Lux Aeterna :: Book One :: The Meager

by Steven Mayo

A very extensive novelization of FFI....kind of...read Author's notes at beginning of Chapter ONe for better idea.;

9. The Scoop

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 9 ~ The Scoop

            Though the second largest city on the Cornerian strip, as they called the long narrow gash of land isolated by the two mountains, and a port city at that, the town of Jrist was of a subdued complexion on the fourth morning of the great quest.  Indeed, the urban pallor was that of a ghost town, with only the occasional traveler making his or her way across the empty market.  Certainly, people didn't seem to want to be outside very much.  It wasn't a standard market day, but still the harbor was filled to capacity, the sailors and merchants packed away in waterside stay-houses, none of them peddling as the horizon filled with light as one would expect.  Once brave seamen no longer risked the sea; the waves grew treacherous just a hundred yards from the shore.  The suffocation of the harbor town brought into quick realization the growing pain of Corneria, and likely the world; the land-locked vacuum that not so slowly choked away the life.  Since the surrounding lands weren't filled with farms, Jrist had maintained its spirits a good while longer than the agrarian southerners, but now tempestuous oceans had finally brought them to the current state of things.  A dead market; a sullen people.

            Unbeknownst to the great majority of the world though, was the existence of its rescue mission.  When all the world reeked of a new emptiness, the light warriors finally felt the pressure of their quest, the singular perspective they possessed.  It was finally hitting home.  This was their responsibility, whether they asked for it or not.  Regardless of whatever amends were made the day before by at least two of the warriors, their waking hours were filled with dark awareness of the nature of things.  Anger seemed to build out of nowhere.  Mistrust.  Paranoia.  Once again amongst scores of people, if ever they came out of their homes, the light warriors felt tense and defensive, the episode of two nights past still fresh on their memory (and possibly their record).  And in one of the few places where people did know of their great quest, the sacrifice of life's prosperity to the world's survival, the prospects of their reception were gloom.

            Among the few open businesses early that morning, maybe the only place with something new to sell, was the news stand.  And sitting front and center in the largest rack was a tall stack of the day's copy of the Corneria Chronicle, hailing as its cover story a grim message.

The Trite Warriors

Charles Domino, Senior Editorial Correspondent

Does an illusionist exiting the stage before a sonorous crowd not return for his encore?  Do the players of some valorous game visit the stadium only to greet and withdraw?  Does the politician cite vacuous asseverations only to master his throne and sulk?

No.  No.  And yes.  But even more exigent, diligent reader, is the despondent state of our so-called Light Warriors.  On the eve of their glorious ascension they were granted appreciable leave to, we can only postulate, draft extensive means by which to procure their most humble ends.  But when came the next morning, the impassioned folk of Corneria and their festival tourists received not noble speeches of hope and joy, not the assuring succor of well-laid plans, not even the respectful ceremony of auspicious farewell, only the news that the Lux had escaped early into the wilderness.  Perhaps they were just eager to affront the great quest, their rich spirits prompting them forward.  Or perhaps their brainstorm came up barren, and they rushed out, without plan or direction, to avoid their shame.  The track record I will soon account leaves only one of these options realistic.

But first let's break down just what we're talking about, since a survey conducted in Corneria yesterday shows that only 15% of people have heard of the presently evoked legend.  Dan Haroldson, 42, resident of outer-Corneria, sums up the average affirmative interpretation:  "Yeah, I've heard of that, you see, four warriors, each with some magic orb, go off and save a princess…"  Unfortunately, this is far from the truth.

Based on the controversial translation of a short Leifen, or Ancient, script by Professor Ted Unne, the entirety of the "Lux Aeterna" reads:

"When the world is in darkness,

Four Warriors will come..."

Controversial because Professor Unne, most senior member of the century-spanning line of Doctor Unne's that continues even today, was equally famed for his extravagant love affairs with ale and women.  Though the history of the legend is almost entirely unwritten, scholars speculate that the myth of four elemental orbs entered the lore over two hundred years after the Lux's original transcription.  As stated by lore scholar Bently Housend of the Corneria College History Department, "The elves, you see, the elves have always loved stories about magical ornaments, and I've found just in this last year several sources providing information on a tale about four orbs containing elemental powers that were used to keep four respective mythical monsters at bay.  No doubt some historian unearthed the story and felt it looked good when combined with the Lux Aeterna; but likely they have nothing to do with each other."

