Father and Son

Written by Splendiferous_Potato

Leaning heavily on a bar counter, face and jerkin weathered by wear and stress, an older dark elf contemplated the foam sticking to the side of his tankard of ale. Next to him, similar in visage but with a lifetime fewer wrinkles on his person, sits his son, holding his own tankard tightly in two hands. The son stared hard at his shoes, eyes shifting as he searched for a way to begin speaking.

“You probably don’t remember him very well. He died before your third year, and he never really liked kids. But he really did care about you a lot, I know it. He never said it, of course, but he visited on the same day every month, always with a small bag of silver to put away for you. You know that. I don’t know why I’m telling you now. Guess it’s just been on my mind.”

“Why didn’t he come more often? Why didn’t he stay with us? He was probably 4oo years old by the time I was born. It isn’t like he was hurting for gold. You made enough in the Imperator’s Steelyard by then for us all to live comfortably, and I’m sure Mother wouldn't have minded much if Grandfather stayed with us. I would have liked to know who he was. The stories don’t count for much when that’s all they’ll ever be.”

“Enough, Hethrias. Don’t speak foolishly. You know exactly where he was. Well, not exactly where, I suppose, but you knew why he wasn’t in the capital. He couldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“Because he had become the thing he had been conquering and escaping his whole life. His heart had become wild. He couldn’t be a part of this world anymore. Your world.”

The young elf took a long sip of his ale, and as his face contorted in response to the carbonated essence of wheat and yeast that now polluted his senses. The father laughed and put his empty tankard down on the counter. The clang of metal on wood alerted the barkeep, who walked brusquely over to address his patrons.

“Gods above, if it ain’t Saffrias Fandrem! Have any more children for me to baptize, or are you just stopping by for a pint on your way to the bluffs for one more expedition?

“Just the pint, Taggart. For myself and the boy.”

The man behind the bar, who stood nearly six and a half feet tall with a chest as wide as a brasswood tree trunk, looked down at the young mirror image of Saffrias Fandrem and his eyes widened in surprise.

“My my, has today taken a turn. I would have given the tyke something nicer for his first pint if I had known! The family of Saff Fandrem deserves better than whatever swill Yennett filled your tanks with. I’ll have a word with her and make sure you get the top shelf stuff going forward. Apologies, friends. I’ll leave you alone.”

Hethrias, blushing bright red, looked up at Taggart’s outstretched hand. It was the size of his mother’s banquet platter, and was rough and calloused from many years of work.

“It’s good to see you again, Hethrias. Last time I saw you, I could fit you in the palm of my hand. Welcome to the Faded Banner.”

Taggart leaned in, feigning to exclude Saffrias from what he said next.

“Next time, bring a few friends with coppers to spare and we may even become friends.”

Hethrias laughed. “Sure thing, Taggart. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man. Enjoy your drinks. Next one's on me. If your old man starts spinning yarns about fighting grumpkins and snarks out on the Ellister Bluffs, get my attention so I can listen, too. I haven’t been to the Bluffs for a long time.”

“Alright, piss off. I’ve got no new tales, and even if I did, the Faded Banner is no place to tell them.”

Taggart bowed his head and threw a sideways smirk at Hethrias, then walked off.

“That man is more filled with secrets and mirth than the worst of dragons. It’s a miracle he makes jokes at all without them all spewing out his mouth like a geyser.”

“Oh? Why do you say that? He owns a tavern and has to talk to old drunks all the time.”

“Exactly. Barkeeps loosen lips and listen for a living. Imagine what he knows, eh?”

“I doubt it.”

Saffrias rolled his eyes and took another long sip of ale. Hethrias finally finished his drink and pushed it forward on the counter. He looked his father squarely in the eyes.

“What are we doing here? What is the point of this? If your intention is to make up for sixteen years of being mostly absent, then I’m not sure that Taggart has enough time or ale.”

