Another version of Topher -- a calmer, less traumatized one, perhaps -- might have been able to talk Varissian down; but in this moment, it was as impossible for him as walking on a ceiling. Being grabbed and pulled forward in exactly this way tripped deep-buried switches in his brain, laid down over decades of formative neurogenesis; his body became still, his pulse sped up, and his hands relaxed in a disarmingly serene fashion while his mind stopped cold and activated layer upon layer of defensive mechanisms. He was silent for exactly three seconds, then said dully, "You're going to want to let go of me."

Varissian, who was clearly experiencing a good deal of emotional distress of his own, snarled inarticulately in a way which indicated that he did not agree with Topher's assessment; instead, he wound up and punched Topher in the stomach. The blow wasn't that heavy -- the elf almost certainly had Rank F Strength -- but it was enough to drive the air from Topher's lungs and make him double over involuntarily. As he coughed and gagged, the elf pulled up on his collar to repeat his demand, but never got the chance; as soon as his opponent's mouth was open, Topher kicked him with unexpectedly brutal force in the testicles.

Varissian doubled over, emitting squeaking sounds; Topher's reflexes took over in a cold calculus of economical motion. His hands swept up, open-palmed, in a rising circular motion which broke the elf's grip on his shirt, then doubled back and closed into partial fists with extended index fingers which then jammed cruelly into both of the elf's eyes. Varissian shrieked and stumbled backwards, tripped over a branch, and hit his head on a rock with a sickening crack. He twitched once, then lay still.

Topher stood over him, a living channel for pure and practiced triumphant rage, for a handful of seconds; then the blood receded from his vision, his hands curled into shocked claws, and his mouth dropped open in horror. "Shit. Oh, shit. Buddy, you okay?"

He knelt down and examined the elf in a panic; blood was gushing from the wound on the back of Varissian's head, and his body was limp and twitching slightly. He checked for a pulse, found it, and breathed out a sigh of relief; at least he hadn't accidentally murdered the guy. Yet, the distant part of his mind observed. He could have a brain hemorrhage.

Topher fluttered about in a light panic of wasted motion for a few seconds, then remembered that Hotaka had checked his pupils when he'd cracked his own head in a backwards fall; carefully, he thumbed open the elf's eyelids, and confirmed grimly that one had dwindled to a pinprick and the other was gaping wide open, like a chasm of accusation. "Shit, shit, shit." He spun around in a circle, stupidly, as though looking for help to magically emerge from the trees. Nobody knows we're out here. Not supposed to move somebody who's injured.

He looked back at the elf, wringing his hands, and a silent, hateful thought struck him like a lightning bolt; that's right; nobody knows we're out here. I could just walk away. Poor guy must have tripped and fallen, so tragic, no more warm bathwater, sorry guys. He knew, with a heavy solidity, that he would get away with it; nobody had seen him talk to the elf in the inn's common room, and they'd never spoken outside of that interaction.

Slowly, he walked over to Varissian's body. There's a ton of risk and no upside if I get involved. The smart move is to stay out of trouble. Cautiously, gingerly at first, he took one step away, then two, then turned and began to walk towards the inn. He made it almost ten steps before he sighed, turned around, and cast Remove Fatigue on himself. This was not going to be fun.

First, he shucked off his hoodie, then tried to tear a strip from his undershirt as a bandage; this proved completely impossible, and after a few frustrated seconds of struggling, he gave up and just tied the thing around the elf's head like a turban. Hopefully that'll keep some blood in there, you supercilious long-eared fuck. Casting Remove Fatigue preemptively for good measure, he bent down into a creaky, wobbly squat over the elf's legs; then he reached back, grasped the elf's wrists, and pulled them over his own shoulders with a grunt of effort. He would have liked to cradle the elf's neck when he did this, but he knew it wasn't logistically possible; he'd just have to risk it. Once he had the elf draped over his back, he reached down, gripped the underside of the elf's knees, and stood up.

Or tried to, anyway; as light as Varissian was, it was still significantly more physical effort than Topher's body was prepared to exert. He stumbled, staggered, nearly fell over, and felt something pop worryingly in his lower back; that's fantastic. Can't wait to find out how many HP blowing a disc takes off. Cursing, he mumbled the words to Remove Fatigue again, and took off at a slow jog before he could think better of it.

The elf's body seemed to grow heavier with every step; he had to re-cast his spell every few minutes, and knew he'd be out of MP soon. It took him nearly ten minutes to slowly and tortuously make his way from the clearing to the village proper; he paused as he neared the center of town. He had one opportunity to make a choice; he could take the elf to the inn, lay him down, and relinquish responsibility for the situation, or he could... do... something... else. God dammit.

