In Other Lands

by Sarah Rees Brennan

  “I so agree,” said Carla Summersong.

  “I agree more,” said the new girl.

  “I’m plotting your death,” said Elliot.

  “Um,” Luke said. “If you think about it, this is a real opportunity to present a balanced middle ground for both species through art.”

  An almost cooing sound broke from three throats. Elliot was stonily outraged. Those were his insights, even if they would not have got the same reception from his mouth. Elliot was helping Luke be irresistible to all women, which was unfair and unnecessary.

  “Think of the different ways Othello has been produced,” Elliot said to Natalie, who was originally from the other side of the Border like him.

  When everybody was engrossed in a conversation about the evolution of drama, Luke elbowed Elliot hard and whispered: “Why are we sitting here?”

  “I don’t know, Luke,” Elliot said, very reasonably. “Why are we sitting here?”

  Luke frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “That seems true!” Elliot exclaimed, but then Myra appealed to him on a point about set design in the human world, and they could not speak on the matter any further.

  Elliot thought about it later, and thought he could understand. Elliot remembered Luke slinking away from parties, and remembered what Rachel Sunborn had called him: my shy boy. He remembered Luke punching him, and talking about what other people did as if he’d never had any friends before he came to the Border camp at all. Elliot still didn’t think Luke was shy, but Luke was wary of people he did not know well. He’d been raised in a fort with enemies without and impatient soldiers within: he had learned to be no trouble, a pleasure to have around, and to melt away long before anyone wished him gone. Elliot didn’t understand it himself, but if Luke needed someone to be obtrusive, Elliot could do that.

  So the next day at lunchtime, Elliot grabbed Luke by the elbow when he came in and marched over to where the sporty types sat. “Can we sit here, you guys? Awesome.”

  “Absolutely,” said some idiot with teeth that stuck out. “Over here, Luke.”

  “Sit down by me and let’s talk about those moves in Trigon,” said another one, this time with an overbite. Elliot did not have the time to learn the names of all these people with dental problems.

  It did, however, seem as if integrating Luke into this merry band would be simple. It was possible Elliot could simply slink away . . .

  “Sit with me, Elliot,” said Dale Wavechaser, crushing Elliot’s dreams. He patted the seat beside him, which Elliot had mentally earmarked for Luke.

  Elliot shot a desperate look at Luke, who was being pulled down like an antelope by three annoying lions. “Okay,” he said darkly. “Why not?”

  Dale beamed and Elliot sat down. Dale put a hand on his back. “Are you doing all right?”

  “Ahahaha,” said Elliot, squirming away. “Never better, buddy.”

  “I’m glad you’re both here. I saw you guys at the drama kids’ table yesterday,” Dale said, looking honestly concerned. “You can come sit with us anytime, you know.”

  “Gosh,” said Elliot. “What an honor.”

  “Oh, don’t even worry about it,” said Dale. “You’re welcome.”

  This immunity toward sarcasm must mean Dale had such a peaceful life. It also meant he and Elliot were basically speaking different languages.

  “I mean, theatre, boring, am I right?” asked Dale. “It’s just a bunch of pretending stuff.”

  “You’re so right, Dale,” Elliot told him nobly, for Luke’s sake. “I mean, the history of art, basically a lot of idiots wasting their time.”

  “And that dwarf girl sits there.”

  “I like her,” Elliot bit out, stabbing Dale with the twin icicles that his eyes had become.

  “Oh no, I’m sure she’s nice,” Dale said hastily. “Sorry, that was—I didn’t mean to offend you. Hey, so you missed most of the Trigon game the other day, didn’t you?”

  “I was thus tragically deprived,” Elliot said flatly. “Yes.”

  Dale began to outline the events of the game.

  What a nice person, Elliot thought. What a wonderful chat he and Luke could be having about their mutual love for physical exhaustion and hatred for culture. Also he was really handsome, the curling ends of his hair turned to summer gold. Elliot was so bored he wished harpies would attack.

