Released Pride
The wolf's words are a beacon of hope that helps me fight off despair. As I slowly regain my strength, getting used to normal meals again, I plan and scheme. His warning rings in my head – do not let them know what you are doing. Everything has to be arranged, thought out very carefully – one careless mistake and my key to opening the cage will be gone. This time, forever.
I carefully stage my convalescence. God bless her, Mara is a sweet, naïve thing without much thought beneath her auburn locks, and doesn't question my instructions. I manage to get a hold on a writing supplies, and start to painstakingly learn the written Elvhen - as of course, thus far, I only knew how to speak.
June is glad of my attitude change, if bitter that it was the wolf to make me see the light. He asks me about it, obviously jealous, biting his trembling lip. It is then that I'm reminded again he is still merely a child, and does not, cannot, understand what his stubbornness had cost me.
'He showed me magic' I reply, mixing truth with lies. June does not understand, because hasn't he done the same? I look at him, pursuing my lips wordlessly, and he colours. No one here ever told me I could practice the same powers as they did – whether they assumed it obvious, or were thoughtless, uncaring, I do not know. Not that it changes anything.
My progress is slow, but as I understand more letters, I pretend to slowly get over my imprisonment, gradually allowing June to assist me. He is elated, and I almost feel guilty at the deception.
Almost.
He orders the return of my painting materials, later. The only apology I could ever get from him, I guess. I glance longingly at the canvas, before steeling myself, with a single tear falling down my cheek. Finally, with the small burst of power which I'm only just beginning to control, I create a spark which quickly engulfs everything in flames. I do not trust myself not to lose myself again in the memories. The temptation is too much to resist – much better if there's none to have.
Of course, after a while, June orders the replacement of what I had burned. He does not understand my motives, and I do not explain myself before him. How could I tell him that by cutting off my means of escape into my fantasies, I'm propelling myself forward, to find the key to this golden cage?
Burning it the second time around is much easier.
I grasp how to fake honesty and content, mixing truths with falsehoods so they make an entangled mess, and sometimes I'm not sure where one ends and another begins. When I have them successfully entangled in the web of lies, Mythal says,
'It seems, my friend, you were wrong, for once. Even a wild bird can be tamed and taught to sing, given enough time.' Though she faces the wolf, I can feel the sting of her words. It takes a lot of my self-control to keep my expression still, unaffected, even as my carefully maintained, long nails – a result of Mara's patient ministrations – dig deeply into my skin just above my wrists.
'If you say so, my lady' he replies neutrally. He does not look my way, nor do I not look his.
Afterwards, Mara is forced to prepare a herbal ointments, to apply on the wounds of a characteristically crescent shape, to prevent scarring. She does that shaking her head in quiet reproof, while I dress them, painstakingly choosing the bandage so that it seamlessly blends with my skin. In the following weeks, I wear long sleeves, to hide away the proof of my temper.
But Mythal's words signify the drop of their scrutiny me over me, and I gain more freedom. Still, I cannot let my guard down, even if they did - so I pretend, I play, I deceive, and in order to perfect my role, accidentally, I learn to love Thedas anew.
I see things June never thought to show me, again fascinated with this world I'm stranded on, treating it as if I were a shipwrecked castaway. The unusual, unseen on Earth herbs and plants, sprouting bright, intense colours or shapes, or with unique qualities. The variety of landscapes, untouched by human hand – for the quicklings here are a barely crawling civilization, far removed from the much older Elvhen, or even Children of the Stone. The realm is young and unspoilt, still.
With great delight, I discover, and learn, dances, for the first time appreciating my new body. At home, I'm both tone deaf and without any sense of rhythm whatsoever. I still cannot sing to save my life, but at least there's an advantage to the long ears – I can hear the undertone of the melody like I never could before. It's little wonder the Elvhen dances are so intricate, and I find joy mastering them – the first one unblemished by sorrow.
Studying the language more deeply allows me to catch some of its interesting intricacies. Like the fact that placing a certain, melodic accent on a first letter makes it more formal, making a spoken word appear as if starting from a capital. The titles of the officials are often spoken in such way, and the h in Fen'Harel, to underline it's The Dread Wolf, and not just some wild animal running rampant. After finding that out, I start calling the wolf Fen, expressing my gratitude – if only in private, at first. In turn, he refers to me by the name I had assumed, showing underlying change of his perception of me – a person, instead of mere curiosity.
