Walter’s
lips were chapped. More so, he felt as if all his saliva had been meticulously
patted out with a cotton cloth and his mouth left to wither with all the grace
of a field of blighted crops in East Sannad. For some reason, the crowd of
dozens of eminent sociologists and historians patiently waiting for him to
begin intimidated him far more than his homefield crowd of arcane scientists
and specialists. He had been studying arcana his whole life, but sociology was
new ground. The straightforward mechanical processes that defined scientific
study were nowhere to be found in the oral mythology of the Iravon halflings
that introduced him to social studies, much less any concrete answers to their generations
of racial conflict, and this frustrated Walter. If you’re having problems
programming your summoned mud golems to use a pickaxe correctly, then it’s
simply a matter of correcting your summoning incantation. That’s what books are
for, and worst-case scenario, it’s a straightforward process of re-summoning
and re-writing and recording until the behavior you want is developed and
reproducible. But how are you supposed to solve halflings? Iravon halflings may
be unusually congenial with most other species, but even they don’t get along
with Urivon halflings, and time and time again history has shown that forcing
these groups together for any extended period of time is asking for trouble,
even though they have existed in relative proximity for years, secretly elope
and intermarry, and have painfully obvious common roots in their respective
oral traditions.
Walter
wasn’t here just to talk about Iravon halflings however – he was preoccupied
with, inconceivably, something that could be considered a solution to a problem
in a field defined by its lack of solutions to problems. The scholars that he
was slowly making measured eye contact with around the room had all but vowed
to take a purely journalistic and theoretical approach, never daring to offer a
fix to any of the various social issues that seemed so obvious to an outside
party. To be fair, giving a three hour dissertation to a crowd of illiterate
goblins that all hate both you and each other has never ended well – and
hyperbole aside, it is a very different thing to live through conflict than it
is to observe it; Walter knew that very well. However, this was a case study in
cultural enlightenment that potentially could pioneer a new way of interacting
with the creatures of the world, and Walter was the first to write about it,
thanks to the help of Virfaren. It was the academic fame he got from this
discovery that led him to talk at this conference, and the childlike surge of
pride he got knowing that everyone here must have read his paper finally motivated
him to begin.
“Thank
you, all, for coming to this conference that my mentor, Dr. Margaret Butler,
has so generously taken the time to organize. I understand that everyone is
quite busy with their own research and teaching obligations, and am humbled at
the incredible turnout of this event in spite of this. My name is Walter
Douglas, and I am a fifth year graduate student at Westport University [Coast
south of Beacon Hills]. I actually began my graduate career at Coldmont [along
the Northern Mauvre] studying the mechanics and design of mud golems, specifically
in conjunction with the magical equipment my hometown specializes in, until I
found myself in contact with Margaret and she introduced me to her work on the
Iravon peoples of Sannad. Pushed by her, and a series of transformative
personal events, I transferred to Westport and began to work on the Iravon
myself, until through my work with them I found out about the Elberos Clan,
whom I will be talking about today.
“To
those unfamiliar with Margaret’s work, the Iravon are a group of halflings that
have populated the Sannad region for at least the past five centuries,
if not longer. Following the common stereotypes of halflings to, perhaps, a
fault, this group is well known for their geniality and loquaciousness –
fantastically hospitable, and more than capable of befriending even inanimate
objects if, for some reason, they feel the need. However, those that take the
time to explore the history behind these delightful individuals will find that
even the friendliest, seemingly well-adjusted races cannot escape the violent
tension the rest of us are too intimately familiar with. The Urivon are a much sparser
organization of halflings, scattered randomly across the outer, malnourished
regions of Sannad [Somewhere in the Andin Desert?]. Embittered against the
Iravon for pushing their own peoples many generations ago into these blighted,
dangerous areas, much of the interaction between the two comes in either
formalized regional skirmishes or bloody guerilla warfare. Countless centuries
of violence, and little military success on the part of the of the Urivon, has
solidified an internalized hatred on both parts that has no end in site. Fifty
years ago foreign intervention attempted to abolish boundaries and force
integration of the Urivon into the more populated and fertile lands near the
center of Sannad, which resulted in a fierce conflict that exhausted foreign
military support and nearly the entire Urivon population along with it. It is
only after five decades of jaded diplomacy and a complicated and culturally
hypocritical, if understandable, surge of nationalism that the Iravon have
again embraced a more open relationship with the outside world, under the
understanding that they will not tolerate such an intrusion into personal
affairs again. Margaret’s research focuses on this complicated history,
attempting to understand this paradoxical people and the root cause to their
hatred of the Urivon.
