by RG Long
The moon will rise.
The sun will set.
And I have walking to do yet.
“Could you sing that one again Miss Blume?" a little voice asked her.
Blume looked over at the small huddled up form of one of the younger children.
It was Thomas, a seven-year-old boy. His father had marched north to fight with the army against Thoran. When his name appeared on the list of those who had given their life for the Southern Republic, his mother had taken her own life as well.
With no family close by nor any siblings, Thomas soon found himself out on the streets. Before he had come to the Home for the Helpless he had lived a happy life. He wasn't spoiled, nor did he go without. To hear him speak about his parents and how much he missed them was heartbreaking.
Blume motioned for him to scoot closer to her and put her arm around him.
"I'll sing it again, Thomas," she said. "Only this time try to go back to sleep.""
He nodded his head and leaned against her shoulder.
At the end of the song, Blume found herself crying silent tears and trying not to wake anyone else in the cart.
She tried hard not to think about someone she had not seen since the night all this happened.
Blume didn't know if Abigail was in another cart, back at the Home for the Helpless, or if she had suffered some worse fate.
ANOTHER BUMP FROM THE cart woke Blume up from a sleep she didn't remember starting. Thomas was still asleep on her shoulder. She looked down in her lap to see that Jeremy was still there as well. His eyes had opened for the first time in days.
“Morning, Jeremy,” Blume said softly, trying not to wake Thomas.
Jeremy grunted and adjusted himself on the floor of the cart. Blume thought he must have been pretty sore after lying in the same spot for a few days.
“I noticed you left out 'good,'” he said with a raspy voice, “which accurately describes how I feel at the moment. Most certainly, not good.”
It was the most he had said in two days. Blume was encouraged by at least hearing him talk.
“Miss Blume?” Thomas asked.
She hadn't felt him stir. When she looked down at him, he hadn't even moved or opened his eyes. Still, he must have at least woken up a little.
“Is Mister Jeremy gonna die?”
A lump formed in Blume's throat.
“No,” she said through a watery haze in her eyes. “No, he'll be just fine. We just have to take care of him.”
She opened her eyes to see Jeremy looking up at her. He wore a look of both pain and great appreciation for her.
Blume stroked his head. He was still hot to the touch. But less so than yesterday.
“I think his fever is breaking,” she said, more to herself than to Thomas.
“Hey! Water!” a voice from outside the cart yelled.
The kids looked up and saw a metal pitcher shoved through the window. Precious drops splashed out as whoever was offering them the drink handled the cup without care.
Thomas jumped up and grabbed it, attempting not to spill the precious liquid.
In truth, it wasn't the cleanest. Little minerals floated around in the cup. The water had the slightest brown tinge to it. They didn't care.
Blume would have drunk a gallon of the water, if given the opportunity. She was so thirsty.
But this was all they would get for the entire day. The pitcher was no larger than a large mug of ale.
Typically, they would pass it among the youngest of them first. The three little ones were all in various stages of dehydration. But today, instead of taking the first drink, Thomas brought the pitcher over to Jeremy.
“Here, Mister Jeremy,” he said as he slowly tipped the pitcher of water to his mouth. “You need this more than we do.”
Blume held him back gently.
“Thank you, Thomas,” she said, truly touched by his act of selflessness. “But if we all drink after Mister Jeremy we might all get sick. You three drink first.”
Thomas looked hurt, but understood all the same.
The little ones drank two swallows a piece. Blume took hers, then the other older girl, whose name was Rosa, took a sip.
“He needs it,” she said as Blume gave her a questioning look.
Rosa hadn't spoken much this entire time. The little ones snuggled up next to her more than Blume and she affectionately patted them. She hadn't shared her story about how she came to be at Miss Greer's or what happened to her parents or anything.
She ate and drank silently.
Perhaps her story was too sad to tell.
Sometimes, Blume had thought, being quiet might be better than bringing up old pains.
She smiled at the quiet girl, and offered Jeremy the rest of the water.
Jeremy drank while actually conscious. That alone was an improvement. He had two or three large gulps and smacked his lips in satisfaction.
Then the water was gone.
They hardly stopped in this caravan. It seemed to Blume that the army marched all day and all night. There were some periods where they rested what could not have been for more than a few hours. But that was all.
Time passed in odd intervals inside the cart. Only one could look outside the window at a time, and only for a limited span. The ceiling wasn't tall enough to let Blume stand to her full height, yet any of the smaller children had to be given a boost to see what was happening beyond their cage.
Mostly, the view was of countless soldiers marching. Blume guessed they were heading north, due to never having the suns shine directly though the opening. But that was just a guess.
Thoran had already had its army beaten. When the trio had mistakenly left Thoran, a goblin army was coming against it. Surely this was Androlion's maneuver to finish off the country for good. Blume sat back. If they were going back to Thoran, this was certainly not how she would have liked to.
ONE DAY, WHEN THEY would typically be handed their food, a commotion was happening just outside the cart.