Less interesting is a skill that is enforced on my itinerary – courtly manners and propriety, with a teacher designated by Mythal. I force myself to endure it patiently, as protesting would spoil my tamed image. There are some useful things I glean from this torturous boredom, but in general, I find it a terrible waste of time.
And of course, there's magic. The variety of it, things it can affect, is simply astonishing, and at first, I feel a little overwhelmed. They call it Fade, the breath of life, and I soon learn to detect the differences in the density of it in specific places. It permeates everything, but the larger availability eases the manipulation of power – some of which is inherent to every Elvhen, and some of which is borrowed from the surroundings.
Obviously, I'm mostly concerned with matters pertaining soul manipulation – but just as surely, I have to conceal the said interest. My aim would be glaringly apparent for anyone to discern. Thus, I focus at first at the general aspects of magical manipulation, for years, lulling my watchers into complacency, until I'm certain I have a sure grasp of the basics.
There are days when I despair. I look at the passage of time, and at how little progress I've made, and become convinced the wolf must have lied. That there's no way out to be found. That I'm stuck in this beautiful world till the end of my days, a stranger in the almost paradise. These are bad days, when everything seems meaningless, and my efforts – pointless.
It is one of these days when I finally face the darkness of Thedas. It is right here, staring into my face, and yet I had avoided it, in my thoughts and reflections, until now. It is in the pliancy of servants, who accept the outbursts of my anger, unfairly directed their way, without a comment. It is in Mara, who wordlessly fulfils my whims and desires, in so far they don't go counter to June's orders. It is in servile behaviour of nobles, who in spite of their apparent, plain scorn and poorly disguised jealousy, scurry to try and earn my goodwill, hoping to gain June's blessing.
Slavery.
Everyone here is a slave, subject to the gods' whims, regardless of caste they're born into – although those lower on the food chain are worse off, simply because, as it is in my world, they can be commanded by the more privileged as well. The only thing saving from the dictates of another's is anonymity – and if one dedicates his life to it, they're just as chained, chafed by it, as those who choose to lower their head.
Of course, the gods do not intervene into every aspect of life – they have no need, nor interest, in doing so. An average, nameless Elvhen can expect to live their life peacefully without being bothered. Unless he, or she, has a bad luck of catching someone's interest – then all bets are off.
What terrifies me the most is the fact no one even attempts to fight for their freedom, just as Fen said – they simply adjust to the changed circumstances. I pity them – but also, detest them a little for it. Spineless people, who had never experienced a true freedom, and thus, don't know what they're missing. I desperately miss my world– it simply overflows with freedom, at least in the more civilized countries. And even people from the poor ones, if they're cunning enough, can fight their way for the betterment of their fate – no one simply gives up.
Sometimes, I'm afraid I'll become just like them. That I'll resign myself to the fate, to the overwhelming superiority of the gods' powers, to the casual disregard of another's will. That I'll be forever forced to manipulate events, using June's affection, to gain semblance, scraps of independence.
Because that's what I do, now. June is starved for my affection, desperate for my praise. I learn to use this hunger against him, skilfully weaving words so that they're always borderline approving, but there's always something that he could improve on, never perfect. Manipulating him away from my side, and back to his countless experiments, where he tries to satisfy my well-nigh impossible whims.
One day, he proudly announces that the Crossoroads are finished. I ask him to take him there, and while nonchalantly commending his hard work, I ask about the Eluvians. He lapses into elaborate explanation, brimming with satisfaction – until I cut it off with a deliberately aimed critique,
'Don't you think it's an inconvenience to have people popping in and out whenever they wish from the mirror in the confines of one's private home?'
His mood darkens, and he immediately sets out to work. It takes him a while, but he is a prodigy, so he manages to incorporate private pass-phrases and magical signatures into Eluvians – and with time, other types of keys, that ensure no one can intrude uninvited.
