Story 3 - Two fates, Two Fortunes,

One Choice

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Welcome. Cassandra’s Tales and Truths is an anthology series that utilizes the wisdom of the Delphic Maxims. In this episode, the third episode, someone needs to realize that generosity, beyond just being morally right, can have… larger implications. Or that’s what Cassandra believes she saw. Maybe she shouldn’t have to justify advocating for charity and good will towards mankind, but here we are.

So, conqueror, if you have, give.

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In the aftermath of any battle, there is an inevitable haze that sets in as the world adapts to the changed reality the victor can now dictate. Land is claimed, loyalty shifts, and--more often than not--the end of a bloodline drains deep into the soil where the light of day shall never find it again. Meanwhile, the wind listens for the tale the winner lives by, be it a lie or not. The wind will not pass such judgment. The wind does not care. It will accept what it is told regardless. No matter what the victor wills, its course will not be changed, and its power will remain far stronger than anything mere mortals could muster.

The breeze pricked at the back of Alissandre’s neck as he looked out over the empty field, now watered by the blood of soldiers who had more in common than not. Truly, the only difference between those groupings had been in their allegiance, and it was little more than an accident of fate that they had landed at the feets of lords with competing ambitions, ambitions that some might call trivial. Alissandre looked down at the amulet in his hand. The bright violet jewel lay across his hand from heel to fingertip, but the jagged and pointed edges reminded him that it sat there with only the greatest reluctance. It was not meant for just anyone to hold, it warned him. 

The scratches on the surface--ashes of a language lost to figurative and literal flames--might have said the same thing. Or they might have conveyed a similar warning to those whose ambition was not matched by their ability.

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Or at least, that was what Alissandre led himself to believe. It was convenient, and it meshed well with the rumors he had heard about the jewel’s power. Though he knew there was a fair bit of disagreement amongst the various murmurs, they all shared a common core, and in that core, he drew his belief: the belief that this jewel, this amulet, would bring him his salvation. It would deliver him from harm and death, simply by being in his possession.

As he sat on his still horse, Alissandre looked out on the field again. It had long since been abandoned by the farmers whose families had sustained themselves off of it for generations. It had given them life, and for the preservation of that very same life, they fled from it, leaving a vacuum for a challenger’s last stand.

Alissandre could not remember the name of that challenger. It was meaningless to him. He was just a local lord spurred on by his pride to make a stand against an invader whose motivations, at the time, were unknown. Theft of land and title worked as well as for an explanation as anything might have. So what if it was not the truth? There is no need for truth in war, only story or fairytale.

The challenger’s body had been left abandoned on that field. He was stripped of whatever finery he had and left unrecognizable. With no mark, he had no name and no bloodline, and so it was a fitting end that he lay abandoned with unclaimed soldiers whose names were not returned to them in death by the kindness of their brethren. It truly was an appropriate end, just unexpected.

Alissandre’s men had rode out earlier that day. Once the sun lit the path, they were given the orders to return but no explanation as to why or what had transpired. And they did as they were told because they had loyalty but no interest. They did not know what it was they had been brought out there for, why they fought, or why they returned so quickly. These were soldiers and commanders who had never known another life, and death would have come for them had their services never been purchased by a wildly ambitious fool with great military talent. 

Let him do as he wills, the general consensus had been. What does it matter to us?

And, indeed, I would say, it does not matter at all.

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Permit me to break the fourth wall. Permit me to be more voice conveying a message than an ambivalent narrator telling you a story, a story that you may or may not listen to. At this point, Alissandre rides out into the world and returns to his reluctantly accepted land, a prize won in a different battle that left its old ruler lying in a different field but just as nameless. That part predates this story by quite a bit and is largely irrelevant. But you should know that it was not modesty behind Alissandre’s reluctance to accept this land but a lust for more. It was a large holding, but it was small compared to the wider world. And it was the world he wanted. 

But he is only one man, you might say. He might be one man with a heavy purse turned into a full treasury, but all the same, he is simply a man. Though he wants the world, he can’t have it. He is too limited. There are too many things he simply cannot do. And you would be right, but this voice you hear is not the one that needs convincing. It would be Alissandre, but Alissandre would never listen to anyone. This, ironically enough, is one of his limitations, not that he would admit to it. 

