as they stared at one another. At last Whill proved the more impatient. “No, you do not have that power over me. I feel the way I wish to feel.”
“Really?” asked Zerafin, and slapped Whill hard again. “So I did not just change your attitude, your emotions? Do you feel no different now?”
Whill was fuming, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched. He could not deny what Zerafin implied. “Alright, yes, you made me mad. So what? Anyone would be angry after being slapped.”
“Would they, now?” He leaned back onto one elbow. “Now I ask you, did I make you upset, or did you decide to be upset when I stuck you?”
Whill thought for a moment. “You made me upset.”
“Wrong, my friend, wrong. You, or the world around you, have taught your brain through your life experience that you must become angry when someone slaps you. You are reacting to the world around you through a set list of responses you have chosen for yourself. You are no more in control than a sailor in a storm. And with the power you now possess, and the power you will soon gain, that simply will not do.”
Whill realized Zerafin made perfect sense, and he could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He decided to test the elf’s theory. He pretended to be pondering, then quickly brought his hand up to slap Zerafin. But the elf proved the quicker and stopped Whill’s hand inches short of its destination.
Zerafin laughed. “When you can do that, I will have no more to teach you.”
Roakore sat in his room upon a couch that was too soft, answering the questions of a boy who was too curious. He was glad to hear a knock upon the door. “Come in, me friend, please do!”
Whill peered in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, no, do come in an’ sit down a bit. We were just chattin’ is all.”
“Roakore was just telling me how the dwarves use the dirt and stone from the tunnels they dig. I always wondered where it went.”
“A good question indeed,” Whill agreed. “Roakore, would you mind if Tarren and I had a word?”
Roakore stood. “No, not a bit. Was ’bout to get a breath o’ fresh air, anyhow, need to stretch the legs a bit. I ain’t used to being cooped up like this.”
Tarren gave Roakore a confused look. “But haven’t you lived most of your life in caves?”
Roakore could only give a weak laugh at being caught in his contradiction. “Right, then, ye two talk. I’ll be about.” With relief, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Tarren began to speak but Whill silenced him with a raised hand. Whill got control of his emotions before facing the boy, and then took a deep, long breath. Before he could speak, Tarren asked, “What is it, Whill?” His demeanor had changed. His face was flushed, his eyes haunted. “Is it my family? Please, what is it?”
“Yes, Tarren, it is. It seems that when the pirates took you, a fight must have broken out, you see. Word has come from Eldalon…”
Tarren shook his head. “No, no, no, please say it’s not true, please, no. I saw the smoke, I saw the fire- when they were rushing me off to the docks, I knew something bad had happened, but I thought-hoped-”
His shoulders shuddered as silent sobs racked his body. Tears began to slowly fall from his nose. Whill leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cirrosa’s men killed your family, Tarren. None survived the fire. I am sorry. Oh, dear boy, I am so sorry.”
Tarren looked up at Whill with eyes that pierced his heart. “You can save them. You can use your powers. Bring them back, Whill, please, bring them back!”
Whill pulled Tarren to himself and held the sobbing boy as Whill’s own tears fell. He rocked Tarren as his muffled voice pleaded, “Bring them back, bring them back.”
Whill pulled away and held him firm. “I cannot, Tarren, no one can. My powers are limited to the living, not the dead.”
“But that baby! You brought the baby back! You did!”
Whill shook his head. “The baby had only just begun to pass. Her spirit still held to this earth. That is why I could help her.”
Tarren was left unable to speak. Whill pulled him close once again and held him
long after the sun had set beyond the window. The only light within the room now came from the torches in the courtyard below. Tarren had fallen asleep, though silent sobs made his body jerk every few seconds. Whill stayed there with him, not wanting to let him go. Eventually he fell asleep also.
Avriel sat in her room in her meditative stance. She had extended her consciousness outside of herself, and had witnessed the exchange between Whill and Tarren. She withdrew to give them privacy during this moment. She slowly opened her teary eyes and returned her attention to herself. She had been witness for more than six hundred years to the cruelty and pain life so often dealt, yet it had not hardened her to the point of apathy. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “The poor boy.”
The morning sun slowly rose, its rays spreading across the world and finding their way to Whill’s closed eyes. He awoke to find Tarren upon the thick stone balcony rail, silently overlooking the courtyard. Whill sat up but did not stand. He did not know how to approach the lad. Tarren sat like a statue, unmoving, seemingly lifeless, and Whill knew only too well the pain the boy felt, if not as deeply.
Whill found his words at last and went out onto the balcony. Despite the early hour, the courtyard below was bustling with activity. Soldiers marched past in groups of four, while others sparred or practiced at the archery range. Though there were countless things to see below, Whill could see that Tarren focused on nothing before him. He simply stared forward, unmoving, distant.
Whill spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Tarren. I am sorry about your family. I could say that I feel somewhat responsible for it all, for merely coming into your life. But Abram, I am afraid, would prove one way or another that I am not. These things happen, he would say. They cannot be changed, and they cannot be altered. I do beg to differ.” He looked into Tarren’s distant eyes. When he did not look back, Whill gently grabbed his shoulders. “Tarren I was not strong enough to see. I did not know. If I had, I would have stopped it all from happening-know that I would. But believe me when I say-no, I vow-that no ill fate shall befall you again. So long as I am here and able to stop it, nothing will happen to you. I swear on my life.”
At last Tarren met his gaze. “I miss them.”
Whill fought a lump in his throat. “I know you do, lad. Of course you do. But take heart in the time you had together. Honor and remember them always, and you will have gained their approval forevermore.”
Tarren hugged Whill but this time did not sob. “What will become of me now? Now that my family is gone?”
How ironic life was, Whill thought. How often the parts we play are changed, whether we were ready or not. Seldom could one pinpoint when and how one’s life changed, when one had to step up and take on the unknown. But Whill knew at that moment that this was one of those times.
“I shall claim you as my own, Tarren, as my ward. You have no family aside from those who perished, and therefore I have the right, as your recent guardian, to do so. You shall be named my ward, and shall be recognized by my remaining family who, I have just recently found out, is the royalty of Uthen-Arden and Eldalon.”
Whill smiled as Tarren gave him the most puzzled look he had ever seen.
Whill took the opportunity to speak with Abram and the king over breakfast. As planned, the meal was not served in the king’s grand dining room, which was under repair, but rather in Whill’s own room. The food was set on a small table on the balcony overlooking the bustling courtyard. Whill entered the room to find Abram and King Mathus already seated and waiting.
“I am sorry for my tardiness, but I had pressing…issues to deal with,” said Whill as he took a seat at the circular table.
“No need for apologies, Whill,” said Mathus. “How is the lad?”
Whill shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I imagine.”
“It is a tragedy indeed,” the king said. “His entire family…unspeakable.”
Whill sat up and breathed deeply, trying to appear confident. “I have claimed him officially, to him and now to you, as my ward. It is my right as his last caregiver and I have taken it. I expect him to be welcomed into the Eldalon royal family, and that he will be treated as such.”
Whill dared not meet Abram’s eyes and so instead he watched the king’s reaction. He was silent for a while. Finally he lifted his glass of orange juice, drank, put it down, and said, “So be it. I will have it seen to immediately.
