User:CarrieBerg/A Matter of Perspective

Once, when I was younger, I wondered why anyone would become a villain. Now that time has taught me the truth, I find myself wistful for the days when I did not know the answer. But you can’t change what you know, even if you can travel back in time.

You see, once I had been the most powerful sorceress in the world. I had mastered all the known spells, from Wendor’s Flying Oscillator to the Seven Mystical Ilms of Dontara. Most of them learned from long harsh study under ancient sorcerers. I even went on to create two or three new spells, thus assuring the world that I was indeed more powerful than my tutors. You might have heard of Flidarine’s Mysterious Cube. I consider it to be my best spell. Though I find the Fifth Level of Torr is usually my most well known creation.

Spells were not the only measure of how powerful a hero I was. I had also traveled to all the known countries, and a few unknown for good measure. I battled scores of evil beasts, some too terrible to name. And I had saved numerous people and places from certain doom. Legends were created of my deeds, and tales were sung about me from the Purple Sandseas of Yllor to the mountains of Kr’gga

In short, I was young and proud and powerful.

But as the centuries went by, I found that travel began to get tiresome. For a long time I wondered why. It had never bothered me before. But one night, while camping in the forest because the superstitious farmers didn’t want me in their village, it came to me. I was miserable traveling because I wished to settle down. To have a place of my own, like those farmers, where I was accepted for who I was.

It happens to the best adventurers. We have seen the world twice over. We have spent our entire lives traveling hither and yon, fixing all the world’s problems. Someday we wake up and come to find we would much rather stay in a bed we know will be clean and warm and dry. We would rather have the time and space to make potions in an actual laboratory instead of on the fly over a fire in a makeshift cauldron. And the only thing we wish to fix is a warm cup of coffee in the morning, a sandwich at lunch, and a spicy stew for dinner.

So it was with me.

But a retired hero is never as welcome as an active one. Or so I quickly found out. For while the villagers are pleased enough when we stroll through their towns able and willing to fix their problems, they are just as pleased, if not more so, when we leave. Soon finding a place to settle down became quite ridiculous. At each city I traveled through, I would politely hint that I would like to live there. I’d say something like this, “I am going to stop traveling soon and build a tower somewhere, perhaps with a garden.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth when someone would say,

“I hear Ablivan is lovely this time of year.”

“Aye, and they have lots of uninhabited land.”

“I’ll get you a map, and you can be one your way.”

It was like this in every town, city, village, and even crofter’s halls. The place mentioned always changed, but the message was quite clear. I could settle down, just not by them. For each place they mentioned was always at least a kingdom and a half away.

Now, I know you must be thinking that this is when I became a villain. I lost my calm, razed a township in some remote area and built myself a tower. And the humble garden I had wanted began as a battlefield watered with blood. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you would be wrong.

I have never killed. I was not about to start then. And even though I know both Eulucid’s Mantle of Death and Grembator’s Mighty Rock; to this day I have never used them. The beasts I fought in my youth I did not defeat with death, but with compromise, a show of force, or my personal favorite: a riddle contest. The last was always the most fun. They would always agree, believing they could out riddle me. But they always lost. And the price for playing was always what harm they were causing. Lose and they must stop killing, razing fields, or eating the souls of the unwary. Since my magic sealed the bargain there was no way out. Some left to raze elsewhere, thinking it was just in that region that they agreed too stop. Some saw the wisdom in change and lived reformed lives. Most cursed my name, and swore that I too would suffer someday as they did. I had never believed them.

Until now.

For with each rejection I grew more and more depressed. I, the Greatest Sorceress of this Century, could not even find a place to grow herbs in peace! I was pathetic. To come so far and do so much for the people only to be thwarted from achieving the only goal I ever wanted for myself. It was then, at my lowest point, that I met him.

It was not, as the tales tell, on a dark and stormy night, in the Forest of Dreams. He was not wearing black, blending in with the shadows. He is not even evil. At least, not what I consider evil. Not anymore. And yet he is considered the worst of the worst. The most wanted villain in all two-hundred and seven kingdoms, city-states and principalities. All because he believes that heroes should not die alone in the wilderness.

But I will say this, the tales did get one thing right: he did offer me my heart’s desire.

I was in Zudoran, trying to lose my cares in one of their many fine bars. Wishing I could get drunk again. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t because of a minor side affect from casting Vityavar’s Ever-Flowing Waters. The spell created the waters of life, which stopped aging. It was necessary for any self-respecting sorcerer or sorceress to cast since it takes a century alone just to learn all the spells there are. But no one ever mentions the side affect - no drink would every again taste as sweet or get you as drunk as that glorious elixir. And it could only be cast once in a lifetime. And the lifetime of a sorceress was very long indeed without a way to dull the pain.