“Just
over a year ago, as I was transcribing histories in Davpos, a recently
established trading hub northeast of Oseon, the capital of Sannad, I was
introduced to an older gentlewoman Iravon halfling named Yolyse. An avid
adventurer, Yolyse had spent most of the past century abroad, travelling with her
wife and friends who all shared this incredible wanderlust that I have never
seen before. I spent all night listening to her stories, and just as she was
about to leave the next day, for Oseon, and then to who knows where, I
remembered myself and asked what she, as someone who has spent her life
exploring the world, thinks about the Urivon. She gave me a look I’ll never
forget – some cross between anger and sadness, the inner conflict visible upon
her features, and then she pulls a slip of parchment from her bag, tells me to
write down the question, and leaves. Familiar with such things from my past, I
realized it was very likely enchanted, and expecting it to be some form of
communication with Yolyse, I wrote down the question, addressed it to her, and signed
my name. The words faded from the paper, confirming my suspicion, but the next
day when I examined it I found that I was not, in fact, communication with
Yolyse, but instead an individual named Virfaren, head of something they called
the Elberos clan.
“After
a lengthy, and frustratingly slow, I admit, discourse, I discovered that the
Elberos clan is a group of Elves that live in a hidden location somewhere in
the Tegell Woods. Consisting mostly of ex-patriates and outcasts, what makes
this this clan unique, as you all have read, is their ground-breaking ideology.
Populated by those that have seen the worst consequences of racial conflict,
the Elberos people have worked for centuries on methodically squeezing the last
vestiges of their own innate prejudices and creating a society that benefits on
diversity of opinion and character. It is an incredible, concerted,
intellectual attempt to tackle and deconstruct some of the worst underlying
issues of intelligent creatures with rigorous scientific and sociological
method. Fundamentally, this society is based on using time to their advantage –
the best way to work through the myth of race is to critically examine and
experience many different species and types of people. According to Virfaren,
eventually, you can convince even the most prejudiced of individuals of the
inherent equality of the denizens of this earth.
“Six months of
communication later I asked Virfaren for proof of the existence of this clan,
and so he and some of his companions traveled all the way down to the cost of
the Beacon Hills and met with me in person. When he arrived I admittedly
interrogated him rather viciously, but I am confident in the veracity of his
claims. I have never before heard of such a structure for any sort of society,
but I am cautiously hopeful that this might be the start, at least, of a
greater era of social enlightenment.
“I
am honored to say that I have been extended an invitation to stay with and
study the Elberos Clan, and am looking forward to returning with novel insights
into this incredible lifestyle. Before I go, however, I am happy to introduce
the leader of the clan himself, Virfaren, to talk for a while on his concepts
of race as an arbitrary categorization of individuals, and his means of combatting
its grip on the minds of the prejudiced.”
A
tall, dark-skinned elf strode confidently onto the stage, clothed in neat,
academic collared shirt and slacks that not unintentionally resembled Walter’s
attire. He gave a polite nod to Walter as they passed each other, then reached
the podium and introduced himself. Virfarin used the next couple of hours to
speak on the particulars of his clan, elaborating on the way they factored
their diverse voting base into their political system, the methodology behind systematically
eliminating bigotry, and various other particulars of interest to the
sociologically inclined.