Saffrias rubbed his eyes and sighed. “You’re old enough, now. It was time. This is my duty as your father. That is why we are here, but it is now why we are here.”

Saffrias stood up and put payment on the counter. He pulled his jacket on quickly and began walking towards the door.

“Let’s go, Hethrias. There’s something I want to show you.”

The two started walking, side by side, into a gentle breeze from the east. It tossed their hair behind them, and made the boy’s eyes water. He found himself constantly pushing the tears away without his father seeing him. They walked in silence for nearly a half hour before the father spoke suddenly, and with authority.

“Tell me, boy. How many types of elves are there?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“How many different races do we comprise? Are we the same type of elf as, say, your tutor, Madam Sardree?”

“Oh, well, I guess we are dark-skinned elves. Madam Sardree is a light-skinned elf. As far as I know, there are maybe three other kinds of elf, based on skin alone. So what?”

The father smirked and looked at the boy.

“I must be paying Sardree too much. You’ve got no clue what your ancestry means. I’d argue that is a bit more important what the name of the umpteenth Sôbean Caliphate was, or how many bloody Northmen tribes there are, or what the . . . oh, sod it. I suppose it is a fool’s errand to argue with a Ridweth academic.”

“If I hear that woman recite the titles of one more historic foreign dignitary from seven eons ago, I am going to pry my eardrums out with a salad fork.

The father and son both erupted in laughter for the first time since before they could remember. Before long, they left the grasslands that surrounded the village of Portry Flats and entered the thick woods that comprised the majority of terrain this far east of the Ellister Bluffs. It was a land the people of Grenwood knew well. Many families in this country spent their formative years clearing the hardwood trees from their plots. As the father and son got into the thick of it, the father pulled a blade from his waist and began cutting through the brush. His son stayed a few paces behind him, but close enough to hear his father.

“Before the Incursion began in earnest — before anything mattered — the world of elves in Ilucin was tribal. There were thousands of small nomadic villages, running around Akroma and Ionin, and who knows where else. They weren’t necessarily at war, but there were few friends between them.”

“Let me guess: these tribes would become the thousands of different types of elf. Each tribe decided they were the pinnacle of elfhood. This is the story of the Northmen, or of the orcs in eastern Canacea. What happened?”

“Well, you’re actually partially correct. Some folk in the royal courts of the Cormerant Empire would argue that nothing has changed, and that each dynasty of Cormerant was led by a different familial tribe that dates back to before the Incursion. That’s all hogwash. Those people who feel their bloodline is so elite have decided to ignore their history.”

“Well, what is the right answer?”

“What an excellent question. You’ll have to wait to hear it. Not much longer, though. If I remember correctly, the place we are headed towards is just past this grove up here.”

The father took a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead. When he did, the son took his moment to lift the blade from his father’s hand. The father nodded and smiled.

“Careful, boy. That thing's sharper than your mother’s tongue.”

“Noted. Be sure to stand back, then.”

For the next few minutes, the boy’s mind stirred as he cut through the last few pieces of underbrush. After a few minutes, the pair happened upon a grassy clearing, lit softly by moonlight. In the middle of the clearing, evenly spaced and glistening with evening condensation.

“Where are we?”

“The Rites of the Tel’ytharu. The genesis of our people.”

“They’re stones.”

“Aye, they’re stones.”

Saffrias walked past his son, out into the clearing. As he stepped closer to the stone pillars in the center of the grassy knoll, and as his form began to eclipse their rigid shapes, a cold, blue light began to cast his body in silhouette.

“Come up here, Hethrias. It’s fine.”

Hethrias stood next to his father. On each pillar, as if painted with a brush dipped in liquid light, there lay a single rune, about the size of a shield and ten feet off the ground. Each rune was different, and all shimmered and shifted around, as if they were underwater.

“In an age where the thousand tribes of elves milled about on this continent, life was very different than it is now. There were no swords, no galleons, no castles — no roads wide enough for the metal-axle carriages that didn’t even exist yet. Akroma was wild, and filled with people, above and below.”