This time, he expects me to be satisfied, but I change the subject, commenting with a false sweetness,
'June, the Crossroads are a magnificent idea, but the finishing look is much… unpolished.' I widen my eyes, and ask innocently, 'Don't you think your mother, your people, would have much rather travelled a path that's appropriate to her high station, worthy of the ruler of magnificent Arlathan?'
He sends me a dirty look, sullen – we had talked about this before. But still, he accepts my criticism, and tries to improve the in-between reality. Of course, he is far from grasping what I'm about – his technical genius does not contain any artistic sense whatsoever - and after a few pathetically inept attempts, he growls that at the very least, I could give him some pointers.
Just this once, I return to my paints, and with a vicious satisfaction, I create the mirage of Crossroads as I would see them, a guiding outline for him. It is a fantastic take, inspired by the Japanese culture as I remember it from my world – which is not very well, admittedly, but the point is not accuracy, but challenge – and recreate a delicate, pink petals of cherries on the trees, the lamps hanging in the air and magnificent ponds of water full of colourful koi, everything kept in a cheerful yet soft palette.
This time, it takes much longer for him to complete – most likely, because some of the things presented on the canvas do not actually exist in Thedas. But after some time, June manages to twist the plants with magic to grow as he wishes them to, fishes to take on the painted shapes and colours, hangs the forever glowing lamps in air, and makes the water flow upwards.
Of course, there's only so far I can push – so in the end, I ruffle his golden locks in faux affection, and tell him what a bright, brilliant boy he is. But then, I find another thing to steer his attention to, and the process begins anew, granting me my much desired opportunities to learn, away from his scrutiny and dangerously perceptive intellect.
I earn the scorn of strongly disapproving Mythal with my actions. She sees her child frantic and overworked beyond reason, and worries over him – and rightly perceives me as the cause of his anguish. He beams at my offhanded remarks, carefully, sparingly, dosed, a scraps from master's table to feed on – because I'm very careful not to cross the line of his endurance. But there's little she can do to intervene, as it is, in a way, a direct result of her own decision to bind me here – and also, because Elgar'nan, as opposed to her, approves.
June's strict father, Elgar'nan, is one whom the Elvhen associate with vengeance. I do not know much about that, but he is certainly stern, disciplining his children, as opposed to their overly lenient mother. It is a damn shame, I think, looking at the deity, that it is Mythal who holds the throne. Elgar'nan would not have agreed to June's request. It makes me esteem the surly figure, even though, I'm certain, he thinks me little more than an uncivilized ignoramus.
He is satisfied with June's progress though, and lets me know in no uncertain terms that in this case, he supports me against his wife. Apparently, June's useful inventions garner him a staunch, loyal following among the Elvhen, furthering his powers. Thus far, he was a deity of minor importance, perceived as a son of Mythal above anything else – but now, he grows into his rightful place, rapidly catching up with his older siblings.
I'm a bit confused about that, and soon, ask Fen to clarify my uncertainties.
'How come June is gaining in power?' They're gods, aren't they?
He ponders for a while how to respond, shaping and structuring his answer.
'It goes back to the creation of the world.' He begins. 'The Creators cared about harmony the most, it's why there are the Sleepers, and the Evanuris – though they had long stopped using the name, and now claim to be Creators themselves, at least to the People.' The tone of his voice betrays amusement at the notion. 'Preposterous. Neither Mythal, nor Elgar'nan, have the power to shape life. In a sense, calling them, us, gods, is a stretch – we are far from omnipotent.' He pauses for a while, lost in thought, before returning to the main topic. 'The gods for the living and those for the dead, and the balance is upheld. And, with a prayer for particular god's blessing, in turn, he gains in strength to be able to grant it. Though, at this point, Creators had a slight mishap.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, they assumed that with the additional power, the gods would want to grant wishes. They rarely do.' There's a laughter in his voice, as if the mistake of the Creators was patently basic. In hindsight, I suppose it is – derived from the assumption that the gods would behave similarly to them, the all-powerful, instead of acting like the limited, erroneous beings they are. An issue of inability to shift perspective. Though, unlike him, I'm sickened by the notion, as one personally affected by the said miscalculation.
I ponder on it for a bit longer, while he stretches lazily, until finally catching onto the slight inconsistency of his story. He always seems so suspiciously removed from it all, I cannot help but wonder,
'And where does that leave you?'