Very
satisfied with the night, Walter left Virfarin to answer questions, knowing he
would be the focal point amongst the crowd, and walked back to his room. Once
he arrived at his building, one of the nicer dorms on his campus specifically
for grad students, he turned away from the entrance and walked around to the
back. Disposing of his coat and bag behind a hedge, Walter nimbly clambered up
the towering kapok tree that rose from the side of a sizeable garden that
decorated the rear courtyard, careful to avoid damaging his formal wear, and
waited patiently on a large branch halfway up, enjoying the tropical nighttime breeze.
Walter didn’t have to wait long for a familiar rustling, and he did not start
when a deep voice greeted him from his side.
“How
was your talk?” It inquired politely.
“Perfect.
They ate it up – once I return from the Tegells I’ll be famous, I’m sure of it,”
Walter responded confidently.
“And
then?”
“And
then… and then I think I can finally find peace for what has happened. I don’t
want revenge, Arthur. I just want to understand – and, if I can, help people
avoid what has happened to us.” There was silence, and Walter let it hang as he
strained his eyes to see the stars over the coastline.
“What
about you?” Walter finally asked. “Still determined to get your revenge?”
“Always.
You were too young to remember our parents… but I do.” Arthur’s voice was more
wistful than it was angry. “Our father was a good man.”
“To
his family, perhaps,” Walter countered. “He was an angry man as well.”
“Can
you blame him? Decades of poverty, humiliation, starvation. I would be angry
too.”
“Still.
There’s no excuse for violence. What happened to our people was unacceptable,
but our father’s anger cost everyone’s life.”
“Our
lives were forfeit anyways. They were just looking for an excuse to get rid of
us.”
“And
our father provided it. I understand that he was not the only one to blame. But
I also understand that there are other ways to deal with injustice. Better
ways. I want justice too, but not if it costs the lives of others – because if
so, how are we any better?”
“You’re
still too young Walter. You don’t realize that in the real world, there aren’t
always pretty ways to wrap up conflict. All that truly matters is power – and
once I get it…” Arthur let the implicit threat hang. The anger in his voice
was palpable now, and Walter shuddered silently, cringing even though it wasn’t
directed at him. There was more silence, and then rustling once again, this
time signaling that Arthur was about to leave.
“Arthur,
wait,” Walter said suddenly. “Even if we don’t agree on this, you’re my
brother. I don’t want you to throw you life away for no reason. Please, you’re
the only connection I have to my past.”
Arthur
hesitated, then said, “I will be careful. I can’t get my revenge if I die like
an idiot beforehand. I’m going to Sli’raac.”
“Sli’raac?
That place doesn’t exist Arthur.”
“No!”
Arthur insisted. “It’s real – and it has what I need to defeat the mages that
killed our father and murdered our village. I can’t risk attacking them without
some way of combatting their magic – and there is something there that can help
me. The sands are quivering now, Walter. All roads lead to Sli’raac.”
Walter
said nothing, and just reached out in the darkness and squeezed his brother’s
arm before letting him go. He hadn’t mentioned it during his talk, but the
halfling Yolyse had said that she was heading there next as well. He had asked
how she was so sure it actually existed, and she responded in an eerily similar
way to his brother.
“We’re
going because now is our time. That’s just where you end up among my type.”
When asked to clarify, she simply shrugged her shoulders and changed the
subject, and he had thought nothing of it, until now. Sli’raac was a myth he
had heard long ago from his adoptive parents, a fairy tale about a desert
sanctuary for travelers. There was a lot of conjecture that had been thrown
about, that he could tell wasn’t necessarily true because of the way it
conflicted with other information he had heard. His mother would say that it
was so wonderful that no one ever wanted to leave, so legendary a place that
even nomads couldn’t refuse finally settling down. His father would claim the
opposite, that it was so dangerous that the thrill attracted the masses, but no
one ever made it out alive. His friends amongst the village would demand that
it contained countless riches, secrets to immortality, tremendous power to
strike down your enemies – all the fantastic stuff one might expect fanciful
children to contrive. Even some of the faculty at his university would claim to
have met individuals who had known individuals that had personally interacted
with other individuals and so on all claiming one thing or the other. Now,
though, maybe there was some validity to the story – it was notable that two
people he knew firsthand were travelling there. Worried for the safety of his brother, but all
too aware that there was very little he could do to guarantee it, Walter went
to bed to ready himself for his journey to the Tegell Woods tomorrow.
