer. “I suppose it’s just nice to stay amongst nature and the fresh air for a little while.”
He is hardly convincing in his eventual response, sounding as much like he’s trying to convince himself as Archibald.
Archibald is learned enough to spot the signs of a potential compulsion, having seen a few genuine ones himself. He can’t be certain the man before him is under such an effect, but the thought does pop into his mind. Unfortunately, confirming such a thing is beyond his meagre abilities so a suspicion it will have to remain.
“Well you’re not wrong, I…” Archibald begins to speak, launching into a mostly truthful anecdote to steer Leroy away from any potential uncomfortable conversation and back into a more casual chat, when he hears the door swing open and immediately Leroy’s eyes rise above his head and widen slightly in recognition.
Pausing mid-word, Archibald turns in his chair to regard the handsome, pale-haired figure standing tall in the doorway, whose eyes are locked on their table.
“Friend of yours?” Archibald asks lightly, turning his head half back towards Leroy.
“Speak of a devil,” he says with a half smile, leaving the rest of the saying unspoken.
“I am no devil.”
The accented voice makes Archibald flinch violently, if only because he didn’t notice the man’s approach in the slightest. He is accustomed to a certain level of situational awareness, hard-won from years of both training and experience, and rare is it indeed anyone can sneak up on him with such contemptible ease. Most especially when within the envelope of his peripheral vision, and yet here he sits, reaching into his jacket for a dagger that isn’t there.
“Gods above!” he exclaims purposefully in shock, bringing that hand surreptitiously up to his heart to disguise the instinct. As he looks up at the brown eyes of the newcomer he finds them watching him knowingly. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that, could have given me a heart attack!”
Meeting Archibald’s gaze, the stranger only sniffs in response before panning over to the man opposite.
“Leroy.” He says without inflexion.
“Vindaruil,” Leroy greets back as he pushes back his chair and rises to his feet.
Archibald likes to think himself something of an expert in schooling his features, so his eyes don’t widen nor is there any other physical evidence of his surprise, and sudden fear, as he realises one of his targets is looming over him in this very moment.
“Ah… sorry Archie, this is my friend, Vindaruil. Vindaruil, Archie. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you here, but have yourself a pleasant day. Perhaps I’ll see you later, if you haven’t moved on by then. If not, then have a safe trip.” Leroy smiles down at him as he picks up his book and steps around the table.
Archie gets to his feet and nods amicably at the man, though it is more of a struggle than usual to keep his cheery expression when he knows he is in the presence of an elf capable of unknown magics. Even if he does look perfectly human to his senses, magical and mundane, there are no such things as coincidences, and running into someone else with a name like that is stretching the imagination indeed.
“A pleasure, sir.” He says to the disguised elf before glancing back at Leroy. “I suspect I may stick around for one more evening at least. Good day, Leroy.”
Leroy gives him a nod and steps away. Vindaruil’s eyes, however, linger on Archibald for a moment that seems to strange on for hours. He feels himself being unravelled under that gaze, a chill running through his entire body, not entirely dissimilar to how he feels under the eyes of his master.
He suppresses a shiver and averts his gaze down quickly. Perhaps he could have held it, but it is better to appear meek rather than strong. Amongst the herd of sheep, a wolf stands out.
Archibald only hopes it is enough.
But then it is over, the disguised elf has turned his back and is following Leroy up the stairs. Archibald does not so much as risk a sigh of relief until he is out of the door, for he knows the keenness of elven ears.
He is not incurious about whatever the two of them are up to, from both a personal and professional viewpoint, but elves are dangerous, and it is not his priority. If the elf is indeed travelling with the girl his master seeks, then he is not with her now and she must surely be nearby.
Archibald has long since learnt to seize opportunities when they arise, even if doing so is rash and sudden, for they may only appear again when it is too late, or not at all.
Lost in his thoughts as he sets off, he almost runs dead into an old man striding across the street, only just managing to stop in time.
“Watch yourself, son.” The man mutters as both of them stop just a pace from one another.
“Sorry, just got a lot on my mind. Say… are you a local?” he asks clumsily, playing up his initial state of confusion.
“I’ve lived here longer than most of the trees lad, what of it? You’re in the way of me and my drink.” He replies, though there is no real heat in his tone and he looks only slightly impatiently at Archibald, holding himself with surprising youth.
“Right, sorry… got a message to deliver, was wondering if you could point me towards the… Fearne residence.” Archibald stutters out, honestly taking a moment to pull the married name of his quarry’s family in Hartonville from the depths of his memory.
The old man narrows his eyes and Archibald finds himself levied with far greater suspicion than he feels any stranger deserves. The man’s eyes then flick over Archibald’s head and relax slightly before falling back down.
He flicks his head to one side. “Down that way, by the lake, can’t miss it.”
Then, without further pleasantries, swerves around Archibald and pushes through the door into the Dreaming Donkey.
