Solo [Flashback] Mightier Than The Sword

[Arlo Berakailen]

20th of Spring 497 "You must hold the pen like you hold a bird," the old man admonished, chuckling as Arlo tried to do so, splaying ink everywhere. "Not so hard that you squeeze the life out of it, not so soft that it flies away." It was frustrating for Arlo. He was merely a boy, and he thought the idea of learning to write and read a useless task. What would he need to learn such things for? He was perfectly happy to live his life out in obscurity, fetching water and buffing tables, retrieving fallen ink vials, organizing papers. "I don't wanna do this anymore," Arlo complained. The old man just chuckled again. "Of course you don't, young one," he said, old eyes twinkling with amusement. "But there will come a day when you will want nothing else." "Why?" "Why? Because you'll realize that on paper, anything can happen," the old man whispered, almost reverently. His eyes growing distant. "On paper, the world is your plaything, putty in your hands. With words, you can create whole worlds, populate them with anything you want. See, that's the power of writing. In your world, you can create and destroy life. You're a god!" "But it's not real!" Arlo whined as he ruined yet another practice sheet. "Oh but it is," the old man insisted. "So very real. On paper, you can describe the monsters you fear, the thoughts you don't like. It's perfectly safe there, you see. And you remember the lessons from monsters you defeat, for you will need them for some of the people you'll meet." "Really?" The old man sighed. Such innocence. "Yes. Really." --- 12th of Winter 510 Arlo Berakailen's eyes opened, but he did not move from his ratty cot. Why had he dreamed of that again? Did he miss those days, when he was carefree? When had he lost his idealism? When did everything go so wrong? There was no single period of time he could point to. No singular event that changed him. It was little things, bit by bit, that turned him from that boy into who he was now. As was his usual habit, he got up, and put on his meager clothes. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the dream. All he got were bits and pieces. He couldn't even recall the old man's face anymore. "I'm sorry, old man," he whispered as he left his apartment. "I just don't believe anymore."