2.2 What a Choice

General Summary

Day 8

We get back to the village in the late afternoon and it looks the same as before, undisturbed. The guards smile at Bran and Rosalia but not me...which is to be expected but still stings a little. Bran loudly hails me as a hero for saving the town from the animals but the guards seem unconvinced. One fetches Elder Haman and it becomes clear what has transpired while we’ve been gone.   He rushes towards us and accuses me of witchcraft (seems silly, given that we are both magic practitioners). He claims that they didn’t have this crazed animal problem until I arrived, and given that I was able to solve the problem, I must have caused it. This is, again, silly but not unexpected. He is a healer of wounds that others have caused, isn’t he?   Rosalia and Bran surprise me with their loyalty, though I should learn to be less surprised. Rosalia stands between us with her sword drawn as Elder Haman rages about my darkness against his light. Despite the hurt and anger in my heart, I know there’s no point in trying to persuade these humans otherwise. The town is starting to gather at the spectacle so I gather my friends and leave. I try to stay dignified and calm, but I can feel the hollow anger inside me. I notice Hella, the girl from the tavern, in tears as we leave.   Deep in the forest, we make camp together. Rosalia is furious and I’m honoured by her reaction...she stalks off to hunt for us while Bran and I quietly tend to the camp in our own ways. I practice forming small coloured orbs out of sand and dirt. It’s a familiar calming exercise.   I’m startled out of my exercise by the sound of a young girl tumbling down a hill towards our camp. It’s Hella, of course, a flickering flame of magic cupped in her hand. She tells us that the village has formed a mob and is coming to hunt us down with torches and dogs. She shows us a sack that she’s brought, full of food from the tavern...because of course she wants to come with us. I barely have time to think it through as we’re packing up the camp to flee. Whatever I’m here to do is absolutely not work for a child, especially not a young human child like herself, but between what they've told me of Elder Haman and his predilection for young women...I don’t think we have a choice.   Bran brings the final strand into this mess of thoughts as he goes misty-eyed and intones the following, like he’s watching something far away,   “She stands as a leaf on the breeze. Called by the wind. Drawn...like an arrow. So very deep is the well of her power. Some of the threads that pull at her, she could have a powerful fate.”   He tells her she has the power to choose what kind of magic she will grow into.   And so she comes with us. Rosalia returns from her hunt and stands ready to fight and destroy the people of her village but the idea is unthinkable to me, something remarkably hard to articulate to my warrior companion. These townspeople are almost certainly easily swayed and under the influence of someone persuasive who they have no reason to mistrust. Everything they have been taught points towards me as an outsider and a threat. It is asking an enormous amount of them to change their mind in but a day. It would be easy to slaughter them and walk away, but their snuffed lives would haunt us. If all it takes to save them is walking away, that’s an easy price to pay. Both Rosalia and Hella are shocked and impressed that I would flee to save their own lives.   So we run. We flee through a crack in the ravine and I seal it behind us. If I were an elemental mage it would have been easier, but my arcane transformation gets the job done. I wonder if Hella will be drawn to elemental magic...her flame is certainly already something I can’t do. Bran and Hella go on ahead while Rosalia waits with me and I can tell she’s nervous in the darkness but she tells me she’ll be safe as long as I’m around. I can see her infatuation but I’m not ready to handle it, not until I learn more about the people who once loved me...and who I once loved.   On the other side of the cave, I persuade my little group to go on ahead across a rockslide that Bran thinks will break up their scent while I lay a false trail for the dogs hunting us. Once again I realize how exceptional these people are. Bran tells me he has been taught for his entire life that he is big and strong and must protect those who are smaller and weaker...so it is hard for him to be happy about me going off on my own, but he knows that I can take care of myself.   When I rejoin them, we light a fire and I cast shadows around us to stay hidden. Hella has fallen asleep and I’m glad that we can talk without her for a moment.   Bran mentions that Thalien once said that he was 200 years old...which I know! I know that I’m less than 700 years old!    

I remember celebrating, and it’s such a small celebration in a way. But specifically I remember Thalien’s 200th birthday. I remember being there. It feels like there are many birthdays that aren’t significant enough to take note of but the milestones are large. 200 is worth remarking on! I remember teasing him that if he wasn’t careful he’d find himself promoted now that he’s starting to get old enough for the green and shiny to wear off. There’s good natured drinking and joking and reminiscing about the past 50 years that we’ve been together and how much has changed for both of us. The specific details slip away if I try to focus on them but there’s the sense that he’s simultaneously someone who has been one of my companions for so long that the trust is so deep and so comfortable but at the same time, I’ve been at this for quite a bit longer than he has. There's a constant awareness that while our paths are different, I’m welcoming him to milestones I’ve already walked past. Dal is there. Lyssa is there. There are two other figures I haven’t seen before. They are siblings...brother and sister. I know them as Alwen and Tira. They’re dressed plainly...as befits my apprentices. The young and shiny hasn’t worn off them and celebrating this with them is a chance for them to let their hair down. I remind them they can speak plainly and that this is a time to relax and be happy, and not to stress the formalities. There are servants present but they’re not my servants. They’re not all elves...a few are carthians. They’re brilliantly coloured lizardfolk about 4 feet tall with crested frills along their nose ridge and ears. There’s a sense of hierarchy but they’re not servants because they’re carthians...they’re servants who happen to be carthians. Carthians cannot rise as high as elves but for much of the elven citizenry, carthians are equals. We’re in a lush jungle away from home but still in the Empire. We’re in a treehouse overlooking fairy-like lights throughout the trees. It’s warm and colourful and distinctly a carthian place but it’s still in home territory.   I’m not yet dressed as a Dread Lady. I don’t have the feeling that I’d reached that point yet.

    This is startling and I’m not entirely ready to share it, but I do tell my companions that I think I’m between 400 and 700 years old. Humans are so short-lived...their empires rise and fall in a single lifetime. Bran and Rosalia remind me that 15 summers is nearly adult for a human, and that Hella is about the normal age to be leaving home. I had been thinking that we could bring her to Ipth for safety but again, Bran gets sort of glazed over, like he’s looking into a distant future. Whatever she does, she would be great. She is called by great magic but it is not human. It is elven, like mine and his. She could lead a safe, comfortable life in Ipth as an enchanter for the rest of her life. But she could also raise kingdoms with her magic as a powerful sorceress. What sort of choice is that to give to a child on the cusp of adulthood? How can you offer that choice before she even knows who she is?   I wonder about my own past. Could I have been a happy enchanter in some elven metropolis? Would someone else have protected my people and crossed the mountains for us?  

I was young. In my memories, barely into adolescence. I hadn’t left the farm yet. I was walking along a fence, repairing breaks in the fence so that the horses couldn’t escape. I’m walking along the road and a woman is riding by. She stops. I remember her dark hair and brilliant armour. Behind her is a column of mounted soldiers, wizards, and easily 100 people behind her. She looks at me and holds out a hand and says “The Empress knows your heart, little one. She sent me to welcome you home.” The hand reaches out and holds mine and as soon as it touches me, the feeling of comforting darkness flows from her to me. “You’ve been chosen. Will you heed her call?” I know this is my Mistress.

  I’ve remembered my farm - the place where my family might still live. But even more, I’ve seen why it’s not the thought of family that tugs at me when I look at the gaps in my memory.   If I had my memory, would I look back on that moment with pride or regret? What sort of person would have chosen differently? What sort of choice will Hella make?   And oh god, I’ve only just remembered two apprentices and now Bran and I have another.