In Words of the Ancients¸ the current Dr. Theodore Unne reveals, "The exact words of the Lux Aeterna were vague enough to lend themselves to modern variations, but the particular disparity of elemental orbs is utterly ridiculous, one because the Leifen texts make no mention of them, and two because the Ancients did not believe in magic."

Any logical mind should then discard any telling of the Lux containing magical orbs as one would discard a tall-tale.  That the primary antecedent of the King's Lux exaltation is the supposed discovery of these orbs lends little credit to our heroes.

The inclusion of a Princess-saving plot is more deeply rooted in an analytical phenomenon known as the recency effect, whereby the mind associates the most recent, and therefore most urgent, discoveries with all other current situations.  In this case, the present disappearance of our fair princess lends itself only too well to the first chosen goal of the Warriors.  Via the recency effect, the two events are combined into a single thought.  Of course, without conferring to the text of the legend itself, this elucidates that the savior of any person, Princess or no, has nothing to do with the Lux Aeterna.

But even if their proof be nugatory, can the Light Warriors still claim valid purpose?  After all, their number is right, and all the legend requires is a world in darkness.  So, is it in darkness?  Of this there can be little doubt.

Land-locked in our town of Jrist, a successful merchantman who goes only by Bikke comments, "Well, I can't speak for much but I'll tell you that the seas have turned nasty over the recent months, even in this past week they've started turning harder and harder.  The bravest captain on the ocean wouldn't take his lady out these days."  Henry Black, a leading Jrist Union organizer, shares a similar sentiment, "After twenty-three years of up-and-up, we have in just the last six months experienced high percentile decreases in membership application and re-application and also productivity, while oppositely showing high percentile increases in unemployment, job termination, and pattern downsizing.  The job market has truly gone to hell."  The omens stretch beyond the human sector.  The Ecological Society, based out of Corneria city, has listed several recent studies noting increasingly aberrant weather patterns including the severe diminishing of warm air currents from the Western sea and ocean tides measuring highs of up to six feet higher than recorded averages.  Another of the studies even mentions a shift in behavioral qualities among several local animals, suggesting an increase in "ferocity" and "cunning".  That study went on to list several startling statistics, among them a 26% increase in animal assault cases over the past three months.

It seems indeed the globe has taken a malevolent turn.  So it is not surprising that these four men lost in the wilderness are believed as Light Warriors, nor is it surprising that several rather competitive Light Warrior fan clubs have spawned in the festival city, but for the sake of the country's mental health I must report my findings in regards to these four men.  They are not our saviors, they are not heroes, and they are most certainly not the Light Warriors.

Who I must assume is their leader, although the structure within this group compares its solidity to a ball of cotton, is Dr. Darrin Sylum, mid-thirties, a political science professor at Corneria College.  What place he has on a no-doubt battle-saturated quest is beyond me, but his diplomatic skills, in my first meeting with him, did prove competent, at least for the part.  The strong arm of the group, the famous Herrik Gipson, clearly looking to pad his résumé even further, does possess those physical skills he's famous for, but in person is standoffish, even rude.  He in no way personifies the grace and benignity of a world savior.  To attempt to keep their image true, they have enlisted a healer, an apprentice clergyman named Edrick Valance, who did not speak at our first meeting, and, by witness of several Cornerians, has the magical skills of a pile of dung.  May bad fortune never fall their way that it should be dependent on Valance to remedy.  And the final of the four, a twenty year-old who spent time in jail just moments before his divine unveiling, mysteriously goes only by Seville.  For the whole of my interview he offered only one brutish, uncivil word, something characteristic of the iniquity inherent in avid prison-goers. 

