"In which sunlight lays many contradictions bare" -Phem
For the next few days, as the party traveled along the Road, Den was… less Gray. Or he could manage it, for he shared many conversations with the people in his party. And naps, and little meals, and maybe even a song or two, when the dim of night crept in. At times he found himself smiling, and it began to feel as though there was goodness in the world, each of them: Getta the devious, and Dreg the strong of heart, and Fia of the melodies, and Phemelius the wise and dour, and Jaskell the slightly-less-nasty. And… Den. One night within these kinder days of travel, Den had another thought: Fia had not just said 'us,' but… 'as many as possible'. That sounded like the sort of thing Phemelius would believe also—they were aligned, it seemed. That the goal—The Mission—was to do right by Elves and humans, not as 'lessers' or 'greaters,' but just as people, who all would benefit from peace. The ending of the War, by the defeat of Dark Ones, would restore Good to the world. But not by some sacred light, but by the saving of people: people themselves were the Good. In those days, with each passing town blessing and cheering and freshly supplying them, Den was filled with love for all people, Humans and High Elves both, and everyone in between. This was an improvement.
With The Road's bending North, they came to the outskirts of the city of Adrovia, which was to be their last real stop before the Sun-bright City of Ætsolai itself. There lay flowing before them a river that passed South along the city and then West under the Road, and here Den, excited, proposed they all go out for a swim. Summer was upon them, and the Sun was high and scorching. Den ran out in a little wrap of loincloth and plunged into the River Adoral, which was freezing, washed from mountains in the far North. Dreg jumped in too, and Jaskell and even Getta (and Den laughed at how that last might might pollute the river… or how, indeed might all these sweaty, dirty soldiers). Phemelius watched from the riverbank, arms crossed, saying how: "This is too close to leering eyes for an Elven Hero to engage in such silliness." Jaskell splashed him most expertly, and Phem walked away with soggy hair and clothes, pretending to be miffed. Fia was asleep in the carriage.
As they dried off and carried on, Phemelius said to all that they'd be experiencing true grace now, for this is where he'd received his tutoring, as a little Elven boy, and here resided his old tutor, an ancient High Elf (Phem gave a boggling number: over eight hundred years!) named Filstanek. "Master Filstanek," Phem insisted. "You don't have to add his title, but I very well will, for all he's done." Two nights they'd stay, then on to Ætsolai. Den himself was invited to ride horseback alongside the Prince, and at this also he beamed. He was a part of The Mission, truly now!
Just before they entered the city walls, Den beheld a most peculiar sight, the likes of which he had never seen. Out there in the surrounding sodden fields of farmland, up from over a ridge, he saw a green glow, as from magic. This was not the pallid green of Night-Elf sorcery, not at all: it was a bright green, as the Sun might make when shining through a spring leaf. He pointed at the glow and shouted: "Phemelius, Sir… what is that?"
Phemelius squinted, smiled at the sight. "Oh. Come, Den, let's have a detour. I feel a desire to spy." He waved to Jaskell in the front of the carriage, and they carried on without their horsemen: Den and the Prince split off to the left. "That's growing rites, from an Earth Elf."
"A what?" They drew a few hundred meters closer before Phem halted both their horses, and Den squinted, searching, until he saw as the Prince had described: a very strange elf, with shorter pointing ears with long round lobes hanging free, a small but rounded nose, mottled gray-brown skin, and curling dark-green hair like clumps of moss. An Earth Elf. The creature was projecting that green grow from its fingertips, and around it, the gentle light spread through vigorous crop shoots. "What sort of… Sir, um, is it dangerous?"
"No." Phem shook his head. "No, danger takes strength, and strength takes many people working together. The Earth Elves are scattered, and… brought low. They're still around, and there are plenty; more than one who's only just stepped foot in the Western Lands might guess, but I'm afraid they're not. Not so very dangerous at all." His head hung lower.
"Oh." Around the Earth Elf were others, farmers, High Elves all. People working together. "But Sir, those High Elves close at hand are people. They all seem to be working together just fine."
"Yes," said Phem. "My kin, the Western Elves are people. But Den, are there people around them?"
Phemelius trotted his horse away, and Den followed, asking after this strange question. 'Are there people around the High Elves?' Of course: humans! There were plenty of them, even here so far from home Den saw the occasional human—and of course, four and a half more 'round ears' went wherever their group did. And then, the High Elves themselves were people too. Maybe even that Earth Elf was one… or maybe Phem was trying to say it wasn't, that it was in fact a monster in their midst. Den asked all these questions and more, but Phemelius gave no answers; he had clammed up, and hurried on into Adrovia. At a turn, where Den caught sight of the Elf's face it looked… upset. Mournful. And then Den caught another glance, and Phemelius' eyes were hard, his head high, jaw set. That grave sincerity.
This city was elegant in an older way than the last two. Sure, the great stone spires of Pretipaxae could easily be centuries old, and same to the neat roads and stucco of Delcorpiddium's urban blocks. But Adrovia seemed well and truly ancient: its roofs sagging, threes thick and knotty; its High-Elven people never in any apparent rush. That didn't mean it seemed rotted, or even dirty. This was a mature city, an ancient place of Elven Wisdom that had, much as collected books might pile, accumulated piecemeal over hundreds, if not thousands of years of life. There was some disarray to its street layout that Den only really appreciated after going through a tight-kept border fortress and a more carefully planned modern (by comparison) Elven city.
The horsemen came upon a large house; nearly a mansion with three stories up at least, except that it was close at hand at the end of a dark old cobble street, with little in the way of acreage around it. This house fit the city perfectly, for it also was ancient, sagging, well-kept but broken in by eons aging. Vines hung thickly from its stone walls, and in each window there was an extinguished candle, short and fat with drippage. By an Elven servant Phem and Den were led out back, to where there was a little yard with basement entrance tunnel, and where their carriage (and another, fittingly much older one) sat, its horses already settled in a modest stable. The large, six-handled Crate which held the Wall-Burner still sat on the back of their own carriage. Dismounted, the two were led through the thick wooden backdoor, which creaked heavily before them, and in they ventured.
***
The day was cooling, for the Sun was hanging low. Night was not yet upon them, but inside the Sun stopped mattering: the walls were thick, and curtains nearly as much so were drawn, so that those inside had only candlelight to illuminate their faces. Smells of fine wood and dust, and the stranger smell of weathered parchment filled the air. The others had only just arrived: Fia, Jaskell, and Getta sat on thick, seat-flattened couches, looking around, and Dreg stood dutifully at the door. Phemelius handed one of the servants his golden Ax, and silently she bore it away.
Then down wide creaking stairs, hobbling like a mantis, came an Elf as ancient as Phemelius had led them to believe. Master Filstanek's white hair was thin and wispy, his skin all folds and wrinkles, especially wrinkling around the corners of his sparkling blue slits of eyes. The skin was pulled more tightly around the bones of his pointed little nose, and the spindles of his veiny fingers. His long, tasseled robe, white and cyan-trimmed, clean as it was old-worn, draped over his soft shoes; it couldn't have much helped his wobbly steps, but he wore it anyway, and proudly. A servant held his arm for balance, but the wizened Elf seemed youthful, all the same; he smiled warmly, brightly, almost deviously to his guests.
"There he is, the kid with the Ax!" he cried, and coughed once by the exertion. Two more stairs in ten more seconds, and he was at the floor.
Phemelius strode over and hugged his old Master. Then he stepped back and cleared his throat, saying: "Ahem, uh, Master Filstanek. These are my friends. That's Fia, Jaskell, Den, that's Getta. Oh, and you know Dreg."
"Ah yes, Master Shennistane. A Captain now, I hear, and look at you! Human peoples grow so quickly. If I can last a few more years, I'll see your wisdom exceed mine, and you perhaps put down your sword. Vishezadhu smiles upon you, Captain." Dreg nodded proudly.