“I want to see!”
“Give us a chance!”
“Where's that thing?”
The voices came from all around them. Blume sat upright, still cradling Jeremy's head in her lap.
“What's going on, Miss Blume?” Thomas asked as he huddled close.
She shook her head in response and looked to Rose.
The other two children were close to her and she sat wide-eyed, staring at the window.
Then someone starting banging on the outside of the cart. The noise reverberated loudly and the children started screaming.
The cart shook and rocked as the banging continued. Blume saw some figures pass in front of the window. She couldn't tell who or what they were. The visions of what could be transpiring were murky and terrifying.
Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and strong.
“Stop that! Soldiers! Stop!”
The banging stopped and all was quiet.
“Back in line! All of you! Where is your officer?”
There was a shuffling of feet and some grumbling voices.
Blume could hear the sounds of a horse trotting alongside the animal that pulled their cage.
One more loud bang came against their cart. Blume felt the boards right behind her head move.
“You there!” came the voice again. “What are you doing?”
“We heard there was a dwarf in there, sir!” came the reply.
Blume looked at Jeremy anxiously. He returned her glare.
“What's that to you? Back to your position!” the other voice barked.
There was a pause. Blume certainly heard someone right outside her cart, but the sound of boots walking away didn't come.
“Sir,” the voice next to the cart said. “Aren't we supposed to be killing off the dwarves? And the elves? That's what Master Androlion keeps telling us we're to do. Cleanse the continent.”
Now Blume was nervous. All that stood between her and a soldier who wished to kill Jeremy was a few old bo
ards.
The armies of Androlion had certainly seen fit to kill any other race they come in contact with. Blume had experienced that in Weyfield. She had seen it in Thoran. What was to stop them now if that was what they desired?
Outside the cart, Blume heard someone in armor dismount from their horse and draw a sword. Her heart began to race.
Was this going to be their end?
Then there was a crashing sound and the cart rocked as something smashed hard against the boards next to Blume.
“I don't care who or what is in there. My orders are to see them to our journey's end safely,” said a voice right outside the cart. His tone was threatening.
“If you so much as come near their cart again, I'll cleanse the continent of you and your insolence. Back in line!”
Another crash against the cart was followed by the sound of someone falling to the ground and gagging. Whoever it was must have been held by the throat up against their wooden cage.
Blume tried to look through the cracks in the boards and could just barely make out a man climbing back onto his horse and someone helping the other off the ground.
“Get back to your commanding officer,” the voice said as he settled on his mount. “Before I place you in my personal care. Hiyah!”
Horse hooves sounded out and sped away.
Grumbling men walked off and the cart was once again moving along.
Blume looked at Jeremy, who looked back to her.
“I cannot ascertain who that man was,” he said. “But I believe I owe him my life.”
JEREMY WAS RECOVERING slowly.
He was by no means well, but certainly not dying.
After a day of him being able to sit up and support himself, Blume was feeling relieved that he was no longer at death's door.
She also had another revelation.
"Jeremy," she said one morning after they had drank their water pitcher dry. "This is the most time you and I have ever spent together without Abigail."
He nodded his head, though his eyes were closed. Jeremy still complained about headaches from his fever.
"Are you surprised by your ability to tolerate me?" he asked with a small smile.
Blume chuckled.
"Well, I do tend to have a soft spot for pitiful creatures," she replied.
He gave a true smile.
"I didn't think you'd ever desire to be in my presence again, after I told Miss Wishter you had snuck out of your room."
That night seemed so long ago. It had been nearly two months since then.
"Yeah," Blume admitted after remembering how angry she had been. "I actually wanted to punch you in the nose."
They both laughed.
But Blume was curious.
"Why did you tell Miss Wishter? Couldn't you have just come and got me yourself if you thought it was dangerous?"
Jeremy opened his eyes. He rubbed his face with his hand and gave a deep sigh.
"Well," he began. "I suppose it had to do with my predisposition to respecting authority. Or rather, to having the admiration of those in authority."
Blume gave him a questioning look.
"Fine," he said. Blume could tell there was more to the story and was actually eager to listen. Over the last few days, seeing Jeremy in such dire conditions and caring for him through his sickness, she had actually come to see him as her friend.
And now she wanted to know more about him.
"It goes back to my parents. They've been armorers in Thoran for longer than even the last king was alive. They’re actually pretty famous for their craft. The problem is, their eldest son," he pointed to himself.
"Ie never really cared for the manufacturing of metal objects. I was more interested in Rimstone. Of course, it could be worked into weapons and armor to various degrees and effects, but in its raw state, it could be used to help manipulate nature itself! I was fascinated, but my parents didn't think I was living up to my potential. Nor to any dwarf's potential actually."
Jeremy knocked on the floor of the cart with his hand.
"I begged them to let me enroll in the Speaker school. When I turned twenty they finally relented and allowed me to begin courses. My younger brother took up the hammer in my stead and honestly," he paused a moment and sniffed.