Staggering into the item shop, he groaned out, "Jerp, I really hope you're having a sale on healing potions."

----------------------------------------

Slowly, the elf's eyes fluttered and opened; Topher could see his pupils returning to normal, just as he imagined his own had when he'd gone through this; hope I didn't have that stupid of a look on my face.

"Ngh... what...?" Varissian muttered, groaning. "Where...?"

"We're in the item shop." Topher jerked his thumb back at Jerp, who was hovering over them both worriedly. "You tripped and fell and brained yourself on a rock. I spent almost every coin I had on a healing potion to save your tree-hugging ass. You're paying me back."

The elf scowled, opened his mouth angrily, closed it, and laid back, squeezing his eyes shut. "I suppose it would be poor manners of me to rebuke you for saving my life."

Topher chuckled. "Maybe, but I can relate. I guess the real person you should be thanking is Jerp; if he hadn't been willing to give me a healing potion on credit, you might have bled out while I was counting out coins."

The diminutive gnome wrung his leather apron between his hands. "Least I could do, Mister Bailey -- and Mister Varissian, too, I guess. I woulda just given you a healing potion if I could, but the Merchant's Guild would have crucified me, and I don't mean that figuratively! That woulda been a sad little sight, wouldn't it, little guy strung up at your knee when you walk into the shop..."

Topher rolled his eyes. "Jerp, they wouldn't really have killed you."

"Well, maybe not directly, Mister Bailey, but they'd shut my shop down and then I'd starve, and also be despondent besides; string myself up in here before a week's gone by, I shouldn't wonder. So close enough, if you ask me!" The gnome shivered theatrically. "I'm not even allowed to give discounts unless I get approval from the guild, fellas; you don't know how hard it is!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you've got a real rough racket," grunted Topher, who had often tried to wheedle Jerp into letting him just glance at one of the mage spellbooks without even the slightest hint of the possibility of success. He checked Varissian's pupils, grunting with satisfaction when they appeared to have returned to normal. "Looks like you'll live, Varissian; my condolences."

"I appreciate your consideration for my sorrows," the elf murmured dryly. "Exactly how much was my life worth, if I may ask?"

"Er, ah, fifty gold, Mister Varissian," said Jerp awkwardly, shuffling his feet a little. "Seems a bit mercenary, I know; but I ask you, is that not a small price to pay for the sight of blue skies? For the smell of fresh-baked bread, perhaps, or the sound of a young girl's singing voice? Elves live a long time, don't they? Why, I think it's a bargain if you get another --"

"That'll do, Jerp," Topher cut in, smirking. "You've already made the sale; no need to talk us into it."

The gnome shook his tiny fist up at Topher. "It's just good customer service!"

"You will forgive me if I do not sing the praises of your establishment," grunted the elf, slowly sitting up and clutching his head. "Damnation. I feel as though I have a hive of bees inside my skull."

"It'll fade," Topher assured him. "Eventually."

Slowly, he got the elf to his feet, then grudgingly allowed him to lean on him as he half-walked, half-carried Varissian back to the inn. Elara was all in a flutter the moment they entered, fussing over them like a worried mother hen -- a mental image that crossed some wires in Topher's brain with the thought of four hens laying two hundred eggs in rapid-fire succession to produce an uncomfortable result -- and insisted on seeing Varissian up to bed in his room. As soon as she'd gotten the elf situated, she blustered down into Topher's personal space and shook her finger at him in a highly intimidating fashion. "Now then, Mister Bailey, you'd better tell me what happened right quick, you're interfering with a woman's heated bath water and that's more dangerous than any goblin camp or dungeon, I can tell you that." Her cheeks were flushed and her hands were shaking slightly.

Topher held up his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, easy. He tripped over a branch in the forest, fell and hit his head; I carried him back to town and bought a healing potion from the item shop. There's not much else to tell." Except for the part where we were beating the shit out of each other, but that's not really your concern, you busybody.

Elara jerked in closer, her finger almost touching his nose, and puckered up her mouth in what looked like her best attempt at why-I-oughtta righteous indignation; but Topher could see tears in her eyes, and he simply held his breath and his ground and waited for the inevitable. Finally, she retreated, clutching the hem of her skirt and looking downwards. "We'll see what Mister Varissian has to say about it," she managed, then swirled off in a huff; he could tell she was fighting back tears. Damn. I hope I never get that emotional about bath water.