Leaving Archibald scratching his head, quite genuinely baffled at where he stood in that conversation. It makes him uneasy, almost more so than knowing an elf is within spitting distance. It just feels like the man knows something he doesn’t, and he resents that.
Turning, he follows where the old man had looked and sees nought but a pair of crows perched atop the tavern roof.
Shaking his head, and wondering if he is just losing his touch, Archibald puts his head down and walks off the way the man directed him.
He doesn’t pay much attention as both crows jump off their perch and launch into the air after him.
----------------------------------------
You
That man, ‘Archie’ Leroy named him, recognised your name. He schooled his features well, better than many you have seen, but his heart thumping in his chest gave him away. His act was a convincing one, but you have seen better. Still impressive, for a human, but at the end of the day he is still just a mere human.
Not to mention the whiff of magic you caught on him and emanating from the room upstairs that bears his scent. With a quick telepathic nudge, you tell the crows to follow him.
It is very much a one-sided method of communication, although you can still hear them cawing grumpily to one another as they take flight even from within the tavern.
You could probably keep track of him yourself by stretching out your senses, but it’d be a waste of effort when you have minions to do such things for you and generally just distracting. Not to mention the wards you intend to put up in your conversation with Leroy go both ways, so you’ll be blind to him for however long that lasts.
He is no threat to you, though, so it should be a worthwhile test of your new minion’s ability.
As you arrive into Leroy’s cramped room once more, you set up your wards as before and pull out the confession stone. There is no need to bleed upon it a second time, but you don’t activate it immediately as you sit down across from the portly merchant.
“Pleasant night?” Leroy asks politely.
You take a moment to think, then nod slightly. “Pleasant enough. I am beginning to appreciate how changed things are from my time.”
He leans forward and raises an eyebrow in interest. “Good changes or bad changes? How do we compare to the civilizations of old?”.
You resist a snort. “Humans, as ever, remain much the same. All that changes is the scale of your… civilizations.”
Only just do you stop yourself from saying ‘infestations’. “I referred to something else, but that is not what we are here to discuss. Before we continue from last time, however, I have acquired the coin as per our deal. This should cover it for now, I expect.”
As you say that you reach into your coat and pull forth the handful of gold coins minted in Torish, dropping them before the merchant.
His eyes widen as they are drawn to its shine. “Aye, I reckon it shall. I’ll just… return what I don’t spend when we’re done then.”
You merely shrug, “I have no use for it beyond this deal, do with it as you will. Are you ready to continue?”
As you speak, you pull forth the empty, leather-bound tome, ink and quill you just recently purchased at what you now suspect from Leroy’s reaction to the gold was an exorbitant price. The thought of being cheated rankles you more than the loss of gold.
Leroy frowns as he answers. “Of course… I thought you were using the stone thing to record it?”
Dipping the quill in the ink, you bring it to the parchment and don’t deign to raise your eyes to Leroy. “I am, but I have recently taken on another project. If you worry that you have not my full attention, rest assured I am more than capable of focusing on several things at a time. Now, allow us to begin.”
With a wave of your hand you mentally activate the confession stone, and then as you begin to speak you put ink to parchment and start drawing what you saw of Jack’s mind.
“Last we left off I spoke of the first humans which settled in the forest of Orur-Silgoth, and my role in that. As you rightly predicted I would prove to outlive them all as the years passed. I shan’t go too deeply into the details, for little changed for me or my people in the span of a single human lifetime. But the small tribe made a home amongst our forest, and as we saw to their safety and guided them towards harmony with nature they feared neither starvation or predation, and their numbers grew exponentially. This, as you may expect, came as quite the shock to us, for elvish children are a rare blessing, indeed a third generation did not yet even exist. A shock that caused a repeat of the initial argument regarding humanity’s place amongst our forest. You see, we…” You begin to explain, but stop as you see Leroy sheepishly raising a hand out of the top of your vision.
Better, you begrudgingly suppose, than him simply interrupting you, although you still find it mildly annoying. “What?”
“You can’t just skip over those people, those first friends of yours. What happened to them?” he asks in an almost offended tone.
You resist a sigh and pause in your scratching to meet Leroy’s gaze. “They got older, grew their relationships with their fellows, changed. Elves physically mature slowly, although proportionally a lot faster, compared to humans. By the time they were old and grey I only barely resembled an adult. My friends and family were the same, and by then I’d realised the inevitable. But were that the only thing, I believe it would not have been too great an obstacle. No, little in my life changed over that time beyond the humans, and so nor did I. I suspect they simply grew bored of me. I still lived amongst them, sang for them, witnessed the births of their children and their eventual funerals, and indeed I mourned their deaths. But I suffered the brunt of the attachment in our relationships, perhaps because I knew they would soon be gone, whereas to them I was simply a constant to be taken for granted. When the last amongst them passed in her sleep, old and grey and in a home warmed by her many grandchildren, I felt it from the forest and wept on my own. Three winters I mourned, and not once did my voice resound in that time. But I’d learnt my lesson, though it took my mother singing some sense into me for me to realise it and move on. I kept living with the humans after that, for I had grown… familiar with them, but never did I allow myself such attachment again. Is that answer sufficient?”
