The Little Things

“Mister, Mister Simberthawn?” Mouse bounced up to Ishmael as he reclined against a sturdy oak tree in the warm glow of the campfire. He looked up from his book and set it down.

“Yes, little one? Whatever is the matter?” Ishmael’s slate gray skin almost looked like polished granite in the dim, flickering light, and his sapphire eyes gleamed like stars as he smiled at the small, excitable child.

“Ark-indeedies is in a tree and he won’t come down and I think he’s stuck!”

“Well, if Archimedes is in trouble, we’d best get to helping him. Tyr?” Ishmael turned to a small mountain of a man, who looked up from a goat’s haunch he had been greedily munching.

“Huh?”

“You’re the taller one, might you retrieve Archimedes?”

“Your cat cannot help himself down?”

“Perhaps the eagle could help, though I’d imagine Archimedes wouldn’t appreciate being lifted by such.”

“Silverthorne, that cat will be the doom of us.”

“So that’s a ‘no,’ then?”

“I will not lose a finger because you refused to show us your wisdom, O’ Master of the Arcane.”

“Oh, very well, you needn’t be so obtuse about it. Well, little one, care to see one of Archimedes’ many tricks?”

Mouse’s eyes twinkled like the stars above. “A magic trick?”

“Indeed,” Ishmael stood and held his staff firmly against the ground. He then removed his hand from it, yet it remained standing despite the uneven soil. Mouse marveled at it, but Ishmael held up a patient, slender finger. “That isn’t the trick, dear Mouse. Observe that there is nothing around the staff, walk about it if you please, and see that Archimedes is nowhere to be found.”

Mouse merely cocked her head curiously, then looked to Ishmael and shrugged. He chuckled, knelt to her level, met her gaze with a soft smile, and snapped his long fingers. The sound was louder than it should have been, perhaps louder than he intended as Mouse winced and gasped at the resounding refrain that pounded from Ishmael’s palm. A soft sparkle of light hovered around the base of the staff, and from behind it a black cat emerged.

Larger than most housecats, Archimedes’ fur coat was long and thick, and always seemed to shimmer in the light. Upon the cat’s chest and proudly on display whenever he sat high and regal was a bright white splotch that branched outward over his shoulders, down his forelimbs, and extending down his side. The strange white stripes evoked thoughts of spider’s legs, despite Ishmael’s many attempts to change the cat’s form to eliminate such. The spider-blotch remained, stubbornly and stoically.

Archimedes gave a soft ‘mrow’ that only vaguely hinted at gratitude before he sat gracefully near the fire and began grooming himself. He didn’t get very far before Mouse, who up till then had displayed incredible self-restraint, cried out in jubilant glee and charged the cat. Despite the cat’s great grace, he couldn’t seem to escape Mouse’s deadly clutches as she lifted him – roughly the size and weight of her small torso – and hugged him close to her chest with all her might. He gave a desperate ‘maw’ to Ishmael, who only giggled.

“Ark-indeedies, I was so scared you would fall!” A squeak was the response, uncharacteristically small for such a weighty cat. “I promise I won’t leave you like that again!”

“Mouse!” A pair of bootsteps came into the light of the campfire. A human man stood tall and partially armored, his greaves gleaming despite the layer of dirt caked in the many scratches and notches that had been hammered into them through many battles. He carried a bundle of wooden sticks under his arm and dropped it unceremoniously near the fire as kindling. He crossed his arms as he regarded the child still holding Archimedes.

“You’re not bothering Mister Silverthorne or Mister Skold, are you?”

Mouse almost didn’t let him finish as she poured into her defense before her judge. “Ark-in-de-knees-was-in-the-tree-so-I-was-scared-and-ran-to-Mister-Sinnertawn-and-asked-for-help-and-Mister-Simmerdawn-asked-Mister-Skold-and-he-said-no-I-think-and-…”

“Truly, she’s been no bother, Lyone.” Ishmael placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, staff in his other hand. “Merely concerned for the safety of another.”

Lyone looked severely to Ishmael, then Mouse, who for her part hid her face behind Archimedes’ head. The tall man’s grim façade quickly cracked as a smile fought its way onto his tired face. Then he laughed, low and soft. “Alright, Mouse. We’d better get some food for you before you say your goodnights.”

“Aw, but I wanna play with Ark-” Mouse hesitated, struggling quietly with the word as she realized she had been saying it wrong.

“Say it slowly, little one,” Ishmael coaxed softly. “Arch… im… edes.”

“Ark… im… mim… eeds…”

“Very good!” Ishmael praised.

“You can play while I cook, how’s that? Just don’t hurt him, okay?”

Tyr scoffed over the last few bites of his haunch. “Please, that cat is tough. I threw him once and he…” Ishmael fixed him with a steely glare, those sapphire eyes very suddenly not so welcoming as they had been throughout the night. “Right, he is… He is a tough cat.” Ishmael nodded and was right back to smiling as Mouse bounced after Lyone, waddling with the great weight of his familiar held tightly with her tiny arms.