Depressed, he went up to his room and took a nap; his body hurt all over, and when he awoke, his fears about the damage he'd done to himself saving Varissian were realized -- he was totally unable to get out of bed. His back had completely seized up, his HP were at 11/18, and moving his legs at all sent waves of agonizing pain through his body; casting Remove Fatigue did nothing, naturally. Sure would be nice to be able to cast Cure Wounds about now. He lay in bed, miserable, for several hours before finally managing to lever himself out of bed using his spear as a walking stick and hobbling with excruciating slowness to his bathroom to pee (and then remembering his bathroom didn't have a toilet, forcing him to settle for going out the window and hoping nobody noticed). He tried to study his Ledger, but the pain was too intense for him to either concentrate or sleep, so he simply lay there and suffered in a timeless void of pain and boredom until he finally blacked out from exhaustion.

He was awakened by a knock on the door; he didn't know how long he'd been out, but the sky outside his window was still dark. Muttering imprecations, he eventually managed to creep over to the door and open it; Varissian stood there, stony-faced. Topher, too obliterated by exhaustion and agony to care, simply left the door open and flopped back into bed with a gasp of agony; he waved weakly at the elf. "If you're gonna kill me, don't take all day about it. The sooner this stops, the better."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The mage stepped into Topher's room, looking around quizzically, then approached him on the bed. "Are you ill?"

"No, I about killed myself carrying your fat ass," Topher managed. He gritted his teeth; the pain, as usual for a back injury, was excruciating during a spasm.

"A tendon injury? No... muscle strain." The mage stalked to Topher's bathroom, then came back with his copper washbasin and two towels. "Lay on your side a moment." Murmuring an incantation, he directed a soft jet of flame against the side of the container, heating the water within for some time. When he judged that it had reached the desired temperature, he lowered one of Topher's towels into it, then wrung it out and placed it atop the dry towel. Laying it under Topher's injured back with surprising gentleness, the elf helped him turn over and lie back with a folded blanket under his knees. "Remain still for a day or two, Master Bailey, and you should be up and about committing violent assaults in no time." The elf went to the door, closed it, and returned to sit on a chair near Topher's bedside. "In the interim, perhaps we can continue our conversation from yesterday."

Topher sighed, then hissed in a breath as his muscles twinged. "Yeah. Sorry I beat you up." He gestured towards himself exasperatedly. "Guess you can take revenge now, if you want; not like I can stop you."

"I am the one who initiated hostilities," admitted the elf, somewhat awkwardly. "You are not to blame for defending yourself." He winced, rubbing his head gingerly. "Though I do wish you had done so a little less vigorously."

"Please don't make me laugh," Topher begged. "I'd rather you smashed my head in with a rock."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Varissian's face, then subsided. "Another time, perhaps. In lieu of that, I ask you humbly: will you please tell me what news you have of my brother?"

Topher winced and bit his lip; there was no way he could see this going well. But I guess I'd want the truth too, if I had any brothers and cared if they were dead or alive. "I'm sorry, Varissian. He's dead -- murdered in a prison under Strathmore Castle." A vision of a hooded figure with a long, curved knife flashed through Topher's scrambled memory, followed by another image of the same man burning to death as he screamed. "Pretty sure the killer's dead, though, if that helps."

The elf sighed, then lowered his head; Topher was saddened, but not surprised, to see that the elf's eyes were wet. "I feared as much, when you spoke of him in the past tense. I suppose that he came to an ill end, being in a prison; when last we spoke, he was engaged in... less than legitimate enterprises."

Yeah, like trying to swindle a bunch of newly-Summoned F-Rankers, thought Topher uncharitably. "I don't know if whatever he was caught up in was the reason why he died, but I do know he wasn't trying to do anyone any harm. I think there was something else going on -- a lot of other people were killed in the aftermath of whatever it was."

Varissian nodded, numbly. "I cannot say it comes to me as a shock, Master Bailey. The world is in peril; ever since the return of the Demon Lord ten years ago, there has been much unrest and violence even within civilized areas. It is one reason why I have remained in this village -- though I confess the primary one was in hopes of news of Cailu's endeavors." He sighed. "I suppose I must lay that hope to rest, now."

Topher squirmed a little, trying to get the heat from the towel under his back onto a sparking nerve. "Not much I can say, I know," he grunted. "I don't even know why he was killed -- just that the guy who did it died in a fire in Strathmore. Apparently it almost killed me, too -- I lost my memory of most of it, and woke up half-dead in a cart headed here to Frostford."

"A compelling tale, to be sure." Varissian gripped his elbows; Topher noticed that his knuckles were white. "What do you know of the culture of elves, Master Bailey?"

"Jack shit," grunted Topher. "Never even met an elf before Cailu."