It doesn't paint a faithful portrait of the warriors of Lux, at least not in my mind or in the mind of anyone else I interviewed over the past two days in Corneria and Jrist.  But legends can work in mysterious ways, so only an account of their work can truly gauge whether or not we should put our eggs in this basket.  For this, diligent reader, I have spent time following the warriors and have spent even more time asking around their various stops to bring you the facts, no matter how lamentable.

My first and only meeting with the warriors, which I've before now invoked as "the interview", was begun ever so comfortably with the iron-grip of Mr. Gipson propelling me face-forward into the dirt.  What followed was not an interview but in actuality a brief exchange of intelligent words summarily proceeded by a bout of verbal parrying.  Upon making my intentions clear, the roguish band decided it better to assault me than delegate to my stead their no doubt just word to here deliver.  Because our meeting went so in the way of laconic, I was unable to ascertain whether or not calling me an "Asshole" was the message they wanted percolated through the people.  I'd hope not, but they seemed rather proud of it.

So, respecting their legend-mandated wishes, I held back and chose to follow their tracks rather than be there for the making.  This brought me to a small traveler's inn, called the "Way-House", where the tender had quite an ominous tale to tell, events starring our subjects and the previous night.

That night three of our warriors joined a lucrative card game with three indefinitely anchored seafarers that frequented the pub.  At least attempting to keep to their roles, the clergyman, Valance, opted not to play.  Lookers-on attest that the money flow was unusually, even "supernaturally" as a witness put it, one-sided.  As holds with common travel-stop traditions, a request was made by one of the seaman of the warrior named Seville to "Sleeves up", an accusation of foul-play.  Stated by Marcon Sunders, the bartender, "Now that boy didn't want to do it, and even his priest friend, who'd spent most the time in the shadows stood up for him, but [Seville] finally came up with his sleeves.  And his arms were covered from top to bottom in the most awful sickness you've ever seen.  Bruises and scars, unnatural things."

Based on similar accounts by other witnesses of the night, my research led me to Dr. Friedrich Brazer, once again of Corneria College, a doctor of lore and science, "The symptoms sound like an MOS (that's Multiple Overdose Syndrome) of a beat narcotic called 'Soft'.  It has certain medicinal uses but is without doubt a controlled substance.  The sensations are intense and long lasting, but abuse commonly leads to black welts along the extremities as you describe them and eventually catatonia."

But the revelation of one of our warriors as a drug-addict does not end the night's woes.  Finally convinced of fair-play, the three seamen left the pub, and within the minute Seville announced to the whole place that he had indeed been cheating.  When the seafarers returned to rectify their abuse, Mr. Gipson, blood-lusting grunt that he is, killed all three of them before a gentleman's word could be spoken.  Realizing they could accomplish no more good that night, they ventured out and have yet to show again.

And so the query: does this sound like the people we want to call the light warriors?  Do we have any reason to believe these four men?  They certainly haven't put on a convincing show, they certainly haven't provided any good, and they certainly don't know what they're going to do about saving the princess.  I object to these inane clubs brewing in the capital spouting misplaced hope after misplaced cry for these actors, these fakes, these rogues.  They are not legendary heroes, but counterfeit idols playing a ridiculous popularity stunt at the sake of a nation's hopes.  All their purpose for being is based on false notions and even in carrying out those notions they present themselves as brash warmongers.  The hailing of these men as Light Warriors needs to cease.  A tough tale for true believers, but believing that it will rain gold doesn't mean it's going to happen.  They are no reserve for our faith, and they can fool the people of Corneria no more.  If they should come to Jrist on their aimless journey, they'll know where to find me.

            "I'm gonna kill'em!" Seville exasperated, crumpling the off-white paper and slamming it onto the flat counter, "We've got to kill'em!"

            "Gently, son!" shot back the man behind the news stand, jumping off his high stool to restack the towers that Seville's slam had toppled.  Seville snorted and threw a silver coin onto the counter, and it skidded forward and off into the debris of the papers.

            "Can it!" the boy yelled back and turned away from the booth.  Edrick Valance jaggedly pumped into motion and followed him with a stomp.  After a heavy, thoughtful sigh, Herrik Gipson folded up his copy of the paper delicately and handed it back to the news man.