At first I did not notice him. I was too busy trying to create a spell that would allow, even if just for a moment, the beer to cause drunkenness. I was failing miserably at that as well, which certainly wasn’t helping my mood. When my drink was done, he bought me another. I have to admit, I did not think much of him. His hair badly needed to be cut, his cloak was so old it had been bleached by the weather to a faded grey, his boots were scuffed and worn. He seemed like just another rogue trying to play up to the damsel in distress. Not that many people had tried before. Usually my reputation preceded me. And, to tell you the truth, I didn’t look like much either.

I have never been your classic sorceress with flashing eyes the color of thunder, hair like a shadowed fog and skin as smooth and pale as a princess’s. Life traveling had tanned my skin a uniform brown. My hair had always been halfway between blond and brown, halfway between curly and straight. I grew sick of wasting spells to keep it mysterious and flowing and smooth. Now it hung down my back, a tangled thicket who’s only mystery was if its color was closer to dirty blond or to sun-kissed brown. My eyes do not flash, but they do shift. Sometimes it is that way with sorcerers. A rare few of us have this unique feature. Our eyes shift from seeming as common as a villager’s to as dangerous as an elemental’s. Mine shift from homey brown to dazzling gold. They can shift at will or by my command. Most of the time I don’t bother to shift them anymore. So I never know exactly what color they are to other people. But in my pain that evening, I am sure they were a dangerous glinting gold. A subtle signal to back off.

So I turned to warn him off, eyes flashing. But when I looked into his eyes, as faded gray as his cloak, they held too much sympathy and understanding. I still remember the conversation we had next as clearly as if it happened yesterday, and not two centuries ago.

“Are you the Sorceress Flidarine?”

“So what if I am.” I was in no mood to be grateful for his courtesy.

“I’ve heard you’re looking to build a home.”

“Yes. But I haven’t had much luck.”

“Have you tried the Hills of Breven?”

Here we go again, I thought. He was trying to get me out of the city. Sending me halfway to nowhere out in some forsaken wilderness that hadn’t seen civilization for two thousand years. The Hills of Breven were known for three things. One: they were the site were the Sorcerer Durran had last been seen, which was little over two thousand years ago. And he was still at large as the most wanted villain. He was at large because two: the Sorcerer Durran was believed to be the reason the city of L’hta walled itself up and supposedly disappeared. It was the only city located in the hills. And three: no one had dared to live in the hills after L’hta had vanished. Rumors were that anyone who tried also vanished. He seemed to sense my resentment and said,

“It’s not as bad as you think. L’hta is the chosen retirement city for heroes. I should know. I made it so.”

At his words I looked up and I found I couldn’t speak. For behind the look of the worn traveler were the eyes of a sorcerer. The color of flashing storm clouds. How could I have missed it? His eyes shifted like mine. It was a few minutes before he spoke again. His voice edged with the knowledge and sorrow of ages.

“It is, I find, a matter of perspective.”

Intrigued at meeting such a notorious figure, my resentment vanished. Durran shifted into a more comfortable position before continuing.

“When we heroes are traveling, there is no problem. Heroes are wild and free, and traveling is wild and free. We spread the wildness around, so to speak. Keep it in check. So when we are on the road, all is well. The world is in balance. But when a hero settles down, all that wildness inside him has a nasty tendency of coming out.

“Sure, he may say he is retired, but then old enemies show up. New pupils arrive to be trained. That mundane garden somehow grows a rare herb that healers and alchemists from around to world wish to study or purchase. Kings send messengers, rivals set up a home nearby, lovers past and present make a nuisance of themselves, and the careful balance of the world is upset. At least, that is how those who are not heroes see it.

“Heroes have a special place in the world, but never for long. We are expected to do great deeds, create wonderful tales, and then go out in a burst of glory. Nice and tidy. There to solve problems when you need them, and neatly packed away when you don’t. We are not supposed to fade away over the centuries, tending gardens and taking up hobbies we couldn’t do while saving the world. The new heroes can’t have the old heroes hanging around. Never mind that the old heroes, like us, teach the young ones all they know. Never mind that we no longer go around saving this village here, or that damsel there.

“We’ve had our time. Now we want our reward: peace and quiet without the weight of the world on our shoulders. And most of all, we want someplace to call home. Someplace were we can grow our gardens, make our meals, read our books in peace. Someplace were we don’t have to envy the people we protect - those people who have nice homes yet never realize how nice they are. Someplace were we won’t be run out of town for being different, magical, or wild. That someplace is L’hta.

“I was in the same situation as you are now. I found that I was weary of travel, that I wanted a warm fire in a cozy fireplace and bookshelves filled with all the books I had collected over the years, but never found time to read. I wanted a place where I could sit down and just relax. Perhaps create a new spell or two if I had the silence to think about it. I found that each city I went to turned me away with feeble excuses. Some agreed - but only if I gave up my magic and all heroic deeds I had done. Unwilling to give up who I was, I finally took one of the earlier suggestions. I went to the Hills of Breven and I built L’hta.