  Elliot was accustomed to being a gleefully abrasive and unpleasant personality, and he did not feel temperamentally suited to extended periods of tedium. He was used to telling people they were unintelligent and leaving at speed.

  But he couldn’t do that to Dale. It wasn’t just Dale and Luke’s destined future. Dale had given Elliot his only birthday present: Elliot didn’t forget that. Elliot would rather hurt himself than Dale, if it came down to it.

  Luke was on the other end of the table, looking twitchy and attempting to rise despite several hands on each of his shoulders. Luke too clearly wished he was the one speaking to Dale. Everything was terrible.

  If Elliot said he had to go to the bathroom, he would be expected back. He set his mind to the problem of finding a good excuse to leave the table for the entirety of lunchtime.

  “It actually reminded me of classic games such as the one played by Eleanor Sunborn eleven years ago,” said Dale. “Do you know that one? Never mind. Let me tell you about it.”

  “How fascinating, please go on,” Elliot encouraged Dale gently, and stabbed himself in the arm with a butter knife. “Whoops, butter fingers. Butter knife . . . fingers.”

  Dale and Elliot watched with incredulous dismay as the gash on Elliot’s arm widened and a lazy trickle of blood became a rushing river.

  “As you can see, Dale, and desolate though I am to say it because our conversation was riveting, I have to go see a medic.”

  “Will I come with you?” asked Dale.

  “No,” said Elliot firmly. “No, you should stay and enjoy your lunch. If your Trigon prowess suffered because of a lack of proper nutrition, how could I live with myself?”

  Whoosh! went the bluebird of sarcasm, zooming miles above Dale’s head.

  “Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

  “What did you do to him?” Luke asked, looming over them and eyeing the blood, which was now all over Elliot’s arm and the table, in horror.

  The sporty types with dental problems were in a routed heap at the other end of the table. They were also staring at the blood.

  “I did it to myself!”

  “What did you let him do to himself?”

  “It’s not his fault,” Elliot snapped. “Why would he assume that I couldn’t feed myself without incurring injuries? Which by the way, ignoring current evidence, I obviously can. I’ve been doing it for years. It was a simple accident. A slip of the knife. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  Luke yanked him up off the bench by the back of his collar. “Come on, we’re going to the medic.”

  “That’s a really good plan, Luke,” Elliot said. “I commend you for it. However, if I might suggest one teensy, eensy adjustment? I could go, and you—since you’re not injured—could stay!”

  Luke continued dragging. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to Serene coming back asking me why she hasn’t found you in one piece the way she left you.”

  If Serene was so concerned about his well-being, she could have not dumped him with a dull thud.

  It wasn’t fair, so Elliot didn’t say it. He let Luke drag him to the infirmary tent, where at least his day was brightened by being whisked away and tended to by the cruelest medic of them all.

  “I’m having a crisis,” Elliot told her.

  “A crisis where you forget how to use your eating utensils? I noticed,” she said, bandaging with efficiency and no effort to spare him pain.

  “Do you know, at lunch there’s one table for kids who like drama, and one table for kids who like sports?”

  “Amazing, it’s like you’re going to a school.”

  “But this
is a school in a magical land!” Elliot protested.

  “People are awful everywhere,” she told him. “Not just kids. Everyone. They tell you people outgrow it, but they don’t. Everywhere you go, you see dynamics just like the petty gangs of youth. Which isn’t to say that school is not a very special hell, as people haven’t yet learned to hide how awful they are.”

  “I don’t have a special table,” Elliot protested.

  “Uh, you, the murderous, man-hating elf girl, and the intense gay kid?” asked the medic. “You’re the weirdo table.”

  The infirmary tent was hushed for a moment, with nothing but the sound of the medic humming to herself and clinking through her instruments, as Elliot worked through this awful opinion.

  “Well, I just don’t think that’s true.”

  “You’re the intense weirdo table. I don’t care what you think is true.”

  Elliot gazed at her with admiration. “Will you tell me your name?” he asked. “Can I eat my lunch in here with you from now on?”