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So let us start with one he would admit to. He would admit that he cannot read the writing on the jewel, but he would assume that he knows what it means all the same. The quick addition negates the potential enlightenment of that brief acknowledgment. Because if he could admit that he could not read the stone, he might have realized that in this pursuit, he relied on rumors spread through taverns and drunken fools that stumble into their own tales and get entangled up in them. He might have realized all that he did not know, and the blood shed on his route to the jewel’s previous resting place was not about his potential future but over his desperation for the dream the jewel came to embody in his mind: a dream that was and still is impossible.

I asked you to permit indecency on my part, did I not? I asked you to permit me to drop the pretenses normally interwoven in a tale such as this where the presenter of the tale must cease to be. It is because I know what the jewel says. From where I am, those marks are as clear to me as my native tongue. And it is also because I do not think it matters so much what Alissandre did in the face of what he could have done. 

Those two observations are linked, more tightly than you might have realized. The true power of the amulet Alissandre lifted from a hiding place deep in an abandoned barn lies in its potential. ‘You may be delivered,’ it says. ‘But only so far.’

Now, delivered in that context has a different meaning than you might think. ‘Delivered’ is not meant without limitations. It implies a destination, one that Alissandre will never find on any map. ‘Delivered’ implies a purpose, good or bad or neutral. It implies a plan devised by external hands, and built to non negotiable standards. I cannot tell you the source. Whether it be gods or nature, but it does not matter much. Both are uninterested in the desires of mankind, finding them trivial and childish in equal measure. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

In reality, the Spark of Light Peace, as it is known but not to Alissandre, does not care for one’s ambitions. It will not save one from a fatal blow in battle. It will not deliver one from their enemies, never mind death itself. This is what he will expect it to do. However, it does not care for his expectations or hopes and remains true to what it is meant to be.

It is called the Spark of Light Peace, and if you are astute, you see the question that lingers. What is a ‘Light Peace?’ Does it refer to illumination? No, it does not. It refers to a tranquility that soothes the soul but does not leave it complacent. The stone only ensures that one has enough. Enough to live, enough to enjoy that living, and enough to love others freely. 

Alissandre does not understand this because he does not understand the alternative to it. He was the son of a lord born on a grand estate with servants tending to his every whim and hiding their own suffering. Unbeknownst to him, he had never looked into a set of eyes that weren’t pickled in their own misery. And so, it never bothered him. This was the world, and he thought no more of it beyond the thought of its subservience to him. He did not know starvation or destitution despite it being even within his staff. 

And he would never know it. Not directly or indirectly. For Alissandre lacks the ability to grow wiser. He lacks the ability to see through other eyes. And--I dare say--now that he has a formidable number of victories under his belt, he has surrendered the ability to learn. 

What the jewel could have done is far more interesting than what the jewel will do. These two versions of the tale stand in direct opposition to each other, but while Alissandre returns to his kingdom on horseback, they can co-exist. He has not made the choice I know he will make, and perhaps, you can see it as well as I can. You know as well what it be. For now, let me tell you what could have been that my frustration might be better understood by you.

(Extended - Music fades out and new music fades in)

When Alissandre returns to his kingdom, he will ride through the center of the main city as a triumphant warrior. His subjects will not care so much as to why he went out to fight, and his council will offer a half-hearted and patriotic reason that will fill whatever curiosity there might be. And it will be enough to summon a crowd to welcome him. The presence of soldiers will muster the appearance of enthusiasm. And for a moment, all will be well. This is where a story of all that could have been begins.

(Extended - Music fades out and new music fades in)

Alissandre had paraded through this street dozens of times before. And he took to it with great ease. He was a warrior, after all, and a living warrior is one that knows how to wear triumph well. It is a burden heavier than the crown or any other ornament, so it necessitates a head held high and back. His eyes were fixed on the palace ahead, as it had been through countless parades before. He did not see his people, and he never intended to. As far as he was concerned, this was not about them. But him and all that he was.