"And who's this? 'Getta,' is your name? Now there's a well-used one; I've heard tell of many gettas, unless they all were you. There was a bank robbed at swordpoint in Castandre by a whole host of gettas, and white horses stolen by a getta or two from a few Big Elves in Agridoma." His eyes twinkled. "I've even heard talk of a daring heist in Signestad, and there was a Getta in there, also. Tell me, dear boy, what is it you've got?"
Getta glanced around, then grinned. He held up both hands splayed, with gold Sun coins between each finger.
"Ah," Filstanek said, tapping the air with a thin finger. "We shall have to watch our wallets! And you, my child, you must be the new one. 'Den,' is it?" Den nodded. "Well Den, a little man like you should be elated to be here, in the house of an old High Elf. And I jest, but not entirely; there are many treasures here for one such as yourself. Many stories people wrote, many Perspectives new to one so young as you. The further you search, the stronger you'll be stretched." Phemelius and Den shared a glance.
"And this, who is this petty little officer? Jaskell, that's your name? Well, Jaskell, I see that you have learned some things, o student-of-my-student. Well, Corporal, you have gotten far, as indeed you do Know Best! Hah! But it's no foolishness, to know-it-all, as long as you keep trying. This is a man after my own heart." He looked around at the others. "One might never know it all, but we can always know more. This is my life's work: to find the knowledge and to share it." Jaskell's face was red; he smiled meekly.
"And finally, The Bard. Fia, they call you? A kinder Elf than many suppose… herself included!" He grinned at her. "Some night I'll have to hear this music, your greatest gift—but not this night! And I am gladdened, niece, to see you around so many new friends, and would like to meet your old friends also. They would all, no matter where they are this evening, smile proudly upon you… no matter where, indeed. I may pass from this world very soon—I've lived quite long enough, no Phem, don't look at me that way, it's true—and even then, ach-ghhuh, even then, when gone, still I will smile upon this student of mine. That is the way of Masters." Den looked over at Fia; her mouth hung open. He's her uncle?
Filstanek frowned and waved his hand. "Oh, don't let me bore you with my babbling… there's much to do, yet, much to do! Fia, I'm told you have knowledge of wines. Please hurry now to my cellar, it's just outside… find for us a proper darker vintage, take your time, better correct than quickly. Oh, don't gawk at me like that, Phem told me you were good in murky wine-cellars, you have the eye for it, you alone… go now, be off!" Fia hurried out the back door without another word.
"Sup, then, yes… dinnertime! Come, all of you, we'll have food, if not conversation on your adventures. Your tales I must also pass on, please, come."
As they all followed Filstanek to the dining room, Den grabbed Phemelius by the arm, and whispered: "Sir… she's his niece?"
"Huh? Oh, no. That was just a figure of speech, a gesture… sort of like calling you and the others, 'dear boy' and 'my child'. He is very particular with his words, very particular… where do you think I learned it from? But Den…" Phem met Den's eyes. He gestured around at the walls. "…Look at all the bookshelves—and this isn't even the library! As he alluded, I too would have you drink very deeply from the knowledge here, for these two days we're staying. As deeply as you might dare. This: knowledge, is Mission Critical, and here there is a wealth as few places in Selegrae contain." He marched off towards the dinner table.
Dammit. Den thought he'd finally figured out who Fia was, but now he was back to nothing. Knowledge. Well, he could just ask her, he supposed. And he did kind of know who she was, as a person: from her actions, and how everyone else saw her. She'd been good as any of the others to him. Better yet, she'd saved human children from the Night Elves; no matter what caused them to attack. She was a fighter, a great musician, and now he'd discovered that she even knew about wines. But still… something wasn't right. Good qualities were only really good if they were used for good. The thought: What's she after? nagged at him again.He very nearly tried to follow her to the cellar, but he was ravenously hungry, and choose to join the rest at dinner instead.
The food went down easily, and it was pleasant fare; the rich and comforting flavors of a cozy Adrovian kitchen. They all regaled their parts in The Mission thus far; from many accounts (but mainly Phem and Getta) was Master Filstanek able to stitch together a wondrous tapestry of journeys across the human lands and into the West. The old Elf would crack jokes, or smile and proudly compliment the bravery of the men now sat before him. Near the end of the meal Fia returned with a bottle of wine; they each were poured a crystal goblet's-worth and drank merrily (the vintage, though very old, was not Den's personal favorite, to his chagrin), such that the conversation lasted many hours into the night. Fia did not speak much at all, but she was smiling all the while—a strange smile for her, though not any other—like she was contented, truly at ease. Den grew tired, and quieted also.
Abruptly did Phemelius stand, and declare sharply: "Our trip was long and tireless. Thank you for your hospitality, Master Filstanek, but we must retire for the night."
The ancient Master yawned. "...yes, yes. I figured these four human fellows would want to stick together, and your room's just as it was, Phem. Off to bed, my visitors. Old Elves must also sleep." Phemelius helped him stand, and then Filstanek brushed him off and shooed all his friends out, new and old.
Up to a large guestroom on the first floor did a pair of servants bring the four of them: Jaskell, Dregal, Getta and Den. They all were yawning, and Jaskell looked warily out the window as the others settled in. They were given fresh, soft clothing in which to sleep, and Den was grateful to be out of his soldier's rags. He curled up into a very soft little bed and slept quite peacefully.
***
Late that night, in a little study set within the attic-eaves above the third floor, sat Phemelius and Filstanek, Master and Student. One shaded candle gave them light, and all curtains were drawn, and roof-cracks sealed, so that none might see that flickering from without. They spoke most quietly in an Elf tongue (here translated into humanish), and in vague implications, so that no Elf nor human-born could make full measure of their words:
"It's an ironic thing," said Filstanek, almost laughing. "Since retirement I receive few visitors, until recently, where I've had to turn a great many away. Hah." He coughed twice, stifled the third. "We require the utmost cleverness. But, it's exciting, I would add."
"I'm sorry, Master. You face risk also, perhaps more than any Adrovian person has faced in all its history."
"Hah! Bah, I'll not have your compliments on this one, Phem. This—" He smirked. "...this Heroism is but a small thing. I have much to give, and few years left to lose. It's the least I can do."
"Least or most, it's the Doing that's important. I'd call your sacrifices plenty."
Filstanek ran a slow finger along the side of his jaw. "Yes, but it's only right; in youth I rose in power, as do you, and now, in this old age, I can set. Pass on what I can, to the cause that most deserves it. If we cannot find a way to serve our own cousins, what hope is there for the relations between Elves and Humankind? You remember your History, perhaps… there is a time when humans, too, were smuggled so."
"It may not be quite the same," said Phem. "No one has yet done what we're attempting."
"Not so wholly," Filstanek said. He stared distantly, solemnly. "There were other Kingdoms, and they not proven kindly by their ending. There's a detail I wanted to confirm, though: the River."
"Slide it out, as though you've dropped the parcel accidentally. The rest will solve itself."
Filstanek's eyes widened. "You're certain night is the best time? There are already eyes upon me, with you here, and they won't all leave with you."
"Nighttime you'll go South along the road, on your own matters, and shake what eyes you can. If you angle your carriage just as the diagrams show, along the bridge, it should be just a fleeting shadow to onlookers. By the time any move to search, it will already be long gone."
"Very well. Son, there's another thing I'm curious about. Uh… Fia, down below. There was a certain implication in the messages I received, that—"
"Yes."
"Yes as in?"
"—yes to your question, yes." Phemelius stared at the flickering candle.
"…You feel that you're doing wrong by her."
Phemelius took some thirty seconds of contemplation before he answered, which might feel an eternity in the right conversation: "I cannot choose the direction a heart takes, and all hearts stop in time. I can only decide how I might do right by people now, before."
