The Slinker, The Thinker and The Stinker.
-
The visions always came in the small hours before dawn, and recently they had increased in frequency and intensity of both memory and feeling. Whereas before the visions had seemed something remote, intangible, they were now begetting physical effects: Ike invariably awoke in physical pain, drenched in sweat, as if he had engaged in a wrestling match, or long-distance run, and always frightened and bewildered.
In the past, there was no rhyme or reason to the visions; they did not seem to be associated with any particular event or circumstance, and they had been more on the order of short flashes of memory, often without context, disordered, random, and difficult to fathom. He would see himself as a child, and just as quickly the apparition would fade, to be replaced by visions of people barely remembered, some fair, some foul, all vaguely menacing. He could see himself; in a dark place, frightened, beaten, starving, neglected…forgotten? The visions invoked deep feelings of loss, an awareness that some grave injustice had been done to an undeserving soul, a gnawing insistence that this is not what life is supposed to be like.
He knew that something wrong had been done, but was not sure just what had been done, or to whom it had been done. The Dreams were never that specific, and his memory was often not very reliable.
He struggled to answer the question "Were we the victim of this injustice?".
The Question would remain unanswered…for now...but would not go undebated, for there in the convenient darkness of a closet within his rented room, Iselbarde's "friends" began to arrive, one by one;The Slinker, The Thinker and The Stinker. They had been with him for as long as he could remember, even longer than the Lady in the Dark, and they had been his companions since he "was asked to leave". They would gather at whiles and would talk endlessly about what Ike had seen and done, and occasionally even tell him to do something, but they never seemed to give him any useful advice or guidance.
Only the Lady in the Dark ever did that, and she had not been heard from for a very long time now. She would never come when the Three were about, and never at the same time that the Dreams did.
The Three began their incessant debate, and all Ike could do was to cower in the darkness and listen:
-
"Auntie" Matilda was a matronly kind of woman, with great rolls of fat that cascaded above the tie of her apron, and great locks of rusty-colored hair that framed a chubby face, but the thing that made Matilda remarkable amongst all theother slatternly-looking women in this place…whatever this palce was; for Ike did not know, and he was never allowed outside -- were the great sheets of loose skin that hung beneath her great big arms. When she moved in just the right way, they looked just like the wings of a bat.
It was Auntie Matilda that taught him the Human tounge, slowly, patiently, as he helped her in the filthy kitchen. His head hurt constantly, and there were days when he seemed to absorb nothing of her instruction, but far from being frustrated, she merely responded with greater kindness and gentleness. Ike was put to work serving meals to a great many urchins; humans, mostly, but a few hin were amongst their number. All were dirty, unkempt, but they appeared to be happy and well-fed. They called each other "Cousin"and refered to this or that adult that came and went as "Auntie" and "Uncle".
You must give Uncle Stumpy a great deal of credit. His intelligence and insight were far beyond what one might expect of a man of his circumstances. A Master businessman, a great identifier of talent, too. Imagine what he could have accomplished if his genius had been applied in a different sort of way? It's an interesting intellectual exercise to dwell upon it, at least. The entire Operation was a thing of simplistic beauty that no greater genius could have accomplished, for certain. Textbook example of stealth, planning, and proper application of resources. Most admirable!
And for all that "genius" we all lived in dank, musty basements or on the streets, eh? How many of us, besides Stumpy, actually got rich, do you think? Yeah, give him his due; he was perhaps the greatest thief they ever saw in Caer Corwell, but then again, how many ever really saw him? Yes give him his due; he did see Our talents, although how only the Gods know. He taught us well, but you know there should have been more.
Yes! More….We wanted more. We should have had MORE! It wasn't our fault...If Cousin Barney hadn't...
Oh, please, not THAT again! We know what happened to Barney, don't we? I know I know what happened to Cousin Barney. It still
brings me the one.solitary pleasure that I have ever had in all this sordid existence…To paraphrase; Oh, please, not THAT again, my anti-social friend! Barney was our friend, and a potentially-valuable ally, if properly cultivated and manipulated…until you "did him in".
Well, he cheated us! What did you expect me to do?
You miscounted.
He lied about us!
You misunderstood.
I did not!
What in the Hells does it matter now? Barney is gone. I made sure of it, end of discussion.
Yes, but had you known what would follow, I wonder if you would have done it all over again?