  “Get out of here. I don’t want to spend time with you.”

  Elliot wandered out of the tent feeling vaguely more cheerful.

  “Did you do any serious damage to yourself, you idiot?” asked Luke, falling in step with him.

  “No,” said Elliot. “But apparently it was a nasty cut. I admit I might have stabbed myself harder than I intended.”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing,” said Elliot. “I misspoke. I certainly did not intend to stab myself. Who would intend that? I’m not crazy.”

  “Debatable,” said Luke.

  Elliot’s shoulders sagged. His arm was throbbing. “I just want to sit somewhere and read, please.”

  “Well,” said Luke, and frowned. Elliot believed that Luke was allergic to the library. “I could use some javelin practice.”

  “Okay,” said Elliot, all the fight stabbed out of him. He brought a book and sat on the sidelines.

  “You’re not watching,” Luke said crabbily later.

  “You’re not wrong!” Elliot called back. Luke was doing fine.

  The next day Elliot, in no mood to stab himself, just went to the intense weirdos table and sat down in a state of gloomy surrender to the inevitable.

  “Well, thank God you’ve stopped being so weird,” said Luke, sitting down across the table from him.

  “What you just said is very ironic, but you don’t know it,” Elliot observed. “But then there’s so much you do not know, loser. About irony, obviously. Also about literature and art and drama. Also about computers and music.”

  “I know about computers,” Luke claimed, which was such a lie that Elliot stared at him openmouthed.

  “Really, Sunborn? No, really. All right then. Tell me about computers.”

  “Well . . .” Luke said, and looked shifty about the eyes. “They’re boxes . . . but you can write things in them. And read things in them. And there are cats in them who are funny for some reason. They’re like—boxes of infinity. And! You keep the wikipedia in them!”

  “Elliot,” Myra said from behind him. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Absolutely, and I’m glad you asked. Come to me for any reason whatsoever,” said Elliot, but before he twisted around he pointed at Luke. “And you, hold that thought, because it might be my favorite thing you have ever said. It might be my favorite thing anybody has ever said.”

  He jumped off the bench and looked down at Myra, who seemed upset. He wondered if Peter had done something, and wondered exactly how one went about defending one’s soon-to-be lady.

  “Everything all right?” he asked. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  “Are you sure you still want to help with the play?” Myra asked. “Because if you are, we could use you right now. Adara Cornripe is having a diva moment.”

  “You can rely on me immediately,” Elliot assured her. “Except give me a minute. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  “Right,” said Myra, looking relieved but still under pressure. She turned and fled.

  This was a perfect opportunity to win her heart that should not be missed, and an opportunity to keep himself busy and not thinking about Serene. Elliot rapped on the table to get Luke’s attention. Luke eyed him, unimpressed.

  “Gotta go see about this play. Myra needs help and I can’t abandon her.”

  “Ugh, okay,” said Luke, and got up.

  “So I’m going to go . . .,” Elliot said, as Elliot went and Luke went with him, “to the hall. Where they’re putting on a dramatic production.”

  Luke sighed as if incredibly put-upon. “I wish you weren’t making me do this.”

  “I don’t know how you think I’m making you do this, Luke. Do you think I’m an evil wizard?”

  “Uh,” said Luke. “Obviously not. Wizards are not real.”

  “Good,” Elliot told him. “I don’t like wizard stories all that much. Stories about witches are better, because witches are morally ambiguous and traditionally disempowered. And of course my very favorite is—”

  “I swear, if I hear one more word about mermaids,” said Luke as they walked into the room and heard Adara Cornripe shouting.

  “I will break all the props over your head and then beat you to death with the shards! I’ve waited to play this role since I was a little girl, and now everything is ruined. Tell me, what is my motivation . . . to not kill you?”

  The hall where Elliot had once served General Lakelost doctored drinks looked very different from how he remembered it. Someone had removed the table and chairs, and a small stage was in one corner of the room. A sheet was pinned up over the stage, and wooden buckets of paint were lined up like hopeful petitioners beneath the sheet. There were also a huddled group of people, including Captain Whiteleaf, listening to Adara. She had her hands on her hips and murder in her eyes.