Filstanek bobbed his head, lips pursed in half a grin. "Mmm, wise platitudes. And how, might you suppose, does she feel?"
Phemelius gave no answer. Master Filstanek lowered his head. Together they waited out the night in silence, and eventually both Elves fell asleep just where they sat. Even in such perilous, uncertain times, there was an underlying warmth of love between them, which neither man would ever regret.
***
A rooster cawed, and a certain slant of sunlight broke Den Sorman from his slumber. The guestroom was empty, and the Sun was greatly risen; he'd slept well, and slept late. He hurried back down to the dining parlor, where all but Phemelius and Fia were having breakfast. "Where's the Elves?" he asked the group.
"Out for a walk," said Filstanek. "Come, Den, come! Have a bite."
He did, and all the others were speaking about how they'd spend the day. "There are so many ancient tomes here," said Jaskell. "I'll be in the library for every minute I can."
"Stupey 'treasures,' just words. Getta don't read."
"A-hah," said the old Elf. "But what if a book contains some secret tactic, or a map to hidden treasures?"
"...Getta, eh, never read nothin'. Can't."
Jaskell smiled at his friend, the clever Thief. "I can teach you, Getta. Then we'll have that treasure for ourselves, an even split!"
"Yea!" said Getta. These two rushed away, and the Thief absconded with a pastry on his way up from the table.
Filstanek chuckled quietly at this. Dregal stood also, and leaned in to whisper to the Elf. "...yes, yes, the dry goods are down there too," said he. "Whatever you need for your Mission, go. Have a look." The Master shooed Captain Dregal, who hurried out the backdoor towards the jutting cellar entrance. "Denbas Sorman," he said, and beckoned from his cushioned chair. "Come here a moment. Indulge an old Elf's quest for knowledge."
Den picked up his plate and cup and sat beside the Master of the house. "Yes, Master Filstanek, Sir? I think I did the story justice over dinner last night."
"I know, you want to go off also, and partake of all my gathered treasures. But there is more to say." There was a fey expression in those ancient, smiling eyes. "Of Denbas Sorman, and of Filstanek, the teacher, the old fool."
"Of course you're just like Phem," Den said. "I see now that you're just people, but still I say you're both over-humble. You are excellent people, to me that is clear also."
"Better than under-humble, and that's the thing. But first, I want to hear more of your perspective. Tell me, Den, what might your experiences have taught you, on this Mission to and fro and East and West and all across the land?"
"Well, it's like I said: Elves are people, same as Humans. That was a tough bit of knowledge to accept. I'm still not sure I… well, anyway, I suppose I've learned a bit about the world as well. How people are, in many lands. And how Sungold weapons work. Mostly, though, I've just learned about these five people I've been with—how they are."
"Mmm, wise words. Yet even those closest to us hold many secrets, and might find more when they spend time parted from us. That's what I mean to speak with you about, actually: how I came to fear Phemelius, my greatest student. He frightened me most terribly."
"Fear him?" Den had feared the Prince also, at times, but he was younger, and not as terribly strong, nor as wise. This Elven elder had known Phem since he was but a boy, and was surely wiser still. And anyway, they seemed to be quite dear towards each other. "How could you fear Phem?"
"As I just said, he is my greatest student, and I don't just mean 'wisest,' or even 'mightiest.' Easily he is the kindest Western Elf that I've ever met; that kindness is his foundation, you see, on which all else resides. A wonder how that fact came to be, with he trained by so many old Elf men." Filstanek pointed emphatically, finger wagging. "And he's always treated human peoples fairly, of that I'm certain. Always!" He sat back in his chair. "But certainty he never had, and that's the scholarly thing. Skepticism! Always questioning what you're told, seeking new knowledge, testing and arguing and adapting to the New. I figured he would be so forever: flexible, shifting… scholarly. I've always been that way: for all my centuries I've been delighted to be wrong. There's always another wrinkle to the truth, always another thing to consider. 'Leave convictions to the foolish,' I'd say, and young Phem would agree most emphatically."
The old Elf cleared his throat. "And… and! He went even further. He went out and tested what he'd learned here, challenged it, set it against the reality out there. This is the value of a soldier-scholar: in the mud and blood of the battlefield, only the finest gems of insight last. I was so proud of him. He seldom visited, and I didn't care. He was carrying the knowledge we all had given him; increasing it.And then a few years ago, as you likely assumed also, I thought he died."
Den hung his head. For four whole years the Prince had been lost. What did he do for all that time?"I grieved," said Filstanek. "I grieved with all his remaining friends, here and in Orevictorum to the North, and what's left of his family, his father, who then was only gravely injured. I grieved bitterly, for he is very young." The old Elf's eyes dripped, but he smiled. "And then… he sent a message. A year ago, or maybe two—the years flit by like riverfoam, to one so old as I—he sent me a secret letter, and wrote as only Phemelius himself might. He bode me to meet with him in secret, up near his birthplace. I of course obliged."
"He came disguised, with some of his men who also had been lost—Dreg was there, and you've met Gule, and there were others—and we stayed together for three nights. It was supposed to be but one, except for my scuttling of matters. I was incredulous."
"Why, what do you mean? You didn't believe it was really him?"
"No, no, it was Phem, and I never doubted his identity. But… he had changed. He'd found certainty, and though I'm ashamed to say so now, it upset me. Annoyed me. I'd never say such an odious thing to him, but for a moment it felt like he was… ruined, like the world had worn him down, made him just like all the other jaded soldiers: stubborn and foolish. So we argued."
Den frowned. "You said he frightened you. Sir—and don't take this as an insult to him… is something wrong with the Prince? I have seen strangeness about him also; still I feel I could not guess at his deepest thoughts." He is frightening… what is Phem not telling me?
"I myself said as much. For the first two nights we argued passionately; a greater duel of minds there may have never been, or be. In truth, though, the nature of the battle was myself and Phemelius against my own foolishness. My first argument came easily: 'Another brash young man, who believes that he has everything figured out!' But from the outset—I now can say, and I felt it more and more as we continued—Den, I feared that he was right. Sadly, that only made me argue all the harsher. The upset feeling very often comes from inner conflict, as you try to resolve ideas. I was never so terribly cruel to him, but I was a fool. Arrogant. I was inflexible in my flexibility, certain in my skepticism. Stubborn in my un-stubbornness, hah!"
Filstanek covered a shuddering cough with his fist. "…On the third night I had my epiphany. I wanted him to advance what knowledge we had given him, didn't I? He had gone far and wide, and faced great trials to share perspectives as far from his… as far from mine as he could go. If there was some certainty out there, even a shred, wouldn't I want him to find it? Wasn't that the goal? I have been much the same for all my eight-hundred and thirty-nine years; comfortable—stuck, you might say—in who I am, what I believe, how I conduct myself. What I do… or what I don't do, more precisely. Oh these moldy tomes I've hoarded, and all of them combined are worth next to nothing to me—to you, a soldier, they are great treasures, but I'm stretched far in the other direction—next to nothing!" He was becoming more excited, more emphatic, wild in the eyes.
"So what did you do? You're saying the Prince is right in his certainty?"
"Who could say? All I know is that he was, and remains, a better Elf than I. And I'm not so terrible." He winked. "But not so good either, I'm afraid. On that third night I had to do about the hardest thing a comfortable old grouch must ever do: apologize humbly to a man eight centuries my junior, beg his forgiveness, and offer whatever help I could. I did, and here we are. We've remained in constant correspondence throughout his journeys since. I serve now, where I can."
Den clutched his head. "So you know his intentions, his full plans? What exactly is he driving towards?"
"It's this Mission he's on, and that's all I dare to say. He has indeed shared much with me, and in some ways I know the boy better than any other." He smiled again, but the old man looked very tired now, as if he'd spent more than words. "Don't take this… the wrong way, Den. Achkkghuuh! But… he shares all he can with you. If you believe you're missing something, maybe you are, but maybe he questions what you'd do with what he'd tell."
