Hidden in Plain Sight (short story)

Ta’Vaalor, Guardian Keep

The Legionnaire Captain snapped up from his mound of papers, taken aback from the visitor who rudely barged into his office. Annoyed, the Captain gripped at the document between his thumb and forefinger and shifted a stabbing gaze into the interlopers. “Intrusion notwithstanding, it would behoove you to show some decorum while I’m occupied with my work.”

The page’s cheeks flushed. “Apologies, sir. The matter is of pressing importance.” Seeing the Captain’s disapproval, reservations now seeped into his thoughts. “Perhaps I should return while you are no longer indisposed.”

“You now have my attention,” the Captain snapped resting a closed fist on his chin. “I hope for your sake it warrants your rudeness.”

A shrill shiver rappelled down his spine. He brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “I bring word concerning one Squire Legionnaire.”

“Iskandr Tamarack,” the Legionnaire Captain answered with a tinge of disdain. Iskandr was Vaalor in bloodline-but an anomaly having grown up in and around the founding of the Landing where his merchant parents had been sent by Ta’Vaalor upon its opening to both sell goods and keep an eye on the budding town. He was a dreamer, tainted by too much association with the lesser races and fueled by the foolhardy idea that collaboration with non-Vaalor would bear fruit for the fortress itself. Recently, the captain granted permission to the ranger in his curiosity concerning the West, more to get him out of his hair than anything else. Rumors of the Blood Son had piqued Iskandr’s interest, and so he set on discovering the truth. The Captain granted it, but gave a stern warning on endangering Ta’Vaalor with infidels due to his blind optimism. “Go on.”

“There are, ah, reports concerning Squire Legionnaire and some of his recent rascality. While it is true that he has dived headlong into finding more information on this Blood Son, he has sullied his post with his evening inebriations at festivities. He’s become friendly with an assortment of winged people and other miscreants. Melding with the masses, defiling the sanctity of our obligation to Ta’Vaalor, even so much as partaking in a Dark Elf congregation at the Alabaster Spire...or two.”

The Legionnaire Captain’s expression turned dour and menacing. He tolerated Iskandr’s ideology to an extent, as the Squire Legionnaire’s willingness to venture outside the walls occasionally provided fruitful news on the outside world, and having finished his hundred years service with the Legion, the Captain held less sway on dictating his travels. Besides, Iskandr might die, thus ridding the Captain of the Squire’s misguided world-view. But to go as far as setting foot in the Alabaster Spire? That crossed the line.

“What is more,” the page continued, “is Iskandr’s association with this individual.” The page proffered a scroll, which the Captain accepted. As he flattened the scroll, an image of a dark elf appeared on it. He had long black hair that draped down his back, with a white streak of hair that parted down the middle. His eyes shone like polished amethyst. Nostrils flared like the angriest of bulls, but despite that, his high, sharp cheekbones depicted a softened gaze from a young individual.

The Captain focused on the white streak of hair. “So the Squire Legionnaire has taken a skunk for a pet.” With a snort, the Captain brushed away the scroll. “Is that all?”

The page shook his head. “Its name is Yardie.”

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Quite an unusual name for a Faendryl.”

“I said the same thing.” the page affirmed. “Then, I researched the archives and consulted the divinists. Several incidents involving the missing traced back to a similar description of Yardie near the last known whereabouts.” He waved a hand as if he were dismissing the name. “Yardie sounds more of a halfling name, anyway. Possibly an alias or something. And yet, Iskandr’s taken him in as an associate.”

Shaking his head, the Captain leaned against his desk. “Send word to the Squire Legionnaire at once. He must know that his newfound pet is not who he says he is.”

---

Wehnimer’s Landing, Temple

Yardie shuddered to life, his body trembling from the cold altar. He winced as his forehead throbbed with the beat of a thousand drums. Shallow breaths stung his lungs. Half-opened eyelids obstructed violet eyes devoid of focus and clarity. The smell of incense danced underneath his nostrils. He fought to sit-up, but his body anchored to the surface. While his thoughts spun with incertitude, Yardie knew that he wasn’t in Icemule anymore.

“Where am I?” he weakly asked. His voice echoed back his response.

Death’s sting ran through his weary veins, his heart slowly kickstarting into regularity. None of this made sense, so he drifted back to his last memory.

Snow. The cold bite of frosty wind that clawed his bare skin. His face half submerged into the unforgiving snow, with eyes drifting at another. An elf, like him, but not like him. Taller. Tanned. Bundled with clothing that did a substandard job of insulating his own warmth. The elf grabbed at Yardie’s downed body, boots crunching into the snow, only to lose traction and plop the aiding Elf into the ground.

“This cold will kill us both,” Iskandr said. “I can’t drag you further. I need to keep moving or I’ll die as well.”

“I’m...sorry,” Yardie whispered, his mind drifting to his past, repenting his sins. Being left behind was a small penance for a life of atrocities. “I’m…” then he left out a final gasp and his body sunk into the snow.

Thoughts flooded back in the same way blood flooded back to his face, darkening his cheeks into a more palatable color. Along with the slow drip life, his memories also returned, a stark reminder of a life gone astray. He refused his fate, severing his own historical line at a young age. The world of Elanthia only amassed him trouble. It was why he retreated to Icemule, started a new life, and lived a plain life filled with squalor. He had no people to call his own. No home to rest his weary head. But that uneventful life deterred attention. It was safer that way.

Perhaps he could do the same here. Wherever “here” was.

“Where am I?” He shrilled again.

A robed man leaned into view, his face shrouded by the hood that covered his head and face. “Wehnimer’s Landing,” the voice boomed. “Welcome back to the living.”

Yardie closed his eyes. A new location. A new place away from his old life. He hoped, like his cold tomb in the frost, his past buried deep within the snow, yielding to the promise of a warmer, brighter beginning.