"Honestly I don't think they've missed me much. I don't get many familial visits. So whenever I can capture the attention of an adult in charge. I suppose..."
He trailed off for a moment as several horses rode by, making so much noise he couldn't talk over them. They passed after a few moments.
"I suppose I wanted the attention and recognition I hadn't received from the parents I have at home," he continued. "Whenever I hear that I've performed a task well, I receive the affirmation I desire. It's like I need the compliments because I know I won't receive them from anyone at my own residence, or even anyone else in my race."
Blume took a moment to consider. Jeremy was, in fact, the only dwarf enrolled in the school that she knew about. Everyone else was either human or elf.
"That's why I have such a hard time relating to dwarven culture. I could with greater ease align myself with an elf."
He looked right at Blume with his large brown eyes. For once, Blume noticed how tender they looked. Even with his scruff on his neck, Jeremy was still a young man looking for the praise he never received from his parents.
"Surprisingly," he went on. "I would have never guessed I'd share all that with you, Blume Dearcrest."
"I'm glad you did,” she answered honestly.
As they continued to bump along the road, Blume was genuinely glad for the chance to get to know Jeremy better.
She needed all the friends she could possibly get if she was to survive whatever lay ahead of them.
He rested his head back against the side of the cart and sighed again. Blume wondered when was the last time he told anyone this. Or if he had shared his whole story with anyone.
The days drug on along with the cart.
Blume wondered how much longer they would be transported like this before they were thrown into some new circumstances. She also wondered if they would be an improvement over this.
27: Politics
Wisym was taken with this new influx of visitors to Beaton.
It had been either luck or fate that she was on top of the wall when they had tried to enter the city. She had easily spotted the elf in their party. With her own heightened sense of hearing, she could hear that they needed to get inside the city for a noble cause.
Talking in a voice that only the elf (whose name was Lote she would later learn) could hear, Wisym had explained what to say to the guard to stall while she climbed down the steps to let them in.
After the excitement of getting into Beaton and arranging a meeting with the governor the next day, the party relayed their thanks to Wisym.
She just wished she could be more helpful.
After their meeting with the governor ended with his usual: “I wish I could help but the Red Guard...” she understood their natural frustration. They all went to bed that night in the mansion of the Governor tired and unsatisfied.
Just two months ago, she had felt the same when her own pleas for aid were unanswered.
So instead of returning to recapture her homeland, the few hundred of surviving elves who came with her to Beaton were given some plots of land within the protective walls of Beaton and Wisym was placed on the governor's council as his adviser in elf affairs.
It was, by no means, a popular choice among her leadership, let alone with her personally.
But what else could she do? She was responsible for the livelihood of the remainder of her kin. She couldn't force them into the wild. Since Beaton had been hospitable enough to them, she had been content to stay.
At least for the time being.
Her generals had not been so warm to the idea, but they also had not given any better advice.
“What would you have me do? Sail back down the river and into death?”
she had asked, frustrated after her meeting with the governor to secure land for the elves.
“I would have you at least provide us with decent leadership! Hadn't you learned that under Galebre?” shouted Celdor, a commander underneath her. His brown braided hair had shaken when he rose to show his disgust with Wisym's decision. He was a battle-hardened elf who wanted to fight back, not settle.
Finwe, the other commander, put an arm to Celdor's chest. She was a wise elf and much older than both of the other two elves in the room. While Wisym's hair was blonde and long, Finwe's was whiter and longer. The bun she normally kept her hair in, however, hid its true length most of the time. Wisym had only ever seen her let her hair down once. It reached past her waist.
“You'll not put that type of pressure over her,” she said.
Wisym wished she could have been more thankful at that moment, but she felt belittled. Even from Finwe.
“I will lead as I see fit. We stay,” she said as she stormed from the ship they had lived on for the past week. Ithrel, her faithful and quiet companion, followed dutifully.
Wisym wished that she were able to provide better for her fellow elves. At the moment, she could not find a better alternative.
"Ithrel," she said as she paced the deck of what was left of her ship. They had sailed without aid or rest from Talgel to Beaton and faced menacing goblins, inhospitable dwarves, and dangerous pirates all the way. The ship was not in its best condition. "Am I making the right choice?"
Though Ithrel only spoke a handful of words at a time, Wisym valued her advice and counsel above all others.
"You are leading from your heart," she said as she leaned against the rails of the ship.
Wisym took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“But is my heart right on this?” she asked.
Ithrel was quiet. She had turned to look out past the ship.
Wisym looked over at her. She had short brown hair that contrasted with Wisym's long blonde hair. Ithrel looked out over the docks that lined the river. Her eyes were sad and thoughtful.
“We can't go back,” she said in a near whisper.
Wisym agreed. The elves would have to stay. Who knew what had become of Ingur and Talgel in their absence? They would have to make a new start in Beaton. She joined her friend at the railing and looked towards the glorious city.
