Chapter of Currently Untitled Work

The sun shined strongly through the break in the treetops. Crisp beams of light pierced through, lighting the underbrush. The smell of a fresh rain coated the area, though it had been gobbled up quickly by the trees. It had done little but taunt the new growth, desparate for a sip of water. Their leaves showed a slight wilt from weeks of intense heat with little respite.

What remained of the morning dew dripped off a leaf on to the dark leather shirt of a man stalking quietly through the underbrush. An arrow lay nocked on his bowstring, ready to fire. Each silent step forward moved him closer to his prey, a lone rabbit softly scavenging for a bit of food. Each step would bring him closer to a meal. The rabbit perked its ears up, testing the area for the sound of danger. The man froze, closing his eyes, hoping the rabbit would not sense his existence. He labored to control his breathing, hoping the rabbit would continue about its business. It was time. Now or never.

The man cleared his mind and pictured water flowing through and around him, cleansing him and at the same time invigorating his senses. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, but he ignored the change, focusing on drawing more and more from the ground. He felt its energy envelope him as a flower beginning to open into blossom. More. He began to draw the arrow back, directing the energy to true his aim. Slowly, the energy obeyed. It crept from his fingers into the bow, he could feel the wood fill with life in his hands. It continued to grow into an unseen glow, an invisible tremor of excited particles. He closed his eyes.

It happened quickly. The arrow loosed, flying straight and true towards the rabbit. It had little time to react before sharpened rock plunged deep into its heart. A last moment of struggle and silence. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees.

The man slowly stood up, slinging his bow on his back. With the need for stealth gone, he walked over to the rabbit and knelt down before it, a single knee crunching into dry leaves.

Life to death, the circle renewed. He bowed his head in silent thanks for the rabbit’s sacrifice.

He gathered the rabbit in his arms and turned to make his way back to town, following the well-known trails through the forest. He had been lucky to find game so close to the trail. It was not unusual to go almost entire days without seeing a trace of an animal, when years before the forest had been teeming with life. Most game was smaller now and, more often than not, underweight. He glanced at the rabbit in his hand. This one seemed to be no exception to that rule.

The trail lead down to the edge of the forest, opening up into a field filled with browning grass. He continued walking, cresting over a short hill he peered out solemnly over his old town. Below him were a dozen houses strewn about, their thatched roofs and field stone walls seemed to absorb the sun. Heat distorted the area around the buildings. The man came to the lone street, dirt packed down by years of horses and wagons. There was a good amount of activity for this time of day, young children taking a morning break from chorses ran about. The clatter of metal on metal could be heard down the way at the blacksmith’s forge. An older woman was sweeping out her home, she glanced up at the man walking through, but quickly averted her gaze and continued on in an ritualistic monotony.

All this time and still…

“Farrove!?"

The man stopped and turned around at the mention of his name. He smiled at his friend. His work clothes were heavily soiled. As he approached, it was clear he had been working with animals: bits of straw clung to his trousers. A ragged hat on his head helped keep the scorched sun from his eyes. His boots had long ago lost their leathery strength and the tops of the boot folded over until stopped by the laces. Despite his appearance, he had a grand smile across his face, a smile meant for an old friend.

Farrove couldn’t help but laugh as his friend nearly tripped over a stone coming up to him. They embraced, hand to hand, arm clapping the other on the back.

“Still haven’t gotten the feeling of your feet under you, Brandle?”

He laughed, “I swear the ground moves more than the boat ever did under my feet! What are you doing back?”

“I was hunting in the area and decided to stop by to get some suppli-.”

Brandle shook his head, interrupting his friend’s thought. “Let’s get out of this sun, I have some bread and cheese left from breakfast if you’re hungry.” Brandle noticed the rabbit mounted on a stick over his friend’s shoulder. “Or maybe you could feed us” he laughed. “Come, come, if only for a few hours. I doubt anyone noticed your approach regardless.”

Farrove casually walked with his friend to the house. Brandle opened the door and offered him a seat at the dining table. He gingerly took his friend’s cloak and hung it on a nearby hook. “Please, make yourself comfortable, I’ll just need to…“ He continued talking as he left the room, his voice trailing off.

Farrove stood up and walked towards the kitchen’s hearth. It seemed Brandle had already started a small fire to heat water up for tea. He took in his surroundings with earnest, trying to see what had changed. Not much it seemed. In the corner was the old bookshelf, few books resided there, most shelves were dedicated as extra storage space. Things like books were expensive to own, and even now, the rich were not keen to flaunt their luck. The feeling around would certainly be too tenuous for such obvious shows. He glanced over a few titles: The Tales of King Tenil and Pirating the Corksin. Lightly, he tapped a finger on their binding. How many times had he read of the humorous trials of King Tenil and his court magician? With a deft hand he replaced the titles to their spots and continued to look about.



