The Tithe of War Part II: Envy

     We entered into my plain and unfinished office together not having spoken a word the entire walk. Even so, through the silence I could feel her eyes fixated on me and a hatred that seemed to heat the air.  She stood at the entrance while I began to pack things. Having Artymexia there made me feel like some fallen animal being circled over by a carrion bird and so to ease the tension I decided it was best to try conversation,
     "Are you able to be ready soon?" I asked in my best attempt to be civil.
     "I'm ready whenever you are Colonel." the last word seemed to grind out with unfiltered aggression.
     I only nodded, perhaps conversation wasn't exactly the best option. I at last hooked my sword onto my sash and headed out, Artymexia close behind. Thankfully my office was close to our stable of wardja, a race of animal that appeared to simply be a larger breed of wolf, which offered us quick access to transportation and a quicker route out to Raulia. As we left I began to fill in my lieutenant in on the details of our venture: the dragonkin had always been a shifty race so any treaty or would-be treaty they made was reason to be cautious, but with what has recently transpired I believe they are aiming to take out the humans as revenge for the War of Barlund centuries ago where the Dragon's first king was killed and their human captives lost. Revenge was always a powerful motive and it's something that stays with you for generations. In any case our story time was over as we began approaching the trade route and next most likely stoppage point for the caravel. 
     We came upon the forest trail, it was only wide enough to fit one carriage at a time so fleeing wasn't much of an option for them still though I felt uneasy. A forest can hide any number of traps and I obviously didn't have the resources on hand to scope out the area for any traps, so I was trusting my instincts that these were in fact just traders. As we heard the wagon train coming I sent Artymexia off into hiding for the sake of an ambush if things went south. I stood in the middle of the trail arms crossed over that noisome brestplate I still had to wear. In a few mere moments I could hear the sound of chatter and thankfully the wagons that had halted before me. The dragonkin were an interesting race, a dilution of the former dragons that came before them, a result of interbreeding with their former human captives. They weren't quite dragon and not quite human, they took the size and shape of humans with somewhat dragon features on their faces and a sickly green pallor that made it appear as if they were nauseous their whole lives. Because of their appearance and nature they were distrusted by most and made shadowy deals handing out their men as mercenaries. My father used to tell me stories of the dragonkin mercenaries, a cunning and ruthless fighter who could emanate enough heat from his body to boil a man's blood.
     "And what right do you think you have in stopping us elf?" the apparent leader stepped forward gritting his teeth making each word hiss out.
     "The Elven have reason to believe that you've been supplying the dwarves against the humans in this war." I stood firmly and felt more comfortable now being able to exercise some of my skills.
     "And just what is it to you? The war will not come to Elven shores unless they themselves bring it." he smirked a bit piquing my suspicion now.
     "It would be in the best interest of your race to retreat now and cease all aid peaceably or we shall simply pry it from those cold scaly hands." I sneered back.
     The dragonkin only laughed in response and before I knew it I was surrounded by the dragonkin who had hid in bushes while I conversed with their leader. The odds certainly weren't in my favor, but I knew I couldn't give up. However, there were worse things hiding in those woods for when I went to draw my blade there was a crippling shot to the back of my knee collapsing me to the ground. I looked up to find the dragonkin encircling me as well as Artymexia in front of them.
     "My, my I think you should turn in a handsome bounty." she grew a wicked smile and knelt down in front of me while a sword was put to the back of my neck.
     "What the hell is the meaning of this?!" I snarled ready to charge but a vicious stomp on my back flattened me to the floor.
     She cackled. "If the Elders dare discredit me for your misguidances then I shall show them who truly deserves that rank. Take him away, you'll have your pay in due time." She waved them off and began a trek back to the city. I thrashed and kicked against my captors, but their combined strength held me back from tearing out her throat. I was tossed in the back of a caravan and knocked out left to await my fate at Forzunder, the dragonkin's citadel.

