History

You watch as unnatural emerald flames dance in your host’s hearth. Their heat is…curiously mild. You would nearly doubt their substance if not for your company feeding them, the green tendrils dancing upward each time they gesture to the coals, something small — no larger than a coin or pebble disappearing into the light to be consumed. A fascinating trick of chemistry, you concluded.

Your husband and you had crossed the desert on holiday — his idea, for despite being an accountant and a gentleman particularly made for the indoors, he had made some obsession of the West. While you had been momentarily taken by the views of crimson and gold mesas for a time, you discovered that you neither were made for unpathed travel — and disliked living in fear of snakes, scorpions and inexplicably large spiders when you lay in your bumpy bedroll, listening nervously to the ghastly yipping and howling of distant coyotes.

He was in the company of his rugged idols at the Inn now, and you here — where you had found kinship in someone who appreciated the comforts of life as much as yourself. In their parlor you felt transported far from the isolated settlement of Never to somewhere farther and fantastical. As you turned your gaze upwards, proud faces of stuffed, tropical birds and dark, spotted big cats snarled down towards you. Visages of idols from the far east disappeared and reappeared from the shadows as the shifting flames threw their light upon them, all from among verdant plants potted in divine roman vases that unfurled their leaves and bloomed robustly.

All of this, though, did not compel you nearly as much as their curator, whose warm welcome and attentiveness had ensnared you. Even after you had agreed to purchase a rare, hand carved chest that had been crafted halfway across the world, they still insisted on entreating you for the evening. Wine had since become tea and digestives, and you listened as they recited stories from their travels, each tied to a particular artifact that surrounded you — and each more difficult to believe than the last.

“In another life you must have been quite a trouvère, Mister Elegast,” you say as you treat yourself to another biscuit, “but despite that I feel as if I’ve hardly gleaned anything else about you. My, you’ve spoken for hours and I have only been able to exclaim my awe and surprise — surely though you don’t expect me to believe all that you have told me.”

Your host takes pause before the fire, a tailored waistcoat and buttoned sleeves cutting a sharp, clean silhouette before the flames. Their shoulder length hair sits heavy upon their shoulders, its fullness obscuring their face as you detect a minute turn of their head to address you,

“But it is all true,” they say, not sounding particularly affronted that they have been politely called a liar.

“You truly acted as a mediator between a sultan and his harem?” you tease, “and were accused of piracy by a privateer vessel? And what of your journey through the steppes of Eurasia — and..,” you blush faintly, “...that affair you had with that warrior from the far east…”

Your host chuckles quietly — a practiced, melodic sound,
“Truly.”

“Please then tell me one thing that I know can be true—” you beg, “you’ve traveled so far, where did you hail from originally? I cannot imagine you’re American — but I cannot detect the origins of your accent. You must have been born somewhere in Europe. Am I right?”

A long silence stretches between you, and you wonder for the first time tonight that you have taken your host’s generosity for granted. You find yourself holding your breath until your host turns to face you — you exhale in relief as they move to sit across from you at the small mahogany tea table.

“Do you know the City of Babylon? The hanging gardens?” He says. A reflexive laugh escapes you, and you can see the tug at the corner of your host’s lips,

“Babylon?” you ask, “My — is that a city somewhere, now?”

“Yes, it was. In Mesopotamia.”

He looks at you from beneath his lashes, lips in a taught smile. You laugh breathily, your heart flutters and your throat tightens.

“You suggest you are older than language? Alric, please…your theatrics…-,” the table between you seems suddenly smaller as they rest their elbows upon it.

“No. Language came before. I did not come from Babylon, either — but I was taken there. I was born somewhere in the north to sea faring people. A folk who favored hardiness over cleverness. A trader from Babylon favored my eyes — mistook them for gems, and offered a fair price for me. Babylon, though, served as a better cradle for me than any salt soaked wood. I might as well have been reborn at the center of the universe, with all of the knowledge of the world within my reach. ”

What you see as they look to you are not gems. The paleness of their eyes is a mirror in which you can see yourself plain. Your own eyes wide, your face pale and your lips pulled into a thin line as sweat dampens your high collar. Their pupils are black, bottomless and hungry. The time that passes between you is immeasurable, and with each second you feel yourself shrink. You feel as if you are in the presence of something dangerous, a declawed god made flesh.

“Your tea,” they say.

You start, blinking rapidly as if you are seeing your eccentric surroundings for the first time. You look down to your perfectly mundane and beautiful porcelain tea cup, it’s contents having long grown cold.”