Beside the books lay a tall jar filled with various rolls of parchment, carefully he removed a slightly yellowed roll. With each turn of his wrist an artist’s sketch revealed. In a light charcoal were the outlines of a male and female standing in each other’s arms along the side of a boat. The turbulent cresting of waves could be seen buffeting the hull. A steady gaze was fixed towards a murky charcoal horizon.

Farrove quietly pulled a chair out and sat down, his legs happy for a brief respite from constant movement. He laid the parchment on the table, careful not to smudge the picture. How long it has been.

A woman appeared in the doorway in front of Farrove. She wore a greyish toned dress, which did little to adequately frame her stunning deep chocolate-colored waves. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid behind her.

“Well, hello there.” She headed over to the hearth, taking the water from the fire. “I didn’t expect for Brandle to have company or I would have put more water on the fire.”

“Thank you for your kindness, I’m sure I wasn’t expected.”

The lady put a hand to her forehead. “Where are my manners? My name is Katherine.” She looked over at the parchment. “I see you found some of my husband’s work.”

“Farrove. Brandle is an old friend of mine. I don’t mean to intrude. I stopped by town to buy some supplies.”

“Times are hard Farrove its true, but to give out on friends…” Her voice trailed off with the thought. She quickly refocused herself. “You are welcome as long as you need.”

Farrove nodded his thanks, returning his attention to rerolling the sketch parchment.

“The rabbit will be done soon, I have it on a spit outside.” Brandle said as he entered through the door. With a smile and kiss to his wife he sat down at the table and continued the small talk. Within the hour Katherine was standing up to go about the remainder of her evening chores and Farrove and Brandle continued talking. Farrove reclined in his chair.

“It has been so long.”

“Six years since you left, almost to the day. I remember it because it was right before festival.”

“I can’t imagine the Elders would appreciate me staying.”

“Farrove, it isn’t something you need worry about. You were young then and they sent you away so you could be trained in the Art. So you wouldn’t hurt anyone again."

Farrove pursed his lips, holding back an anger bubbling inside. With restraint he spoke.

“The Tower of Light does not train, Brandle. The Elders sent me away to be rid of me, not to be trained. I was too dangerous to risk being allowed to stay. I was different, uncontrolled. It is as simple as that. Whatever the Elders preached to the town about it being for any other reason is folly.”

Brandle nodded softly to himself. He let a silence develop, trying to think of the most polite way to fashion his question.

“Can you control it now? The Art I mean.”

At the mere mention of the Art Farrove began drawing from the earth. Energy climbed like vines through his body, twisting into his arms while growing denser with each moment. That very essence of the Art enveloped his mind, blanketing him with wave upon wave of energy. It was seductive, the feeling of power growing. Sweet, a desire that grew stronger with each moment. Farrove had to make a conscious effort to stop the flow. Still, it was difficult to let go. The emptiness of normality made him feel hollow. Remembering his friend, Farrove gave a shake of his head, looking up at Brandle. “Unfortunately Brandle, I can.”

There was a moment of silence as the words sank like lead. Brandle broke the silence hesitantly,

“Know this. The things that happened back then are forgotten by me.” He spoke as if reassuring himself as well. “You may stay as long as you wish.” With a start he stood up. “But now, it is rabbit time.”

After the meal that night Brandle lead Farrove to a small room off the kitchen. He gave his friend a candle and left with a goodnight.

Farrove took a seat on the bed. It seemed of good quality, certainly better than his previous sleeping arrangement. Nothing could be worse than a night on another rock. Farrove laughed a small chuckle.

With little more than a thought, he had gathered energy from the earth and lit the candle. The lone flame danced, wrapped in a flickering orange. He reached into his belt loop pocket and pulled out a small disk, no more than a thumbnail’s width long, but with a small hole in the center. Through this hole was a leather string tied around itself creating a small pendant necklace. What could they want with this…

Farrove turned the disk over in his fingers. A multitude of colors flashed over a dull reflection of the candle flame. The colors seemed to shift into each other when not directly watched, and to stand still when faced head on. The colors run into each other, this way and that and yet the face of the disk did not appear to change. It was almost like looking into a curved mirror created from a mixture of ice and forged iron still hot from the fire. An icy pool and yet at the same time a molten fire.

Farrove had never before seen the pendant worn by any at the Tower, and had heard no mention in his lessons about the item he now held. He could feel the Art flowing through its curves though. It felt strong in his hands.

Making sure not to hit his head on the wooden frame, Farrove leaned his head back into the pillow, puzzled at the use for the disk. Finding no obvious purpose, he gently replaced the pendant back into his belt pocket and pulled the drawstring shut. Briefly he stared at the pouch, it felt so distant now that it was out of his hands.

With a flick of his wrist the flame disappeared and again the room was dark. Farrove soon found himself relaxing into the sheets, the bed was more than suitable for him. Sleep came quickly. Outside, a light breeze rustled the brown grass, sending its whispers to the sky; a gentle choir singing a frenzied plea for help in a language recently unknown. There is despair.

END OF CHAPTER