Would I? You bet your ass, I would! Barney was alying, cheating pig, and he deserved far worse!
And that attitude is a primary reason, My Friend – if you had a more objective mindset and saw things more logicially, you would see it -- why We are where we are today.
The Children were part of what Uncle Stumpy called "The Operation". Sent out into the streets of Caer Corwell to beg alms, they served the most important purpose: they spied on everyone. They were infinitely familiar with every market stall, every back alley, every neighborhood in Corwell. They listened inon conversations, they made note of the comings and goings of influential and wealthy men, they infiltrated taverns to listen to drunken sailors. Who would suspect children of being spies? Who would take notice of filthy orphans begging in the streets? They were the Invisible; no one cared for them – except Uncle Stumpy -- and in return for that care, they were his eyes and ears at every keyhole.
Information, Uncle Stumpy had always said, was often better than gold.
The Children would report back every evening,and tell Uncle Stumpy everything they had heard or witnessed. Armed with that information, Uncle Stumpy would then unleash the flock of thieves that he had raised and trained himself upon the City. That was how it all worked: he took in the Children, passed them through various stages of indoctrination and training, and then sent them out as adults into the dark of night to steal everything that wasn't nailed down., when they weren't enaged in acts of extortion and blackmail.
Ike eventually took his place, too, amongst the beggars, and did his job well. The other Children teased and tormented him because he could not speak well, and seemed extraordinarily slow, but Matilda and Stumpy both realized that whatever the Boy's shortcomings, there was still an active mind inside that thick head; he just wasn't very sophisticated. When properly focused, Ike was as good as any other.
One day, Uncle Stumpy took him aside for a "special talk". It was time, he said, for Ike to "grad-ee-ate" tobetter things than serving slop and begging. It was time he learned "the tricks of the trade".
Yer is elfkin, Ike, Yer gots sommat special the udders ain't got, 'anI gonna 'elp yer realize yer po-ten-shul. Jest lissen'a me, an' does what I tells yer to, exactly-like, unnerstand?
And with that, Uncle Stumpy opened The Door, the one tht none of the Children was allowed to pass, and ushered Ike into a new world. There, on various tables and wall racks was a bewildering array of metalwork; locks, hinges and a variety of "special" tools.
-
The Light had returned. It at first appeared as a small, dim point at the center of his vision, and slowly expanded, hazy and out of focus at the edges, but steadily growing stronger. He was now in some sort of stone chamber, laying upon a bed of soft cushions. There were voices which seemed at first to come from some other world, for they had a strange quality; muffled, and yet with a tinny echo. Ike could not make out was being said, but only that he was the topic of conversation. As the pain subsided, and the tiny world inside his head began to make some sort of sense again, he was able to recognize the voices.
What went wrong, Priest?
I do not know, Your Majesty. He should not have cried out so. The ritual was followed in even the smallest detail, and should not have inflicted any pain whatsoever upon him.
"Should not" and "Did" are two different things, Priest. Find out what happened.
Yes, Your Majesty.
The Sundering is complete, though, yes?
Yes, Your Majesty. I can no longer sense his presence. He has been banished from the Community well-and-truly. We will now study him and care for him as best we might, but I fear there has been long-term damage to his mind.
How long-term?
Permanently, I'm afraid, Your Majesty.
Then other arrangements must be made.
Other…arrangements? Forgive me, My Queen, but what do you mean by...
It cannot stay here!It has been Sundered, and will be exiled, as I have decreed. It's very existence vexes me. It has brought nothing but trouble; one of The People is dead by It's hand, and my most trusted advisor has been disgraced, and it's very existence serves as a pivot of discord amongst us. I will not allow It to stay; It should never have been allowed to stay in the first place. You will nurse it back to health, and It will be sent back to It's own kind. The sooner you tend to this, Priest, the sooner things can be set aright once again in Chrysalis.
My Queen, I must protest! Have we not gone too far, already? Yes, as you say, the Boy has been a nothing but a messnger of strife, but in the process of serving Justice, have we not crossed a line that…
Do not gainsay me, Priest! For you can be Sundered and Exiled, too, if I so choose. Obey my commands!
Yes, My Queen!
The Light dimmed once more. The Haze was replaced by blackness, and Ike slept for he knew not how long.
