A young elven boy walked through the endless rows of wheat, thinking about the end to the fall and the fast approaching winter. The drab, grey sky reflected the misery of the village, a complete juxtaposition to the bustling commerce of the nearby trading city of Saerima. The boy sniffed as a stream of snot trickled down his nose. He exhaled slowly to expel the cold air, and tightly grasped at his ears to warm them. They were almost red from the cold.
“Wilsham! Get back inside! You’ll get sick if you don’t!”
Wilsham de Tirréa turned around and briskly walked back to the village hut. As per the king’s orders, a twentieth of the population of Saerima was chosen to be relocated to the city’s outskirts. The terrible population density of Saerima was temporarily resolved by this issue, but only for a bit. This year however, the king decreed his plans to relocate another tenth. The orders were especially difficult on Wil’s family since his father was a royal guard. He was only given leave from the city sixty days of the year, and his large absence left Wil’s mother to heavily rely on child labor. Today was just another day in Wil’s life of mundane work.
Wil slowly opened the wooden door of the hut, careful not to break the already flimsy hinges. The sudden breath of wind yanked the handle from Wil’s hand, shutting it behind him. He clenched his ears as he heard another loud complaint from his mother. “Sorry mother,” Wil replied and entered the kitchen. His nose was filled with the sweet aroma of his mother’s broth. He felt safe, but also deprived of feeling, just like how the outskirts were deprived of bitter cold and the hot, blazing sun. Wil longed to revisit the city of Saerima, no matter when. To see the beautiful landscapes, buildings, people, and…his father. Wilshem shed a small tear from the thought and quickly tossed it away. He would not spend the rest of his life in grief, groveling at all of the privileges the citizens of Saerima held. Wil asked his mother when the soup would be ready, but he was met with a snobby remark about his impatience. Wil stirred slightly from the twentieth complaint from today, but he quickly put himself in his mother’s shoes. He made the connection that she had to run a whole family, each member with their own interests just like Wil, but each one different. It was like picking out six keys out of a haystack, except any key could just run away at any moment of time if not looked after. Each key also had its own complaints, its own desires which boiled down to an overwhelming response to the mother. Wil could understand that. So he let his mother go, and went to look after his youngest sister.
“Time for dinner! Hurry up and eat!” Wil and his siblings walked over to the dinner table where his mother had prepared the broth. They were each given a wooden bowl and a spoon, each cleaned with the earthly water from deep below the well outside. Wil took the bowl and poured a bit of soup into it. He took the spoon, and with rudimentary movements scooped a tiny bit of water. Wil gave the broth a small taste. A gnawing feeling suddenly materialized in his throat. He wondered if his throat was dry and headed outside to get some water.
Wil began to cough, beginning with a quiet sound and ending with a loud, wet wheeze. His head began to hurt while sweat dribbled from his forehead. He felt dizzy, sick, and dreadful. He grasped at his head and ran home. Why didn’t he listen to his mother? Wil’s thoughts raced through his mind, with flashes of death, despair, and all of the things he missed throughout his life. No, no, no, he would not die like this. Wil’s vision was already nearly gone when he ran into the hut and laid himself to bed. The last words he heard before he lost consciousness were Wil? Answer me this instant! Wil? WIL!!!
Deep in the farthest corners of his consciousness, Wil’s mind began to stir. He was in complete darkness, shrouded only by a small wisp of light. He wondered if he was dead, killed by disease. A tear began rolling down his cheek, then another. Wil cried thinking about everything he missed before even beginning to live. He was only eleven, a cruel pun on the name of his species. He never saw the north, deep into the mountains where the dwarves reside, living in mountains with harsh conditions and little food; he never saw the mainland, where the humans sit, tucked away into the last great city of Windrama, giving away their slaves to the Elves in return for gold; he never saw the south, where his fellow brethren live and flourish, situated in the Valley of Life full of rich agriculture and beautiful landscapes. All he ever saw was this drab hole he was born into. Wil swept away his tears and looked at the pale, blue light in front of him. He reached out to it, careful to not burn himself. He felt nothing. Wil wondered if the afterlife was this bland, without touch, smell, or feel. Suddenly the light stirred, displaying images which began to puzzle Wilsham. He cupped it into his palm and looked into it. As he laid in bed, covered in drab cloth, Wil stirred his mind and grasped at the truth tucked away into the farthest reaches of his consciousness. The young boy saw the prophecies, signaling the destruction of all he wanted to see, if not for his gift. The talent was his means to end the all consuming void which would terrorize all life on the continent. Different particles began to swirl Wilsham, encircling him with power. It has to be this way, Wil thought, I must save the world. Wil set his mind and let the particles permeate his entire body. He breathed in the power, and exhaled it. I’ll call this power…Force, Force which Wil change the fate of the continent. Wilsham de Tirréa began to fade out of the realm, his last thoughts being about the future of mankind and his destiny as the protector.
