Flash Fiction: Elgar

Here’s the flash fiction piece meant for yesterday’s Monday Fiction; but bumped to today as the photo of the “dragon egg” was just too brilliant not to share.

I first introduced Elgar in the piece “A Father’s Choice”. In this one, I had a look at the Talent/powers of the Khalné and the Khalvér and how they interact with each other when they have to try to win students hoping to be Khallahna over to their side. Tomorrow, for Worldbuilding Wednesday, I’ll take a closer look at these two factions that once formed the Khallahna.

Elgar

Elgar entered the hall with his heart beating in his throat. Today was the day he had been training for for five years. Today he would choose the path he will follow for the rest of his life. He was the strongest student in the group, the one with the most Talent. He took his place among the other students dressed in the same brown as he.

Né Parlegon, a near-bald, middle-aged man cleared his throat as he stepped up to speak to the twenty or so students before him. Dressed in a cream robe hemmed in red and gold, he stood in stark contrast to the large frame next to him dressed in deep purple. His voice was stiff as he started to speak. “Today I see before me not students of the Talent, but the future leaders of our world. This day will be the last day on which you will wear the brown of students. Today, you will choose your path.” Parlegon shuffled the papers in front of him. He hated the day the students had to choose which side of the Khallahna they will be part of. Most of them were still too young to know much about the world, let alone choose a path for themselves.

“Centuries ago when the world was still young, there were those with the Talent and they used it for the good of mankind and they were called the Khallahna. But on the day of the Battle of the Black Field there came a rent in the brotherhood of the Khallahna and the Khallahna was split into two groups. One, the Khalné, called the servants of Light. The other, the Khalvér, the servants of the Darkness.”

“I believe you mean ‘Servants of the Moon’,” Trialma interjected in the moment Parlegon paused for breath.

The Né swallowed hard. He knew the old texts. He knew “vér” meant “darkness”. He could feel the eyes of Vér Trialma boring into his back. Rather than start a fight, Parlegon continued with his speech.

“I will not lie to you. If you choose the path of the Khalné, your name will not be known. You will not be taught the spells and potions of the Khalvér that works on the minds of those they target. You may sit among peers and friends today, but from tomorrow, you will fight them as they fight you. It is not an easy road, but it is a necessary one. Make your choice well today. Do not be moved by sly words, but solely by the fire in you.”

Trialma had heard enough. “Your time is up, Né Parlegon. It is my turn to speak.” His voice was clearer than that of Parlegon, his accent one of a learned man. He never stumbled over his words, not like Parlegon who still had the alien accent of the northern city of Almiaka in Edaron.

“Brothers, sisters,” Trialma intoned. “You have learned how to use the Talent as a child learns his letters. Now is the time to embrace the power you have been given. The Né Parlegon wish to stand here and tell you to join them but not use the Talent you have been given. To use it only as he sees fit. To never slay anyone with it yet fight the Khalvér! If you are stronger in Talent, you will only be at home with the Khalvér. If you are weak, you will join the Né. Both roads have the same ending. Why hide your Talent when you can be powerful and make a change in the world? Join us, the brothers of the Vér.” He pointed to where other Khalvér entered the hall.

Elgar saw himself in a purple robe, his father at last proud of him, his people at his feet. His Talent harnessed to make him the strongest Vér in Trelkanor. 

Without a call from Parlegon, the cream dressed Khalné entered the hall on the other side.

The Khalvér stuck out their arms, clenching their hands into fists. The Khalné caught their breaths as if they were being strangled.

Elgar Ashwood gazed in horror at the gasping Né. He looked back at the stage. Parlegon was on his feet. Trialma had his hand out as well, a snide grin on his face. Everyone else watched the other Khalné, their minds being turned by actions, not by words. Parlegon did not gasp for breath, he did not struggle. He simply batted with his hand as if he was batting away a fly. Trialma’s arm shot back and the grin vanished very quickly. He tried to lift his arm once again, but found it pinned to his side.

“Release yourselves,” Parlegon said.

He saw the other Khalné make the same movement, some fighting the force with which they were held, most breaking the force easily.

“Release them,” Trialma said.

“A low blow, Trialma,” Parlegon mouthed and Elgar looked towards the Khalvér. Their arms did seem a bit stiff next to them.

Trialma turned to the audience of students, still not lifting his hand. Elgar looked around him, wondering if the others had noticed Parlegon’s power as well.

“You have seen our power,” Trialma said. “Now, make your choice.”

The students rose and started to file out of the door of the side they have chosen. Some said a last farewell to friends, others did not so much as look at those not taking their side. Only three joined the Khalné.

Elgar made his way to the left side of the hall where the Né waited. Parlegon stood by the door.

“Why have you chosen the Né?” he asked.

Elgar looked up into the black eyes of the man. “I saw how easily you released yourself from Vér Trialma. I saw how the Né pinned the Vér’s arms to their sides.” He rambled and took a breath. “But I wouldn’t have chosen the darkness even if the Vér had won.”

Né Parlegon smiled. “You speak the truth, though you speak fast. You will be a good student.”

Elgar smiled and looked behind him at those following him. There were only  five of the students in brown behind him. The other fifty or so clustered around the doors on the far side of the hall. Suddenly, he was filled with fear.

“You do not have to be afraid,” one of the Khalné outside the door told him. “It is the same every year. We are enough as we are.”

Elgar looked back over his shoulder.

“You really believe that?”

“I do. Come, the day have almost passed and we still have much to do.”