"He still doesn't trust me… why? I understand that Elves are just people, and that people are… well, that we're worth caring for, no matter how craven we can be!"
"Oh," said the Elf. "I almost forgot! There is something I'd like you to read, which might explain his attitude. This is a bit of philosophy, you see… he enjoys that study almost as much as history, or linguistics his great treasure…" Filstanek produced a folded paper from beneath his robes and opened it. Upon this paper was a single short quotation, penned neatly in the human script:
"A SURVIVOR may by need do many things which civilized folk consider unseemly: lie, and steal, and even kill for little more than self-interest. But these are the acts of a realist; a HERO will bring any life to ruin, for no higher purpose than the lies that form him, and that he must continue to tell as ruination piles higher at his feet." -Vego Siliokruf, 'Musings,' MVMT3, Verse 17
Den stared at the paper. "What does it mean?" he said. "Is this why he's so hesitant to name himself a Hero?"
"Ah," said Filstanek. "At the very least the passage presents a cynical view of 'Heroism'. Siliokruf postulates that a Hero is selfish to the highest degree; that he fights only for an internal feeling of Goodness, rather than the benefit of others, or even tangible benefits to himself. And there is perhaps implied a further correlation between the two. Phem likes this passage very much."
"Okay, I get it. A true Hero isn't selfish, though, so it doesn't really work."
"I suppose 'the lies that form him' is the key portion, then. If Phemelius does believe in Heroes, in selfless 'true Heroes' as you say, I suppose he'd want them to be realists as well."
"He does lie sometimes. But… 'a realist'… do you think he is one, Master Filstanek? Does he see things as they truly are?"
"I shan't say more. I must… rest, now." He handed Den the folded paper, "as a gift," he said. "But the TOMES, Den…" Servants hurried to his side, and the old Elf wagged one finger. "The tomes carry Old Knowledge, which must not be… forgot. Consider what they say, and why they say so, and what a new tome might say differently… what you might say. Consider why… if there's one good thing I passed to Phem, to all people that would listen, it is: Everything Matters…" Filstanek smiled wearily back at Den as he ambled out.
Everything Matters. Phem had said that his Master would be very particular about his words, and that had been many of them. Those two words he had emphasized especially, and so for now Den held them only, as he went away to join Jaskell and Getta. He shoved the quote paper under his belt. Everything.
He rounded a corner towards the stairs, and there found Fia coming in through the backdoor. She looked cranky again.
"Fia," he said. "Where's Phemelius?"
"Huh? Oh, uh, he's out walking or something."
"Fia… I feel like he's still hiding things from me. Or that I just don't… look, him and Master Filstanek keep emphasizing how 'Everything Matters,' but I just don't see how. I mean, you all matter to me, and I'd like to do the right thing, whatever that means. But… hey, Fia, what's your full name?" Elves had very long names. As an Elf-human person, Fia might have a human-style name (first and last) or an elven name, or even both. But just 'Fia'… it was a fine name, but there had to be something more there. A last name, or a title, or something.
"Pfft, you should be glad I'm not that kind of Elf, Den. Phem's real name is like, seven words, all his titles and house names and everything. And lots of Elves have even longer names: tons of words, hundreds of letters; you're lucky I only have three. 'Fia'. Now, about this Everything Matters business…"
Fia kept talking, but Den had stopped listening; he was upset. This is why I can't trust her, he thought. Fia came across as a friendly, helpful, good-natured sort, but she was an excellent liar. Too good; she could twist conversations any which way, and smile while she lied to your face. She'd swerved around the question of her true identity, and he doubted he'd get an answer if he persisted. He knew Phem to be much the same way (a master of rhetoric, would be the apt description) but he at least had a vague idea of what the Prince was heading towards; Fia, well she was—
"Hey, are you even listening?" Fia snapped in his face. "Den-bas! Where'd you get off to?"
"Oh. Sorry, I, uhh… got lost in my own thoughts. You were saying, about 'Everything Matters business'?"
She groaned. "Alright, like I was saying: Phem and Big Filly have some good ideas, sure, but this—"
"Who?"
"Filstanek. Phem and Filly-poo; this 'Everything Matters' mantra, it's alright. Some truth to the idea. But it's more like… hmm, like Everything's Connected, like it's all a big spider web, and we're just the little nodes where the strings cross. Or… like Everyone Matters, because we're all connected. Y'see, Phem's got his soldiers and his friends and his Master, and the rest of us. And I've got my friends, and you've probably got somebody back in Tarlast, and Jaskell's got family out there, Dreg too… Getta I guess probably not, but now he's got us, and soon he'll probably have more. And we all just spider-web out from there; everybody. And you can, uh, choose to strengthen the strings between two people, or weaken 'em or even break 'em, but either way everything about you affects every other person. Who you're around, what you're doing, even all the shit that's in your head."
Den frowned. "So we all matter to each other? And it's, like… bad to break strings, or webs or whatever?"
"Yeah… or, well. Maybe not. Sometimes strings gotta be broken. But it's always good to strengthen them, as long as both hands are pulling together, and everyone's doing their part to keep the bonds strong. Because we're all stronger together."
Huh. "Okay, I guess that makes sense. But strengthening the strings, is that like… caring for people, and listening and stuff?"
"Yeah, yeah! And building trust, and getting to the bottom of things, and righting your own wrongs. You got it." She stepped up to get around him, towards the dinning room.
"There's something I still don't get, Fia."
She stopped.
"What's your stake in this whole Mission? I mean, Phem's obviously involved in all this War business, and so're his soldiers. And I suppose he feels guilty about all the men he lost… and, I mean, his dad, obviously. Getta gets what he needs in terms of loot and, uh, our company I suppose. Shit, I guess that's why I'm still here… I'm not sure what else I have in anymore. But you're an Elf-human, err, an Elf-human person, and I think you'd get by alright just about anywhere. You could, I don't know, be anything, or at least be a musician who's pretty safe no matter what. Why are you here?"
Fia narrowed her eyes at Den. "I am committed," she said.
"I can believe you care about us." Den smirked. "Well, one of us, at least…"
"Oh, shut up! Or… say whatcha mean, y'smug prick!"
"Oh, nothing… just that it's nice to know where people stand, even when they won't tell you. I mean, uh, where'd you meet this guy anyway? He pick you up along the road too, with a wealth and glory clear in his future… a princely dowry? Or are you really that head-over-heels for The Lost Prince, that you'd face certain death for just an innocent kiss on the cheek?"
Fia smiled cruelly. "Oh, yeah, I'm just Meli's simpering slave. That's why I'm always saying: 'yes Sir,' 'erm, m'Lord, Prince Phemelius, Sir,' 'umm, Master Phemelius, what's even going on? Don't worry, you can trust me, I'd do ANYTHING for you, Sir'."
Den sputtered. "I'm not—wait… Meli?"
"Fuck off, tool!" Fia spun and rushed away, muttering to herself: "…you try to… and they still just… all the same! … fuckin' Jaskell… idiots… doesn't even…" And other such expressions of annoyance.
Well that shut 'er up, Den thought, grinning. He went upstairs to find the library. But was that how she saw him? A tool, a pathetic bent-knee? Is that how Phem sees me? Filstanek spoke of the Prince's 'foundation'; that he was kind, and had steady principles built upon that notion. A certainty about The Mission; that he did things of his own accord, driven by animating truths even the old Master himself couldn't long deny. What truths? It had to do with this 'people' business, probably. Den didn't feel much in the way of certainty. He probably just needed to learn more, like the others said. See more. He started to say "Library" to one of Filstanek's assistants, and this Elf man pointed Den up the stairs, and then to the right.