***
“Doctor Reivenhant! He has awakened!” Wil’s mother wept tears of joy for her son’s resurrection. She scolded Wil, “don’t you dare pull the same trick you did on me you cheeky scoundrel,” and then deeply embraced Wil. Wil began to cry as well, hugging his mother tightly as well. Seeing his mother relieved had warmed his cold and dissatisfied heart, and he remained more determined than ever to save his mother. “Mother, how long was I out?” Wil asked, to which his mother replied with “seventeen days, my child, seventeen days.” Her trembling voice surprised Wilsham, who then asked the quiet doctor to affirm his mother’s answer. “Yes Wilsham, you were completely out cold for seventeen days. I took a beating trying to keep your life on the line, but it is all good, yes good.” Doctor Reivenhant smiled, proud of himself for saving yet another nearly lost life. “Thank you Doctor,” Wilsham replied. He then remembered his dream, the swirling particles and the faded blue light. Wil recalled his prophetic visions and decided to tell his mother about them. “Mother, I also had an intense dream during my coma!” Wilsham exclaimed, startling his mother and Doctor Reivenhant. He quieted himself down, and repeated the statement again. His mother asked him to go on, and Wil began recounting the events of his dream. The boy paused for a moment, pondering if he should describe the prophetic visions he saw, and decided to not mention them. Mother has already worried enough, Wil thought, and recounted his dream about the particles. The Doctor listened carefully, and stated his hypothesis that the boy’s body had been fighting the sickness, which reflected the boy’s dreams. While Reivenhant and his mother discussed the events of the dream, Wil tried to connect to the power. He imagined being swirled by it, being penetrated from all sides by the particles, and then releasing it. Wilsham closed his eyes and tried it again, each time folding his eyes in the perfect position. He felt a shudder echo through his body, then another, and another. The culmination was a grand release which Wil knew he had the potential to exert. He folded his hands into a circular shape, and breathed out.
A bolt of lighting erupted, filling the room with electric shock which startled the Doctor and the boy’s mother. Wil’s heart soared from discovering that he had the ability and that he knew how to use it. The doctor adjusted his glasses and asked Wilsham to “repeat the process again.” Wil nodded and closed his eyes again, thinking about the particles permeating his mind and body, made the connection, and released the power through his hands. “Madness,” the doctor replied. He quickly approached Wilsham’s mother, said something to her which made her begin to weep again. Doctor Reivenhant turned over to Wil and said “you must come with me to the king’s palace, now.”
***
The walk along the stone-paved road was oddly quiet. Either Wil did not have the courage to ask about this grave matter, or Doctor Reivenhant had no wish to discuss the subject with a living weapon next to him. The boy walked with his shoulders slouched and his back hunched, a defeated posture which made the boy’s flow of thought crystal apparent to the nearest passerby. Some people made a slightly curious face at the travelers, but the Doctor only responded with a scowl. The metal gates of the city were closed at this time, and two guards stood by, holding metal halberds. The Doctor approached the two men and sternly told them to let him and the boy through. Wil’s eyes caught the stare of the guard, who wondered about what kind of wrongdoings the boy could have done to anger the Doctor. He shrugged and opened the gate with an ear piercing creak. As they walked through the main gate, Wil finally gained the courage to ask the Doctor about the reason for the visit. “Doctor Reivenhant, why are we going to the king’s palace?” The Doctor looked at Wilsham and calmly explained, “because you are a living weapon boy, a person who may be responsible for the monarchy’s death and the destruction of our Empire. It is by the goddesses’ law to have you stand trial at the king’s palace.” Reivenhant’s answer surprised Wil. “The goddess has communicated her Wil to the folk?” The Doctor whistled and replied “She has, in the past, when we were still folk in the valley of life, given order by the goddess to strengthen our people and build an empire. But that was long, long ago.”