When he awoke again, it was to an unfamiliar face. A human face. Large, brutal, with a bulbous nose, and crooked, gap-toothed smile that was was far from inviting. The Face was speaking to him, but he could not understand the words.
Get out of it, Francis! The Boy don't speak our tongue.'Sides yer gonna scare the water out o' 'em if yer keep sticking that ulgy mug o' your's in 'is.
Tell me agin' why yer take 'em, Boss?
A'cause the gent that done sell 'em ta me done gimme a good price, is why. He were s'posed ta take the Boy ta some orphanage or summat, but figgered they was 'nuff orphans already widdout 'avin' a 'alf-breed ta feed, too. 'Sides, they summat 'bout the Boy…I dunno what it be, but I tell yer this Francis; that thar' child gonna make us a fortune. You see!
If'n yer sure, Boss, but I gets the feelin' this gonna be nuddin' but trouble.
"Francis" brought his hideous face to within inches of Ike's own, poked him with a big, hammy finger upon uttering the word "Trouble", then turned and left. His eyes quicky scanned his environment.
He was in some sort of room with dripping stone walls, and a wooden ceiling. It smelt horribly of sweat, stale beer, mold, and damp earthen floor. He was laying upon a rough mattress of what appeared to be sacks, perhpas of grain. They were dirty, and oil-stained, but provided a decent mattress for the grain shifted to cradle his body. The room was dimly lit by a pair of oil lamps, which sputtered and sparked every so often. Chests, crates, sacks and boxes ofall kinds were stacked haphazardly about the place. Above him, he could hear what he supposed were footsteps on the wooden ceiling, and from a small window he could hear the sounds of activity, and occasionally, the clang of bells. Finally, his eyes fell upon the other man in the room.
He was small, squat and hunchbacked. He was clad in dark, rough clothes that had once seen better days. His hair was wild; it stood out from his head like the bristles of a porcupine. He had, strangely, a very kind face, despite the large mole under the left eye and the scraggly beard.It was not a btutal face, like "Francis", simply the face of a gentlemen who had, perhaps, just fallen upon hard times, and which retained a distant dignity. The man stood up from behind the table where he had been apparently counting coins, and with an effort straightened himself out with the aid of a walking stick. He approached Ike, who cowered into the grain-sack bed.
Now, now…don't git all jumpy and skittery-like. I ain't a'gonna hurt yer.
He produced a crust of bread from his pocket, and held it out to Ike. The sight of food had suddenly overcome all other emotions; Ike realized that he was ravenously hungry, and snatched the bread right out of the man's hand. It was barely tasted before it was consumed. The Man laughed.
Thass right, Boy! Eat up! I'll git yer some more, too. Lucky fer you Matilda done make 'er bean stew a'day. Bean stew an' bread fer yer.
The Man propped himself up against the grain sacks, and extended a hand to tussle Ike's hair. Ike did not make a move to avoid the contact. The Man was speaking in a low, comforting voice.
There yer go, Boy. Don'tcha git all riled up an' 'cited, now. We gonna be friends, you an' me, eh? We gonna be best buddies, 'at's fer sure. My little 'alf-breed an' 'is Uncle Stumpy is gonna suckle at Tymora's Tit until we's fat, dumb an' 'appy, we is. I kin see it in yer, Boy. I saw it when they brought yer 'ere, an' I'ma make sure it 'appen.
He left Ike another piece of bread, and walked away, calling for someone named "Matilda"….
-
The Queen of the Llewyrr made her decision; the boy was to be Exiled, returned to the human lands from whence his mother came. He was to be Sundered from the people, as well, so that no Elf should have to bear the shame he brought to them all.It was a harsh punishment, but the alternative was not much better and while the boy's actions had shocked and horrified the Llewyrr, still they would not punish one death with another. The Tir'ein family would be stripped of it's lands and titles, and would have to take up the grey robes of the penitent, sentenced to wander Faerun for 1,000 years in service to the gods, barred from the shores of Evermeet until the sentence had been served.
For the first, and perhaps only time, his grandmother spoke up in his defense. She beseeched the Queen to think of the consequences; the boy had been raised amongst the elvenkind and did not know human ways. He did not even speak the human speech. His mother had been utterly alone in this world, her family slaughtered; who would care for the boy? Something glistened at the corner of her eye. It was a small flash of bright light, like the twinkling of a star in the night sky.