“Below? What, like dwarves?”

“No, boy. Elves. In the Wild Age, the tribes split themselves up all over this continent, and when land became sparse on the ground, our people found refuge under the mountains and grasslands. They learned to survive their homes beneath the stone and earth to care for their families away from the prying eyes of their brethren above ground.”

Hethrias looked down at the ground.

“No way. Why didn’t they fight for territory above ground?”

“They tried, boy. They fought as much as they could to save themselves the dishonor of life in the dirt, but they were disorganized and separated from allies. There were too few drow to make --”

“Drow?”

“Drow. That was what our people were called in those days. We were not strong in number in the Wild Age, and for this reason we were forced to make the best of things beneath our brethren. That was what life was like for generations and generations, being seen as inferior and dirty by our kin.”

“That’s awful.”

“Maybe, yes. But this was life. Drow children were born and raised by the lamp and torch, trained in how to hunt and fight and provide for themselves and their family in the many tunnels and chambers carved out by the creatures of the night, and found callings and jobs protecting and supporting their underground towns and villages. This was not exile for our people, nor was it a punishment. It was reality.”

Saffrias walked around the closest pillar and began placing his hands on the other pillars, touching the stone and letting the chill run up his fingers and hands. Saffrias shivered and continued, walking slowly between the pillars as his son followed.

“All of the tunnels and passages beneath the Ellister Bluffs, as well as every hovel and recession cut from every knoll and mountainside across Akroma, was put there by our kin. Every indent and chunk removed from the hard earth was made by a drow trying to make a life for themselves and their family.”

“I . . . I never knew. Why has nobody told me this?”

“Because this history is ‘apocryphal’.”

“Apocryphal?”

“As good as myth, basically”

“Myth? You mean this is as true as the great and amazing ‘heroes of old?’ The Titanslayers, with their flaming swords and angel wings and demon powers and the trust and admiration of Brisit, and Osonia, and whoever else?”

“Do not make light of them, boy. The Titanslayers were very real. And the story of the Drow is as real as they are.”

"Ah. So, a bedtime story, then?”

“No, boy.” Saffrias grabbed the boy’s collar and pulled him closer.

“They are your ancestors.”

“Right, but . . . wait, did you say ancestors?”

“I did. They were real, boy, and they were here, right where we are standing.”

Saffrias let the boy grapple with his awe as he slowly sunk to the ground, laying against one of the pillars and resting his arms on his knees. Hethrias, mouth agape, began to pace around the pillars, eyes searching the moonlit grove for evidence of an age that preceded him by millennia. After a breath, the father continued, eyes moistened by memory.

“My father’s father — Grandfather’s father — was only a few years older than you when the Titans made landfall on our world. Your grandfather always told me that, in those days, our ancestors made our home beneath the Ellister Bluffs, in tunnels and chambers carved by his father, and his father before him, and so on and on and on, back to the birth of the world. The world he knew began and ended hundreds of feet over these grasslands, and he lived within the rocky boundaries of those mountains, far away from the elves of the plains and forests. Just like the Drow always had.”

Saffrias stretched out his arm and pointed above the treeline, and between the backlit clouds, Hethrias could barely make out the frosted peaks that divided Grenwood from Ostedar. The home of his ancestors cut the sky like a great fence, dividing conquerors and the conquered.

“I imagine life would have continued that way, had the Incursion not disrupted every aspect of life. More so than threaten life, or the existence of our people, they threatened existence itself. When it began, people rose up across the world, throwing their lot in with the living. The Drow, who knew only the scorn and despisement of their elvish kin in Akroma, stayed in their holes and hovels and waited for the storm to pass. Why should they push their young warriors into the threshing machine that had obliterated so many others? Why endanger fathers and sons and mothers and daughters for the sake of so many who had spent hundreds of years disparaging them?”