However, with the jewel safely tucked away in his bag, this was not an ordinary parade. It was a survey meant to determine the path the jewel would be taking. After all, it had its own destiny to fulfill. Alissandre was simply a means to an end. If he chose to be.

Now, the jewel was not sentient, it may go without saying, but it drew on what looked like an impulse but was really the threads of the fabric of creation. As it grew closer to its intended fate, those threads grew more taut. On Alissandre’s horse, it was being pulled deeper and deeper into the web of its final resting place. 

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Meanwhile, around him, hands were outstretched in elation and in the hopes that the rich Alissandre might cast a couple coins their way. It was not unheard of for someone in his position to do this. It was what his predecessor had done and his predecessor’s father as well. However, Alissandre was not inclined to do that. He did not see the need to. He did not see much of anything. And though the pattern was well established, the people still had hope and little more than that. 

Suddenly, Alissandre felt a pull downwards. Not that of a hand or of anything he might have felt before; it was an entirely foreign feeling. And in that novelty came the decision to humor it. He lowered his head and his gaze to see a small boy at the edge of the crowd, looking up at him. His bony body was draped in a worn, adult shirt held onto his frame with a small piece of frayed rope. His eyes were wide and hollow, and he was so delicate, one gust of wind might break him. For the first time, Alissandre saw such a sight and took in it for what it was. 

He felt a message in his ear, not a whisper but a message delivered in an unknown way. “Give him the jewel,” it said.

“Who are you?” Alissandre thought to himself, not knowing how else to reach whoever had contacted him.

“The Jewel,” it said. “I must go to him.”

“But I won you.”

“Through him,” the jewel said, “I will raise your kingdom.”

It was a vague promise at best, but enchanted items can never offer up much. They cannot act on their own accord directly or through clear confession. Such is a law of the world. For all the magic they possess, they cannot act on any sense of will. They have no initiative, only purpose. Individuals must offer up their will for anything to come to pass.

Alissandre, you will remember, had plenty of will. It was what led him to pursue the jewel and many others. And other domains. He had a great deal before that expedition, but he wanted more. He wanted the jewel and what he believed it promised him. And yet, reason took hold. No rumor had mentioned the jewel speaking to him like this, true, but in the absence of clarity, of clear form, or concrete details in any of the many stories he had heard, there was room for anything. When he went after it, he did not know what it could do or how. 

Maybe this was the how.

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Unknowingly, Alissandre had stopped the procession in front of the child, and he had done so some time before. He did not know how long it had been, but those in the procession were comfortably situated around. From the outside, it was assumed that he had bid his horse to halt. Those around him thought as much. Or--as he would think later--perhaps it was the jewel that gave the order, utilizing the same trick on the beast that it had on the man. Regardless, there was a moment in time when Alissandre was not in control, and he was humbled by that realization. It was a crack in his delusion that he was a warrior mightier than the boundaries of mankind. He would need the jewel’s help after all, he thought. What choice did he have but to obey it?

Alissandre climbed down from his horse to the shock of everyone around him. His squires were dumbfounded and did not know how to serve him in a moment like this. His subjects scrambled to bow in reverence. All except the boy who had locked eyes with Alissandre and could not bring himself to look away. He was a young child and had not learned to hold ritual onto a pedestal of infallibility. 

All the same, Alissandre did not mind. Not in that moment. The man who normally enforced such doctrine with brutality could not bear to think of it right then. The child’s wide eyes were exceptions to the rule. And so, the nobleman crouched down to the child’s level, his armor clamoring as he assumed that unfamiliar position.

“And what is your name, boy?” he asked.

“Gib, my lord, of blacksmith Rawlin Mikael” the boy muttered.

“Well, then, Gib, take this.” Alissandre produced the small pouch from his side and presented it to the boy. “But be careful,” Alissandre warned. “It may cut up your hands if you are not.”

Stunned at the gift, at the prospect of receiving anything from them, Gib simply nodded. Only then did he remember to bow clumsily. And with that, Alissandre stood up and returned to his horse, to a life altered by a moment’s choice.

