Raiselig

The End

Did I succeed in my efforts with The Raiselig Dossier? An interesting question to think about, for me. A lot of my intent was to play around in a world, to take a specific “what if” and drag it to its logical conclusion. What would a magical fantasy world be like, if magic were legislated to near extinction?

Because that’s what became obvious, as I wrote. More and more the magical beings and spells of the ancient times faded away, not because “the world has moved on,” but because the laws of magic themselves became too onerous. Try as you might, there comes a time when even the most zealous among us must rest, and as more and more beings grow weary of their burdens…

After a goodly time, Raiselig sat on a rock. The rock was beside the road. It was a diversion Raiselig had not given themself in some time.

Nevertheless, the road and the rock.

Down and up the road lay in different directions than either down or up. Indeed, their only relation to each other was direct opposition. It had always bothered Raiselig, more-so that it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

The Kingdom of Tyw stood tall and proud against the white hills. From atop the king’s tallest tower, the whole of the horizon was his to call his own. There were no other rulers who dared challenge his might, nor who chafed too harshly under his rule.

The people of Tyw were hearty and strong, and unified in their delight of the one thing that was their birthright; life itself.

Time passed, as it ever did.

It is a joke — or perhaps if not a joke, a shared understanding — between the Scriveners that the world was like a scale nested on by an indecisive bird. The seasons changed, the herds migrated, wars and festivals were held with equal amounts of enjoyment and obligation…

And then the bird hopped to the other side of the scale, and it all began again. It was perhaps a more verbose means of saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” and was therefore perfectly suited to the art of Scrivening.

The letter was written on dry leather. It was written with black ink taken from the glands of a deep-sea monster. It was shaped with a pen carved from the finger-bone of a dead god. It was dusted with the sands made from ancient cities long since crumbled away. The wax of the seal was made from the blood of a man who had been hanged for killing his lover in fear of what she had birthed, and mixed with the rendered fat of a stillborn horse.

Raiselig was walking before they even felt the tug. Their feet were moving once more before they even knew which direction to go. It didn’t matter, their feet knew.

They had only felt such a pull some time before; a darker time in their life. They had hoped to never feel it again. A small piece of their mind was grateful they had not been studying some finer point in case law or researching important precedent, lest they had been forced to leave important documentation behind. As it was, they only had to reach out and pull their yellowwood cabinet onto their back before they continued to walk.

Hollis set his youngest down and handed his spade to his eldest. “I will be back before dark,” he said. “Keep working the rows until they are clean, and then help your sister feed the cows.”

His eldest nodded, taking the spade with reverence and not a little fear. His children had learned from a young age not to touch their father’s tools. To be given the responsibility, even though it was not the first time, held weight.

When Hollis was a young boy, he wanted to work with his father in the fields. He saw men and women both young and old toil in the rich earth, growing green plants and roots that became delicious and nourishing meals. In his young mind, farming was what his people did, and he wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to join in.

He didn’t know that was what he wanted, he just knew he wanted his own spade, his own hoe, his own water-pail.

The ceremony was perfect. Raiselig was pleased.

The gifts of thanks came quickly and with little celebration. Raiselig was not surprised at this, as the people of Yolan were a proud sort, and didn’t take kindly to any suggestion that they were less pious or devoted than they could be. It was an odd dichotomy that Raiselig had never been able to understand. As a Scrivener, they were idolized by the Yolan people, and yet these proud and happy citizens couldn’t see Raiselig’s back soon enough.

The earth shook as Levret leaped to the side, barely evading the thick oak tree-trunk. Tucking into a roll, Levret swung their sword up and over, hoping against hope that the Ogre was clumsier than it looked.

His hope was for naught; rumbling laughter shook overhead. “Foolish boy of woman born, I’ll strip your skin like fleece is shorn!”

A gust of wind ruffled Levret’s long blonde hair as he turned to face his hated foe. “You’ve plagued the countryside for too long, Gob. Once you are slain, the valley villages will at last be able to live in peace!”