“Why would they? I wouldn’t. I’d let that lot pay for their disrespect.”

“A natural response, Hethrias. That reaction was shared by many Drow. Most, in fact. But one did not share this perspective. You’ve probably heard his name before.”

“. . . Zephyros.”

“Aye. The Storm of Steel. The First Blade of Wilds. The Reaver of the Western Steppes. Champion of the Drow. Do you know what they called him back then, when the titans emerged and the war for the fate of the world began?”

“What?”

“Zeph, the scourge of the plains. He was the son of a chief. He lived near the marshes, in the shadow the Verdant Mesas. His people traveled across these grasslands, robbing and killing travelers on their way to the coast. He was a criminal, and a bad one at that.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly heroic.”

“You’re right. It’s not. Zephyros was a dark elf, like us, who threw off the scorn and hatred of the rest of the world and fulfilled their prophecy. He stole from those who already hated his kind. He was a monster, no worse nor better than the Titans. But when those gnarly beasts fell from the sky and slaughtered his kin, outright massacring his tribe like ants underfoot, something changed in him. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He decided he would never feel that way again. He journeyed along the spine of each mountain and down each path in Akroma, throwing himself at the feet of leaders with the humility of a dog and appealing to them all. I fear nothing in this world. If I fear these creatures, you should too. Help me throw them back into the Endless Sea. One by one, his appeals won him the support of every Drow family across the continent.”

“Every tribe? By himself?”

“Aye. As he picked up support, word traveled of his campaign, and over time, tribes traveled to him, rallied to the cause. He managed to convince every Drow he came across to unite.”

“How many were there?”

“According to your grandfather, there were 318 distinct family tribes at the time of the incursion. Thousands and thousands of Drow, all at the back of the warrior who knew what he needed to do to save his people. This caught the attention of the sorceress Osonia Meiavaris.

“Osonia?!”

“Of course. She lived in Ridweth, after all, and was an elf, herself. She caught wind of what Zephyros Tyroshe, the warrior turned criminal turned zealot, was pursuing in Akroma, and shared in that zeal. When she met him, in the Dryad Groves in the east, they discussed what must be done to save our world. They reached several conclusions — some I’ll leave up to your imagination — but principal among these was that their campaign to unite the Drow must be extended to unite the elvish peoples of Akroma against the forces of the Incursion.” Saffrias rose to his feet, groaning and springing himself slowly off of the stone pillar.

"Together, they assembled a group of trustworthy bannermen and bannerwomen, and they rode out across the continent with a simple message. The Blade of the Wilds and the Sage of Space and Time have called every elf from every corner to the Beacon of Unity. If you carry the song of tomorrow in your heart, join your brothers and sisters in unison. Follow the sound of the Tel'ytharu."

"So Osonia and Zephyros — a sorceress and a warrior — got every elf in Akroma to meet up with a song?"

"Not just any song, boy. Our song. The song every child learns from their mother, and sings when the year changes and when their fathers die. It is the song every elf learns that compelled them to gather right here. Right where we stand. Osonia used her magic to project a song into the ears of every elf in Akroma, and Zephyros lit a fire between these stone pillars so high and so bright that every elf who crossed the mountains could see it. They gathered here. The father of your grandfather was here, where we stand, and heard these words, spoken by the Storm of Steel himself."

Saffrias closed his eyes, reaching into his memory.

“Brothers and sisters, hear me! What you’ve all heard is true. Creatures bent on harvesting the living ember of this world. The Drow - your equals - have assembled under a banner of hope, and have asked you to join them in common cause. Believe me when I say that we have a difficult time ahead of us, but if we are to face it we must first shed our fear of it. I stand before you all truly without fear - not because I believe something you do not, or because I possess a power you do not, but because I have billions of allies at my side. We fight not only for our survival, but for the survival of every elf yet to be born. We are here not because of the path that lies behind us. That path is beset by iniquities and bloodshed, and will be exiled from memory for the sake of our children. We are here to secure this corner of existence for this day and all other days. We will turn these otherworldly monsters to dust and sweep them from our doorstep, whether it takes a fortnight or a hundred years. Tonight, let us send a message to that army. Let us shake the earth. Let the ground tremble, and let those monsters tremble with it. Let us be heard from Nine Hells to Infinite Heavens. Tonight, let us make them remember that this is Akroma, and we will never be afraid!