            "Much obliged," the knight said, and he ran his fingers through his tall hair.  Dr. Sylum absent-mindedly rolled the page, put down a silver round, and walked off with his eyes tethered to the cobblestone.           

            Seville's exclamations led them past several closed stands and around a corner into an alley as deserted as any other part of the city.  Only fragile arches of the early morning sun stretched into the road and the resulting slivers of shadow made their skin gray, golem-like, and streaked as with rained down war-paint.  The air was quiet, the town was quiet, every breath that escaped them felt urgent, a spirit rushing past and lifting the wind.  The thick, leathery skin of their valiant pretense slid down and sagged like a zombie's flesh, leaving show their vitals, their vulnerability.  Every passing inch of waking minutes and the belly-hot fear of accusing eyes surrounding were sharp teeth that punctured the organs, the pressure points, the weakness.  It was suffocation in an un-motherly cradle.

            Seville rounded and then walked to the stone wall of the building, slapped it, and turned and grimaced.  His chest heaved with an uncommon anger, which from there bore into instant fatigue. 

            "We're screwed!" he said, with a furious shake of the head.

            "Calm down," Edrick said.

            "But we're screwed!  How can he do that to us?"  Seville paced unevenly, and slapped the wall again.  "We've got to kill'em!  He as much as invited us to at the end of the column."

            "Seville, clam down," the priest said once more, keeping his distance from the angry twenty-year old.

            "Of course you'd say that, he didn't mention shit about you that the world didn't already know."

            Edrick dropped his once receiving arms and went to stand next to the others.  Gipson had just arrived and was pressing his keen eye onto Seville, but Dr. Sylum kept his glance way-wards, a non-committal stare.

            "I don't think anybody is arguing that it isn't bad for us, but..."

            "He called me a drug addict, Eddie!"

            "And do you think throwing a coin at a shop-keep and stomping off in a tantrum is going to better that image?"  Edrick persisted.

            "Well, it's not making it any worse.  What the hell are we supposed to do?  He's gonna have all of the Corneria set against us.  We're gonna be a laughing stock!"

            "Quiet!" Gipson suddenly said with rounded force.  He lifted a hand forward, as if to command one to his knees.  "If someone were watching this very moment what impression would they get?"

            Seville snorted again, "A bunch of unorganized hacks!"

            "Right!  Not Light Warriors, for sure."

            "When you told me you were raising your faith," Seville yelled at the knight, "I missed where you told me it was going to Domino."

            "Understand something, Seville.  My experience in this realm doesn't really include the negative, but beyond a few of his more spiteful statements, Domino is basically telling the truth."

            "And how commendable of him for doing that!" Seville shouted sarcastically.  He paced in incessant circles.

            "And how does this help?" Edrick joined the shouting, and then he looked to each end of the alley quickly.

            "It doesn't." Gipson said, reigning in his voice to a low but weighty level.

            "So what'll you have us do?  Disappear back into the woods and slip further into rejection?"

            "It's not so bad as that," Edrick said.  "It's a stupid newspaper article.  An editorial!  We'll just get back on with our mission!"

            "Our mission?!  What mission?  We're not gonna rescue any princess just walking around, there's no reason that we would.  Light Warriors aren't destined to do anything like that."

            "What for, Seville?  This you already knew but you didn't doubt it then."  Gipson tried to be calm.  "None of us understands our role, so we can only do what we think is right."

            "And get pissed on for it?!" the rogue screamed.

            "If that's what it takes." Gipson said.

            "Seville," Edrick broke in, "You know that Domino is not altogether wrong.  You cannot be surprised, so why this anger in you?"

            "Because…" and Seville stopped walking, and let his chest slowly ease its pounding.  His fists unclenched and for a moment it seemed he would calm.  But then just as quickly he threw his arms out in anger, went to the side of the alley, and kicked the stone wall of the building.  "Because it's my fault!  Because I'm the one who screws things up.  I'm the one who just got out of jail.  I'm the one with the sores all over his arm.  I'm the one who cheated at the poker game.  I'm the one who provoked Smythe into his attack.  It's my fault!  Because everybody's failing on my account."