Fen looks at me surprised, and slightly impressed, as if seeing me in new light, after the astonishingly astute question. I roll my eyes at him – he didn't make it particularly hard to notice that he does not fit. He barks out a growling laugh at my irritation.
'I'm neither here nor there' Fen says flippantly. 'I do not know what was Creators' intent when it comes to me, but I am a part of both worlds. I simply choose to dwell with the leaving, for now.'
'Then why the deference to Mythal?' It is strange, to say the least.
'Firstly, it's courtesy. This is her palace, after all. It's not like she would ever try to command me.' And I realize that he is right. Never had Mythal tried to order him, in my presence, and always called him her friend, a privilege extended to no other. But he continues on, so I tune back in. 'Secondly, it leaves me conveniently outside court intrigues or hierarchy. The siblings constantly vie for more influence, and it's a tiresome affair I'm glad to be away from.'
I have met them all, the children of Mythal.
The two older brothers of June's, Dirthamen and Falon'Din, summarily ignore my presence. There is no malice there, simply no interest.
It's another case with the females, though.
With Andruil, it's not about me personally, I'm just another, glaring evidence of June's superior talents, which she envies, deeply. It does not save me from her harsh tongue, and deep inside, I know, she would love to break her brother's newest toy. I watch my back around her carefully, but I'm generally safe as long as I keep my wits about me.
Sylaise is a different piece of work altogether – she hates me. She watches June with the same, disturbingly devoted eyes as he directs at me. Sha thinks that I stole her beloved companion, and her hostility is not one to be dismissed. But she fears to displease her favourite big brother even more, so in the end, the worst that comes of it are a few unkind rumours surrounding me and some light bruising, when I am tripped by her not-so-gentle pushes of power.
I find it highly ironical that I'm in complete agreement with the person who detests me so – both of us wish me gone from this place.
Considering it all, I can sympathize with Fen's avoidance of the godly politics, such as they are. I would love to have the same opportunity, I muse, glossing over the murals surrounding the peaceful arbour in the gardens.
The vines entwine the columns, striving upwards, and scattering the hypnotising aroma of their flowers in full bloom. It's my single, favourite spot in the palace, shielded from the prying eyes and judgemental whispers – and Fen is here, more often than not. For similar reasons, I suppose.
'I like Mythal.' He adds unexpectedly, and I bristle, irritated. 'I know you have your reasons, valid, for disliking her' that's a very mild description of my feelings towards the bitch 'but she is a good goddess for this world. Flawed, and arrogant, and overly indulgent towards her children, I'll grant you that – but ultimately, generous, kind and helpful. Loving. Much better than Elgar'nan, who cares about little else than power and authority.'
I really do not want to admit that perhaps, he has a point there. So I steer the topic away from the gods, unwilling to listen anymore to his praises of a deity that had, with best intentions and love in mind, wrecked my life. Just… no.
Considering my fundamental goal, my second most favoured place in the palace is library. There are many kinds of tomes I discover, in my search for the ritual descriptions and matters pertaining soul manipulation in general. My curiosity can be easily explained, and soon, the watchers grow bored of their task, becoming less attentive.
To throw off suspicion, I pour over books in many topics, so that there's no discernible pattern. I read about the Elvhen politics – not that I would ever be involved in them. The gods are above the hierarchy, and as June's chosen, I'm also considered in this category.
I find a race guide, a very biased text describing the so called "lesser races". No matter my distaste after the lecture, I cannot find it in me to blame the author for his disdainful outlook – from the perspective of an immortal, the life of quickling is over before one can truly judge its nature. They're like ants under Elvhen heels, I muse, with a touch of bitterness.
The alchemy books I merely gloss over, as I never hid my disinterest in herbalism of any kind, and potion making easily falls into that category. Same with any healing-related topics, as they share similar feel. I was easily the worst biology pupil my teachers in high school ever despaired over, and skipping to another reality did not affect that attitude at all.
The historical records are surprisingly poor, both in quantity and quality. It seems that for ageless, the remembrance of the past is not perceived as important. I'm a bit taken aback and disturbed by this revelation, wondering what will be left over for future generations to hold on to, should Arlathan ever fall. Well, there's no conceivable danger on the horizon, with their gods at the prime of their power, so in a way, it makes sense. Still. Unsettling.