The forest was silent. Hethrias stared at his father blankly, skin pale and mouth frozen in a single, thin line.

“How do you know that?”

“I know that because my father told me. And his father told him. And now, I’m telling you.”

“ . . . why?”

“Do you see these pillars, boy? Do you see these symbols?”

“Yes.”

“When the covenant was made, and Osonia and Zephyros formed the largest unified force this world has ever seen, they laid these pillars as a monument. On this spot, more than a thousand years ago, elves became a unified people. From that moment onward, all elves were brothers and sisters in the eyes of the world, and there were no lesser elves. Drow owe their place at the table in the great cosmic banquet to two people: a Drow who represented his people in the battle for survival, and a pale-skinned elf who gave those people a chance. Zephyros is our champion, Hethrias, but not because he slew titans and garnered the respect of Brisit as a warrior and commander. He is our champion because he was our standard-bearer. He was the singular catch-all paragon of the Drow. He rose up from the mountain cave, out of the tunnels and hovels under the earth, and threw his actions as a warrior and advocate for the survival of our people, he brought every single one of us with him.”

“I . . . I never knew that.”

“Aye, but you do now. Your ancestor, who heard the Zephyros’ words on these grasslands, came home and brought his family here, and they were among the first families to establish themselves in Portry Flats. He decided to spend his life preserving this monument. He kept them upright, kept them clean and free of decaying branches and creatures, and repeated the incantation that kept the beacon lit. Each rune designed to provide serenity to each tribe of elf: Drow, woodland, and high. When he passed away, he joined his ancestors in the Great Golden Sea, and his son, your grandfather, took his place as Guardian of the Rites of Tel’ytharu.”

“Now it is your turn.”

“Aye, it is.”

“That’s why you wanted the drink, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

“You aren’t coming home again for a while, are you . . .?”

“No, boy. I have a duty to uphold.”

“That’s bullshit. You don’t need to spend the rest of your life polishing fucking rocks and raking leaves. Hire somebody, send laborers. Hells, I’ll even do it if you can’t. There is no reason for --”

“Boy, for the love of Gods, stop. This is my duty. It has been the duty of our family since before this continent had shape. Do you think Zephyros particularly wanted to hike every fucking mountain to make sure he had the support of every single elf he could find? Do you think he wanted to slay Titans? Do you think he enjoyed watching his friends die under the feet of abominations every day? No. From the moment Zephyros saw his name in the Fates and how the path ahead bent and dipped into calamity after miserable calamity, do you think he was happy to serve the realm? No! There are no happy warriors in times of crisis, and he was no exception. He shares every power when it comes to duty. He fulfilled his duty to save his people, as I must fulfill mine to make sure that we do not forget why.”

Once again, the forest was still. Tears fell from their faces.

“I’ll help. I’ll bring you food, help you build fires, I can even ask Graedien and Durenni to help me carry stuff so they can --”

“No, you can’t. I hard enough time explaining this to your mother. I can only imagine how difficult it will be to tell your little brothers. They won’t understand, Hethrias. You need to tell them that I am doing what I must to keep them alive.”

“How?”

“The Gods reward the dutiful. I’ve been putting money aside ever since I started working with the Delvers. You will all be provided for until you are old enough to provide for yourselves. Please take care of your mother. I won’t be seeing her for a while.”

The father and son embraced for a long while before the son spoke, his voice muffled by his father’s old, wrinkled jerkin.

“I won’t forget you.”

“Aye, boy. You won’t.”