The two, gold covered doors slowly opened to the king’s palace. Inside was an entire group of guards, silently presiding over the ruler. The king sat in the large, golden chair, covered in purple embroidery. He bode the arrivers over to his place with a swipe of his hand. “My lord,” Reivenhant bowed and told Wil to do the same. When Wil bowed, he wondered what it took to have so much control, so much grasp over people with the means to kill and slaughter the next few citizens. At last, the king spoke: “The Doctor and the child, why have you come here at this time of day? Should I expect terrible or great news?” Reivenhant replied, “I may have both great and terrible news depending on your preference, m’lord.” He paused, looked at Wilsham’s slouching position, and began his monologue. “The boy is a living weapon, one that can be harnessed for both good and evil purposes, m’lord. I would like to know your excellency’s opinion on the boy, but first, I Wil show you the extent of his power.” Reivenhant turned over to Wil and told him to release his knowledge into the king’s grasp. “Surrender your arms Wil, and you may receive your recognition at the king’s hand!”
***
“This boy, I wouldn’t say he is a danger to the kingdom, he’s special, dignified, and loyal.: The king shifted his gaze over from Reivenhant to Wilsham, who beamed with sudden pride, excited that the king now bowed to him of all people, that the king respected him. “Boy…” Wilsham nudged his head up. “Please follow me to the study room.” The guards shuffled over to the king, but the latter bode them away. As they walked down the sunlit hallway connecting the royal palace to the observatory, Wilsham looked at the stunning decor covering the floor, the walls, and the windows. Diamond and Emerald etchings in the glass, paintings of the gods plastered on the walls. Vivimor, goddess of Life and Death, gazed at the land below him littered with small elves warring, prospering…and living. When they finally entered the observatory, the king told Wil, “we are going to go down to the study, where you Wil be met with the finest of comforts that any man would cut his head off for, but…” then the king paused to give Wil some time to process the information given to him, about his new life of luxury, safety— “you Wil have to work, for the kingdom and for our people, and most importantly, for ME.” The king grabbed Wil’s waist and caressed his shoulder. “Or else I’ll have your damn head. Understand?”
***
The pale lit room illuminated the table full of textbooks, artifacts, and papers. Near the corner of the room stood a bed, covered in purple, silky sheets. Wilsham sat on the bed, neither crying nor smiling, but thinking. The king’s demeanor, odd behaviour, and threat all left him at a loss of thoughts. Or rather, too many thoughts. Wilsham wondered if his life would be like this forever, a prisoner in a royal prison, eternally chained to the workstation pondering about his talent. It was not my fault I got this power, it’s not my problem. I’ll slaughter that pig for daring to cross me. Wil silently stood up and walked over to the corner of the room. He needed to think about something else—to dwell on misfortune is to put oneself through misery. He glanced at the table, the many textbooks lying on it, and the dust collecting on it. Picking up a book, Wil began to flip through the pages. The Science Of Matter, The Science Of The Spirit. Wil took a pause, and closed his eyes. He visualized himself among the swirling particles, on top of a pyramid of power. He saw himself surrounded by people, people who worshiped him, feared him. Wilsham smiled. That was the first time a malicious thought had crept into his mind and punctured his desires. Finally, Wilsham opened his eyes, and got to work.
***
The bustling streets of Saerima showed no signs of slowing down. Day and night, merchants traded materials and food, artisans worked on clothing, blacksmiths forged swords and armor, and peasants sowed their land, preparing for the summer harvest. The early March weather was almost calm before the storm. Everyone was preparing for the hellish heat awaiting during the summer. Then heavy, torrential rains which caused massive floods. And finally, massive droughts during the end summer. The spring was meant to serve as preparation before everything went wrong, and people made sure to be ready for the chaos. Between the harsh weather conditions and the sleepless sounds of the city, every citizen worked day and night to survive. All, except for the royalty.