Leroy nods thoughtfully, and you cast your eyes back to your work and the near incomprehensible mess of geometric lines and shapes that have begun to take shape Even you don’t really understand them, yet. You are simply sketching what you remember. “As I was saying. The human population exploded, not something any of us had really thought about until it was staring us in the face. Hungry mouths demanded food, and grown children desired space of their own to grow families themselves. We took pride in our role as caretakers for them, at least most of us did, but their babysitters we were not. Gifting them bounties of berries and fruits was a fulfilling use of our endless days, but not when it became a necessity, and not when they began to take it for granted. After only a generation or two they seemed to forget that they were there by our kindness, not because they had some right to be there. I argued for them, at the time, and most of the humans knew me and treated me with greater respect than those absentee kin of mine, but it was a losing battle. In our initial decision, my father had laid out a few rulings to the original humans, to appease the more… hesitant of his brothers and sisters. One such ruling was forbidding the humans to hunt game in the forest.”
“And eventually one of them broke it.” Leroy continues for you, a knowing look on his face.
You incline your head in a slight nod, “Indeed. A young boy, chafing against not just my father's rules but those of his parents, and indeed his own people as a whole. I, of course, knew humans in their early teenage years could act like this, and frankly, in hindsight, I am shocked it didn’t happen sooner, but the same cannot be said of the rest of my kin. Orrindal, my brother as I mentioned before, who could perhaps be said to be in a similar state in his development, acted rashly. Long had he argued against their presence in Orur-Silgoth, and I knew he had grown a measure of resentment towards them, if only because of how my period of mourning angered him so, so in hindsight it is not so surprising what happened next. He took it upon himself to seek out this boy and end his life as punishment. I came upon him only moments too late to stop the act, and in my wrath took up arms against my own blood. I still remember the look of… betrayal, in his eyes. He could not comprehend why I cared for them so, so much that I would strike out at him for such an act. To him they were like… flies, buzzing, short-lived annoyances. It is still cruel to squash one beneath your hand without reason, but when one bites you it is only expected.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Though you don’t raise your gaze, it takes you a moment to realise your quill has frozen in your hand. You quickly continue your work before Leroy opens his mouth.
“That’s… awful. I… I suppose I always imagined elves to be, well… above that.” Leroy mutters with a mournful look.
“Above it?” you question rhetorically with a sharp note in your voice. “Above what? Fighting amongst ourselves? There is nothing living above that, not even the gods.”
“No… murder, I suppose.” He answers.
This time you fail to suppress the snort. “In Orrindal’s mind it was not murder, for that implies humans are our equals… he did not see them as such.”
The younger brother, yet the wiser one. How different things could have been had you seen what he had seen? You try not to dwell on it, thinking about such things leads only to madness.
Leroy shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, perhaps still wrestling with the idea of an elf doing such a thing or perhaps sensing that you don’t disagree with your brother. “What happened next?”
“We fought. I was older, stronger, more… wilful after the incident in my childhood. By the time Father came we were both bloodied, but it was Orrindal out cold on the floor not I. Not merely father, though he was the first, but many others of my kin crowding just beyond the human settlement. There was a… standoff, of sorts, as the truth came slowly to light. Father reserved his judgement until he had the facts, but not all were so gracious, least of all the humans. Many, who saw it as an act of righteous vengeance on their behalf, left their homes to stand beside me opposite my kin, whom they believed, for reasons unclear to me at the time, would side against me. Not entirely wrong were they, mind, for most of my kin saw only the blood of my brother upon my knuckles and were outraged at such an act. The first time an elf had ever spilt another’s blood in anger. It did not help my father in his attempts to mediate. I shall not get into the minutiae, but many harsh words were spoken and despite father’s efforts there were those who insisted on taking ‘sides’. Myself foremost among them. One demanding further punishment for Orrindal, the humans and those elves that worked closely with them like myself, and the other, the more isolated of my kin, demanding the humans banished for breaking our covenant, myself along with them for good measure. Anduruil, my father, who though our kin considered him their leader was not a monarch in the sense you would know it. His authority was based on respect and trust, for he was the elder, but never had it been formally bestowed or tested internally beyond minor disputes. He settled upon a compromise, in the end, that pleased no one. Orrindal was to be banished from Orur-Silgoth for a century, as with any humans that broke the rules in the future, but that was to be the end of the recriminations. It proved too distasteful for many, who when the time came for Orrindal to leave left with him. Father, mother, my brothers and sisters… we let him go as others stepped up to his side. The tears in his eyes as mother averted her gaze I… I do not believe I will ever forget them, nor the look he gave me before turning away for good. It was not hate, nor even anger, just… sadness. Whatever rage I had for him died at that moment, but it was not enough for me to call him back. I…”
You feel a wetness on your cheek. It is with slow, almost reverent movements that you put down the parchment and quill and reach up to take the single tear on your finger. Holding it up before yourself you look at it with a muted confusion. It is not the first time it has happened in recent days, but it comes without the overwhelming anger of last time. Much the same as you believe your brother to have once felt, there is only… sadness. Not even pain, like when you think of… them, but instead simply a sort of wistful melancholy.