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When Alissandre started to ride off, Gib slipped back into the crowd and ran towards his father’s home a ways back from the main road. He disappeared quickly, before anyone could ask him any questions and without seeing what it was he had been given. He could hardly even heed the warning of caution, pressing the bag up against his small chest but not finding any rebuke or injury from the act. 

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Gib’s parents had not attended the procession. Rawlin and Betha were blacksmiths, and so they were perpetually working to meet the demands of the nobleman’s soldiers. They were hardly paid for the labor, but regardless, it was still demanded of them. Consequently, they were left with little choice but to push their body’s to the limit, slaving away over hot iron with empty stomachs and tired eyes. Their only son, Gib, was much too young to help them, and Rawlin worried that he would never be a strong enough man to do so. The boy was so frail and so poorly tended to.

How wonderful it would be for them if they could buy food or hire additional hands for labor. How wonderful it would be if they could even build up their only child into a strong man, strong enough to live a life of lowly means. But those were far flung dreams, it seemed. They could not imagine an end to this. 

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Then suddenly, the door to the workshop flung open as said son appeared with a heavy bag in his arms and a sparkle in his eye. Gib was a generally happy child; his joy was the only consolation his parents had. And in that moment, though they could not understand the source of his light, they welcomed it into their darkness--a brief reprieve that gave them the opportunity for a single breath each.

“The man gave me a gift!” Gib cried out.

Betha’s smile faded from her face as concern chased it out. “What man?” she asked.

“The big man who rides the big horse. And wears all the metal.”

“The Lord?” Betha asked incredulously.

“Yes, Mama,” Gib explained, bringing his spoils to her. “He came up to me and asked me for my name. And then, when I told him, he gave me this.”

“What did he say?” Rawlin asked his son.

“That I must be careful with it.”

It was true, to an extent. It was the truth as the child understood it. Simple but accurate. Rawlin extended his hand, and his son presented his spoils dutifully.

“Perhaps the Lord recognized the name,” Betha suggested. “And he has another order for us.”

Betha tried to mask her despair, to shield her son from the bleakness of their reality. Another large order may bring the death of the family’s patriarch. How hard he had to work to meet the Lord’s demands! Another one would to be a death warrant. 

“It’s far too heavy for that, Wife,” Rawlin muttered bitterly. But Gib was still at his ankles, desperate to see what he had been carrying. 

A child’s curiosity is a beautiful thing, and it is easily satiated. It does not need the truth so much as an acceptable placeholder, and if this placeholder can then swaddle them in the knowledge that the world is just and fair, all the better. So while Gib might have remembered the feeling of a large rock pressed against his chest, when Rawlin opened the bag to reveal a small army of gold coins, a king’s ransom that seemingly could not have fit in the bag it emerged from, he did not question it. What he questioned instead was his father’s reaction. So moved and relieved by the sight of his great fortune, Rawlin fell to his knees and wept.

“Mama,” Gib asked softly, turning to his mother, only to find that she too had tears in her eyes.

“He has been good to us, Gib. Don’t you see? The gift you were given has delivered us of all our woes.” She turned to her husband. “He must have known who Gib was. He must have realized your goodness.”

“Our goodness, Wife,” Rawlin cried. The shame of his wife’s labor in the shop was wiped away. Now she would never work again. She would tend to their son and their home or watch a maid as she did it. The life of peace and prosperity worthy of her was finally coming to pass. And all the shame melted away, for those dark days were now over.

Rawlin turned in the direction of the castle, towards where he believed Lord Alissandre was. “My forge is yours, sir, and my hammer, and anvil, and my hands. All that I am I give to you. For what you have done for my family is unmatched.”

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Alissandre did not hear this vow. And there is no harm in that, for he would not understand it. The vast spread of gold coins on the table was nothing in comparison to what was in his treasury. It was certainly not worth the effort of war, one that--if he were to be honest with himself--he enjoyed. He wanted to fight for the sake of fighting, but that is a most unagreeable position. At any time, Alissandre could have opened up his coffers and tossed any number of gold coins towards his subjects and suffered nothing for it. But Alissandre never did this, and his people suffered for it.

Alissandre never appreciated just how wealthy his kingdom was. He never saw that he owned the world and could give his subjects the means to walk through it with heads held high. He hoarded wealth that he believed was a sign of his triumphs, victories and virtues. He saw the gold as a historical record that spoke to his greatness. But it was not.