“At first it was just my house. But other heroes soon heard of what I had done and came to see if it was true - that I was now retired. I was, and some found they rather liked the retired life. It beats getting killed in battle. Soon L’hta was a collection of buildings. From towers made of glass to simple farmsteads. Not everyone there is a sorcerer. Great sword-slingers sometimes wish to retire, as do all manner of other heroes. Since I knew how hard it was to get accepted into a city, I let them stay.

“Sadly, some left. I did not try to stop them. It was their choice, after all, even if I thought it was the wrong choice. They changed their names and settled into normal cities. But by giving up their names, they gave up that part of their lives. They were no longer heroes. They are all dead now, their true names forgotten, their heroic deeds lost with time. It was sad to see them leave, but it was not surprising. They craved to settle in a real city, with common folk. It was painfully obvious that while we could live and build our homes in L’hta, it would never be common.

“For the villagers were right. With all those heroes living together, wildness poured out into the countryside. Strange occurrences began to happen in the hills. To protect the land, I shifted the city, altering it to be just outside this world, this plane, this time. We heroes of L’hta are a people apart. Ironically, it was then that I became branded as a villain. For saving the heroes from the world, and the world from the heroes, I was now the ultimate evil. The villagers and kings, the courtiers and merchants, they all believed that I had killed the heroes. To them it was a perfect ending to a rather messy matter - here was their needed blaze of glory! No longer were the useless heroes hanging around. And a new villain was created.

“I realized then that heroes and villains are not so different. It is, as a said, a matter of perspective. What saves the world for one person is proclaimed as evil by the next. So I sent out invitations to the villains to come and live with us. Most believed it was a plot to kill them. I did not blame them, if I had been invited to live in a city by my ancient enemy, I probably wouldn’t go either. They have an easier time of it out here as well. They do not need acceptance for where they live. They are quite willing to raze a city or two to get the perfect space to build a fortress. Still, there are a few who joined us. Those who grew tired of endlessly tormenting minions. Of being feared wherever they went. We do not judge their pasts, for they too just want a place of peace and quiet where they can relax.

“But the damage was done. Word spread that not only had I destroyed L’hta, now I was building up an army of villains in the hills. So we are all villains now. All the greatest heroes of Millidor. Now the Dark Army of Durran. How amusing it would be if they could see this ‘great and terrible army’ now! Sadly they are all too aware that I am still ‘recruiting’ after all these years. Perhaps someday they will understand.”

With that he fell silent. His eyes filled with painful memories. I understood. Sorcerers do not easily forget anything. We are trained to remember all the words of all the spells. Perhaps we are trained too well. For memories never fade with time for us. Pain is never dulled. And alcohol does nothing. Sometimes it is terrible to be a sorcerer. Or sorceress.

It should be obvious what happened next. He had won me over with his tale. For he offered me what I most desired: a place to call home. A welcome place where I could be accepted, even if it was a pale imitation of an actual city. I did not mind. At the time I would have gone to anywhere I would be accepted. His offer was just the first. So when he asked if I would join the other heroes, I agreed. I would become the latest member of what is still called the Dark Army of Durran. Never mind that we have never attacked anything, or done any harm. Never mind that we seldom leave L’hta, now that we live there in peace.

But we can leave. It is as Durran said; L’hta is a pale imitation. Sometimes we have to come back and walk the lands once more to remember how a real city feels. Or to attend a family member’s funeral, one who was not a hero. Or the funeral of a hero who stayed behind, giving up their name and so giving up their agelessness. We are all wanted now, so we must be careful not to reveal ourselves. We do not regret our retirement. It is nice to relax with a cup of tea and a new book, able to read without interruptions. To engage our minds in a friendly argument with someone we once fought against.

I wasn’t the last to join. Indeed, in the past two centuries more and more heroes have been arriving. Our city expands to hold us all. If the outside world had any idea as to the number of us, they would have quailed in their boots and fled to the farthest corners of the world. It is probably a good thing that we are not evil. At least, not in the way they believe.

Is it really so wrong to want a little peace? To settle down and grow a garden filled with periwinkles and Mipp’s Wondrous Snigberries? Are we evil for wanting to live out the rest of our lives without having to run off and save something or someone?

Some would say yes. That a hero's sole purpose is to save things. But you see, as Durran said, it is all a matter of perspective. While you may believe we are villains now, we are willing to wait in L’hta until a time when heroes are not so plentiful. Until you realize that perhaps chasing us away was not the best course of action. When that day comes, we will return, seeking out our ancestral homelands, visiting places openly where we once walked, and making our homes among you.

This time you will not turn us away, for you will find that life without adventure is a horribly dull way to live. And on that day, once again we will be heroes.