But of course, what holds my interest, understandably, is magic. Of any kind, really, as I hope to encounter a tip to freeing myself. Through my studies, I know that there's no way for me to break Mythal's leash by force. My magical strength is at best, average – and could not compare to hers by any stretch of imagination. I had expected that, but it is still a bitter pill to swallow, and forces me to search for different solution.
I am close to despair, helplessly thrashing against the restraints, as one avenue after another proves to lead to nowhere. Is that, I reflect despondently, what it will all come down to? Will the issue close around the pure, brute force, which I'll be never able to overcome?
The dark thoughts make me careless, and as I slowly abandon hope, all of my carefully cultivated safety measures get ignored, one after another.
The day everything comes crashing down, all at once, begins innocuously. I eat my breakfast with June at my side, who takes surreptitious pleasure away from the public eye with feeding me bits and pieces of food, like one would treat a pet… I had grown used to it, and bear with his antics, before he hurries to his workshop.
I praise the Creators every day for the fact that he believes the experiments too dangerous for me to get close to. Not that I know for certain he is wrong about that, I just don't want to check – in case I prove him wrong, and he demands my presence from now on.
Left alone, I go to the bathroom, and disdainfully touch my reflection in the mirror, despising the face I see every day. I try to recall what it looked like back home, and startled, realize that I'm… not certain. With a panicked, muffled cry, I become aware it is not the only one I had forgotten – uncertain how Jeff's face looks like, or many others. How did we meet in the first place? Was it a party, or did I encounter him on one of the meetings of creative forums? My love for him gone with the wind, and what's left over is a mere nostalgia, I realize guiltily. My friends, my family, have blurred in my memory, as I suddenly face the revelation that I spent more years in Thedas than on Earth.
It is a bitter reality check, especially considering I'm still nowhere near finding an answer how to leave.
It is very despondently that I enter the library that day, and dragging my feet, take over my favourite table, hidden among the shelves, and mindlessly skim over the contents of yet another soul study, which brings me no reprieve. I'm so lost in the overwhelming me misery, I do not notice a new presence, until Dirthamen looms over me, shadowing the daylight.
I jerk in my seat, panicked, and instinctively try to cover the text – before cursing myself for stupidity. Well done, me, now I'm certain to have his attention. He scans the stack of my books wordlessly, before turning away and coming up to one of the bookshelf.
I release the breath I was holding, relieved. Prematurely. He returns soon enough, and gently removes my hand from the book it covered. I stare at him boldly, daring him to comment, as he leans in and whispers into my ear:
'Do keep your nerves on a tighter leash. Your behaviour practically screams guilty' his voice quivers with naked amusement. He withdraws promptly, leaving me shaken and terrified from the encounter.
Way too fucking close.
It is only once a few minutes have trickled by that I realize he had placed another book atop of my own – "The detailed study of breaking magic".
Even a brief skim over it reveals it to be a gem I was looking for… and suddenly, it's all too much. I snatch Dirthamel's gift, and make a quick flight to my favourite alcove, and to the Fen. I bury my head in his silken fur, and cry my eyes out, relieving the stress of the day. The wolf is shocked by my outburst, barely having awakened from his nap, but easily allows me the much needed comfort.
'Why did he give me that?' I ask Fen after calming down from my breakdown.
'At a guess - he wants to block June's growth' replies the wolf immediately, with a startling certainty. 'Your disappearance will, at the very least, stunt it, and at best, entirely diffuse his motivation.'
'I'm glad for his selfishness, then.' I murmur distractedly, my attention drawn to the precious book. Invaluable. 'At least I do not have to like him.'
Fen laughs.
'You don't' he admits after his chuckles subside. I curl up against his fur, devouring the tome gifted to me by the self-seeking god, learning the art of dismantling the magic. Once I tire of it, I strike another conversation.
'Do you not have a more conventional form?'