The king’s castle stood in place atop a small mountain overlooking the city’s marketplace and villages. A cool, grey mist hung over the Duwoil mountain, enveloping the air and giving it an almost majestic feeling at this time of the year. The road to the castle was paved with fine stones and littered with palm trees which reflected the elves’ hospitality and virtue. Lanterns hung on the palm trees and illuminated the way to every traveler seeking to present himself to the king or admire the palace’s royal beauty. From his throne, he could see the entire city and the beautiful valleys enveloping its outskirts. It was a poetic representation of his control over the land, and a reminder to its denizens that the king was above all else.
The king’s observatory was located nearby to the palace itself. The astronomers could see the stars shine bright in the sky and make predictions leading into the next year, decade, and century. The elves had a keen interest in prophecy, and they desired to prove themselves right in their predictions. However, the Observatory opened to several floors below itself, which were built by the orders of the previous king several decades prior. The first floor below the observatory was meant for historians to conduct research and write columns of texts explaining the happenings of the past. Lower down, the second floor was dedicated to philosophers, who pondered about the meaning of the universe and the goddess. The third floor was assigned to the societal outcasts who studied alchemy and botany. Fourth and finally, the last floor was dedicated to poor young Wilsham de Tirréa, the most bizarre and dangerous one of them all.
Everyday, Wilsham would wake up early and get ready for the day. He then took turns studying with each person on each floor, after which he returned down to the lowest floor and worked until nightfall. The process repeated everyday over and over until days became hours and weeks became days. At one point, progress slowed down to a halt, and the king was dissatisfied. “Why isn’t he working, Brundé?” Asked the king one day. “I give him luxuries, the best meals and bed, all the materials necessary for his profession, and yet he shits on it all!” Brundé the butler tried to reason with the king by explaining that the boy was still young and that it wasn’t his fault the job was so difficult. The king roared, “I know what’s difficult, butler! I had to command this nation since I was nine, and yet I never wept a single tear. I knew my responsibility, and I ploughed through it like a proper man! Meanwhile, this…” The king swore. “This damn kid doesn’t know his place…You know what? Give him ten knots on the back.” The butler stammered and tried reasoning the king. “But your excellency, wouldn’t it be better to give the student a personal teacher to guide him? It’s possible that the boy simply doesn’t know what to work on.” Throughout the rest of the hour, Brundé tried to spare the boy from his hefty punishment and managed to convince the king about hiring a proctor. After several weeks of scouting and multiple declined offers, one man accepted the task. His name was…Claudius.
“My future teacher Wil be the Claudius?!” Wilsham could not believe his ears when the king told him the news personally. “Yes boy, it was very difficult to find him, and it took me several tries to convince him to join. Therefore, I expect only the best from you. If you dare to show up without any progress, I Wil knot you.”
Claudius de Mremonia was one of the greatest warriors in elven history. During his prime he slew the Marvandra, a powerful beast born out of a curse which terrorized villages and lit towers aflame. Claudius was said to have lifted a mountain and thrown it at the Marvandra, burying it under the ground. His legend spread far and wide across all Elven kingdoms, and his name struck both terror and pride into elven hearts. But he was long past his old days of heroism, living in a small hut on the outskirts of Saerima at the old age of sixty-seven. It was even more surprising to the king’s ambassadors when he accepted the offer. He must be extremely bored, said one. To think that he would teach that…thing…is no less excepted of the greatest hero this land has ever known, replied another.