It was a tear.
Grandmother was overruled. Grandfather saw to it, and bade her be quiet. He, for one, was almost indecently eager to see the sentence be carried out, to see the stain upon the family name and legacy eradicated. He had once been an advisor to this very Queen, and now he threw himself upon her mercy without waging any defense, nor bothering to question the sentence. So far as Grandfather was concerned the sooner this entire business was completed, the better everything would be; the sentence had been handed down, it was straightforward and infinitely fair given the circumstances, and serving it – even some of it's more questionable and shameful aspects -- was far preferable to bearing the consequences of his son's rash indiscretion a minute longer than necessary.
In the end, Grandfather was a bigot, a moral coward, and a thoroughly despicable person, and his only concern was for Himself. He drove his son away with his blinkered prejudices, he offered nothing in the way of guidance to a young boy who needed it, and in the end, he even sold his own wife down the river because of how the entire affair reflected...upon Him. The Hells must certainly have a place resevred for such people.
His grandparents were taken from the chamber, and Ike never saw them again.
Well, what do you know? The Old Bat might have had a soft spot, after all. It's quite the coincidence that it made itself evident only when she was being sentenced. You don't really think she cared about Us, do you? That tear wasn't as much for us as it was for herself, and even at that, I question the authenticity of the whole thing. Might as well have been an act, for all I care, or for all the good it did.
That's rather cynical of you, don't you think? It is just possbile that the Old Woman did, in fact, grow fond of Us in her own way. After all, she did make some excellent points to the Court in our favor, it was just that the Queen was in no mood to give them any creedence. In the end, it was Grandmother, and Grandmother alone, who came to our defense. Do not judge her so harshly.
Harshly? She deserves the torments of all the Hells, she does! They all do! It was not our fault…it never is! We did not ask to be born, we did not ask for the fool to try and stick us with his stupid knife, it is not our fault The Stone wound up in our hands! All we ever asked for was the respect and care they would ask for themselves, that they would give even to a pet! But no; we were different, the flaw in the pattern, the reminder that they were not the only beings who walked the earth, and worse...the reminder that, ultimately, their days really are numbered and others shall inherit the world. We should have killed more of them!
And what would that have accomplished? Would we be in a better place now? I think not. We must remember; they are a proud people, with a distinct history and unique culture. They simply did what their limited experience and custom told them was the right….
Oh, would you SHUT UP? Who cares about their history and culture? Did you ever think they were capable of THIS? This is what civilized folk do?They called Us a criminal when the great crime here is what they did to a child! Somehow, they justify it, and you defend them for it? You, the vitctim of it all! How pathetic! They might as well have killed Us forit would have been much the same thing, and would have saved Us from utter misery. If that Queen were before me now, I would stick her – right in the neck -- and laugh as her blood spilled and her life ebbed.
Yes! Yes! So would I! I So would !! Stick her…stick her! And all the Llewyrr! They hated Us, they denied Us, and they hurt Us more than any can imagine. There can be no forgiveness. They threw Us away.
The procession to the Temple was down a wide avenue lined with the oldest of oaks, their great shaggy canopies of leaves providing shade for it's entire length. The Boy was led, barefoot and in the plain grey robes of the guilty, up this path and to the great winding staircase that would bring him to the huge flat, slab of plain stone that served as the altar. He did not know why he remembered this detail – of all things to remember -- but the staircase had exactly 250 steps, for he had counted them silently to himself.
All the Llewyrr who could be summoned had arrived, for sentence was to be carried out publicly. They stood to the sides of the Processional Way, silently watching, stone faced. No cheers, no derisive hoots; the whole crowd seemed to be holding it's breath. He could feel 10,000 eyes upon him. Ike looked for Varya somewhere in the crowd, but if she were there, he did not see her. Those were the only eyes that mattered.
He was laid upon the stone slab. The priests of Corellon assured him that there would be no pain, and that the effects would be temporary. They began their chants and the sonorous quality of the sound was enough to make him very drowsy after but a few minutes. Then, just as he was on the verge of sleep, there flashed before his mind's eye the brightest and most intense of white lights. Lightning flashing, world's colliding, stars exploding; nothing could not match the intensity of this light.