Clearing your throat, you wipe it away with disdain and look to the enraptured human sitting across from you. It is only then, as you consider the fact you abandoned your brother for ants such as this, that your choler rears its ugly head.
It is not yet at a point where you feel it pulling at your control, but recent events have shown such control is weaker than you once thought. So you close the tome, clean the quill and close the lid on the ink bottle as you plan to leave it there.
“Just…” Leroy interrupts, watching you do so and holding up a hesitant hand.
You pause, if only to stop yourself from reaching across the table to the fat human.
“… what happened? Did they come back?” He winces as though he senses your foul mood but asks anyway.
Teeth grit in your mouth as you pocket your items and silently rise to your feet. “No. No, they did not.”
“Wait…” Leroy asks quickly as you reach out your hand to shut off the confession stone.
Stopping, more out of shock at the audacity than any desire to humour the man, your fingers twitch but the confession stone remains active.
“I… appreciate that these are intensely emotional memories for you, but I… I mean, it's ok. I’m not… judging you, you know. Even if I could I wouldn’t betray your confidence, if that’s your fear. And if…” he stutters, not without confidence but seemingly searching for the right words, before actually chuckling as he cuts himself off.
“If you storm out every time this happens, we could be doing this for a while.” He finishes with a kind smile.
There is no hint in his eyes, however, that he realises just how close he had come to death in that split second before finishing his sentence.
Grinding your teeth, you feel an intense, albeit short-lived, hatred for this human in particular, most of all perhaps because he is right. Why should you run from these emotions? Just to spare Leroy should you lash out? His measly little life is not worth debasing yourself, so fine.
On his head be it.
You sit back down with none of your usual grace and stare into Leroy’s eyes with all the ire you feel towards him at that moment, practically daring him to say something else, to push you over the edge.
But he doesn’t, averting his gaze towards the stone on the table he sits silently, even his breathing quiet and low.
It is, perhaps, the right thing for him to do. The only thing he can do, as the seconds pass into minutes and you do not feel quite so murderous anymore.
No longer in the mood for splitting your attention, you lean back in the chair, lift your faux boots up to the table and let your usually upright posture slip for the time being. If only to display to the human that you have calmed down somewhat.
“After the… schism, things were never really the same. There were less of us in Orur-Silgoth, and more humans than ever. I still had most of my family but we were… it was difficult to go back to how things were. We tried, of course, but I saw it behind their eyes… though they said they did not, I could tell they blamed me for what happened. So, more than ever, I took my place amongst the humans. Helping guide them, steer them away from repeating their mistakes. I… matured a lot in those years, taking responsibility instead of simply sharing in their company, trying my hand at leading rather than simply following. Father was pleased, proud even, and told me as much. Mother was less so, and though she never said it I could see behind her eyes that she thought my place was with her and my family, instead of the humans. Perhaps she was right, for those years proved the loneliest of my life thus far. It was then, during the nights as my rests became less frequent but the humans around me slumbered, that I tried my hand delving into the arcane. I took what my kin had already discovered in their experiments and pushed even further. Just looking at their notes, I can picture them even now with clarity, it amazed me just how… unambitious they had been. Pursuing magic as a mere curiosity, a… hobby, even. There were… such depths that they knew existed, but were simply content to admire them from afar instead of reaching out. In a single decade alone, and I do not say this with exaggeration or arrogance, I discovered more about utilizing the arcane than the rest of my kin had done since returning to Mortus.” You speak slowly at first but, as ever, the topic of magic animates you, and it washes away much of the lingering melancholy.
But as you stop with a frown, you take a moment to think. “I… I am not a humble being. I have achieved in my lifetime feats that many thought impossible, and climbed to heights that you could not even conceive of. But amongst my kin I… I was not especially genius, I would not say. My memory has always proven steadfast, and I was never afflicted with indecisiveness, but there were those of my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins I knew to be far more intelligent than I. Orrindal, to name but one, without the distraction of the humans had almost single-handedly pioneered the field of metallurgy in his first mere century of life, crafting such wonders out of metal it is hard to believe. I was always just the… eccentric older brother, good with a song and soft on the humans. Never the explorer, never the innovator. I lost much of my curiosity when I lost my voice. So, to this day, I cannot fathom myself, at least back then, not only surpassing their combined efforts but eclipsing them.”
