Chapter 32

Ey’lwan

Filthy, all of them were.

Like rats infesting silos and causing famine. They are heedless pests sucking upon the generosity, leaving only waste and disappointment in their wake. Ey'lwan saw them, constantly; the looks in their eyes, the perversions that swam therein, the way they tried to touch her, tease her, mock her. All because she could not harm them. All because she could not hurt them.

It would be the same, always. Even with the new one she hadn't seen before. At first, they were all reserved; they'd teeter at the edge, dance around her, and give her shallow compliments. But all, one by one, in due time, would find a way to solicit her, to demean her, to vainly disrobe her with their gazes. Filthy, all of them.

But it all unraveled soon.

The man took something out of his pocket and presented it to her--it was a beauty beyond compare, something that no mortal or immortal words could quite capture. The faint, golden allure of the shell fluctuated, pulsating at a level only someone with the Eyes of Elan, like her, could see.

In a singular motion and with a thought, she closed the doors to the smithy and erected a barrier to stop the possible prying eyes from seeing this. After all, this wasn’t just any other treasure--it wasn’t just a handful of gold sculpted into the shape of a shell. It was some holy, something reverent, something beyond the scope of what a filthy human should have found. And yet, find he did.

He looked around with caution at her actions while she ignored him, taking the shell and bringing it close to her eyes. The patterns...

“Oh the Lords,” she mumbled sweetly. The patterns were immaculate, perfect. They shimmered under the light, undulating as though breathing. “Where... where did you find this?!!” she asked, switching her attention over to the man who was looking at her rather oddly.

“In a Stage,” he replied, his voice even and unhurried. “A massive locust swarm appeared and that thing was hidden in its midst. So, I shot it down and took the corpse.”

“--wait, did you say... a locust swarm?”

“Yep.”

"Then this--no, no, it can't be!!" she exclaimed, turning back to look at the shell. It shined even brightly now, if at all possible. "This is... the Prince from the myths. Oh Lords--this... wow, this is, ha ha ha ha!!!" she began to laugh wildly, suddenly rushing over and tossing her arms around the man who was a head shorter than her, lifting him up like a barrel and spinning around in a dance of whimsy.

Seemingly finally recognizing what she had done and feeling the fire beginning to burst within her, she set the man down, feeling her cheeks burn. She’d never done something so untoward--she was a proper Maiden, and yet now stained herself with the filth of a human of all things. But... it was no ordinary human.

“... s-sorry,” she mumbled, looking away.

“Oh, don’t be,” the man chuckled, his voice merry. “Being picked up and flung about was strangely... comforting.”

“E-eh? Is, is that so?”

“Yeah. Vastly better than being repeatedly insulted by a severely racist fairy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Oh, yeah, he he,” Ey’lwan looked toward the man and swallowed. He was a strange one, quite like those from before. Back when the Well of Light had just been built, when the first Peregrinators appeared. They seemed far more enthralled with the conquest of stages over anything else. They, too, had that strange warmth to them, oddities that made them less... abominable as humans.

“So, uh, could you tell me what that is?” the man asked.

“Ah, of course,” Ey’lwan said, chiding herself for being overcome and returning the shell to the man. Though she despised the humans and wanted nothing more than to keep it, she beheld herself to a Code, and as a Proud Daughter of the Aeonian Flames, she would never debase herself and her blood by stealing from a human. “That should be the legendary shell of the Golden Prince. The legend goes that, a long time ago, well before the civilized ages, there was a tribe of powerful warriors. In a bid to feed their faith and serve their God, they began the purge of their lands. Men, women, children, animals, plants... they killed and destroyed whatever they could, plundering as they went.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Until they met another tribe, a tribe that was Blessed. They repelled the invaders, killing them all, and imprisoning their leader, eventually hexing him and turning him into a locust to represent the pest that he was to the world. However, they made him golden to as to not give him a chance to hide, knowing all who could see him would want to hunt him down.”

“... wow.”

"Of course, it's just a legend," Ey'lwan chuckled faintly. "It had been tens of thousands of years since then. No matter how powerful the magic, only those with Antecedent Lineage could possibly manage to survive for so long. And they weren't even part of the world back then. Chances are that the locust was just a simple mutation that survived as it used the sea of locusts as its armor."

"Oh," the man seemed somewhat disappointed, though only for a moment. "Why'd you give it back, by the way?"

“Huh? Because... it’s yours?”

“Not anymore,” he extended his arm and opened the hand, offering it back to her. “To me, it’s just a pointless, pretty shell. And not to disparage those who do, but I was never one for ornamental jewelry. Tattoos? Oh, yeah. Jewelry not so much, however. So, take it.”