Varissian nodded, still looking downwards. "Elves, Master Bailey, are divided into five castes. At the apex of such distinctions are the Gold Elves, which look as you might expect from the name; they are intelligent and wise, as well as being well-dispositioned to the arts of both combat and command." He took a breath. "Below them are the Silver Elves, who have white skin and black hair; they are graceful and given to mysticism, and are said to blessed with the luck of the stars in all their pursuits. Below those are the Bronze Elves, who are wild and strong; they are the master archers of the elven peoples, and share the closest kinship with the forests and the beasts of the wild." Topher detected no small amount of bitterness building in the elf's voice. "Near the bottom of the elven castes are the Stone Elves, black-skinned and white-haired; they tend to seek out the quiet places of the earth, and are often skilled in blade and craft -- though this is most commonly due to necessity and long labor, rather than disposition." He paused for a long time.

Eventually, Topher's curiosity got the better of him. "You said 'near the bottom'?"

Varissian sighed again. "Below the Stone Elves are the lowest caste; they are unnamed, although many epithets have been applied. The kindest of these is probably 'Common Elves', but, as you can imagine, there are many others, most of them unsuitable for polite company. 'Shit Elf' is the term my brother and I heard the most often when we were young."

"Ah, hell." Topher was beginning to get the picture.

Varissian nodded again. "An elf of any caste may be born to any other caste; but the likelihood is primarily that a given child will be the same caste as its parents. In cases of extreme misfortune, children of a lower caste may be born to parents of a higher caste. You are likely able to infer the rest of what I am telling you."

Topher scowled. "Yeah. You and Cailu were born to fancy-ass parents who crapped on you for the heinous crime of having the genes they gave you."

"It is as you say." The elf took another deep breath, then sighed again. "Elves, Master Bailey, are a very long-lived people. Our funerals are lengthy affairs; when an elf dies young, centuries of life are cut short, and we mourn appropriately. Provided, of course, that the decedent was in good social standing."

"Jesus," spluttered Topher. "That's totally fucked. You're saying nobody's going to hold one of these high-faluting elf death parties for Cailu, because he wasn't one of the Cool Elves?"

"Even a Common Elf may be mourned by his people," corrected Varissian sourly, "provided he was not already regarded as a disappointment. For my brother and I, such a status is the default state; it is only by exceedingly noteworthy accomplishment that we may redeem ourselves. And, for those of our talents, such accomplishment requires... capital."

"Christ. Let me get this straight." Topher levered himself up on one shoulder, gasping with the pain as he did so. "You're saying Cailu was trying to pull some kind of get-rich-quick scheme in Strathmore to get money for his own funeral?!"

"In a roundabout way, Master Bailey, that is correct -- ideally, there would have been centuries of life and accomplishment in between the two events, but that is indeed the essence of it. I do not know what scheme, to use your words, he was engaged in that brought him his end; but I imagine that it was not an honorable one."

Topher shook his head, somewhat cautiously. "You might be surprised. He wasn't exactly saving orphans, yeah -- but he was trying to do right by the people he was working with, at least a little." He grimaced, remembering how little consideration Oguro had shown when he'd learned of Cailu's plight. "Quite frankly, I think he was unlucky enough to be a target of mistaken identity, then got fucked over by the people he was working with, then in turn got so ignored that he almost died of neglect in prison, and then finally got murdered by somebody with some other agenda entirely. Looking back on it, it's probably the worst luck I've ever seen a person have -- and I've met me," he finished grimly.

"You seem more familiar with his circumstances than you might otherwise have led me to believe," observed Varissian; Topher flinched.

"Look, what do you want me to say?" Topher admitted, finally. "I never did the guy a wrong turn. I brought him food and water in prison. I was actively trying to get him out when he was killed."

"Would that make you one of his co-conspirators, then?" asked the elf, raising an eyebrow. "And, by extension, would that make you one of the people who, to quote your terminology, 'fucked him over'?"

"No, goddammit," snarled Topher. "I was one of the people he was trying to steal from. And I busted my ass to try to help him anyway, because... well, because..." He faltered, unsure of what his real rationale had been; eventually, he gave up. "Because I'm not that big of an asshole, I guess. I hope, anyway."

The elf raised his head, looking wryly into Topher's eyes. "Many of your terms are strange to me, Master Bailey; but I believe I can confirm that, though you may be an asshole, you are of lesser size than most." He snorted. "You saved my life, and attempted to save my brother's; what more could be asked of you?"

Topher shifted uncomfortably. I could have done it for good reasons, instead of fear and guilt. I could have been honest about my own culpability in everything. "I could have succeeded," he said, finally.