***
"C-carrr-tuh…" said Getta. Den found the two men bend over an old chestnut desk, with Getta staring at large words and pictures on a long strip of parchment, and Jaskell sitting beside him, nodding and encouraging.
"Oh," said Den. "Hey guys." There were thousands of books in the second-floor library—if not more. Den had, in fact, learned to read as a child. The human language, anyway. But…Where am I supposed to start?
"Oh, hey Denbas," said Jaskell, and he followed the shorter soldier's gaze. "Heh, it's great, right? Phem always used to tell us about this place, but I never really believed I'd see it."
"D-oo—doo-er."
"Sure… but like, what should I even read?"
"Door," said Jaskell. "Oh, I don't know. They're mostly written in Elvish, though, so you'll probably need this." He handed Den a small book, which Den opened. Inside was a translation guide between Human and High Elvish; Den flipped through it in awe. "Lots of history stuff, and some more language stuff too. Not so much mathematics, or masonry and carpentry and astrology and alchemy and whatever. But still, history's pretty useful for us Soldiers, right? Tactics for how to kill them Darks?"
"I don't even—Jaskell, you know 'Darks' isn't right. They're Night Elves."
"That's what Phem says, but I don't really give a fuck," said Jaskell. "You see this scar? On my neck? Yeah, you've seen it. This is where they got me, that night they took us all out from Gorlitenza. Hey, heh, guess you were there too. Sorta."
"Wait, really? What exactly happened after that? What's Phemelius been—"
"Oh don't worry about all that, that's ancient history! Well, not as ancient as this." Jaskell took down a very large tome and slammed it, dust flying, onto another nearby desk.
Yistorika Bifolastos were the words stamped into its thick, ageworn leather cover. "What does it mean?" Den asked, and Jaskell just pointed to the little book Den held. "Oh… right!"
"E—e-gguh. Egg!"
"Y… Yistorika… History."
Den couldn't find the second word, and looked to Jaskell again. "Oh, that's just the guy's name," said Jaskell. "Bifolast. The '-os' is possessive… that means 'of', or, y'know, that it's his. Bifolast's History. Lots to see in there. Oh, and the back of the translation guide has conjugation and forms… the modifications at the end there, for 'of' and '-ing' and everything like that. You'll need that too."
Den sat down at the desk and cracked the old tome open. Yellow pages he turned, pages thick with letters hand-inked, thousands and thousands of Elvish words, in some swirly, barely-legible form. It would take forever to translate all this! he thought. There had to be an easier way…
"F—f-fih. Fih-rrrr… fih-ray… fih-ree. Firry!"
"No, Getta: 'Fye'. The E and the I come together to make an 'eye' sound. 'fye-er'. Fire."
"Fye-er. Uhhh… Guh… G—"
Dregal entered the library and surveyed the scene: two confused young men trying to make sense of strange symbols, and Jaskell standing over them, hands on hips, smiling. "Oh, no…" said Dreg.
"Oh, there you are Captain! Hey, you've gotten pretty good at reading, right? Maybe you could help Getta out, while me and Denbas here get into history?"
Den looked up from his tome. "Dreg… you don't know how to read?"
"I do now!" the stubborn Captain protested. "How's a soldier to find th'time? I know more West-Elvish than you lot, when it comes to speakin', that's for sure!"
"There's a private study over there, Dreg. You and Getta go find some peace and quiet, and Filstanek's assistants will bring you some snacks if you ring the bell in there. Least-ways you can get away from me." Jaskell pointed across the room.
"Oh, real comfterble givin' orders, huh Corp'rl?" Dreg grumbled. "C'mon Getta. I can show you 'bout yer name, and all the rest. Gold, it's 'gold'. Gole-duh." The Captain and the Thief made for the study, Dreg still grumbling all the way.
Jaskell sat down next to Den, who was flipping through many pages, such that they gusted air onto his face. "Wow, you can translate it that fast?"
"No, I'm just…" Den caught Jaskell's smirk. "Shut up."
He flipped a few more pages and then stopped. Here was something he could understand. There was a two-page spread map, a Map of Selegrae. This map was primitively drawn, but it was strange in other ways: the regions, and all the borders were wrong.
In the West, taking up most of what was the High Elven Kingdom, was an orange region labeled 'Diai Reknileim'. Den leafed through his translation guide. "… uhh, Day Kingdom?"
Jaskell squinted at the page. "Kingdom of the Daylights. I think."
This 'Kingdom of Daylights' spanned from the Western shores, tapering as it crossed the continent, until it ended at a landmark in the center which, well it looked exactly like Pretipaxae, but was labeled 'Paksipatuir'. "...Peace, uhhh… 'Peace Share'?"
"'-uir,' that's the '-ed' suffix. Shared. 'Shared Peace'. They flip the words backwards, usually."
Bordering that Kingdom on the north was a smaller region, colored dark brown, which took up most of what was now also Elven Lands, and a bit of Nuvikolona (ending near to where the city of Vigaelus now stood), labeled 'Eveksoltuniu Ruensem'. Den fumbled with the back 'modification' section of the translation guide, for long enough that Jaskell cried, "Give me that!" took the book from Den's hands, and flipped quickly through it. "Ruins in Wilderness. What about this one, though?"
Jaskell had pointed to the eastern region, which was also fairly large, and gray; it spanned from the eastern borders of the 'Ruins in Wilderness,' and another similarly-sized, triangular green region mirrored in the south labeled 'Tredafenuvasee,'all the way to the eastern sea. This eastern region was called 'Nokyesm Megifyss'. Jaskell said: "That 'e' and 'm' in the end of the first word just means 'of,' modifying that word. Now look." He showed Den a page in the 'N' section of the translation book, and then a page for 'M'.
Den tried his best to get the rules straight. "Umm… 'Chanters of Night'?"
"Yes, exactly! Well, Megifyss has a slightly negative connotation, this book's not perfect… maybe, 'Sorcerers'? Hmm…"
"...Well that just proves it!" Den said. "This is an old tome full of ancient wisdom. And it calls them Night Elves, just like Phemelius said!"
"That's what you—Den, what does it call the High Elven Kingdom?"
"Oh, uh… 'Daylight Kingdom,' and that makes plenty of sense. How old's this book?"
"So what, then, are they High Elves or Day Elves? And look at this… if these are 'Night Elf' Lands, the Dark Lands, why do they stretch so far West? Why, they're nearly touching Pretipax, all the way out here."
"Hold on… well, I don't know. This must have been many years ago… before humans even came to Selegrae! As for 'Day Elves'—"
"That doesn't line up. You know the stories, Den: lands were given to humans by the High Elves. It wouldn't make any sense for Night Elves to live there. This history says they used to live here." Jaskell pointed into the middle of the 'Chanters of Night,' region. "Here, where Joriantum stands today. Signestad would be here, Inemestrel, Frundeberg here…"
"I don't know about all that. Or 'Daylight Kingdom,' but Jaskell, this clearly proves something. Phemelius found the true name of the Night Elves!"
"Yeah, it proves something…" Jaskell pulled the tome closer to himself, flipped back to the start (with a finger still in the map page), and then flipped a page or two forwards, and ran his finger along a set of numerals. "This Bifolast guy wrote this… one thousand, nine hundred and six years ago! If we're to trust him, this is what the world looked like back then."
"If? It's history, Jaskell. I don't think Master Filstanek would keep books full of lies in his library."
"Lies?" Jaskell wagged a finger. "Perspectives. But there's also facts, and the fact is that today they're Dark Elves, and back then they were called Night Elves. Just like High Elves were called Day Elves back then. But Den: a thing can only have one True Name. Only one can be a fact… so which is wrong?"
"That just says 'Daylight Kingdom,' that doesn't mean they called themselves—"
Jaskell turned to another page. "Here: 'Diaem Felapor'. And look: that means 'People of the Day'. And here it's written again, 'Diaem Felapoynoss'—'We Dayish People'."
