46. Aurelion in the year 8595

Roland

The High Elves were not welcoming towards Roland. Normally the Elves were a species with a huge amount of patience, kindness, and - if necessary - brutality. From Althaeas parents he already knew what it meant to be the subject of rumours, intrusive thoughts or just open hostility. 

But he never thought that he would be the target of elvish coldness, mixed with intrusive curiosity. But they helped him setting everything up, providing help for Althaea and comfort for him.

The funeral was pretty. There were drinks, there were food, tents with bed-like pillow forts, floating candles, small fire bowls, music, friends of Althaea and none of Roland. Not even dear customers. The event even attracted a few Blinking Bees and they were quite curious. And very cuddly and fluffy.

He had prepared a speech in Elvish and it was well-recieved. He knew that Althaea had siblings, he met one of them. They were six and they spoke a bit, but more than a few kind words nobody seem to be able to muster. Death was a normal occurance to the Elves and an end to a very long life. They think about death as the last sleep, a cold, kind, gentle last long sleep after the hardships of life.

Roland learned why this was the case: they heard - probably from the parents of Althaea - that he somehow brought them back to life while not aging himself. Which was also fueled with the knowledge from some librarians and scholars what Roland has researched and they suspected a lot of things. Only a few of them were correct, but that was enough.

The funeral itself and the three days of celebration of Althaea and their life were quite lovely. Musicians did their best, the cooks and staff worked around the clock, a lot of cuddles were recieved and given. For the human it was overwhelming and bland and dark, even during the sunny day. For humans death was absolute. The life of a human was counted in years and decades, not centuries. If they live a century, they are very old, fragile, ill. Rich on experience and wisdom, but with a failing body and often with a failing mind too. So death was loss, grief and pain combined, not even counting the aftermath.

Condolences were a part of the first day. Even in funeral attire the High Elves looked stunning, their androgynous features made up with black ink, eyeliner, shades, colourful lipstick, wearing dresses or suits, depending on how they felt at this day. A good chunk came in their male or female form, made up, dressed like they could conquer the world, beautiful alltogether. But even this couldn't pierce through the dark clouds in Rolands head. They weren't Althaea.

He left at the night of the last day of the funeral celebrations. It struck him still odd that they were celebrating death, but he thought he would never again visit them, so he left with provisions in the middle of the night.

The village from where Althaea hailed was only two days away from the High Elven capital Aeluinstaror. Every closer friend, scholar, sometimes old lover, attended, so his vanishing wasn't noticed until the next day.

The journey back home was a dark one, alone with his thoughts, only the road, the sun, the moon, and the sky as companions. 

In the desert of Pisocenia he met a merchant, sitting at a waterhole under a few palm trees.

"Welcome, friend.", greeted the merchant, a man with a long, patchy beard, sitting in front of a small flickering campfire. Thin, white smoke rose up in the nightsky. He made a gesture to the other side of the fire. "You want to rest a bit?"

"That would be very welcome, thank you.", mumbled Roland, put his bag to the ground and sat in front of the fire, mustering the merchant with tired eyes. "The name's Roland, kind Sir."

"Ghera, my Sir." The man nodded slowly, pulled out a copper cup from his satchel. "Care for some Red Corcha?"

"Uh, sure. I have a few sausages left." offered the grieving man and both shared a moment of eating and silent contemplation. Roland also shared a bit of his pipe tobacco with Ghera, which resulted in a lot of good-smelling white smoke around the small embering place.

"What brings you to Pisocenia?" asked Ghera the merchant.

"Nothing." murmured Roland while exhaling a small cloud of smoke. "It just happens on my way to the Daveldare mountains. Where... I have my home."

"Oh, that is a long way, friend. Why are you so far away from home, if I may ask."

"I was in Aeloria, near the High Elven capital Aeluinstaror."

"Oh? You look like a craftsman, dear friend. What did you do in Aeluinstaror?"

"Attending my wifes funeral."

"Oh..." Ghera took a deep breath, puffed two times at his pipe, exhaled. "I am so sorry for your loss, friend."

"Thank you." Roland gulped as the thought of having lost Althaea grapped him by the throat and squeezed. Hard.

"They were an Elf?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. - Where are you headed to?"

"To the clay fields of the Dragon Sun Empire. I want to try and broker a good deal for my business."

"You are selling pottery?"

"No, no no no, my friend. I'm in the business of acquiring and selling. Doesn't matter if it is chocolate, pottery, rare flowers or a specific item."

"So you are a tracker?"

Ghera weighted his head from one side to the left, then shook his head. "No, I have a shop. I have employees and storage. I'm not a freelancer, I am just good at finding things. Custom orders are possible, but... iranara."

Roland laughed. "Yes, I get that. I am... a smith. Blacksmith. Swords, armours, horseshoes, hooks, whatever you want."

"Oh, a worker of fire and iron." Ghera chuckled, made a welcoming gesture with open arms towards Roland, a sign of respect in Pisocenia. "What can old Ghera do for you, friend?"

"You are here, that is enough." Roland showed a weary smile, but he didn't feel like it. "Please don't impose any friendliness, it is more than enough to share a pipe and a drink."

"Very well, friend Roland." The merchant without a horse offered another pipe so that Rolands pipe could rest and cool off. The tobacco was pleasant, the company as well and Roland offered to be the guard for the night and didn't let Ghera offer to be the second guard.

Sleep? Why should he sleep? His dreams would give him hope and more heartbreak, so he could stay awake to battle the demons head-on.

The night sky was clear, and the night itself freezing cold. Beautiful in her being. Roland couldn't care less. Yes, freezing was still an inconvenience, but what could the cold do to him? Kill him? Ha.

The same with the heat in Pisocenia, even during the winter months the desert state was hot like a pan. He was inclined to die in this desert, due to heat and dehydration, but it didn't work. A caravan found him and brought him back to life.

Test successfully failed.

Another week after his failed getting-unalive attempt he left the desert and finally reached cooler areas. He took the route south of the Emerald Planes to reach the foot of the Daveldare Mountains. It was a long journey, the road was not kind to Roland nor to his boots. He didn't care as one boot came loose, then the other. Althaeas parents and the elven scholars tried a lot and did a lot to him. Bleeding and hurting feet, thorns, scratches, stones, or infections were a thing mortals feared, but for Roland their level of danger and importance decreased to a minor inconvenience.

He died nonetheless of exhaustion and burning fever.

You again.

Roland woke up at the spot where he laid himself for the night, between trees and a huge boulder. The soft, amused voice ringed faintly in his head and he sighed.

Here we go again.

With a groan he rolled on his side, spit out a bit of blood and saliva, before drinking the rest of his water, got to his feet and moved forward.

After another few days he had enough of his weakness and the exhaustion. Roland ate a bit, drank a bit, feeled better for the moment and continued. The raging illness in his body vanished over time. At one point he tried to heal himself or rather, he tried to overheal himself and die, but that was a very unpleasant feeling. Like drowning, but by your own flesh.

He was rejected time after time. Everytime it was the same and then he finally reached the mountain where he and Althaea had set up shop.

The house was huge. Larger than needed, at least for two people and a workshop. Two, actually. Left was the smithy with the tinkering workshop, to the right Althaea had their sculpting workshop. Because that was their trade and the thing in which they excelled. Among other crafts, as it was typical for elves, but who is counting, right?

The house and the smithy were cold, the sculpting area tidy and organised in the same way Roland has left it.

"Hello, love." he murmured as he saw the oil painting of Althaea above the bed in the big bedroom. Exhausted of grief and the journey he fell into the sheets and slept for a few days. Immortal or not, mind and body needed rest after all.