The jewel sought to correct his mistakes. That was its purpose.

And so, it started with the blacksmith’s family. A small first step, the fool would say, but from that step, the journey could begin. For Rawlin did not hoard his fortune. Part of it he spent on his family, part of it he spent hiring labor and growing his offering to include tools for other craftsmen that they might work quickly and more easily, and part of it he gave to his neighbors. 

In time, the gold spread. No hand did not touch some of the gold that the jewel birthed. No household was unblessed. Trade grew. Life improved. And scarcity remained only in their memories. 

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But part of it Rawlin set aside until the right merchant came, one who carried a rare, expensive, and highly sought after metal. Rawlin knew this merchant was coming. He had sent for him.

“Big plans then?” the old man croaked.

“Yes,” Rawlin muttered. “A craft like no other.”

By then, it had been three months since the Lord’s gift, and Rawlin had spent time devising plans. His hired hands worked on smaller tasks and more simple orders. His wife rested. His son grew stronger. The world moved and changed and blossomed, and yet, Rawlin had been locked away in his workshop, sketching a warrior’s dream.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Three more months passed before the armor was brought to Alissandre. By then, he had grown fairly impatient. Though he saw his kingdom come alive below his windows, he felt nothing. He had never cared for his subjects. They were an inconvenience in many ways. What he cared about was the jewel and its unfulfilled promise. 

Alissandre felt a hatred festering deep in his gut as he stared out the window of his chambers. He thought of the jewel again as he did every day those past months. He could not banish it from his mind because he knew he had been taken for a fool, in a way he still did not understand. There were layers to his frustration. There was hatred for the jewel and even for the boy he had handed it to. There was confusion because the message in his head was as real as said head. There was curiosity for a still unfulfilled plan .But above all, there was no need to dwell on it. It was the seventh month he had been home; it was time for another campaign.

So he called out to a servant to fetch his maps, and as said servant departed from the room another entered. The young man stood in the doorway, waiting for permission to speak as was customary. It was then granted gruffly.

“There is a gift for you, my Lord,” the young man said. “From a blacksmith.”

Alissandre’s mind raced for a moment. Wasn’t the boy a blacksmith’s son? It did not matter. A gift was a gift. 

He gestured for it to be brought to him and what entered the room was the finest armor he had ever seen, made of a luxurious metal. It glistened in the light. It spoke to Alissandre of its rarity and prestige. However, it made no promise, no promise other than to settle his mind. Undoubtedly, he had made the right choice.

(Extended - Music fades out and new music fades in)

But that is not what Alissandre did. I can say that now. I can say that now because in the course of telling my story of what could have been, Alissandre rode into his land, down the street, and passed the boy without a second thought. The jewel tried to message him, it pleaded with him to let it act on its destiny, but Alissandre would not listen. He was too certain of himself, too certain that he must be the true keeper of the amulet to humor any thought to the contrary. How foolish.

Then again, I should not be too haughty. I am as limited as he is, though the ways in which we are differ greatly. I did not know an enchanted item could yell itself hoarse until this. Until this story that I am rushing through, that I might reach the other side. Forgive me for this, but as the keeper of this tale, time does not work for me as it does for you. I see it all at once and track the pieces of many tales as it suits me. And in this case, it no longer suits me. For I do not just see it all at once but hear it as well. And now I hear the cries of the impoverished and the pleas of the enchanted object meant to alleviate their suffering.

Instead it was pressed into a different suit of armor, a weaker one, made by a different blacksmith. With this imperfection, for that’s what this jewel created when placed in metal, ths suit buckled when the first arrow grazed it and gave way to a soldier’s sword, the single strike that brought Alissandre down. 

Soon Alissandre was the one lying dead and nameless on the field. And what did it all matter, I ask you. I find it hard to answer that question myself.

(Beep. New music starts)

Cassandra’s Tales and Truths is a production of Miscellany Media Studios. It is written, edited, produced, and performed by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. Transcripts can be found at oracleofdusk.online. That’s one word. Oracleofdusk.online. Thanks!