When
he left his dorm with his pack of things the following morning, Virfaren and
his group of elven companions were waiting for him. The trek north would take a
few months normally, but Walter and the elves were fit, fast walkers, and so
wove their way through the Beacon and Slate Hill mountain ranges in a matter of
weeks. Walter was raised to study magic ever since childhood – he was given the
best education money could offer, and first-hand tutoring on the intricacies of
summoning golems and using them to automate manual labor. However, his real passion
was exercise– every gene in his body screamed for him to exert himself, much to
the consternation of his sedentary community, and so more often than not Walter
found himself exploring the jungle around him. He would hike miles at a time, walking
along the Mawre River to orient himself, and climbing trees to investigate the
surrounding area. After using said trees to narrowly escape the more dangerous
local fauna a few too many times, he started sneaking away unenchanted swords
from his town’s armory, and creating makeshift shields out of palm fronds,
chunks of bark, and vines. Finally his parents hired a travelling mercenary to
formally train him in swordplay under the agreement that he focus on his arcane
studies as well, and his success in the latter eventually led to his studying
abroad to pursue higher education.
His progress in magical studies was notable,
and he was on the fast track towards formally becoming a respectable industrial
wizard in his own right, when his brother Arthur finally found him. Arthur and
Walter are the spitting image of each other, although Arthur is more
light-skinned, like their parents. This combined with the accuracy of his
recollection of their hometown, and a later admission when Walter confronted
his parents with the information, convinced him of the veracity of his
brother’s claims.
Many
generations ago, a group of veteran combat mages who made it rich off their
success during some major contemporary conflict were exploring the Curtupach
Jungle, and found a vast network of gold mines clustered a few miles off the western
Olen coast. Unwilling to do the mining work themselves, and as of yet unaware
of the wonders of automation with golems, one of the mages got in contact with a
war friend that he knew was part of a wandering mercenary family and offered to
pay them a tidy wage, as well as provide a large amount of land that would fall
under the magical protection of the town the mages were in the process of
constructing. Weary from the war, and incentivized by the generous sums far
greater than what was offered at the time for hired swords, the group accepted,
and for a long while worked happily in the mines in the newly created, and very
cleverly named, town of Gildmond. However, after a generation or so, leadership
changed as it must over time, and a wizard raised with a taste for the finer
things in life decided the wages being paid to the miners were too high for
unskilled labor and would simply not do any longer.
In
response to the outrage on the part of the miners, and the threats of
abandoning the town all together, the wizard organized a group morally
ambiguous town members and laced the surrounding area with magical traps. The
ex-mercenaries, knowing nothing of the arcane arts, soon learned the hard way
they could not leave the area without risk of obliterating themselves, and all
too aware they would stand no chance against a town full of powerful wizards,
quietly returned back to the mines for the lower wages. As these things go,
wages continually were lowered, and quality of life proportionally decreased.
In addition, the roles of each group became further cemented in the town’s
politics – obviously, no high born wanted to do the grimy manual labor, and no
mercenaries were ever allowed to try their hand at magic. As time progressed,
the lack of genetic influx into the increasingly segregated mining area led to
miscarriages and birth deformities, both contributing to the narrative of their
inferiority. The mages on the other hand were making significant strides in
their own development of novel magic, and eventually used their wealth to
branch into the business of weapon enchantments. As trade and wealth exploded,
the final tipping point for the miners ended up being the introduction – by
foreign, more technical wizards – of mud golems. Suddenly, there was no need for
miners, and the magical traps were lifted and they were told to go on their
way. However, decades of abuse, unpaid wages, and threats of violence had been
at the boiling point for a while now, and the loss of the mining job was the
last straw. Generations later, these institutionalized people remembered
nothing of their tenacious, mercenary ancestors; now, they were mining folk
through and through, and to their knowledge, crippled by lack of contact with
the outside world, there was nowhere else to go.
