In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
"People can't read minds. Sometimes things need to be said," he uttered as we watched the setting sun embrace Mom's old house (more of a burnt ruins decorated with sprouts of grass and flowers). It was unusual for any sentimental jargon to come out of his mouth, but nonetheless, I nodded in response. That day was a special day for both of us, and perhaps as an only child himself, he thought to provide compassion for a past accident. And when my birthday arrived, my father already returned to the caricature of parenthood.
But those words I still recall. They would reiterate themselves before I slept and even in dire circumstances like school exams. My communication skills were not exempt from this effect. Teachers praised my articulation and rarely I stumbled or lost focus when I speaking. Charisma, it seemed, decided to bless a simple soul. And thanks to a familial background of artistry, observation proved to enhance this bland talent.
Unfortunately, luck failed me once again: I've stumbled into a fairytale dream. Or rather, a setting fit for the plot of a young adult novel. A whimsical meeting with a person whom my mind considered as "puppy love" resulted in my arrival in a different world. That mushroom circle really was suspicious.
At my age, others saw my lack of romance bizarre, but I shrugged whenever they asked. Even now, in Eldarya, the topic of romance appeared as I spent time with the native inhabitants. My boring response proved to dissuade further discussion. Yet it only piqued Karenn's interest.
So now, her pestering became a daily routine in my new life. Didn't she have anything better to do? I tried to avoid the girl; she found me anyway.
"Drawing again?"
The pencil continued to move against the page as the girl swayed back and forth like a swing.
"Mm."
"It's our wonderful elf again, right?"
"Mm."
During my efforts to hide, she took my sketchbook and drawing materials hostage in order to put a stop to the cat-and-mouse game we started. I knew she peeked at each page before the two of us settled into strange agreement. She insisted it was proof of friendship, but that's Karenn for you. Curiosity had yet to sneer at the girl, but even then I doubt she would back down.
"So our stoic-faced recruit actually fancies someone? But you do remember what I and others warned about."
"I know. But he and Eweleïn are aesthetically pleasing, and my inner artist desires a muse," I said.
And that was the internal reasoning to even associate myself with the "puppy love" as well. Appreciation for appearance was one result of childhood.
When my father designed elfin characters for a video game company and showed me the concept art and eventual final drafts, a strange feeling took over me. Obsession? Admiration? Those drawings and designs captivated—a little overdramatic of my character to say such—my soul. Elves embodied a particular charm, an epitome of otherworldly existence. So, upon meeting those two, I could only gawk while my internal thoughts screamed in demand for a writing utensil and paper.
Karen and maybe some others noticed my difference in behavior with those two elves or anyone with elfin features. Sometimes it became a joke to discuss, but I could tell they were wary of me. Eweleïn would only give a polite smile while Ezarel joined in the antics if either were around.
"Rating?" I showed her the finished product of today. Perhaps out of suppressed homesickness, I drew Ezarel in the costume of one of my father's characters.
"The garb," my father told me, "must describe a 'king of kings,' one who took the lonely responsibility of leadership. You see, the backstory involved a pact with an ancient sword called Lævateinn who not only designates a worthy sovereign but also robs its user of emotions, memory, and self. In a sense of tragedy, the king becomes a tool made to serve the country. And the cycle continues to the next heir."
While I did take some artistic liberties such as the sword's appearance from a two-handed weapon into an elegant rapier, I tried to maintain the same design for everything else.
"Wow...Your stalker tendencies really can produce results. Why couldn't you've been sorted into my guard?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Stalker?"
"Come on, you tend to watch them from afar every single day. And you draw them without permission. And the fact that neither questions what you're doing! Isn't that a little bit suspicious at least?"
"They know about my intention."
"...What?"
"Earlier both Ezarel and Eweleïn confronted me about my extended periods of stay in their workplaces. I'm not doing harm, of course, but it is as you said, suspicious. So, likewise..."
I flipped to the front of the sketchbook and showed her the illustrations. Karenn soon burst into laughter.
"You had done this before, haven't you? And did they believe it?"
Despite my silence as I returned to my drawing for the sake of polishing, the girl's smile widened.
"I'm not a complete fool. Besides, my mentor insisted I learn to draw scenery if I continued in my father's footsteps," I said.
"You know, I managed to persuade both to continue allowing my extended visits. Ezarel decided to add some specific conditions...to my chagrin."
"Oh?"
I signed my work and closed the book. "Mm, secret."
"Tell me."
"Mm."
She pouted, but in a short moment, those eyes seemed to sparkle. Our gazes met.
"Let's make a bet, shall we?"
"I must tell if I lose, yes?"
Karenn grinned. "Of course. And I won't bother you for a month if I lose."
These people really have a strange fascination with winning and losing. But it was a simple challenge. She would invite me to an outing with the guard leaders, and in that time span, I had to draw Nevra and give said drawing when it was over. No one could look at my sketchbook. And that was how I earned a month to myself without Karenn's presence. It would be something to savor. At least, so I thought.