The Alamo Is No Place For Dancing

     It felt odd driving through the sun-baked landscape in the dead of winter. I was much more accustomed to the frigid air and slick roads in Boston, so the clear roads and high visibility was both relaxing and unnerving at the same time. The few times I had exited my vehicle for gas or food in this area the air seemed to stifle all thoughts the second it hits. It was a dry and heavy heat that sapped any energy you had in your body and made the skin tingle like it was already burning. In the Midwestern and most Northern states you always here people complain about the bitter winters, but after this experience I think I'd rather die freezing to death numbly than burn alive and feel everything. It would seem odd that a Bostonian would travel so far south, or at least it seemed odd to the few gas station attendants who looked at my I.D. when I went to purchase cigarettes, and after awhile the notion began getting to me why was I here? I occasionally had to job my memory with the high school reunion invitation sitting in the passengers seat. Christian Springs High School, the bland high school in the middle of a bland town that I left years ago in my journey to be a journalist. It's hard to be nostalgic for a town that you vaguely remember full of people who vaguely remember you, despite being such a small town. Maybe it's because I didn't play any sports or actually bring the town any fame that they have scorned me in this way, but whatever the case may be I don't care. The closer I got to the town the more I felt this nagging notion in the back of my head that there was something I was leaving out of my mind about this town though. The only reason I really came was because of my mother's nagging and it's hard to ignore her and at 7PM on a Thursday I arrived at her door and smiled at the cheery woman who waddled out of our townhouse and down the driveway to hug her baby boy. I had been driving all day, however, so the tearful embrace was cut short and I took residence in my old room, untouched since the day I left.
     The room was more unsettling than anything. It was like some shrine to a man that had long since perished, everything meticulously put into it's exact space and made into a tomb for my 17 year old self. I set my bag at the end of the bed and changed into some less ratty clothes then laid in bed staring at the ceiling. I tried falling asleep several times, but each time I closed my eyes I was jarred awake by a disturbing vision. I couldn't quite make out any images, it was like watching an old T.V. that had the antennas with a fuzzy picture and no distinct lines, but I could hear screams perfectly clear. There was no harsh humming accompanied with the T.V. image only screams. After the fifth try, I gave it up and shimmied out of my bed to search the house for some sleep aid. I shuffled out into the hallway pulling up my flannel pajama pants and glanced towards each end of the hallway. My head ached a bit as I trudged forward surveying some of the old photos that mom still had hanging on the walls and resting on bookshelves. Again this odd nagging feeling filled my mind as looked over the images, it all seemed to come from a place I'd never known and the longer I stared the more alienated I felt. Was there some sort of memory about Christian Springs that I had locked away? I knew I always detested this place, but maybe there was some sort of subconscious reason for it all. One picture began to stick out though, a simply framed photo from what seemed to be a prom-like event. The person on the right was easily identifiable being myself, but the girl I was with came up as a blank. She was a beautiful girl: fair-skinned, red-haired, pale green dress. It all made me wonder why I couldn't remember her, I assume she was my date to some kind of event. A feeling of self-hate and resentment began to well up at my apparent failing and in my fit my hands had clenched tightly enough around the frame to shatter the glass and I dropped it with a yell as I had cut my hand open.
     "What's all the noise out here?" my mother's voice pierced the silence and worsened my headache with it's pitch.
     "Sorry, I couldn't sleep for some reason." I smiled at her faintly apologetic, trying to hide the wound.
     "Well now I can't either." she sighed and notice the picture frame on the ground, "Oh now don't worry about things like that, frames can be replaced." She plodded over and began picking up the pieces.
     "Hey mom, who was that with me in the picture? I can't remember a name, it's annoying me that I can't."
     Without sound she straightened up and walked off into the kitchen to dispose of the glass. I was just ignored by my own mother, is there some sort of conspiracy going on here that I don't know about? I followed her until I reached the pantry and fished out the first aid kit we had stashed in there and began wrapping up my hand. Whatever was going on here was worse than I thought, maybe my classmates would have some answers for me tomorrow. I ventured back and climbed into bed, finally being able to fall asleep albeit it wasn't a peaceful sleep. I was filled with images of violence and clamorous people screaming and shouting. They say you only dream of people you've met before, but again all the faces were blurry images of unfamiliar origin. I awoke in the morning drenched in a cold sweat and fought the urge to resign back to comfort of my bedding and got up making my way towards the shower. After the morning clean-up routine and getting dressed it was only 10:30 A.M. and the reunion didn't start until 5 P.M. Mom insisted I stick around and meet up with family before I had to leave again, but the thought of staying in that mausoleum any longer scared me more than anything that happened last night.