There is something of a glimmer to Leroy’s eyes as he mirrors your posture and meets your distracted gaze. “I have a theory, if you would care to hear it?”
With a sigh you roll your hand, motioning him to continue.
“Your people live… a very long time, at least so far as I have gathered. And it sounds like your place on… Mortus was assured, in that you have mentioned little of a struggle against the elements to survive or carve out a home for yourselves. At most was this beast that nearly slew you as a child, but even then you seemed assured your father would handle it with ease. Thus there was no impetus for you to improve, to grow, beyond simply avoiding boredom. There is a famous saying, ‘necessity is the mother of invention,’ and, at least to me, it sounds like there was never such a necessity for your kin.” He begins to explain with a thoughtful look.
You level him with an unimpressed look. “Perhaps, at least in the beginning, but I fail to discern how this is relevant to the point.”
Leroy holds up a hand for patience. “I’m getting to it. Humans, by comparison, are not so gifted. We know our lives are short, and there is often a desire to make one's mark on the world before one shuffles off it. Ambition. Legacy. I’ve seen it often enough, and read it in our histories. It can drive men to the greatest of achievements, and to the lowest of atrocities. There is always a struggle to make the most of the time we have, whether in the present or in your time, and that provides the impetus for innovation that I think your people lacked. And… I think perhaps living amongst the humans changed you. In your empathy, is it not possible that you began to see the world through our eyes? Would not your outlook, and your priorities, have shifted to resemble those whose company you kept? Especially in your formative years? Something that your counterparts would have lacked, explaining why you eclipsed them so.”
It starts slowly, a low rumbling in your belly. Travelling quickly upwards, it tickles your throat and jumps from your tongue. Beginning with a chuckle and soon evolving into near-hysterical laughter, a sound that has not graced Mortus in countless years.
You can’t even find it in you to be bothered at losing your composure in such a way before the human, who is looking remarkably confused as he nervously chuckles along with you.
“You… you are saying that… that I became the greatest mage in all the realms because… because I spent a few centuries living with humans?” You manage to get out in between breaths.
A sheepish Leroy frowns. “Well, I didn’t quite say that… but… why is that so funny?”
Your laughter quite quickly falls back into mere chuckles, and you shake your head in amusement as you answer Leroy. “Perhaps in time, and with more context, you might see the humour in that… though I doubt it.”
His frown deepens, but he makes no comment.
“Moving on. Thus was the status quo for next several hundred years; those who had not left with Orrindal lived in relative harmony with the humans, at least with me and father keeping an eye on things from both sides of the fence. The human town grew into a city, stretching out beyond the borders of the forest, with fresh villages and smaller settlements founded under its shadow. Obviously, this came with quite a slew of challenges and issues but none so great they are worth remembering up millennia after the fact. We managed with no great conflict, that is all need be known. I worked with my magic in the time I had free, and shared little of the years with my kin, though I was there to see the birth of the third generation, and the fourth some years later.” You continue more or less from where you left off, until Leroy raises his hand once more.
He waits not for permission to do so, only for you to pause before he speaks up. “Forgive me if this is… insensitive. But, were not all of your generation first cousins with one another?”
You level him with a totally deadpan stare. “Indeed, though you may recall that the spouses of my aunts and uncles were born in Faenor. I shall not bore you with the science, but like their home their blood is… prone to wild change, and to a lesser extent the same can be said for my father and his kin. There was more than enough… diversity, to ensure there would not be any abnormalities except in the most… severe of repeated instances, several generations down the line. But watch yourself, Leroy, I will not have my people judged when I have observed many of the depravities your people have committed upon themselves.”
Clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably, Leroy quickly nods. “Quite. Carry on.”
“The more years that passed, the more our two societies grew apart. The humans became self-reliant, in some part thanks to my own efforts, and there came a point where they no longer needed our permission to exist in Orur-Silgoth, for it was unlikely we could truly stop them. I noticed it early on, but in the end I was like… a father, to the humans. They listened and they respected me, even if they occasionally acted rashly or rebelliously, so I did not think much of it. In truth, I had grown estranged from my kin, I did not know their minds anymore. I was… blind to their growing opinions. Until, one day, they just… left. They asked me, of course, to come with them. Explained they felt it was time to let the humans carve their own fate and move to greener pastures. Find another home they could call their own, or perhaps even several. But I had responsibilities, roots that I could not just tear up and out. By then I’d begun teaching magic to humans, and it would not have been wise to allow them to fumble around in the dark without oversight at that point. Or so I thought at the time. But my people were immortal, in my living memory not one elf had ever died. We did not yet even know about the eternal dream. So I reasoned that I would see them all again one day regardless, whereas my work with the humans was fleeting. And so they left, even those who had worked with me alongside the humans could not bear to choose them over their family, and I was left alone.” You continue. Students you may have once called them, but you had not yet realised that a human couldn’t truly grasp the complexities of the arcane in their limited lifetimes. It would be more accurate to name them experiments, in hindsight, for that is essentially what they were.