Ishmael eased himself back over to his comfortable spot near Tyr. Where Lyone was tall, Tyr was mountainous. He wore a simple tunic and breeches, with furs and leathers over his shoulders and around his waist. His red skin reflected the light from the fire remarkably, making him stick out from the group even when they were apart across the camp. The larger man ran a hand up and across one of his horns in thought. His nails, closer to claws with sharp points, made a gentle rattling sound as they ran across the rings and ridges of the gently-curving horns that ran over the top of his head. They were, in Ishmael’s thoughts, the only things keeping Tyr’s unruly hair from falling into his eyes. he never saw the big man grooming himself, at the very least.

“I know of another child quite like her where I make my home in Elderwood.” Tyr rumbled, smiling despite his granite-hard mask of bravado he wore. “He will make a fine warrior, as I am sure will Mouse.”

“Is strength truly all you think of?”

“It is all that matters in this world of monsters and evil.”

“Not all the world is evil.”

“True. That is why strength is all we should fight for. To protect that which would be destroyed by evil.”

“What of me?” Ishmael gestured to his slender form and frail silhouette. His robes did little to hide his physical disadvantage when compared to mountainous Tyr Skold. “I’m not possessed of such strength.”

“You misunderstand, my friend. I have come to know that my arm is not all that is strong. Swinging my hammer requires strength, yes, but there are other kinds. Yours is a strength of the mind and heart – were it not so, we surely would have fallen weeks ago.”

“Trolls…” Ishmael shivered. “Never thought I’d face one, let alone three.” The two chuckled at that, bantering of the minor victories and failures of recent battles before softly passing into a comfortable silence as the fire crackled. Mouse was fed and Lyone laid her gently onto a bedroll beside the fire. The group had learned long ago that the flames seemed kind and respectful to Mouse, and never blew in her direction no matter how near the firepit. Archimedes coiled up near her and reclined before laying his own head down. Lyone gratefully took to his own rest as the light from the flames only barely illuminated Ishmael and Tyr. As Ishmael was contemplating his own rest, Tyr spoke up, more softly than he had ever heard the large man speak.

“Why do you wake, Ishmael?”

“… Sorry?”

“For what reason to you wake each day?”

“It’s often because Archimedes sits on my face asking for food. Why?”

“We spoke of strength, and that there are many kinds, but that of my arm is all I know.” Tyr spoke softly and slowly, staring into the fire, his face a portrait with no color. “And after seeing you create with your own strength, you dazzle and delight all that behold you, I wonder… If all I know is to destroy, what place have I except beside the monsters we face?”

“You’re no bloody monster, Tyr.”

“You say so. But why am I here? With you and Lyone and Mouse? Every city we enter, every town we pass, the people make it clear I am something to be destroyed, to be hated. For my horns, or for my skin.”

“They cast stones at me too, Tyr. The see only the dark elf in me, and only the history of that heritage. If you’re a monster, Tyr, then so am I.”

“You are no monster, Ishmael. You shine like they cannot, and dream like they cannot.”

“Do you not dream?”

Tyr sighed, and took a long moment to say anything more. Ishmael watched intently, listening. “Why do you wake, Ishmael?” He finally said.

Ishmael stared in the fire now too, his sapphire eyes glinting in thought. Then, “I wake because Archimedes sits on my face.”

“Ishmael…”

“I wake because Mouse accidentally lit my bedroll aflame.”

“I am serious.”

“I wake because it’s funny to watch you beat Lyone at arm wrestling.” Tyr grew quiet, merely chuffing as though being mocked. “I wake because at a certain time on Spring days, the woods waft of lavender. Because Mouse falls asleep when cradled in Lyone’s lap on long horseback journeys. Because the way that large bugs crunch in your bird’s beak is fascinating and disturbing in equal measure. Because you whittle small sculptures of bears – I’ve kept every one, by the way.”

“Where is this going, Ishmael?”

“It’s so easy to say that it’s for glory, or fame. That it’s to fight for some great and noble cause. To die some heroic death. Those are all well and good, and the townsfolk we fight for are a good cause to fight for. Those are cause to celebrate and rest, not to wake. I wake for the little things.”

“The little things…”

“Indeed. Like the song of this fire. So fleeting, it dies even now and will never be heard again. There will be many fires, but this one is done and gone. But that does not mean it wasn’t warm and pleasant when it was here. You’re a large man, but you, too, are capable of little things. Like the sculptures.”

“But they do no good to you or anyone.”

“Neither does Mouse lighting my bedroll. But they still make me smile. Tell me a little thing you think about.”

“I… I do not know…”

“Surely there’s something. Perhaps that… what was her name, Sylhea? Or your other companions…”

“The butterflies you make.”

“… Pardon?”

“Much of the magic you weave, there are butterflies in it. They are pretty.”

“Ah… yes, well, thank yo…”

“You make jokes when you are wounded. I never laugh because I worry, but they are funny. I hope you do not stop that.”

“I do feel that when being stabbed, being polite is paramount.”

“You are willing to listen when the whole world goes deaf.” Tyr turned to Ishmael then, a tear rolling down his cheek despite himself. “Thank you.”

Ishmael paused, giving a small chuckle. “Yes well… think nothing of it. It’s a little thing.”