"So what?" said Den. "What? You mean to tell me that they really are 'Day Elves'? What do all these labels matter, anyway? We're talking about the same Elves!"
"No, no no. This is not the first word on the High Elves. There is an even older tome, let's see…" He stood, searched the shelves, and found what he was looking for: a threadbare scroll embedded in a thick glass slab. The text was nearly illegible, and just from sight Den could tell that the words, the very letters were wrong; this was an older form of High Elven.
Jaskell read the scroll intently. "I always wanted writings like these. Phem showed me Bifolast's History in Gorlitenza once, when I was a young dolt like you. It was the greatest thing I'd ever seen. And he came to the same conclusion then, as did I: 'Night Elf' was the proper term, as was 'Day Elf'. The rest was but a later twisting. But we were wrong, the history was wrong, all four terms: Night, Dark, Day, High… Den, Phemelius was wrong!"
He held up a scroll slab, with his finger on a single spot. "There it says, and it's hard to read, but I can show you the translations. It says 'Ilose,' which means 'of the Sun' in the oldest form of western tongue. Den… they're Sun Elves!"
They do have lots of Suns around, Den thought. "But who cares? High, Sun, Day… they all mean the same thing! And in so many hundreds, thousands of years, things are bound to change somehow. What difference does it make?"
"Who wrote it, Den? Who penned this scroll?"
"Oh, what, am I supposed to say 'Sun Elves'? Sure, Sun Elves, Day Elves, whatever. You tell me."
"Yes. And Bifolast was a Sun Elf too. I asked you if Dark Elf or Night Elf was right, but they're both wrong as well!"
"Why? What does the scroll say of Night Elves?"
"...nothing! This was written before they'd ever been seen! Imagine that, Den. Thousands of years ago, they couldn't even name the Darks, because they hadn't found them yet!"
Den looked through the glass with awe. "This was written before The First Sundering?"
"Nope." Jaskell smiled. "Records of 'The First Sundering,' (or 'The Great Sundering' as it was once called) begin after the first mention of the Darks. Hundreds of years after."
Den shook his head. "What are you saying? Did ancient… 'Sun Elves' foretell the existence of Night Elves before the kinds were split, or are you—"
"Didn't happen." Jaskell closed Bifolast's History, and stacked it with the glass-bound scroll at the edge of the desk. "Just ask Phem, or Filstanek, or anyone who's read all the histories. The first known records of Darks name them 'Eepaussea,' but that's just a borrowed term; in all records before tales of 'Sundering' started, they called the Darklings 'Luriachem Felapor,' which means…"
Den remembered the word, but had to grab the translation guide to check. "'Moonish People'… Moon Elves?"
"Correct!" Jaskell shouted, joyously. "They are Moon Elves; that is the correct term."
"No," Den said. "It's just an old term. Maybe… before they were corrupted… I mean, that names them 'People'. Things may have gotten mixed up in the history of the Sundering, but at some point… well, maybe as Sun Elves changed into High Elves, so too were these 'Moon Elves' corrupted into Dark Elves."
"Now there's a possibility! Ah, but one term didn't change. There are records, thousands of years old… let me show you…" Jaskell found another glass-bound scroll and set it gently on the desk before Den Sorman. "Look, right there. 'Eapaussea,' and here's another, in newer dialect." Jaskell showed him the word 'Epaussia' on another old scroll. Then he brought down others, many that bore some variation of 'Luriachem'—Moonish.
"And?" Den asked, growing irritated. "The newer works, from after the Sundering, still call them Night Elves, and today Dark Elves is the term! I've heard it, let me see…" He flipped through the translation guide. "A-ha! Tekabria. Dark! I've heard that term used, I think, Lord Dogalshnue mentioned something about…"
"Tekaebritem. 'Darklings'. That is the term today, and thousands of years ago it was Luriachem, but before that, Den, it was Epaussia, which I've told you is a borrowed term. Borrowed from where?"
"From…" Den was only confused. "From where? I don't know."
Jaskell pushed many slabs of glass away from himself in disgust. "That's the thing: history isn't facts, or even wisdom, not hardly! It's just what people say, and people lie or say rotten things all the time. These scrolls, these books, all this kindling was written by Sun Elves, Den! You should see what they named Humans in those early days of our arrival, hell, you've heard what they still say behind our backs! But… there was a time they'd never seen a human before, and what more can you do when you first meet someone, than ask them their name? We told them 'humans,' but still we get circauriem, aveyam, Weird Ears and Shit-hair and Greedy!" Jaskell shot up abruptly, and leaned over the desk, glaring, grinning, gripping the edge tightly. "Do you know any Moon-Elvish, Denbas?"
"No, I—what are you doing... what do you mean?"
"Den," he said. "The Moon-Elvish—the Darkling word for the Moon, TODAY, is 'Abbawz'. Sounds an awful lot like Epaussia, doesn't it? Maybe you've heard of their god, 'The Moonfather'—Abt-Abbawz? Or 'Habbapoz,' as we 'borrow' it! Den…" (Jaskell was red-faced and howling by this point.) "…'Moon Elves' is WHAT THEY CALL THEMSELVES!"
Dregal and Getta rushed in now; they'd heard the shouting. Den stood up too, angrily. "Who cares what tricks they speak in demon-tongue? Dreg! Night Elves—Moon Elves, whatever—Jaskell is obsessed with them… he's gone mad! He's telling me to trust their words over Filstanek's history tomes. To esteemthe black speechabove ancient wisdom!"
Dregal got between the two inflamed men, frowning himself. He grunted: "Enough, you two. Jaskell, go wait downstairs, if you're well and finished." Jaskell glared at Dreg and tromped off down the stairs. The Captain turned to Den, and said more calmly: "You know how 'e is, kid. Plenty more readin' and translatin' for you to do, if you still want to."
"Dreg, can you believe—"
Dregal waved his hand. "Not now. We could all use some quiet, methinks. Ask me later tonight."
Den sat back down and picked started on one of the old scrolls. Behind, he heard Getta mutter: "'Moonies,' huh?"
He sighed, and continued his translations.
***
The library had thin windows above its many bookshelves; the light from them went from white, to yellow, to orange-pink, and then began to slip away. Den wanted to read something else, anything else besides the history of High and Night Elves, but found himself obsessively double-checking what Jaskell had presented. He read the scrolls again, and as the hours whittled on, he got a sense for the older dialects of High Elven. Or Day Elven, or Sun Elven… whatever! And he found other scrolls, and even found some mentions of Hyumeniem. The translation was obvious, phonetic; it was a borrowed term.
Dregal and Getta emerged from the study room, and the Captain said: "Dinner, Sorman."
Den waved him away. "Have them bring me something," he said absently, his focus on the books.
He continued his studies, and servants did bring him a study-sup; by the third plate, Den told one: "Enough. Just bring me a wine bottle." Save that bottle and a glass, they stopped coming. Except for a few that lit candle-lanterns to aid his reading.
He worked for hours more, until his head felt sore and hardened. The results were… inconclusive. He found nothing to explicitly disprove Jaskell's arguments, but then, he wasn't much swayed by them either. He had a tantalizing thought: Where are the Night-Elvish tomes in here?Filstanek might have some, right? Even just for the sake of completeness… a translation guide? A list of spells… or of their dark gods, maybe? Phemelius and Jaskell both know Night-Elvish words, and they had to learn somewhere! He'd heard of Habbapoz and several evil gods, but he was driven by a strange desire to see their names written in their original language. He searched the shelves and found nothing. Then he got the sense that they'd be hidden away… and of course, they were treasonous to possess, if not simply evil. He searched anyway. Under desks, in high-hidden places (there was a little ladder for shelving); he even looked for loose floorboards, and passages behind the shelves. Still he found nothing; if Darkling tomes were hidden here, they were well-hidden indeed. Den shook his head. Why did he bother? No fact that Jaskell had provided led him to trust the word of Night Elves, or even Jaskell's word, whether they really were 'Moon Elves' or not. Even if they truly call themselves that, they're still the same creatures, he thought. And Jaskell had compared them to humans!
