As Ætheur hoped, there was more space within the rabbit hole than its entrance indicated. The fading light did nothing to illuminate the large, rocky chamber though. He stood up and placed a hand on the ceiling. The rough stone felt natural, not carved. He concluded his telepathic conversationalist had found this cave rather than built it. That thought led naturally to the idea that this was some variety of monster. Ætheur drew a simple woodsman's knife. It wasn't much protection, but he felt better with it. Behind him, the wind continued to increase in force. The word 'sandstorm,' drifted into his mind, quite uninvited.
“How crudely you define the world. This one a sentient; not likely to harm me. That a monster, kill or be killed. I ask you, am I not self-aware?”
It wasn't really a question. Ætheur didn't answer.
“Even the word you use, sentient. It speaks that you have come to recognize that intelligence is more important than appearance.”
Particles of dust and dirt were blowing with great force above the rocky shelter. Any light that once filtered down was completely blocked now. Ætheur, feeling decidedly unsafe, crouched by the little opening. It was far warmer in this space that it had been on the surface. The air felt close, uncirculated.
“What are you?”
“I am a philosopher.”
“But you're not...” Here, Ætheur's mind filled in several possible answers. Elven? Dwarven? They would be ok. But a goblin, troll or orc might kill him on sight. Or, in the present case, some other sensory confirmation of Ætheur's heritage. There is a long history of bad blood between the five sentient races.
“And would you be safer if I were listed among your Sentients?” The word had great bitterness to it. “Sit. You will be unharmed here. Tell me of the greater world.”
Ætheur sat. Strange though his host must be, the monster seemed more civil than a number of elves he'd known. Still, the question was odd. What would a monster who lived in a cave beneath the Winter Desert know of the outside world? What would it want to know? “What would you like to know?”
“I have heard no news since Delthias the Hermit left. Tell me of the great war. Does it continue?”
Delthias! He was a well known philosopher, a teacher at the University in Ballea. Ætheur might have been lucky enough to study under him some day if he were still there. If this monster knew him from his hermit days... and back when the great war was still going on... whatever this 'philosopher' is, its life span must be comparable to an Elf.
“That was over a century ago. The war was over before I was born.” The idea suddenly occurred to him that he might be speaking to a dragon. After all, they were known for being long-lived and telepathic. Though no dragon could possibly squeeze though that opening... unless their size was greatly exaggerated in the ancient stories... or their present idiocy inaccurately reported.
“Good! Now you are beginning to think. Yes, I would like you to consider me a dragon. Very complimentary, that would be. Now, since you seem to be an elf, I take it the elves won. Does Delthias yet live?”
Ætheur's training in etiquette involuntarily returned to him with the idea that this philosopher was a creature of some importance. “Indeed he does, sir. I have never met him, but he is known as among the best instructors at the University.”
“University?” It was a question. Ætheur considered how to explain it. Of course this 'philosopher' didn't know the term, the universities were a relatively new idea; a product of his mother's people's close relationship with dwarves.
“Ah, gymnasium, forum, and school. Clever, to assemble so many minds. Clever and dangerous.”
Ætheur began to consider that this mind-reading talent was remarkably disconcerting. More so, even, than the idea of being trapped in a hole under a great rock with a monster by a sandstorm. Panic began to overtake him, but there was no where to run. In the darkness, something moved.
It sounded very large and heavy. Stone scraped across stone, soft and dense muffled thumps with the falls of feet. Ætheur gripped his tiny knife and considered the wisdom of fighting with this creature. His will was weak from the long journey, and the irrational fear was overwhelming.
“I promised you would be unharmed down here, and I do not fail in my promises. Put away your tool, you have no need of it.”
By the sound, Ætheur could tell the creature stood right in front of him. He deliberately tried to suppress his thoughts about whether to attack it or not – thinking about the strike would give him away. He thought about the sun, about its brightness; about how much he would like to have a lamp down here. And he swung.
In defense of Ætheur's choice, he has had very little reason to trust anyone. Elves, as a rule, are very concerned with heritage, with genetics. While Deoxyribonucleic Acid would be rather foreign to them, elves are very familiar with the workings of inherited traits. High elves, those of purer bloodlines, have a natural, magical, affinity for the breeding of plants. In ancient days, as stories go, the world was barren until the gods made the first elf. They gave him a seed and said “create.” And from there, the greatness of all plant life sprang. By virtue of his mother's unorthodox magical talents Ætheur would have been disliked among the elves. Once they discovered who his father was, distaste rapidly boiled over. Most shunned him. Some threw rocks or picked fights. One fellow challenged him to a duel, which the university prohibited. The mob which set fire to Ætheur's residence, while he was inside, might have had something to do with his decision to leave Belea. However all of that conflict was among Elves. And in the daylight.
It would be redundant, but accurate, to say that Ætheur didn't see the strike coming. A powerful tail smashed into his hand as he swung down towards the supposed location of the creature's head. Small bones shattered with the impact, and the dagger flew from his grip. The tail swung past him, then came back, its whip-like tip set to scrape across Ætheur's face. The philosopher intended only to make it clear that its guest lived on its benevolence rather than cause great injury. Ætheur's broken hand already indicated that elves were more fragile creatures than the philosopher expected, and it deliberately slowed the second attack.
Then, in his fear and pain, Ætheur did something neither he nor the philosopher expected. As the tail arched toward him, Ætheur blocked it with his left hand. At their touch, a brilliant blue-white flash erupted. Even if Ætheur had not already been dark-blind, this brightness would have blinded him. For a moment, brief sensations flashed into Ætheur's mind. The smell of dirt. The taste of a coyote {hairy}, the feel of its struggle to escape. The warmth of the sun on a rock as he basked. The smell of a wet, newly broken cactus. The lethargic cold of these winters. A loneliness more deep and profound and everlasting than anything Ætheur could have imagined.
This connection was not entirely new to Ætheur. He had experienced once before. As then, he could hear and feel immense pain from the other. Air soundlessly escaped from the throat of the other, but Ætheur's voice filled the small cavern. As before, they both felt the immense pain. Unlike before, the sensations shifted.
Now Ætheur could see–not feel, as before–images of his own life. The face of Yemone, Ætheur's mother. The ambassador Belein as he walked with Ætheur on the high road. Ætheur's father felling a tree near their home. And then the connection broke. The pain ended. A moment later, Ætheur stopped screaming, then he realized what had happened. The tail whipped across his face, leaving a shallow, bloody gash on his cheek.
“Are you alright?”
The irony of the question struck him. A moment ago, he was attacking this creature out of terror. Now, after this unintentional magical bond, he feared it might be dead. He knew it was a sort of Iguana now, a giant, intelligent subspecies of the common lizard native to the southern Orcish lands. Though he'd never heard of such a subspecies, it was not a dragon. Knowing what it was made it less fearsome. He slid his hand up the tail, and then placed another hand on its abdomen. For a moment, he was certain it was dead, then he felt a slow, deep breath.
Ætheur laid his good hand on the creature's head. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.” It was a very weak apology.
The voice in Ætheur's head felt very tired. “Apology... accepted.... Let me rest now. Later, we have much to discuss.”
“One thing, please, before you sleep. What is your name?”
“Tapenios,” The telepathic words conveyed the feeling of soul-weariness which both felt, after the magic passed between them. As they passed into sleep the storm continued to blow overhead.