"To fail is no sin, Master Bailey. Especially not in comparison to those who do not even make the attempt." The elf rose, nodding, and went to the door. "I shall bring you up a meal, and a... medicinal quantity of alcohol. I hope they will aid your recovery." He started to leave, then paused and looked back. "My brother mentioned to you that elves have many names. Among our people, there is one name -- the sacred, private name -- that is only given to the closest of family and friends." He stared away, seeing something entirely different than the walls of the inn. "My brother's was Lulein. It is my hope that at least one other person will carry it in their heart now that he is gone."

Topher didn't see Varissian depart; his eyes were too full of tears.

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It took about seven more days for Topher to heal; his progress was slow, but he could measure it fairly accurately on his Status, which showed him gaining 1 HP per day of rest in a manner that seemed very consistent with his physical condition. At 14 HP, he could hobble around the room with only moderate pain; at 16, he didn't even need his spear to prop himself up. And, when he woke up on the morning of the seventh day at 18/18 HP, he found that it no longer hurt to move (at least, once he'd cast Remove Fatigue). He stayed in his room despite the fact, though; he didn't really want to face Varissian (or, for that matter, Elara, who might still be pissed at him) and the thought of starting over from seven gold was not terribly enticing, especially since he still had no real way of killing goblins without extreme personal risk (weak Flame Jet spell notwithstanding). He was just debating whether or not to start trying to go back over the Priest Magic writings in his Ledger when a knock sounded on his door; he opened it to find Varissian standing there, wearing a snappy black suit instead of his usual threadbare robe. "Hey. What's the occasion?"

"My wedding," said the elf, very severely. Topher blinked; Varissian smiled, a little sadly. "Miss Gilbert and I are betrothed, Master Bailey -- I am sure you will not be discomfited to know that you have not been invited to the ceremony. But, in something vaguely resembling the tradition of my people, we have sent you a gift in lieu of an invitation." He held out a rectangular box to Topher, neatly wrapped in brilliantly white paper.

Topher took it, very confused. "You and Elara? I didn't even know you were dating!"

"We were not," said Varissian with a hint of asperity. "It is, I assure you, primarily a marriage of convenience; circumstances have forced me to sell certain holdings which were providing me with a small amount of money on a regular basis, and as a result I find myself unable to meet my recurring financial obligations. I may, however, neatly avoid eviction by becoming part owner of this establishment; a proposition, if you'll forgive my wordplay, that I found too tempting to resist." He held up a hand. "Please forestall any congratulations or well-wishes; though I am fond of Miss Gilbert, this is not as momentous of a life event for me as it is for her. As my people measure our lifespans, this is a short business venture which will be pleasurable but ultimately fleeting. I hope that you take my meaning."

Topher winced. "Yeah. She gets to marry her elf prince, you get to watch her grow old and die in exchange for five percent a year. Jesus, Varissian, that's beyond Kafkaesque."

"I am not, provided I take your meaning correctly, familiar with the works of Kafka." Varissian fussed with his cufflinks. "Nevertheless, I am content. I hope I can provide her a satisfactory love affair, followed by a satisfactory day-to-day existence and a satisfactory retirement; I see no shame in such an undertaking."

Topher bit his lip, then nodded. "Yeah, I don't think there is any. But, if you'll forgive my saying so, I think it'll do you good -- you've been waiting a long time for some real bad news, and now you're on the other side of it. Who knows where it'll lead you?"

Varissian's eyes grew distant; he shrugged. "None can say. I shall convey your well-wishes to my betrothed; rest assured, however, that I shall be suitably brief. I expect that I shall not take a hand in the management of the business until Gropp's passing, hopefully many years from now; thus, I do not expect we shall see much of each other after this meeting." He reached out a hand towards Topher, a little hesitantly. "I believe this is the custom of humans upon parting?"

Topher grinned and shook the elf's hand, giving it a good squeeze and a hearty shake. "Take care of yourself, pal. And your new human wife, I guess."

Varissian winced, extracted his hand somewhat gingerly, and bowed every so slightly. "You as well." He turned to leave, then paused. "Goodbye, Topher."

The mage shut the door behind him crisply; Topher could hear the clickity-clack of his very fine shoes on the cheap pine boards of the hallway and chuckled. Good luck with that marriage, buddy. He sat down, a little overwhelmed by the speed with which everything had occurred; it didn't occur to him to open the elf's gift for several minutes. But when he did, his breath caught, and he stared down in astonishment at the object which lay at the center of the wrapping paper; the brand-new copy of Horf Gorbzooble's Beginner Mage Spells, 8th Edition (Now With Easy Rune Tracing Worksheets!) seemed to wink cheekily back up at him.

That son of a bitch.