They lied; it did hurt. It was if an icy spike had been driven through the top of his head, rammed home by a sledgehammer. There was incredible, unbearable pain – he may even have screamed, but he could not recall -- and then there was nothing.
Except an infinite blackness.
-
There is something fascinating about blood.
Well, He supposed there was provided it belonged to someone else. Seeing your own blood run could be quite upsetting.
The Dreams were running Red with blood now. Great big splashes of Red. Or, sometimes, the scene would be run through by little rivulets of Red, like raindrops running down a windowpane, until enough of them had accumulated so as to blot out all vision. Often, Ike would see a great lake or ocean of Red, rent by terrible storms and violent tides, and always, it seemed as if Ike were watching it all from above, a spectator to this maelstrom of blood from some Heavenly perch, a part of it all, and yet remote.
From that vantage point The Body merely looked like a pale island in the sea of Red. It always did.
I had to kill him, I did, I did! He was mean to me, he teased me, he tried to hurt me! Remember when he threw rocks at me? He was always riding me; "Bobears", he would say, "Mongrel"…and then the worst of all. His teeth would clench, and the glow would come into his eyes, and it was almost as if he were spitting the word out at me;
Human!
Yes, it was evident that the Bully would, if he hadn't been stopped, eventually have hurt you severely. I concur: you had no choice.
Yeah, you did the right thing, except for one part…You did it in front of witnesses. NEVER do it in front of witnesses, or at least leave no witnesses. That was your undoing -- that was OUR undoing.
The Witness? The Witness? YES! Yes….Varya! She saw it all! She knew! Why did she not tell the truth? She could have saved me! She could have saved us! All she had to do was tell the truth! My Love, My Friend! But she said nothing!
There he was, above it all as the scene unfolded before his Mind's Eye. Ike had never remembered it all so vividly, so clearly, and in such detail before. It was almost as if he had stepped back into time, and was reliving the event; he saw it all, heard it all, he felt it all, yet, he was not one of the players in the scene below. It was one of those Dreams where one imagines one is floating outside of the body, and yet fully aware of all that happens to it, nonetheless.
Varya…she was his only friend. His only love. He must have been about 15 summers then, and she, perhaps 40, but still a child by elven standards. While the other children avoided him, taunted Ike, She befriended to him...the only one to ever do so. Perhaps she was as fascinated by Him as He was by Her. She was golden, in all things; her skin was the perfect tanned hue, her hair like the finest gold threads, and her eyes...the eyes made him wonder, for they would change color with her moods; first blue, then green or violet. They were green when she laughed, and the sound was like the tinkling of a million little silver bells.
There could be no troubles, no worries, when Varya laughed.
The Willow. He recognized the Willow; It was their place, next to the pond. They would sit there for hours on end, playing games of their own device, talking, joking, laughing. She kissed him there...once. That kiss sent everything wrong -- it turned the World upside down.
Nestilmir had seen them, spying upon them from the forest's edge, and he was jealous. The young elven lad was The Nemesis, the chief tormentor, the leader of all the other tormentors. He was also in love with Varya, but it was a feeling she did not return, and a circumstance he would not accept.
There was no need for violence, but Nestilmir was enraged and would not listen to reason. He took the knife that he had just been given -- the symbol of his acceptance into the trainee ranks of the Warders -- from it's scabbard, and lunged at Ike. Nestilmir was not very skilled; his swipes and lunges were clumsy, and he did no damage at first, but eventually, he found his mark and slashed Ike across the face, just under the lip. Varya cried to stop the madness, but it was too late.
He could see it all now, and now he knew beyond all doubt that he was, indeed, guilty. For years Ike did not know how Nestilmir had died, for even though he had the blood upon his very own hands, there was no memory of the act itself, perhaps lost in the all the fury. But now, in the Red Dream, it was all brought back to him. He had fought back with his fists, and had pummelled Nestilmir to the ground. The young elf was near-unconcious, and Varya was yelling for Ike to stop, but he could not hear her. He picked up The Stone -- and he hit Nestilmir upon the head many times. Far too many times.
The Red began to spread, staining Nestilmir's flaxen hair the color of copper, and spreading out to stain the grass beneath his prone body. Some of the blood ran into the pond and floated momentarily before it was diluted and subsumed. Nestilmir was not moving. Nestilmir was no longer recognizable -- for his face had been smashed into a pulpy mess of blood, bits of broken bone and brain matter -- and his flesh had turned a very snowy white as the Red ran out of him. Every last drop of it. There was a shriek to Ike's right, a muffled noise of horror, disgust and...fear?