Or so you tell yourself now.
On that last word, you can’t help but fall silent for a time. Once again struck by the stupidity of your youth, imagining just screaming at your old self to go with them and not stay behind like a sentimental fool.
“You know,” Leroy begins, taking the chance to speak. “You told me this was to be a… history, of your life. And I’m not saying it isn’t, but shouldn’t you, we, I don’t know… shine some light on those things historians might draw value from. Dates and names and such… for example, you haven’t even told me what this city was called, or really anything about what it was like.”
Your eyes narrow and you look at him darkly, an edge entering your voice as you reply. “I give you no name because it has no name. Not any more. It has been erased, forgotten, and it will stay that way. And I give you no dates because whatever calendar you use will differ from the one we did, and I still know not even how long I spent in stasis. I will suffer no more questions on this topic.”
He opens his mouth to retort, before seemingly thinking better of it and nodding slowly.
Taking a breath, you continue. “Many more years passed, always it seemed I had some excuse to stay, some pressing issue that could not wait whereas I believed my kin could. Still, we communed on occasion for I had devised the means before they left, but it was… not the same. I passed into my first millennia of existence and then… and then…”
And then she came, looking for the famous Vindaruil, firstborn of Arnduruil, shepherd of humanity and the foremost pioneer of magic.
The daughter of Uriandal and Rendexia, who once had been your cousins, and were indeed the reason she had come.
You recalled, at the time as you sensed their blood nearby, playing hide and seek with them in your shared youth. But they had been far from the closest of your relatives. They had left with Orrindal, notable perhaps for their early romance, the first second-generation soul bond that had once been the talk of Orur-Silgoth, and their shared love for poetry. They even convinced you to sing their creations on occasion. You remembered them fondly, even after the schism, but she was new.
Well, relatively, only two centuries younger than you. But her birth had been post-schism.
You still remember the first time you laid eyes on her, so crushingly vivid, the memories coming unbidden to your mind and slipping past your defences.
It had not been her smile, but her frown. Brows the colour of snow, like your own but more radiant, glowing in even the darkest of places. Eyes a fierce, burning orange that gave depth to her sharp, achingly beautiful face.
She had not looked kindly upon the humans you surrounded yourself with, but the way her face had lifted in a strange mix of relief and shock when her gaze landed upon you had been, and remains,… utterly enchanting.
You knew, in that moment, and you knew she did too, that you were meant for one another. Two halves of the same whole. A soul bond.
It was like… like your entire life you’d looked at the world and seen only half of the colours and suddenly everything was just that much more vibrant and beautiful.
That wasn’t why she’d come, of course, these things could not be predicted in advance. Uriandal and Rendexia had fallen into the first recorded instance of the eternal dream and she believed you, of all people, would be able to help.
How could you have ever refused?
“And then…” the fat human interrupts the memory with his grating voice, snapping you out of the dream and back into the filthy, disgusting place that is reality.
You don’t even hesitate, flicking out your hand and snapping his neck with a single, violent flex of telekinesis.
As his body tumbles to the ground, thudding like a sack of meat onto the wood, you don’t stand up, don’t even move. You just sit there, trying not to let any more memories slip by.
You hear him gurgling, gasping for breath like a fish on land; paralysed and dying but still conscious for the time being.
You could save him. You know, intellectually, that you probably should. But you can barely think or feel anything beyond the crippling agony where your heart once was.
The human will live, for a little while longer at least. You listen to his silent screams and wonder whether he will last until your better judgment overrides the apathy you feel for anything that isn’t the howling storm of emotion raging within your soul.
Well, if doesn’t want to die he’s just going to have to. Unfortunately for him, the quiet, rational part of your mind recognises that it could be a long while yet.
----------------------------------------
Archibald
Looking at the house, other than its size, it is remarkably unassuming to be holding the quarry of one of the most dangerous people on the continent, nay, the world.
Archibald stops far enough up the road that any passers-by might simply believe he is gazing off towards the lake. To be fair, it is a fine view. A breath of fresh air from the years spent in Athaca, though not one he has the liberty of fully appreciating.
He is, instead, deciding how best to approach. All he really need do is confirm the presence and identity of one Inalia Ulnorin and report back to his master. His eyes droop a little as he considers the likely possibility that it will not be all that is asked of him, but he quickly shoves the thought from his mind.
Dwelling on things that might not be does him no good, only gets in the way of the things he needs to focus on in the present. As ever, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it, and whatever ends up left behind will join all the other discarded pieces.
Sometimes he wonders how much of him, his own self, is even left. But never for long.
Coming to a decision, he walks unhurriedly up towards the house, knocking gently on the front door and stepping back to wait for an answer.