            Seville fell down into a crouch and forced his forehead down into his palm, scruffing his hair with the free hand.  Then he began to shake his head angrily.  He looked much like a bum long out of his wits.

           Herrik Gipson slid the steeples of his kept red hair through the gaps of his fingers several times and squeezed his chin, covered with three days growth.  He suddenly felt himself getting furious, and he wanted to fight it back for the sake of this group.  This young boy with so much potential, so like himself, giving up.  Any advice he would want to give was going to come out like a scolding.  He tried.

            "Seville, your problems are small, and you can reverse them in an instant.  But I'm the … I'm the one who has murder on his record.  So you are not going to take all of this blame for something I was too foolish to avoid."

            "Murder?" Edrick said, speaking frantically with his high boyish voice raised to even higher registers.  He shook with nerve.  "So now it's murder?  But at the time it was something else, right?"   

            "Edrick, you do not want to press me on this point!"

           "It's my job to press you on this point.  That's all it is.  Thieves and murderers.  We're no warriors, we're no saviors, we're no destined heroes.  I shouldn't have come with you; I never should have done this."
            "Eddie, shut up.  You're part is clean."  Seville's voice was weak, and he spoke like a dark child in a corner.

            "It's not clean, Seville, you know nothing about my oath, my responsibilities.  And now I've consorted with Gipson the killer, and you Seville, you've been breaking my conscience for years."

            "Then why stay?  Go home, if that's how you feel!"

            "I stay because I'd never survive the trip home.  Because I'm useless, I can't even keep people I would call my friends on the right track.  That's my part, Seville, that's my part.  Nothing."  Edrick shook all over, he had to walk to the wall and press against it to soothe the sickening bursting within his chest.  "And I can't go back to the church, now, my oath has been broken.  And when they get the paper in Corneria the minister is going to find out, and you know what little life is left for a clergyman who has broken with the church."

            "So," Seville said, now dipping into the black, hateful shade of depression, "It is over then."

            "Over." Edrick said, "Unless one of us would like to go alone.  Like the … professor…"

            All three of them turned to find the doctor Darrin Sylum facing away from their combat, looking aimlessly down the alleyway and into the jutting mesh of market booths and carts.  For the entire time he'd made no mention of his presence, made no sound to call attraction his way.  Even at the mention of his title then he did not turn, or nudge, or show any acknowledgement of awareness.  He leaned against the opposite wall, and from where they stood they could see only a patch of his brown hair above the high rim of his maroon cloak and under the brim of his steepled-hat, and a metallic sliver of glasses frame curving around his face.  His stare, or at least what they could feel of it from behind him, was treacherously distant.

            "Professor?" Edrick managed to pick up his thought, "Professor, you've not said a word."

            They were unable to tell whether or not Dr. Sylum had heard Edrick.  He again seemed to take no notice.  Once more the ghostly quiet of the town set in upon them, the incredible death of the wind placing an awful stagnation on their skin.  They waited for Sylum to speak, if he would at all.  After an almost nauseating pause, he did, his voice plain and normal, but he did not turn toward.

            "You're right, Seville, we're screwed," he said.  "But it's not over."  And Sylum walked down to the end of the alley and turned the corner.

            A silence followed.  Edrick made two steps to follow, but Gipson held him back, and Seville maintained his seat on the cobbled ground, now picking up loose rocks and chucking them into the wall.  The knight and priest turned towards the thief, and then just stood and breathed, but for once looked amongst each other without squinted and calculating eyes.  For a brief moment they had understood how light the weight of their responsibility was, having then compared it to the weight of denying that mission.  Over was a terrible word, a fearful word, but it wasn't, was it?

            "Yeah, well..." Seville said as he pushed himself to his feet, "Whatever the hell that means!"

            He threw one more rock into the gray stone and left the alleyway, turning opposite the professor.

            "Master Gipson?" the priest said.

            "I don't know, Edrick.  I don't know."  Nothing was certain.

********************

            Like a million beetles over your skin ... some that bite and burrow within ... and choke and drown on all the sin...