***
Knock! Knock! Huh? Jolted awake by the sudden noise, Wilsham groggily stumbled out of bed to reach for the door handle. Wait a minute, he realizes, no one’s ever knocked on my door before… KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Oh shoot! I better hurry up. Wilsham jerked open the door, revealing to him what seemed like a mountain. A thin mountain, sure, but the figure carried with it a presence so heavy that Wilsham felt like he was being crushed. “Hello Wilsham, I’m your new tut-” he said before his voice cracked and went up an octave. The absurdity of the situation drew out even a small chuckle from a cowering Wilsham, one that was extinguished as quickly as it had come out. “Ahem! Sorry ‘bout that” the man said, with a voice that now seemed appropriate for the imposing presence. Wilsham vigorously nodded. “It’s ‘cause of that darn spear that once pierced my neck, you see.” He turned his head to reveal a scar so grotesque that Wilsham instinctively tried to shield his eyes from the sight. “Heh, heh, pretty gross to look at, eh?” the man boomed. He bent down to Wilsham’s level. “Well, with all that aside, I’m your new tutor, Claudius,” he said while extending out his hand with a smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.” “Of course, sir. Everyone’s heard of you… Oh! I’m Wilsham by the way, sir, nice to meet you sir,” Wilsham shakenly replied. “…” Seemingly tired of waiting for Wilsham to shake his hand, Claudius grasped Wilsham’s right hand and shook it. “Well, Wilsham, seems you’ve got your etiquette down at least. But since I’m going to be your tutor and all that, I’d like for you to address me as Master, is that clear?” Before Wilsham could even nod yes, Claudius interrupted, “Oh, and Wilsham’s a bit too long of a name, is it. Can I just call you Wil?” “Um, sir, I don’t th-” “I take that back,” Claudius interrupted with a smile, “seems you still need some education on your basic etiquette don’t you?”
***
After Claudius had taught Wilsham the basics of etiquette, he left Wilsham with a few stacks of books and a message. He would wake Wilsham up at the exact time every day, enter his confinement, and give him lectures on principles, the laws that governed the universe. When Wilsham asked him why principles, and not history or martial arts, subjects that a hero would be much more well-versed on, Claudius just responded that principles would provide Wilsham with more knowledge on his own powers. “…There…is no need for you to become…independent just yet.”
***
It soon became common for Wilsham to wake up to the sound of two knocks, and the jolly nature of Claudius began to wear down Wilsham’s cautious exterior. Despite his initial resistance to being called Wil, Wilsham gradually began to accept his new nickname. Furthermore, Claudius’ lectures were all extremely captivating, giving Wilsham much more insight on how his powers worked. Strangely enough, Claudius’ voice never performed the strange distortion he had shown Wilsham when they first met, and never allowed Wilsham to experiment with his own powers. But that didn’t matter. He had begun to enjoy how it felt to be treated as an elf again: not as a means for entertainment or as a living weapon, and nothing could get in the way of that. One morning, a few months after Wilsham had first met his tutor, the two knocks never arrived. Instead, Wilsham’s slumber was interrupted by the sound of his door slamming against a wall. “Haha! Wilsham, my student, today Wil mark the beginning of a new chapter in your life!” A familiar figure emerged from the doorway. Still dazed by the sudden intrusion, Wilsham felt it necessary to inquire, “Huh?” After realizing how badly he had startled his student, Claudius declared, “Today I am going to teach you how to become a proper, dignified member of society!” … This statement took Wilsham quite a bit of time to digest. “You thought you’d be an outcast forever, huh?” Still slightly reluctant to reveal everything to Claudius, Wilsham shook his head. “No matter,” Claudius responded, “starting today, I Wil make you a person fit for the aristocratic society. That means, teaching you history, politics, conduct, that sort of thing.” “Wow!” Wilsham exclaimed, “..but, why didn’t you teach me these things before?” “I don’t think you need to know,” responded Claudius. “Please, just this one time.” “Well, Wil, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” He squatted down to Wilsham’s level. “You can’t tell anyone about this, alright?” Wilsham nodded his head. “I’ve always wanted to teach you these things, it was just that…well, I would’ve been in deep, deep trouble if I did.”