Den left the library and looked around the second-floor corridor; all was quiet. He'd missed the joys of shared mealtime, and had no idea where anyone else had gone. He didn't feel like sleeping yet… time wasn't so far past sunset. He got the sense that no one else would be in their bedroom downstairs at this time, and he had to find Dreg. The Captain would know better than Jaskell… shit, or maybe it would be better to ask Phem…
He decided to go up to the third floor, and as luck would have it, heard the familiar muffled grumble of Dregal's voice there. The door to the room that held the Captain was closed, and yet ajar by a crack. Den chose to peer into this crack, in which he saw two people: Dreg and Fia, the latter teary-eyed.
"—does he have to be so good?" said Fia. Her voice was strained—choked with fear. "It's… I'm sorry, Dreg, please don't tell anyone I've said this, but…" She lowered her voice to a very faint whisper, which Den, from his crack, could still hear: "…In the early dawn, when thoughts run like a river, I can think only of fleeing with him, and The Mission faded to memory."
Dregal seemed to share her grief, and spoke tenderly: "Don't give yerself to shame, miss. You feel just what you need to, and we all see The Mission's your highest aim; that you are certain, strongest of us all."
"No… no!" she cried. "Not strong, he… he could convince me." She stared blankly at her boots. "With a word… with a slightest change to the reflection in his eyes, he could… Dreg, I'm not as strong as him."
"If that's the only kinda strength," said Dreg. "Then I'm not either. But it takes many forms. You two, all of us, each gives what they can, just as much as we need. Like a fire's steepled kindlin' we are, each restin' on the other, supportin' while we get supported. For all you give, wise warrior, you have no claim to shame."
"I…" Her voice caught. "Thank you, Dreg. I love… I love a friend who—" She looked up and directly forward, at the door. At a crack in the door—Den shied away. Fia smiled in a friendly, tearless manner. "Oh, hello Den. Come on in and join us!"
Slowly did the door creak open. Den crept into the little lounge room, found a stool, and perched warily. All the while, his eyes were wide. He tried to smile.
Fia hopped to her feet. "Oop! Actually, we three could use some wine tonight. I'll be in the cellar a moment—no, Dreg, don't bother to stand to honor my leaving. You humans mustn't let the party end on my behalf, please, I'll be right back!" She hurried out and shut the door behind her.
"Den, I know she can be—"
"I… I think I'm starting to trust her, Dreg, alright? Emol, why does she hide this? Her truth… her misery? I'm beginning to see why you all… Dreg, there's something truly rotten inside Jaskell. You didn't hear his whole screed, what he was implying, he's not—I know you've known him a long time, but, uh…"
"What, Den? What'd he say? What'd he really mean?"
"He said… he made it very clear that he considers Phemelius to be wrong. That Night Elves are to be trusted over High Elves… that everything is wrong, even the facts! And it's not just that, everything he says, the way he looks at me… it's like his only aim's to scorn me, and make trouble, and—and—"
"Heh, yeah. He can def'nitly be a bit… sour-hearted, when he thinks he knows somethin' you don't. But Den, whaddayou make of all that business, about Moon Elves and Sun Elves and the histories and whatever?"
"He's some kind of… I'm sorry, Sir, I know you care for him. All this sourness, and all these leading… hey! Dreg, you're doing it too! And Phem also, you keep asking these strange questions, like I'm supposed to know the answer in your head! I've been with The Mission for over a month now, just come out with it already! Why don't you trust me?" Den's eyes reddened. "Any of you? It seems like Getta's the only one who can even stand me!"
"…I'm sorry that it comes across as meanness, Sorman. But we, um, maybe it's a kind of mercy. Or maybe not, but… just like how you can't force trust, we can't force truth on you neither."
"Truth? So what, you agree with Jaskell? That everything is a lie, all of history, and that we should put all our stock in the word of Night Elves? After everything we've seen—what about The War? The Mission? Am I not the only one who's given up on goodness… are we all just lost?"
"Den, y'think that… oh, damn it all! That's not what Jaskell was trying to tell you, least not exactly. I mean… how'd y'think he figured that out? Phem's always talkin' 'bout Perspectives, and—"
Den frowned. "How would I… all he said is 'it's what the Night Elves (or Moon Elves or… whatever!) have always called themselves'. What they… what they still… today…" His jaw dropped.
Dreg spoke slowly, carefully: "Yeah, and why would he care what they say? And, oh, damn it twice, they're the same sheezin' questions! I'm sick'a hintin' all coy, and by the look on yer face you've already fit it all together!"
Den's face was ghastly pale. "Jaskell… he—he's spoken to… he's in league with the Night Elves!"
Footsteps tramped across the hall towards them. The lounge's door flung open, and three wide-eyed people—Fia, Jaskell, and Phemelius—ran inside. Both sitting men stood. Two floors down, Getta was soundly asleep.
Jaskell growled at Den: "What did you just say?"
"Oh, go ahead and deny it," Den said bitterly. "The truth is already out! That's why you've always hated me, and why Phem said you were so pissed after I drew swords at those three Night Elves! You, who weren't even there! Who wouldn't give one trampled shit about me, or The Mission! You've spoken to Night Elves, you know their words and their desires, because you care about them more than us!"
"So what!?" Jaskell looked around the room; everyone else was staring at Den, so he did too. "What of it, huh? So what if I care about Moon Elves? Ask me why I would, Den! Ask me why, you witless tool, you follower! ASK IT!"
"Why Jaskell? For how long have you been twisted?" Frantically, he turned to the others. "And how can you all—"
Jaskell cut him off, shouting: "Because they're people, dammit! And every soldier, every father, every son they've killed in The War… we've killed their people too! By the score!" Jaskell bared his teeth. "And how do you think they feel, to be called monsters? To be thrown in cages, to see their homes—BURN! To hear a simpering tool like you hopin' they'd all be slain instead, just because of your own petty grief. As if they don't feel grief, or pain, or hatred for all the lives we've MURDERED!"
Den looked around at the others. All of them were either staring blankly back at him, or looking pointedly away. Given that reaction—that they weren't immediately grabbing Jaskell, or surprised at all by the man's admission—he decided to take his time with an answer. "I…" he said. "It's… I don't know…"
Jaskell held up tight-clenched fists, and shut his jaw as tightly. His eyes were shooting stars in Den's direction. He curled his lip to say: "You saw Moon Elves in Signestad. For the first time in your life, you actually saw them, close enough to have your fantasy of Slaying The Monsters. Well? Did they seem to you like Monsters, or like people with green skin? Or can't you tell the FUCKING difference!?" Phemelius put a restraining arm across Jaskell's chest; the red-haired man looked rabid with rage.
Den sat down slowly, clutching his forehead. "No, you can't… what are you…" He panted heavily. "This isn't…" He looked up at Prince Phemelius. "You knew this, Phem? You trust him still, despite everything he's just—"
Phem looked down at him sternly. "Because," he said. "Weeks ago I told you that a warrior without wisdom is a fool. And what is a warrior with empathy, who cannot allow himself the slightest care for the people he fights? A Monster."
"No," said Den. "This can't…" He shook his aching head. "If they're people…"
"Yes, Den," said Jaskell. "What if?"
"Then the War… we're just…" Den looked up again, terrified by the flat (or even pitying) expressions of those around him. "Then we're not 'Destroying Evil'. Or… not only, we're… God, Signestad had their children caged, like livestock… we're all just…" He put his head in his hands. In this moment, Den could hardly breathe.
The broad and gentle hand of Dreg patted Den on the shoulder. "It's alright, kid," said the Captain. "We're here. We can weather this, together."