While
the populist elected leader of the miners was arguing for their job back with
the mayor of Gildmond at the time, David Jacobson, in the middle of the
developed part of the town, one choice insult of a particular physical
deformity on the young leader pushed him over the edge, and in a fit of passion
he jumped on David and beat him to death with his bare hands in the street; that
man was Walter’s father. According to Arthur, who was only eight at the time,
everyone was too shocked to do anything except watch as two centuries of anger manifested
itself in the bloody fists of the passionate youth that fell, again and again,
upon the bloody corpse of the mayor. Before anyone could react, Arthur gathered
himself and sprinted away to hide in, of all things, an empty crate in an
alleyway– and what followed was a bloodbath. First it was the miners in the center
of town that came to argue with their father. Then it was all those unaware
back in their squalid section of the town who had emerged in response to the
sound of screaming. Then it was all those in the process of escaping, or those
in the mines collecting their things, or those fishing along the river. Years
of prejudiced disregard and dehumanization, coupled with the righteous,
blinding anger at the murder of their mayor, spelled genocide for everyone that
Walter could potentially call blood. Last of all was his father – Arthur, who
still was hiding in town, witnessed firsthand what happened to him. The
sadistic, ceremonial nature of the event eventually gave him the chance to
escape back to what was left of his home. By some miracle, the infant Walter
was alive, but before his brother could find him he was picked up by a
sympathetic family that came to explore the ruins of the mining village rather
than take part in the torture. Arthur took hope in being unable to find his
brother’s corpse and escaped south to the Poisoned Weald where he, orphaned and
alone, he was recruited by a gang of hired killers and trained as an assassin.
Walter
on the other hand was raised completely unaware of his origins – according to
his parents, he was adopted from some major city in the west they had
conveniently traveled to after the massacre, and had fortunately avoided any of
the genetic consequences of inbreeding that ran rampant throughout his biological
family. The entire thing was never formally addressed afterwards – efforts to
spread the word of what happened were quickly and efficiently silenced, and the
entire thing faded away into history. Upon learning of this, and surreptitiously
confirming the story with his parents, Walter quietly transferred schools,
disgusted with his magical history, and feeling utterly betrayed by those that
raised him. Instead he threw himself into sociology in an attempt to understand
how bias can embed itself within the framework of society so deeply that it
could lead to the annihilation of some arbitrarily defined group of people.
Arthur’s critique of Walter’s motivations were accurate, though, and so cut all
the deeper – in spite of this initial repulsion, what really motivated him now
were academic reasons. He enjoyed immersing himself in academic work;
sociology, even if at times frustrating, scratched the same itch for Walter as
arcana – and frankly he didn’t feel the same loss as his sibling. His childhood
was a good one, overall – little in the way of racial tension. The most
interpersonal conflict Walter experienced as a kid was the occasional argument
over compensation in the marketplace, and he would be lying to himself if he
denied it helped that the entire village all looked and talked and walked the
same. In spite of this, Walter was very driven in his work, academic enjoyment
aside. He had spent his life solving technical problems when summoning mud
golems – and now his problem was a bit more abstract, a bit more complex, but
he was determined to solve it.