“... t-take it? Do, do you understand what you're saying?!!" she questioned the man's mind, and whether it was fit to exist. Though she downplayed it as a simple 'mutation', she was, against her better judgment, lying. Those runic patterns... they predated anything she'd ever seen before. That locust was old. Old. Perhaps even older than the current age. If she could study them...

"Yeah, I'm giving you what is likely a beyond precious artifact," he spoke nonchalantly, as though this was a pebble he'd found by the roadside. "But so what? A man starving has no need for coffers of gold and glitter. To a dying one, all the world's riches are worthless. To me, it's just a pretty shell, as I said. It would sit in my room, decorating it. Perhaps, if I were lucky, someday in the distant future I might find someone willing to buy it. But what of it? Chances are... I'll die long before that happens."

“...” she fell silent. The man’s words cut deep, even to her. They reminded her of her Father--the man who had the world upon his feet, whereupon even the Emperor himself treated him with respect. He could have anything in the world but one thing he desired the most--his son back. What were riches to one may just be worthless trinkets to another. “I, I can’t offer you much,” she said, taking the shell and grasping it tightly. “Only a promise--I will craft you a weapon for free. The best one I can. It’s, it’s nowhere near enough. Nowhere. But I can't offer you souls, and I can't offer you any other items. I may try and request Lords and Ladies to bless you, but..."

"... how about, once a week, I bring over some awful drink I can just barely afford," he said, smiling faintly. "And you just... tell me stories. Legends of this strange world. They don't even have to be true. Just myths that make up the fabric of this place. Hearing the legend of that thing," he added. "In a way, at least, humanized this place. All of it, so far, seemed so out of the scope of reality that I just closed my eyes and imagined I was dreaming. But... I'm not. Just as that racist-ass fairy is real, so is this place, and so are you. It's a world filled to the brim with stories, true and otherwise, and I simply want to drink them in."

“--is, is that really enough?!” Ey’lwan was certain--as certain as she ever was in her entire life--that the man would demand impossible things. He may, even, demand her. That was who humans were--greedy, unapologetic hypocrites. And, in a way, he was demanding her. Perhaps, in a very roundabout way, this was his attempt to get close to her. To stay by her side. To look at her with perverted eyes.

But his eyes... were clear. His desires seemed dainty to the point she questioned whether he was a human. Or, perhaps, was it her? Had she judged them too harshly? In a way, she understood, deep down. Humans did not wish to be here. They were taken, against their will, from their world and brought over, treated like cattle. A voice she’d forgotten whispered into her mind. The voice of her departed brother.

They are not just simple, thoughtless critters!, he yelled at the Banquet, they are living, breathing, sentient things! They feel, think, understand, desire, and fear just as we do! What gives us the right to trap them in a cage and watch them break while struggling to survive?!

He was executed, right then and there by the Crown Prince. And the worst part? The hall cheered. She had to cheer. As did her Father. And her Mother. They clapped in sonorous joy, for a non-believer had been quieted.

“Yes,” he replied with a faint chuckle. “You know, not all of us are greedy for the impossible. Most humans, at least deep down, are good people. Even the ones here. The criminals, the discarded dregs. Most had the life of crime chosen for them more so than the other way around. When a man has only ever known violence since the cradle, does he really have a choice on who he becomes? We struggle with trying to find the right answer. We've struggled since forever, it feels. But we bleed truth if you cut us deep enough. And the truth is that we yearn for happiness above all else. Khm, anyway, so--you're okay with me coming over?"

“... yes,” she replied, her voice a muted whisper of emotions. “But don’t bring drinks.”

“Hm? You don’t drink?”

“No, I’ll prepare them,” she smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d shown these animals. “I might literally die if I have to drink whatever sewage they are feeding you.”

“Ouch.” Animals, yes. But she was an animal, too. Living, breathing, made of flesh, bones, and viscera.

“What is your name?” she questioned. She wanted to know the name of a man who so selflessly gifted her the shell. She wasn’t stupid--she knew he did so to gain her favor. But some gifts were worth being ignorant of the intentions.

“Asher.”

“Asher, huh?” her smile persisted. “I am Ey’lwan Rewakklythone, a Daughter of Fire. You may call me El.” she extended her arm.

“... as long as we’re shortening names,” he shook her hand. “You can call me Ash, then.”

“Ash,” she mumbled. “A thing even the fire cannot burn.”

“Or, that stinky thing that you dust with a broom so it doesn’t clog up your lungs. You never know.”

“Ha ha ha, no, I suppose you never do, really.”