Den couldn't look up. "Then there's no Good to this War. It's all just… just killing. Evil deeds by all involved—both sides. A gray, unending mess, where neither side is Good nor simply Evil… where the only evil is its continuation." He did look up a Phem now, whose face had softened.
All the others stared at Jaskell, who hadn't softened. His face was taut, shuddering. He stared back at all of them in turn, and then through gritted teeth said: "That's… a good point, Den. In fact we're all just people. What's the difference?"
Dregal nodded. "Yes, Den, you've done as Phem asked. That terrible sinkin' feelin' in yer gut, like you felt in Delky when you found out Sun Elves're people, that's Seein' Different. Maybe it's no mercy we've encouraged it, or maybe it's the best kinda mercy, in the end."
"In any case," said Phem. "We'll all be needing some sleep. I am still your Commander for this Mission. To bed now, all of you. We make for Ætsolai first thing tomorrow morning, like the wind. Let the night crystallize these truths we've found." Jaskell was the first to leave, in a hurry. Fia was not far behind. Dreg and Phem accompanied Den down to the men's bunk room, where Phem left them; he bode them "Goodnight," calmly, and even smiled at Den.
While Den settled himself to bed, Dreg made some mutter about 'out-housin' and tromped off down the stairs. On his pillow, Denbas Sorman was back in the Gray. He thought back to Signestad, and how could he deny what he had seen? The faces of the Night Elves—or Moon Elves, apparently—they moved like any other: fear, derision, curiosity. And those in cages had been… listless. Despairing. Gray, he thought. What hope did they have? What hope did anyone, now that even winning The War seemed an evil? Den fell to sleep, but it was another shallow one, and fitful.
***
"She's worried 'bout you, Sir."
"Dreg," said Phemelius. "You can say that you are worried."
Captain and Commander sat in Phemelius' room on the ground floor in the dark of midnight, while all those above them slept. "I am. Alright, we both are! All of us, except… except those two. I don't mean to discourage you, Phem, but I've never much liked this plan, no matter the odds. I think we're hopin' there's some angle we haven't seen, so maybe—"
"Your grief will be a pain worth facing, Dregal. All is set by the reality of circumstance. There is no 'other angle,' and only one person of the eight most fit and most deserving for the tightest pinch of risk."
"Deserving… pah! I might've said some sentimental hogwash like 'Your name shall not be forgotten as long as a descendant of Dregal Shennistane draws breath!'… but I don't much mean to encourage you, neither. I won't ever stop bein' cross at you. Way I see it, you're… you're takin' the company of a dearest friend." Weeping, Dreg choked out: "We all are."
Phemelius grabbed his loyal, loving, tough and wonderful Captain by the shoulder—hard—and physically turned the man to face him. There bore down a glassy, blaring light from the young scholar's eyes. He was not angry with Dreg; he had but a harsh sternness, a searing Dour which he kept well hidden, like a cat's fangs or a viper's, for only when the need arose: "This is but the least price I might pay for allbenefits whichheartlessdeeds bequeath me."
***
Dregal shook Den awake before any rooster had a chance to crow. The Sun was not yet risen; Jaskell was already dressing up, and the Captain moved on to Getta, who resisted: grabbed his own covers and held them tight over his head.
Den stood and found his soldier's uniform: the same old White Wolf one from Signestad, now grimy and frayed at the joints. As he picked it up, a folded paper fell out from the folds. Den picked it up and read it once more.
"…a HERO will bring any life to ruin, for no higher purpose than the lies that form him…"
Is this what Phemelius thinks of himself? Den asked internally. The Prince had fought Moon Elves for many years—killed them, this was common knowledge. If they were just people, and Phem found that out too late… was it guilt that drove him? Or is he just trying to tell me something? That a 'Hero' isn't a good thing to be… to aspire towards. They were both wise insights; a question can have two answers. And philosophy is a crystal: its wisdom many-faceted. Once dressed, Den stuffed the paper back into his clothes.
Downstairs there was a hasty breakfast prepared, with Filstanek sat attending in a soft nightgown, half asleep. He waved, smiling to all his guests, and when Phemelius emerged he was energized; with great effort the old Sun Elf creaked to stand, hugged his student and pulled him aside, and whispered into the younger man's long ear. Desperate and sorrowful were these whispers; Den watched from the corner of his eye, but said nothing, and could not make out the words. He got the sense that the elderly Elf Tutor saw his own death close at hand, and was rushing to say all the things he'd always meant to, to this young Elf he clearly cherished. I am refreshed to see that Denbas Sorman is so often wrong, and yet many follies contain their crumb of insight.
Food was eaten and everything readied; outside, Den saw their same fine carriage, with its six horses tethered back in place, a few extra supplies packed on, a new longbow (Jaskell had lost his in the skirmish the night before Pretipax) and of course, an enormous wooden Crate with six beam handles. Jaskell climbed to the driver's seat, and Fia shambled inside. Den ran to Phemelius, who was readying horses with Getta. Ket-Blaskar was in the Prince's hand once more, resting on one Elven shoulder. Den pulled him aside, and whispered: "What did Master Filstanek say to you? His um, his words to you this morning…"
Phem shook his head, then seemed to change his mind. He met Den's eyes with a distant frown that befit the morning gray, and answered: "He said: 'You're doing all you can. But that doesn't mean you have to hate it.' And that he was pleased to see me, and… do things together."
To Den this was absolutely cryptic. Hardly a tearful confession at all, it sounded more like a joke."…You don't hate The Mission, do you?"
"Hate… I don't know. I would prefer it wasn't necessary." Phem leveled his eyes at Den. "It is."
"Hey, look guys!" said Getta. "Huh-orse. H-O-R-S-E. Horse!" He held the lead of what would be his horse, for at least the first day of their journey to Ætsolai. Phemelius had said they'd do the whole trip in two days, but Den was skeptical. He'd looked at the Map; it was about the same distance as between Pretipaxae and Delcorpiddium. That trip had taken what, a week? Maybe a little less, but two days was madness.
Filstanek doddered out into the dewy dawn, and from his back stoop waved farewell to all his departing visitors. "Goodbye—uhhgkkah—goodbye, children of Selegrae! You each will always have a bed here, whether I'm beneath this roof or not! May your Mission never falter, and peace to all widows of War! Enjoy the bonds you share yet!" He doubled over in fitful coughing, and as his assistants consoled him and held him steady, the party all waved back, and smiled. Except for Fia, who was already asleep inside the carriage.
Den sat up front with Jaskell, and as he was the last aboard, they then took off with haste. Den had resolved to just avoid the man, for good or ill, but as he whipped the reins Jaskell smiled at him, saying: "On we go, Sorman! Two days until we're Heroes! Hahaha! Two days until you meet your maker, hah!" The words and wild look he gave did nothing to fight Den's perception that Ashrubar Jaskell was, for good or ill, insane.
They did travel very quickly, flying northwards along The Road Veamunaedrawn by horses at a breakneck sprint, so that rare bumps were more like leaps—many meters they spent hanging in the air throughout their journey. Despite this, the ride was mostly soft, and as the Sun rose, Den found his shoulders, head, and eyelids sagging.
Jaskell noticed. "Gettin' sleepy, Sorman?" he shouted over the thunderous clatter of iron-shod hooves. "Hop back with the other lazybones!"
Den opened the window to the inside behind him, and saw Fia in the back seat, snoring, and Dreg sitting in the front seat, straight-backed, soldierly. Dreg turned his head and looked Den over, and must have seen what Jaskell did, for he climbed up and pushed Den back in, saying: "All good, kid. We'll take turns." Den sat inside, where it was even quieter, and by the curtains plenty dark. The seats were soft, and he had not slept much, not even in what few hours he'd been bedbound. Sleep came again, irresistible.