     There wasn't much to do in town as I exited the car I realized this. It was a small enough town that you could walk it in a few minutes and only contained a few shops. Even so, just being out in the fresh air was enough to at least ease some of the discomfort. Since it really was the only option I really I had, I finished up the cigarette I had started when I left the house and began walking along the town feeling somewhat nostalgic for a change. I guess it was a nice change from the loud and crowded Boston, but I felt the hate I had for the town softly melt away. I had yet to see a single face that I could truly remember, but the vagueness of it all gave me good writing inspiration for when I went back home. The scene was somewhat peaceful and actually pleasant until I began to hear the sound of music in the background. It started with the low humming notes of violins and was soon joined by the rest of the orchestra, but there was no musician or conductor to be had when I turned around to investigate. For a reason I can't explain to this day, I simply began walking towards the sounds without any conscious thought about where my steps led me. After my short bout with delirium I found myself inside the High School Auditorium fully aware of myself now. The music has stopped and let every footstep into that dark hall echo endlessly as I went towards the center of the room glancing around as I went. What had led me here? Where did that music come from? I looked down and reached up to scratch my head, but had to stop my hand just in front of my eyes. There was a faded, but still visible, tan line from were a ring once was. I can't recall ever wearing a ring and I wasn't engaged yet the mysterious band didn't dissipate only burned into my eyes as I stared at it.
     "So you finally came for our dance?" a soft voice called out behind me, but no face accompanied when I turned around.
     I was about to reply to the empty air when everything started to come back. Even if it was only bits and pieces of a single event, their collective impact was staggering and I finally began to realize everything I had been feeling since I arrived: the nagging feeling, mom ignoring the photo, the reason everything was kept in such a sterile order in that room, the girl in the photo. Most people are moved to tears when overwhelmed with memories and feelings, but all I could feel was nothing. The sordid memories only began to re-solidify every reason I had for leaving this place. The faded band around my finger once held the place of a ring that was given to me by Amy, the girl in the photo. It was only high school, but we had dated for three years before we were to graduate and had made a promise to be married after that. The photo was taken at prom, but the photo couldn't contain the excitement in her eyes that so vividly penetrated my mind now. She had always loved dancing and bothered me to go with her, but I lack the proper coordination and never did. So, prom was the perfect excuse for her to force me into the endeavor. Unfortunately for the young couple the fates didn't like the idea so much and their prom was infiltrated by a group of escaped fugitives who thought a group of young high school kids would be the perfect hostage situation. Everyone was instantly frozen in fear and I was too until one decided to advance upon Amy. Then in a display of overwhelming stupidity I tried to stop them myself and in the scuffle, I was shot twice and knocked out which explains some previously unidentified scars. What I later learned in the hospital was that however brief my moment of valor was it allowed a few to escape and contact authorities, but not before lives were taken. Without her first dance Amy died alone, scared I was dead as well, and even in death I could not comfort her any longer because I had the unforeseen luck to survive. I hated myself after hearing the news that I began my plans of leaving immediately and wanted to never come back to this place. The self-hate began to fill me again, if I had only stayed put then maybe we'd have survived, maybe this would have only been a dark spot in the fairy tale you know that dark part that all fairy tales contain, but are left out for the kids sake. It came to a boiling point where my only reaction to all of this pain and anguish was...to dance. I had taken some lessons since then, never knowing why, and the music began to fill the room again.
     "See? It's not that hard is it?" Amy's voice came out again and I began to see her in front of me, hands intertwined with mine. Once again, I could feel her skin against mine and hear her voice so pure and light.
     "But this...this isn't real" I stammered struggling for words.
     "Sure, I'm not real," she looked up at me with a faint smile on her pale lips, "But this feeling is."
     "All I can feel is hate and pain, Amy I'm so sorry." I stopped dancing and looked down at the floor.
     "Shhh," she cooed and I could feel her embrace me, "Just be quiet and dance. It's my turn to comfort you."
     And so I returned to dancing with her, "If I had just stayed put we'd still be together."
    She smiled again, "I never left, I've been with you locked away until you could remember everything...and forgive yourself. Because of you many others were saved."
     I could feel her hand cupping my check and I sighed, "And yet somehow that only feels like a small consolation compared to what I lost."
     "You only lost the physical me, now that you've accepted what happened I'll be in your memories, it'll be like all the cheesy love stories you used to write." she said.
     I laughed a bit, unable to help myself, "You always said you loved them though."
     "I do and I'll always love you. It's about time you did the same." she said in a more serious tone.
     I smiled a bit then nodded and with that all the music and dancing stopped simultaneously. I was alone again and sighed wondering if I had just snapped and gone insane. I walked back outside slowly and hoped Amy would return again, as much of an illusion as it was the scenario still felt all to real. I stepped outside into the fitting weather of wind and rain. The drive back home seemed to take longer this time knowing it would definitely be the last time I came back down. Amy's spirit would always be here and I didn't want to face it ever again, after all I'm really not that much of a dancer anyway.