Varya was there. And all the color that was once in her was now gone, as well. He could recall thinking later on that when Varya had gone pale, all the color in the world disappeared, too.Ikee looked at Her, confused, as if desperate for Her to explain what had just happened, and dreading the response he was likely to get. She could only stare back, pale, mouth agape, her lip quivering, wanting to speak and unable to do so.
She turned and ran. Her long legs carried her away into the forest, quickly; a fleeting white ghost amongst the trees. She disappeared from view, and Ike never saw her again -- except as a shadowy figure in earlier incarnations of the Red Dream. He turned his gaze upon Nestilmir, wanting to say "I'm sorry…" but knowing that it would make no difference.
And the Tide of Red comes and flows over them both, and gradually, everything is drowned in flowing Red: Nestilmir, the Pond, the Willow, the Forest, all of it gone.
Only the Red Remains.
He awoke with shooting pains in his abdomen. He rolled himself into a fetal position in the corner of the closet, and sobbed for hours, but for what – or for whom -- he shed those tears, even He could not be certain.
-
Bump.
-
The Sages say that some souls are simply doomed from the moment of conception. That because of the circumstances under which they enter this world, they are cursed to be the harbinger of bad tidings, to be a source of rancor, or to simply wander aimlessly, never to be happy. Colloquially, these souls are known as Beshaba's Brood, but none can say whether that black goddess herself selects them, or if it is simply the inexorable nature of fate that brings them to no good end.
One of the Wise was once quoted – much to the chagrin of both the Tymorrans and Beshabans that -- there is no such thing as good or bad luck...there are only the consequences of good or bad decisions.
Consequences…how they do haunt every one of us. The Good, The Bad, The Indifferent -- even the Innocent. They are like the meandering streams that flow into a mighty river, which itself empties into the Great Ocean; myriad pathways that all terminate at a single place, but arrive by different routes, and each is fraught with it's own unique mysteries and dangers that none, be he even the greatest of the Wise, can foresee, nor prepare for. We call this Circumstance, or Fate, but though we have a name for thephenomenon, it is impossible for any of us mortals to truly understand how and why it works, and why it selects some for torment and others for reward.
Istelbard Tir'ein was the Captain of the South Marches, that region of Myrrloch Vale where the elven lands abutted those of the "barbarian" Ffolk, and the Firbolgs. He led a brave band of Elven Warders who patrolled the borders of their ancestral home, where the Eldest of the Eldest, the Favored of the Goddess, had lived for thousands of years. He was tall, dark-haired, lithe, a formidible warrior who had spent centuries in a life dedicated to protecting his people and heritage.
He was born of an important family; his father being an advisor to the Queen of Chrysalis, the elven Tree City of Myrrloch, and his mother a former high-priestess of Solonor Thelandira. The Tir'ein's were regarded throughout Myrrloch as the very embodiment of the Llewyrr Ideal. The tragedy of their downfall serves as a lesson to all, that even the very mighty, the seemingly pure, are often governed by forces and motivations --prejudice, pride, passion -- which they cannot understand, control or accomodate, and that no one can fathom or avoid the power of the Fates.
Istelbard, that paragon of Elven virtue, fell in love, and many would say that is the genesis of all that came after, for he he done the unthinkable, and fallen for a human woman.
Her name was Siobahn, and she was the daughter of a simple crofter who's smallholding was close to the borders of the elven lands. The Warders of Myrrloch had been attacked by a band of Firbolgs,the very bane of the Vale, and several of the company taken captive. The elves tracked the rampaging giants for several days, until they had caught them up; the giants had stopped to prey on a small human settlement, and were gorging themselves upon livestock...and people...when the Warders found them. The elves launched an ambush, and took the giants unawares, killing the bulk and driving the rest back into the mountains. When the elves searched theruins for the dead and wounded, they came upon Siobahn, unconcious, wounded.
And Istelbard felt the sting of Love's Arrow. He nursed her back to health, and when the Warders were finally to return to the Vale, he asked her what she would do now that her family and farm were gone...and she began sobbing. His heart shattered at that moment, for the grief was too terrible to witness, and so in a mixture of love and pity, he took Siobahn back to Myrrloch with him. As his wife.