Virfaren
was a genial, talkative elf that enjoyed reasoning through his thoughts out
loud, juxtaposing Walter’s own tendency to silently percolate on matters before
feeling comfortable enough to speak on them. Much of the journey to the Tegells
involved Virfaren monologuing, with the occasional comment or opinion thrown in
by either Walter or his companions. Walter didn’t mind one bit – he knew he had
a lot to learn, and in spite of his tendency to rattle on Virfaren was a
fascinating, intellectually stimulating individual. Nobody Walter had met
before had quite the same perspective on the world as this elf did, nor such a
strong passion for nature. Virfaren did all the standard nature-y things that
woodland elves did: communicate with trees and forest spirits, discuss local
politics with the woodland critters, and pay due respects to all of their
predators. More significantly, though, were the times he would join Walter in
the treetops when they would rest, or when he would wistfully stare into the
distance atop mountain vistas, one of the few times he would say very little.
Landscapes, he told Walter, comforted him – he always felt safer lost in the
woods than in civilization, and would often joke that he had become an old
recluse after so much time spent away from populated areas.
It
was from Virfaren that Walter began to rediscover a love of magic once again.
One of the other members of the Elberos clan that went by Elaith would spar
with him periodically, and after the seventh or so consecutive loss, Virfaren
suggested using simple spells as a means of enhancing Walter’s swordplay. Walter
would experiment with creating illusions, or flashes of light, to distract
Elaith just long enough for him to land a hit, and the thrill of victory was
exhilarating. This continued once they reached the hidden location of the Elberos
clan, where Walter quickly established himself as a fixture. Surrounded by
elves that after decades or centuries of study and travel became critical
social philosophers in their own right, he found no want for conversation. He
took great pleasure in talking with the fifty or so lasting members and
transcribing their ideas on constructing healthy societies and working with
racist groups. In addition, Virfaren worked very closely with Walter to engrave
the Elberos ideology into his very soul – most important of these the valuing
of the individual. Walter admittedly struggled with this – how was he supposed
to value the life of people that didn’t value his own? Virfaren would always
reply that the cycle of violence must end somewhere, and that it was his
responsibility as a future social leader to work with the most difficult people
to accept change.
What
originally was supposed to be just a couple of years of study became five
years, then ten, then twenty. Periodically he would leave with some group members
for various reasons, such as to officially receive his degree, publish more
writings, or interact with conflicting peoples in an attempt to de-escalate the
situation. During these times he would inquire about his brother, but even
years later the members of his village remained unharmed, and after the fifth
year of no contact Walter quietly convinced himself of his brother’s death.
Fortunately, with the Elberos clan, Walter had found a community.
After
the second decade Walter began to take his aging more seriously – parts of his
hair were beginning to gray, and he couldn’t move quite as nimbly as he once
had. His anxiety at this was exacerbated by the complete lack of change visible
on his friends. Virfaren had not aged a day, being an elf – and Elaith began to
win more and more fights as Walter’s own reliance on his failing physical
ability began to cost him. His own frustration at his stagnated growth began to
run over into the academic parts of his life as well – even after all this
time, he lacked the intuitive understanding of people that the other clan
members wielded. During the excursions to war torn lands he found his ideas shot
down or ignored by his peers – or most frustrating of all, systematically
dismantled and undermined. When he complained of this to Virfaren, the elf
tried to offer some consolation by sharing his own experience.
“You
shouldn’t be so hard on yourself Walter – it took me a century to even begin to
develop an intuitive understanding of these issues. You just need to take your
time, you’ll get their eventually.”
“I
don’t have a century,” Walter replied coldly. “I’ll be dead in thirty years,”
to which Virfaren had no response.
Another
decade passed, and then a new member joined, and elf by the name of Reena.
Reena was, for lack of a better term, an asshole – but she was a brilliant one.
She picked up on the methodologies instantly, invented a number of novel
strategies that began to show real effects when put in place, and most
insultingly of all, began to make concrete progress with the Iravon halflings.
Forced to travel with her to Sannad, Walter could do nothing but hold his
tongue as she systematically dismantled prejudice against the Urivon and
convinced political leaders to start making significant social change. She
would host in depth, personal conversations with random halflings walking down
the street, and by the end of it they left a little less prejudiced than they
had begun. It took time, but the Sannad they left behind a year later was very
different from the one Walter had known in his youth.