As it swings open he finds his eyes falling down onto… a young girl, with hair the colour of straw and wide eyes the tint of spring grass. “Hello mister, who are you?”
There is a terrible innocence reflected back at Archibald, devoid of any of the wariness or suspicion he is so used to.
“Oh, I’m Archie. What would your name be little one?” he asks gently, but with a level of disinterest as one might expect from a complete stranger.
“I’m Inalia! My auntie’s just upstairs, I can go get her?” she answers happily, without any hesitation.
Archibald almost can’t quite believe that it would be so easy, things rarely if ever go quite so smoothly for him. It is the story of his life that he has struggled in almost every moment to get where he is and survive the doing so.
It is not elation he feels, but a sort of sadness. Not because of a lack of challenge, he never has cared for any of the trials his past marks put him through, but because it feels like taking candy from a baby. Ignorant not only of his ill intent, but of the very idea that she should be searching for it in the first place.
Archibald feigns confusion. “Your auntie… would this be the Drenholm residence?”
The girl shakes her head and frowns at the made-up name, “No… this is the Ulnorin residence. Um… at least it was when Grandad was still alive, but then Auntie Jemma got married so I think it’d be the… Fearne residence now?”
“Ah, my apologies then,” Archibald mutters with a smile, stepping back from the door. “It appears I have the wrong address. You have a lovely day miss Inalia.”
“You too!” she says with a wave before shutting the door.
Sighing, Archibald turns and walks away, his shoulders feeling just that little bit heavier than when he had walked up.
He can’t return to the tavern for it is entirely possible the elf yet remains, and what he’s about to do requires complete privacy.
So instead he veers from the road and strays into the forest, just picking a direction and sticking with it. He makes sure not to stop anytime soon, wanting as much distance between himself and the elf for this as possible. Although, if he is being honest with himself, the hours he hikes for are probably more out of fear for what lies ahead of him than behind.
Finally working up the nerve, he comes to a stop and pulls out the tablet, kneeling before it as he awaits his master.
Those minutes are always the worst, as he holds his breath and tries to ignore the violent thumping in his chest. The die is cast, and he can’t stop it unless he is ready to suffer the punishment for such indecision, so all he can do is ruminate over his decision. Rarely does he ever feel confident about it.
After not too long, but not quite soon enough, the spectral figure of his master appears. As ever, adorned in their mask and cloak that reveals nothing of what lies beneath.
“My lord Phobos,” he greets once more.
“Hound. Make your report.” Comes the reply, slightly distorted by the device in such a way that always sends shivers down his spine.
With his eyes cast towards the dirt, Archibald answers. “I have located the girl and the elf, and confirmed their presence with my own eyes, though I believe the elf to be disguised as a human. We are in the village of Hartonville, on the King’s road several days out of Athaca.”
There is no immediate reaction, or at least not one he can discern, but he doesn’t move, or so much as breathe, until his master responds. “It seems my faith in you was not misplaced, Hound. Have you been made?”
The praise does little to lighten his heart, though it does lessen the pressure on his chest and allows him to breathe. “I do not believe so, but I conversed with the elf and know not his capability. If I have been, then there has been no reaction.”
Another pause, longer than the last. Archibald risks a glance up and sees the masked visage of his master staring off into the forest above him. As he does, the mask turns to regard him once more and he finds himself frozen under his master’s gaze. “Then continue as if you have not been. Your new orders are thus; you are to kill the girl. I am sending a new… ally of ours to your location, one capable of, at the least, distracting the elf to allow you the opportunity. Do not underestimate the elf, but if you believe him incapable of stopping you then you need not wait. Do this, return to me in victory, and I will make of you a king.”
Archibald knows it was coming, he has been in this business for most of his life and it will hardly be the first time he has taken a life in his master’s name, but it doesn’t stop the sick feeling that begins to roil within his stomach.
Mostly because he knows he will do it.
He finally finds the strength to lower his head once more. “As you will it. How will I identify this ally?”
There is a sound, almost like a chuckle, emanating from his master. “They will announce themselves, and you will know it is time. Make yourself ready, for they travel quickly and shall certainly arrive before the sun sets on the morrow.”
Archibald nods his head in supplication, “So it shall be.”
The illusion flickers out, and he climbs to his feet with painstaking slowness. As he reaches down to pick up the tablet, he hears the cawing of crows from behind him and turns just in time to see a pair of the dark-feathered birds launch into the air from a nearby tree.
He doesn’t quite know why but the sight fills him with a sense of unease. Dread, even. An ill omen, perhaps, or something he hasn’t yet realised that he should have.
Either way, the walk back to Hartonville is a quiet one, even in the privacy of his mind.
He is glad of the mental silence whilst it lasts, for nought but torment awaits him in his thoughts.
----------------------------------------
You
There is a… tapping, against your wards. Not an effort to tear them down or circumvent them, not even a working of magic. You feel the slight ripples it creates, barely enough to notice except for the repetition.