Nine months later, a child was born. Amidst the joy of birth came the first tragedy, for Siobahn had died of the Birth Fever, and so the child would never know it's mother. Some say that was the first indication of what was to come next, that this small evil was the natural consequence of what Istelbard had done when he married outside of his race and brought a barbarian into the Sacred Vale. This would not be the first time, nor the last, that such things would be said.
The child, far from bringing joy to the Tir'ein household, brought only discord. Istelbard and his father would argue over and about the child, and whether or not he belonged amongst the "True People". The young boy first heard the words that would haunt him forever-and-anon at that time; "Half-breed".
His grandmother seemed to just be able to tolerate him, and while she did her best to see to the boy's education and welfare, she could not muster even the pretense of Love for him. She was always prim and proper, and adopted the air of a stern and cold school mistress with him.She treated him as if he were some sort of burden, something she must endure until such time as he were able to fend for himself. He often thought to himself that in her innermost thoughts, she most likely referred to him as "It". His grandfather hardly spoke to him at all, if it could be avoided, and even then he did not bother to hide his contempt and disgust for his son's "mistake".
His father was hardly ever around, his duties on the borderlands taking him far afield formany months at a time. Although he would visit as often as possible, and bring the boy gifts -- antler carvings, a bow of his own, a Firbolg knife -- there was something uncomfortable about the relationship. It was if his father's affections -- that which he craved above all things -- were contrived, forced. Father simply went through the motions, and it was impossible for the boy to determine if this or that word, or gift, were little more than the equivalent of petting your dog -- even if he has soiled the carpet -- or expressions of love from a father who seemed incapable of communicating such feelings.
It was not much better in the Outside World, for the boy was ostracized in public. There was no one who would commit an overt act against him, but their resentment, their prejudice, their hatred, was palpable; it was the medium he moved through as a fish swims in water. And while the adults treated him with a barely-concealed disgust and forebearance, the other children were, as children are wont to be, insidiously, relentlessly cruel...
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Of course it means something! The Dreams aren't random, and are trying to tell us something; we need only stop, think, and try to remember as much as we might of their content and then subject them to careful analysis in order to….
Oh, shut up! You're always on about "analysis this" and "analysis that", and where has it gotten us? We're always broke, we're always on the verge of trouble…always alone. There's too much thought, I say, and not enough action! We deserve better than we've gotten, and instead of thinking about it, we ought to just take it...take whatever we can. We're entitled!
Yes, take it! Take IT! Take it all! We need, we hunger, we crave! Feed us! Take it, take, take it!
Take what? Do you even know what you're talking about? These are dreams, and they're not even very good or informative ones, at that. How does one "take" a dream that makes no sense, or do anything constructive with it? We'll never know what "to take", or even how to solve our other problems without solid information…
Listen You; what, in our Entire Existence, has ever been solid? We don't even know where we came from, how we got here, or where we're going. We're simply….here...and trapped inside this blithering idiot, to boot. The only "solid" anything we'll ever achieve will only happen when we make this clod do something.
Oh yes, that's worked fabulously up to this point! Look at the tool we've been given; he's barely able to function – on a good day. He has the intelligence of a six year old, and even when we do give him direction, his attention span is so short that he continually fails in even the simplest of tasks. He's a champion nose-picker, I'll give you that, but what else is he good for? Simply "doing" will not suffice, my friends; we need a better plan.
I want to go home! Wait…I don't know where home is! I want a home! Give me a home! Think about that! Make that solid! Give me what I need, what I want, what I must have! A Home...a Life...Peace!
The argument went around for hours on end, swirling around the central points, as intangible as they were, but never came close to arriving at a solution. Each new round of argument simply raised a New Question, which would then dominate the debate, and so the Three would drift further and further from the original intent: What were the Dreams, and what did they mean?
A new wave of weariness overcame Ike, the sort of deep exhaustion that only comes with travails of the mind. The sort that leaves an empty, hollow feeling, where one doesn't even seem possessed of the energy to even move; the muscles go slack, the will cannot assert itself, and one is content to simply melt into the woodwork, rather than make even the slightest effort. There is no effort, there is only the darkness and the growing emptiness in the belly.
He fell asleep again, dreading what might come to haunt him.