Reena’s
least redeeming trait, in spite of all of this incredible work, was her
conviction that the work the Elderos clan was doing couldn’t be done by any
species other than elves. Walter’s own lack of success, not to mention that he
was the only non-elf of the clan, only served to solidify this bias. After
weeks of verbal abuse and gloating on the way back to the Tegells, Walter went
straight to Virfaren and demanded they excommunicate Reena.
“She’s
clearly a racist!” Walter shouted. “All she ever does is go on and on about how
much better at everything elves are. Sure, she can talk justice, but she’ll
turn right around and shit on the people she just helped. How can you let
someone like that into the clan?”
“I
sympathize with you Walter, I really do,” responded Virfaren. “But, remember,
the whole point of the Elberos clan is to accept all types of people, even the
racist ones. Reena will learn in time. Elves are not so perfect, but she is
young, barely seventy – I promise, she’ll come around in a century two, they
always do.”
Walter
stormed away from the hut, furious, and ran straight into Reena, who had
overheard the exchange.
“Hold
your imaginary horses, Walt, we need to talk. Think you can manage that temper
of yours for five seconds?” Reena’s voice dripped with malice. “I still don’t
understand why Virfaren keeps you around – as far as I’ve heard, you haven’t
made any progress at all in the last thirty years. If anybody should be kicked
out of the clan it should be you for being so useless.”
Walter
said nothing, staring defiantly back at the elf.
“Well,
I suppose it’s not really your fault. Maybe things will start to click in
another decade or two. Two bad you’ll be dead by then.” Reena laughed to herself.
“Anyways, I am actually getting tired of you staring daggers at me all the
time, so I’m going to go ask to have someone actually useful the next time I go
to Sannad and solve your halfling problem. I really don’t think you’re cut out
for this Walt – you should consider something easier. Maybe fishing?” Reena
giggled again and moved to walk past him.
It
took everything in his willpower just to stand there. Walter had never been so
insulted and belittled in his life – and it was made all the worse that there
was a part of him that agreed with her. He told himself that he just had to
stand here, and then he could go and find a tree and calm down for a few days,
having been at his limit for a while. Just as he was about to walk away,
however, he heard Reena mutter under her breath.
“Just
as dumb as his brother.”
Walter
blanked out – and once he regained his bearings, he found himself straddling
Reena’s bloodied corpse, staring at the crushed remains of her head. He dropped
the rock he didn’t even realize he was holding and got up, only to fall back
down and slowly back away from the body. He turned to his side and vomited, and
at some point between dry heaves he realized Virfaren was next to him. His old
friend said nothing, instead roughly pulling him up by his arm and pushing him
towards the forest. Once they had reached the edge of the clan’s territory,
away from the rest of the horrified clans-elves, Virfaren shoved Walted hard,
who fell to his knees.
“Reena
was wrong for what she said. But you let your emotions get the best of you.
Leave now before I do the same.”
Walter
slowly got to his feet and made eye contact with Virfaren. The elf was
emotionless – but fire was crackling in the palm of his right hand. Saying
nothing in retort, Walter stumbled away, and didn’t look back until he was as
far away as his legs would take him. Exhausted, he forced himself, out of habit,
to climb up a tree and immediately fell asleep.
He
did not awake in the same tree. Instead, he found himself on a cold, damp
surface in pitch black. Panicking, he flung his arms out, trying to get his
bearing, but found no nearby walls. Feeling around on the ground, he quickly
realized he was surrounded on all sides by water. Having nowhere to go, Walter was
weighing his chances on trying to swim his way out when he suddenly heard the
overpowering roar of hundreds of gallons of water erupting in front of him, and
just in time he latched himself onto his tiny landmass as waves of water rushed
over him, completely soaking him. Shivering, he listened intently for the
source of the eruption, but heard nothing but the splashing of water against a
distant wall echo throughout what must have been some gigantic cavern.