            That's what it felt like; like an invasion of bugs that set up camp in his arteries and bones and chewed the marrow for sustenance.  Like the heart in his chest was replaced by a bubbling witch's cauldron that tipped and let the poison flow down.  Like every hair and organ of his body was turning undead one by one.  It felt like his eyes were too big for his sockets, and that the soft sides of the orbs were pushing into his brain, making it sting.  And that sting made him dizzy, the road tossed like a ship's deck.  His feet were dead weights, his legs dead weights, his arms dead weights.  It felt like anger.  A scared and scary anger.  Sylum could barely bring himself to the newsstand without collapsing and giving patronage to the palpitating ugliness growing in him.  It flared like the heat of a grease fire splashed with water every time he looked at the disgusting page.  One sentence.  He got one sentence.  He was more nothing than Edrick, more nothing than any of them.  Not even worth the time of a pundit.  While each of them moved to whatever great or gruesome end, he was moving towards nothing.  For five years his name was synonymous with hack, his unpopularity in the capital city was common public mention.  And his path to greatness didn't just lead him wrong, it lead him nowhere.  He was nothing in this thing.  That short name, preceded by the worthless title, Dr. Darrin Sylum, burned out of the page and seemed to glow an intriguing white.  But all around was covered in red.  He realized then it was getting away from him, and that's why he turned ugly.

            Sylum placed twenty silver coins on the counter.

            "I'll just ..." his voice was barely audible.  "I'll just take this many."  He pulled up a stack of twenty papers and turned to walk away.  The news man said nothing, just scooped up the coins and placed them below.

            "This princess is in the Temple of Fiends." Sylum turned to find the source of the voice, and instead of one found two men, one short, one tall, coming around the side of the booth.  They grabbed Sylum, weak with emotion and turmoil, and pulled him behind the stand.  The doctor did not even yelp.

            "What did you say?" Sylum said, dropping the stack of papers onto the cold cobbles. 

            "Think about it," said the tall one, who by his voice also spoke earlier, "Where else on the strip could you hide that kind of VIP without getting caught immediately?  Where but a castle that only exists in myth?  You can find it you know, but you have to go through the forest, and the paths are overgrown.  At the end of the trail you will find a castle, broken down and half demolished, that will be the Temple of Fiends.  You've heard of it before."

            "Of course, but..."

            "Just go, that's where they're keeping her.  Do you want this to be the final article of the Light Warriors?"  The tall man pointed at the single paper that Sylum had managed to keep in his grasp.

            "But ... how can I ... who are you?"

            "The name's Biggs, this is Wedge.  We support you, we just wanted to help."

            "But..."

            "Stop stammering!  You're the diplomat for God's sakes.  Just find the Temple of Fiends, alright?"

            Biggs and Wedge left Sylum standing there between two booths with a messy stack of newspapers at his feet, confused and disturbed.  He let the last paper drop from his childish grasp, the new sickness within him seething afresh.  Biggs and Wedge?

            Edrick and Gipson had finally followed Seville out of the alley and into the nearest stone building which happened to be a tavern.  They rested there, speechless and happy with that fact.  Seville rolled a coaster back and forth across a table, Edrick read from one of Gipson's Monsters Manuals, and the knight himself just drifted his eyes stoically into the wall.  They all faced generally inward, but not close together.  The tavern was empty but for them and the bartender, who, clearly surprised to have people in his establishment so early, had come forward and kept a careful eye.  After a few moments of nothing the barkeep went back to his lazy business, reading the day's newspaper.  Whether he put a connection together or not didn't seem to matter.  The three Light Warriors made no sign of moving without provocation.  The blue depression of each hampered the whole room.  They each of them including the knight jumped when the tavern door kicked forward quickly.  Sylum walked in.

            "We're going.  Now!" he said, and walked back out. 

            Like trained dogs the three of them rose silently and began their dull march out.  They followed Sylum to the edge of town and then into an overbearing forest.  It had a foul look, but so did everything behind.  They ran closely at the heels of their good professor, the only one of them still clinging to faith.  But unknown to them, that faith was darker than chaos itself.

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