'Why would I want one?' The flick of his ears betrays confusion, even as he lapses into lecture. 'At the beginning all of us were merely akin powerful spirits – though with more personality. Evanuris chose to amass followers by taking on the Elvhen bodies, and the Sleepers revere in fear, so they became first dragons, to seek out death and destruction, as the Creators proclaimed. As I cared for neither, I chose differently.'
'Why a wolf, though?'
'I'll have you know, the wolves are much more perceptive of magic than most other beings.' He informs me haughtily, clearly offended. I cannot hold my laughter – a fucking pouting wolf.
'Oh for…' he snaps angrily, and suddenly, two new pairs of eyes open on his head. I'm stumped for a moment, before declaring slowly,
'Ok, I take it back – colour me impressed.' I move closer to take a better look at the warily observing me Fen, taking in the unusual, vivid green of his irises, glowing now, as he has them all out.
'Why don't you take this form more often?'
'It's inconvenient.' He admits reluctantly. 'The six eyes are distracting, far less useful than a pair of them. They're a result of my arrogance – I believed I could improve on Creators creature.'
'Could you take another shape?' my curiosity just doesn't shut up. He sends me an evaluating glance, before musing out loud,
'Technically. It requires a lot of power, just like shaping your vessel did. Mythal had used a lot' he adds. I snort derisively, uncaring. I do not appreciate this particular expenditure of power. He senses my souring mood, and easily distracts me away from it.
'But you have work to do.' He delicately nudges me back towards my book, and I perk up, elated by the chance in front of me.
I make the first, tentative try to it this very evening. I envision Mythal's power as a rope, binding my soul, and slowly, patiently, try to loosen the knots tying it to this body. The process is slow, and requires patience – but I'm hopeful. Breaking it was impossible for me, but this… This is within my capabilities.
June's entry into puberty is plain for all, and nerve wrecking for me. It starts when he begins sending me long, nervous glances, and twitches uncertainly in my presence. At first, I do not know what to make of it – until he tries to kiss me, a tentative, shy brush of his lips against mine. He flushes with bright red once I raise my eyes to meet his, and flees. I raise my hand and cover my mouth in disbelief – has it really happened?
I'm disturbed, and frightened. I had seen June thus far as a something akin to a younger brother – needy, and whining, and demanding – but I had never really blamed him for my imprisonment. I was annoyed with him, of course – but the fault for the decision lies solely on Mythal. He had not realized – still doesn't, to be fair – what he was asking for.
But now, June changes. Soon, he will take interest not only in kissing, but further – and the very thought disgusts me… and motivates to hurry along.
The other clear indicator of the transition within him is his jealousy. He used to only desire my attention – now he is envious of every touch, every word and every glance I exchange with other males. It soon becomes unreasonable, and my patience is deteriorating with each passing month. Finally, it snaps, during the ball thrown in his honour – the irony of it – when, after less than an hour, he forbids me from dancing with anyone.
'If you wished to partner me, you had but to ask, though I was under impression you do not enjoy these types of frivolous activities. If so, you could at least allow me the freedom of doing which bring me joy - seeing as you have stolen my world from me.' Anger loosens my tongue.
'It is little wonder June is jealous as the graceful Pride twirls on the dancefloor' suddenly interjects Dirthamen into our conversation, preventing me from speaking anymore. The words are both a taunt to draw away attention, and a warning for me, but it comes too late, the damage already done. June reels away from me, as if I had slapped him – I might as well have done that – and Mythal's heavy gaze drills into me. I betrayed too much of my bitterness in those words, and too much independence.
My pride brings me no end of troubles. For the next few years, my progress in dismantling the binds is severely stunted, as I have to carefully avoid her scrutiny and suspicion. I should not have shown the backbone the way I did, but now, it's far too late to regret – so instead, I hold my head high, and learn to dodge her spies.
Finally, I'm ready.
Over forty fucking years. That's how long it takes for me to find a way out of this trap. Yet, when I'm nearly there, I hesitate – and rush to find my only friend, my sole supporter in this wretched realm, before leaving. He is at our usual spot, and does not seem surprised to see me here.
'Had you not been a wolf, I would have kissed you. Alas, this will have to do' I lean down, and draw his furry head into a hug, whispering, 'Take care of yourself, my friend.'
And I reach within, loosening the last strand holding me back.