Coffee and Cynicism

     They are few and far between, but everyone once and a while a person is born unto this earth that has the power to change everything. These people led nations and change cultures and are admired throughout the ages, Harold Herschim was not one of these people. Harold was a 42 year old beaten down man who had grown tired of the world, but was never one to jump off buildings or the likes so he calmly drank his coffee every morning and wondered what the hell happened to the world? Harold had quit his job with the local news station after getting sick of covering murders and rapes. He in turn took a job at the high school teaching English and hoped the fresh, young faces would rekindle his hope for the world, but unfortunately it was hard to see their inquisitive faces when they were constantly buried in their fancy doo-hickeys. Two years later and the song remains the same and Harold has quietly resigned himself to this life of annoyance and complacence. So, with this lifestyle a mundane routine was set up for Mr. Herschim's life that made the pain of disillusionment at least bearable: arrive only twenty minutes early as the students arrived at the last minute anyways so why rush, drink his coffee and stoically stare at the large poster of Mark Twain in the back of the class. It was a simple routine that was never easy to get through, who wants to teach a dying subject anyways? With the rise of texting and, God forbid, tweeting there seemed to be no point in teaching juxtaposition and the soliloquies of a Shakespearean play because those can't fit in 140 characters. He often wondered what Twain, with all his sarcasm and wit, would respond to this situation with. He would probably have more of a fiery disdain for this than Harold's subordination to it. Whatever the case may be, Twain was dead and there wasn't much Harold could do to stem the tide of social media, so he listlessly sifted through the papers in his home on Sundays, grading as he went. The only joy on these days was the afternoon visits from his son Eric, who was finishing up his last year at business school.

     "I tell ya Eric, it's hard to believe half of these kids made it this far." Harold said, shaking the papers in his hands then letting them softly thud back onto his coffee table.

     "It can't be that bad, things were pretty decent when I went to school pops." his son replied, sitting down on the sofa sinking in a bit.

     "Yeah, but you didn't have these damn phones that do everything for you too!" Harold retorted pouring himself some coffee.

     Eric only replied with a small chuckle as he relaxed a bit back into the couch. Eric was far more optimistic about the future of the world which was only because he didn't have to interact with the future of the world according to Harold that is. Harold also said that was a big part of his mother in him, both of them dreamers as he called it. He and his ex-wife, Helen, came from two separate school of though, the cynics and the optimist. Harold was constantly the rain on her parade which is what most likely led to their eventual split. It all seemed for the better at first, but the details of how everything transpired only fueled Harold's cynicism and drove his family even further way. In fact he had no contact with his son from ages four till nineteen. It was actually Eric's own choice that he reunite with his father, but it still took a few years after he moved out from under Helen's watch. She had refused to allow Harold any sort of visitation rights or joint custody fearing her son would be corrupted by Harold's world view. So, for over a decade Harold had no contact with anyone except for superficial exchanges of pleasantries at work and the occasional bum at the bar. It would be assumed that the visits from Eric would improve his life which they do to some point, but he also worried Eric wasn't prepared for what the world was. 

     "So what have you been up to Dad?" Eric finally broke the silence.

     "Ahh the same old crap" he grumbled shifting through his papers again.

     The conversation trailed off there as usual. The meetings were always a variation of the same thing, Harold complaining about his students and the sorry state of the world and Eric trying to assure him that it really wasn't that bad. The only honest reason Eric even bothered anymore was a vague sense of familial obligation and a guilty conscience over what his over-bearing mother had decreed. He sat there quietly with his father as he graded papers only occasionally engaging in conversation when Harold would snort at an essay. Business as usual it seemed until Harold cracked an uncharacteristic smile and began laughing, actual genuine laughing. Eric shifted a bit wondering if this meant it was a new kind of low-point his father had hit or if it was a simple joke a student had made. Harold studied the paper, smiling still.

     "Well Eric I think it's time for me to retire from all of this." he set the paper down, smile fading.

     "You're in your early forties, really think you can retire?" Eric was taken aback.

     "It's uh...It's just time Eric there's nothing left I can do for them." he shook his head and got up walking to the bay window in his living room and rested against the ledge.

     "That bad huh?" he watched his father pad away to the window.

     "Read it for yourself." he gestured towards the paper and watched the birds outside his window.

     Eric picked it up and read over it. The paper was titled The Death of Words and as far as Eric could tell there was nothing incredibly astounding about it. He set it down with a simple sigh and glanced up at his father searching for an answer. Harold nodded his head slightly and turned around to face his son's confused face.

     "You see?' he smiled as Eric shook his head, "Despite what your mother said I've been proven right, there is no hope. If kids their age already realize their own decline, yet are doing nothing to change it then what more can I teach them? It'd be like trying to teach a wolf how to make a salad, it's not going to learn so you don't try teaching it."

     "But that paper was pretty well written I thought." Eric replied sheepishly.
     "All right for a Midwestern public school 10th grader." He smiled stirring his coffee, "These kids are worse cynics than me, recognizing and identifying the problem yet so sure that no one will do anything to change it that they might as well conform."

     "I guess I just don't get it then Dad." Eric said.

     "The point is there is no point....no one cares about anything anymore so why should we?"