Suddenly, a mind-bending migraine pierced Walter’s skull, and a high pitched
whine drowned out all thought while he writhed on the ground in pain, almost
falling into the water and drowning himself. Then, just as quickly, it stopped,
and a voice forced its way into his head.
“Walter
– can you hear me?” asked the voice, sounding surprisingly mundane, oddly
similar to his brother.
“Yes?”
He croaked out, confused. “Arthur is that you?”
“I
am not your brother – I am merely pulling his voice out of your memory in order
to comfort you. But you can call me Arthur.”
“If
you’re not my brother, then… what are you?”
There
was a pensive silence for a while, and Arthur could hear the sloshing of water
a few dozen feet away from him. Whatever was out there was big – very, very
big.
“I…
am one of the first beings to swim this earth. You will know in due time, but
you are not ready. Not yet.” Something splashed into the water, and the
displaced water swept past Walter, who was too drenched at this point to notice.
“I
brought you here because you’re special Walter.”
“I’m
not special,” Walter retorted, temporarily distracted by an intense self-loathing.
“I’m just the same as anyone else.”
“Biologically,
yes. Humans are inferior creatures. Even in comparison to other humanoids, they
are middling at best. Terribly short life spans, limited ability to pass on
knowledge, not to mention weak. A miracle, frankly, any have made it so far.
You realize humans are weak too, but not for these reasons. You are frustrated
by your own, and, well, your races’, shortcomings. You see endless patterns of
division and conflict – generations of stupid, pointless wars, the same
mistakes made over and over. You think that humans should know better. You also
think that halflings should know better, and maybe a few choice elves. Well,
one less now anyways.” Laughter echoed in Walter’s head.
“Your
analysis is correct: humanoids – comically egotistical, by the way, and the
presence of which in the human lexicon proves the point of their
shortsightedness – are too stupid to see the consequences of history. Perhaps
some individuals will learn the hard way not to repeat their ancestor’s
mistakes, but generally those that do make the mistake don’t live long enough. That’s
what this comes down to really – that humans have to make the mistake in order
to learn the lesson. Unfortunately, most lessons are fatal, and those that are
not can take many times a human’s lifespan to demonstrate their consequences.
“You
think that elves are better than humans because of this. Also correct: although
to me, they pass their lives just as quickly. Longer lives means more time to
understand consequences. Beyond that, they are not so much better. You want
their intelligence – but let me tell you this, what you really want is knowledge.
The kind that accumulates over endless eons of existence. These elves you
admired know nothing. Knowledge is just a game of time, Walter. Let me help you
win it.
“I
cannot myself give you the gift of immortality – however, it is not as hard to
achieve as you may think. For now, I can transfer your consciousness into a
copy of you from an alternate plane that is not so, well, decayed, and that
will give you a little bit of extra time. You will have to relearn some of your
skills, though, but that’s a small price to pay for a fresh body.”
As
soon as the voice stopped, the high pitched whine from before began again, more
intense and furious, and Walter once again fell to the floor in pain. Suddenly
he was standing, and all at once every nerve fired in his new body and he
screamed in agony. The whining stopped, and Walter staggered, catching himself
again from falling off his rock. He put his hands to his face and felt the skin
of a much younger man: the wrinkles smoothed out, welts from his skirmishes
with Elaith removed, and the aching of his joints cured instantly.
“You
have already killed once – for humans, it gets easier after the first. You will
have to kill many more times, so don’t let yourself get caught up in your self-pity.
Embrace your anger while you still can – I’ll warn you now, you won’t feel much
after your first couple of eons. Now go, my champion, and with your own hands
achieve apotheosis. Then, come back to me and I will share with you my timeless
knowledge – and then perhaps we can move beyond this material plane. Oh, and I
suppose you may find out what happened to your brother after all.”
“Where
do I go?” Walter asked out loud to the darkness.
The
whining began a final time. “Where all roads lead,” the voice replied.
The Scenic Climax 