You ignore it for a time, but its subtlety is insidiously more irritating than a more overt distraction, and with a growl you surge to your feet and storm over to the window, finally shutting off the confession stone as you do. Allowing the wards to collapse you throw open the window to the pair of crows perched just outside.
“What?” You say, your voice low and your mood clear.
“Umm… sir, we followed that guy like you said. He went to the house then walked off into the forest, we…” Fenrick begins, before he is interrupted by his brother.
“We saw him talking to some masked person through a magic-thing. They were looking for you and the girl, and then they told the man to kill her. You’re going to stop him, right?” Henrick explains in a panic, and gets a peck on his skull from his brother for cutting him off.
“The masked person, he called them Phobos, told him to kill Inalia if he thought he could do so without you stopping him, but otherwise to wait for someone who can fight you… I think. Wait… is that… is he dead?” The older crow adds helpfully, before peering around your form and spying the prone form of Leroy. He doesn’t sound particularly upset about it, although perhaps a little afraid.
You peer back with a sneer. Faint though it is, the fat merchant’s heart continues to beat, and his breaths wheeze out through the pressure on his windpipe. “Not yet.”
Turning back to the crows, both of whom now had eyes only for the dying man, you snap your fingers sharply to regain their attention. “When.”
“Umm… sometime before dusk tomorrow, they said,” Fenrick answers distractedly. His brother is silent.
More than anything, given your current mood, the thought of the spy, his master and the approaching assassin only serves to irritate you further. You can’t even appreciate the scheme for its potential amusement. Given your current disposition it merely feels like another exhausting annoyance you know you’re going to have to deal with at the same time you’re trying desperately to avoid thinking, feeling or doing anything.
Much like the man dying behind you.
But the arrival of the crows has at least gotten you to your feet, and the voice of reason in your mind has finally grown loud enough that you consider listening to it, if only to shut it up.
“In.” You command, turning to walk over to Leroy and slamming the doors shut with a flick of telekinesis when you hear the brothers hop down to the floor.
Kneeling beside the human, you hover a hand just over his neck and close your eyes. Muttering an incantation, you run it up and down as you inspect the internal damage, the bones, arteries, veins and nerves becoming as clear to you as day.
He is fortunate indeed, you note, for it seems you were wrong in your initial prognosis, for which you blame your choler. It is not a fatal wound, with the nerves and airway still wholly intact such that he won’t even be paralysed, although it will surely be exquisitely painful. You can probably leave him here and return on the morrow and he will very possibly still be alive.
But you won’t, instead you place both of your hands extremely gently around his head and neck, still maintaining your spell, and very, very carefully begin realigning the bones. If you did not possess such fine motor control then such an operation would have been fraught with danger, but millennia of intricate spellwork has ensured that your control is second to none.
Having fallen unconscious, the movement and the pain wake Leroy. But before he can grate your ears with his screams or his heart rate can spike, you send a pulse of telepathy through your hands and knock him unconscious again.
Now comes the hard part; weaving the bones back together. Far more used to breaking them, repairing breaks and fractures is something you have only really ever done to your own body. And healing one’s self is far easier than healing others, at least for you.
You remember the spell easily enough, but your first attempt at executing it actually fails. This immediately infuriates you, and the crows are wise to be so silent else you may well have lashed out in that moment.
But you take a breath, and make a concerted effort to calm down. Recent events have hardly put you in the correct state of mind for this, but your professional pride in your abilities won’t allow such a thing to get in the way of your working.
Such healing magic, though potent, is a most curious branch of the arcane. Empathy itself is one of the components, and whilst it is easy to empathise with oneself, doing so with others, especially humans, does not come naturally to you. Not anymore.
But you have had your own neck broken before, on more than one occasion, and you remember the experiences well. The pain, the panic, the fear. You allow yourself to imagine Leroy suffering as you once did, and force that fierce desire you had to save yourself instead onto the human.
Then you cast the spell a second time.
When next you open your eyes, Leroy has been healed. Still unconscious, you erase the memories of this incident from his mind, replacing them instead with you simply leaving and him heading early to bed.
It is easier without him awake, but you can still tell it is not quite as well executed as last time. Not because you performed it with any less skill or subtlety, but because the material you have to work with is becoming increasingly frayed the more you tear it apart and stitch it back together.
There will be consequences for this. Not immediately obvious, perhaps, and not even remotely as bad as those suffered by him hidden within the barn, but not ones that can be reversed.
Unless, of course, your experiment with Jack bears fruit, but that is very much a long-term project. At least by human standards.
As you stand up and float the human over to his bed, you feel… strange. Exhausted from the whirlwind of emotions, certainly, but that is not altogether unfamiliar to you.
No, after laying him down you find your hand rubbing at your neck at the phantom pain you felt during the operation just now. And you feel…
Bad.
You feel bad.