***
After this lesson ended, Wilsham sat alone on his bed, still thinking about what Claudius meant with that secret. Just then, Brundé walked into his room to serve dinner. “How was your day Wil?” Wilsham was annoyed by the question, but nevertheless he answered it. “I am doing fine Mister Brundé, you don’t need to ask me.” Brundé chuckled. “Well Wilsham, I have some great news. I have convinced the king to give you one free day to walk around the city…” Wilsham’s eyes lit up from the news. “Yes! Finally! Mister Brundé, thank you!” He ran over to hug the butler, but Brundé lightly pushed him away. “But…” He began. “But what?! Get to the point already!” Brundé recoiled from the harsh words and replied sternly: “But you need to go with supervision, got it?” Wilsham fumed with anger. “Why do I need supervision?! Me mama let me walk around our village freely ever since I was seven, and yet I am almost twelve! Has the king gone mad?!” “SILENCE YOU DUMBARSE!!!!!” The butler yelled at Wilsham. “If the king finds out you speak of him like this, he’ll have your bloody head!” The butler continued, “sorry, sorry. There have been reports of random ‘attacks’ on local villagers by an unknown entity. No, beast. The king worries deeply for your safety, so we have contacted Master Claudius and he agreed to be your supervisor. Under no circumstance are you to disobey him, understood?” “Yes sir.” “Good.” Ugh, the old geezer won’t know if I’m in front of him or behind him. When Brundé left, Wil unraveled his blanket and blew out his candle. Good night me, and I’ll see you…he grinned… tomorrow.
***
“I feel so free!” Wilsham shouted, “This is the first time I’ve been allowed to go outside for ages!” He began running and skipping down the village road. “Slow down now,” reprimanded his teacher. “Don’t forget, you still have to read The Art of Immunity for our session tom-” “Aaah!” “Run!” Bewildered, Wilsham and Claudius began looking for the source of the commotion. In front of them, an elven village was being terrorized by a sole, four-legged beast.
“Hey you, shit for brains!” The beast turned around and stared at Wil. Some foamy spit tricked down its chin. Its eyes were nearly bloodshot, and the beast’s formerly wooden plates turned into a venomous green color. “What are you doing?!” screamed Claudius at Wilsham to no avail. The beast charged at Wil and made a horizontal swipe at his chest. Managing to dodge backwards at the last second, Wilsham grabbed a shield from the blacksmith’s desk and latched it onto his arm. The shield was heavy, but it was still good protection from the monster’s strong blows. The monster roared and charged at Wil again, who dashed into the Blacksmith’s shop. “Hey kid, what are you doi—” The beast smashed through the building and completely tore down its structure. Running out of the shop, Wil heard the blacksmith swear vehemently about his destroyed hut. Wil darted his eyes to hear the beast groan and slowly rise again from the rubble. It was bleeding profusely from being punctured by several wooden planks. Wilsham used this moment of recovery to begin charging up his Force. In and out, Force particles began to flow through Wilsham’s arm. The monster roared and tried getting up but it was too late—with one swift motion, Wilsham expelled Force from his hand and killed the beast with a massive electrical shock.
“Wil! Wil! Careful…” Claudius approached Wilsham who stood there, amazed at his abilities. Claudius chuckled nervously as Wilsham began exclaiming, “Master! I did it! I saved the village! I’m a hero!” Just then, the blacksmith yelled at Wilsham. “Whose life did you save, you freak?! You blew up my hut, destroyed my weapons, my shields, god…EVERYTHING! YOU DESTROYED EVERYTHING I HAD!!!” Wilsham did not believe his ears. “But I saved your life! Master please, back me up! Master?!” Claudius rested his hand on Wil’s shoulder. “Mr. Blacksmith,” he bowed down, “I am sorry for my student’s reckless behavior. He still has yet to be educated properly.” He looked at Wil. “Why aren’t you bowing!” he shouted. Wilsham obeyed. Claudius straightened back up. Giving him a look that Wil had never seen on his teacher’s face before, he shouted. “Wil! You shall never again disobey me again. I am your Master! You are loyal to ME! Never again shall you disobey me like this!” He walked away, slightly out of breath from his outburst. “Thank you sir for teaching that boy a lesson!” hollered the blacksmith. “And YOU, never come back here ever again!” Taken aback, Wil ran after Claudius. “Master?” he asked, “that was all a show, right? To appease the blacksmith?” Claudius took one, long look at Wilsham. “Of course it was, Wil. Of course it was.”
Fantasy
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