  “Maybe I could step in and play—” began the captain tremulously.

  Adara snorted, which sounded like a horse shooting a bullet out of its nostril. “Can you really see yourself as Jewel? No, wait! You’ve decided to turn this piece into a comedy.” Her eyes narrowed so much they almost slammed shut. “Well, I’m not laughing!”

  It was hard to note anyone besides the pillar of flame that had been Adara, but Elliot saw Myra with her arms curled around herself, looking ready to stop, drop, and roll.

  He wanted to be her hero, so he stepped forward.

  “Nobody’s laughing, Adara,” he said soothingly. Adara’s head snapped around to face him. Elliot lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “Just here to help, you dazzling apricot of artistry, you. Excited to help out, build sets, see you perform. Can I fetch you a glass of water?”

  Adara did not immediately bite his head off and spit it out of the window, which Elliot counted as a win until he noticed that Adara was not looking at him, but over Elliot’s shoulder. Elliot glanced behind him, and saw Luke had stepped back and hit the door he’d just come through.

  “Jewel,” Adara breathed.

  “Can I have a word with you, Elliot?” Luke asked between his teeth. “I have a strong feeling that I should be somewhere else.”

  Elliot leaned back against the door as well. “No. Nope, I think I want to stay and see this one play out.”

  Luke stared into space. “Awesome.”

  “So here’s the issue,” said Adara briskly. “Mr Fleetwood—”

  “Was his first name Mac?” asked Elliot.

  “No, why would you ask that?” Adara snapped.

  “No reason,” Elliot told her, disappointed. “Continue.”

  “Mr Fleetwood retired last year,” Adara resumed, “and there was no teacher on the council course willing to replace him. Several students have quit since then, and the best male performers graduated last year and have not been replaced. The drama group has always been primarily female. It’s something the very few women in the camp can do together! It’s why we put on elven plays, because that means that there are more women with bigger and better parts.
But it’s also why the boys don’t want to join! And this idiot isn’t any good at recruiting, due to having the charisma of a rotten leaf.”

  Captain Whiteleaf looked deeply wounded.

  “We need men,” Adara continued. Elliot figured there was never a bad time to hear things like that from a beautiful blonde. “Specifically, we need someone to play Jewel-in-the-Crown-of-Beauty, our protagonist’s love interest and the most beautiful and virtuous elf in the four forests. Luke, you saved the whole production by coming here. You would obviously be perfect, and you are cast. And you! You’re a boy, sort of,” Adara went on.

  “Oh, thanks,” said Elliot.

  “More of one than Captain Whiteleaf, anyway.”

  “Oh, thanks!” Captain Whiteleaf exclaimed indignantly.

  Adara’s indifference was supreme. “Someone throw Schafer a script. Does anyone think that he could play Red Rose?”

  Elliot stared.

  “Red-Rose-Blooming-in-a-Dark-Garden,” Myra put in helpfully. “He’s often played by a red-haired actor, though some people argue that the name symbolizes the carnal sin and temptation he represents in his place as a minor agent on the side of evil.”

  “Sorry, what?” asked Elliot. “Are you telling me that Luke is cast as the maiden fair and I am the bit-part evil floozy?”

  There was a pause. Myra was cute, but there were some things Elliot could not put up with.

  “How dare you,” Elliot exclaimed. “Come on, loser, we’re leaving.”

  “Thank you, Elliot,” Luke said devoutly. “I do not want to be here.”

  “Red Rose actually has a very interesting backstory!” Myra burst out, jumping to her feet and shoving her handwritten script in Elliot’s direction. “He was in love with our hero, the valiant knight Radiant-Blade-Washed-With-Blood. That’s Adara. They went to school together, but Red Rose is embittered his beauty is fading with the years, and Radiant’s heart has been stolen by Jewel’s loveliness and purity, so Red Rose turns to evil!”