"I'm with you there."
"As for my daughter," the dwarf says slowly, "you and I have not seen eye to eye in quite some time. Nor do I suspect we will truly ever."
"We agree about the dragon."
"Point. And if you'll let me continue, though we do not agree, and though I have and will continue to describe you as an irrational, inconsiderate, unaccomodating, argumentative, slacker-"
"Slacker?"
"-Be quiet. It was the only word I could think of – who conveniently hides behind an all-too-literal mask, I, unlike many, have a long memory."
The ork looks away again.
"I have no concerns for the well-being of my daughter under your tutelage or care." the dwarf finishes, and then lets the moment hang. "Getting back to the dragon: Have you found Excalibur yet?" he continues.
Snorting, the ork turns back toward him. "You know better than I that there ain't no such thing."
"Literally, no. But as the years pass such literalness becomes less and less relevant. And we both know what he truly meant."
The ork nods again. "The armor still fits."
This time the dwarf chuckles. "I'm shocked." he says, and then stands. "I have to go. There is a Council meeting tonight I cannot miss."
"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll deal you in whenever you get there."
The dwarf snorts and turns to begin walking away.
"But you know," the ork says, and the other pauses to listens "we didn't decide who did kill the dragon."
The dwarf nods. "No, we didn't." he says. "And if you can remember how, I would suggest you pray that it was someone, or something, we know." He turns, steps, and begins to fade away as if engulfed by fog. "Because if it is not…" And he is gone.
The ork sits on the bench as the overcast light slowly fades from the park. Every once in a while he drinks from the amber bottle wrapped in brown paper he keeps in his coat pocket. It's taste is bitter. Everyone ignores him. He knows it will not last.
VOICES FROM THE PAST
by Tom Dowd (1993)
Harlequin sat alone in a quiet room lit only by the sinking flames of a dying fire. His face was unpainted, and he wore a plain long robe woven with golden and burgundy threads. The firelight caught the metallic threads of his robe and the intricate metal filigree on the walls behind him and made them sparkle. Harlequin didn't even notice. He was drunk and his drink was his only concern.
The liquid swirled in the glass, impelled by the gentle motion of his wrist. He watched the magical blending and bleeding of colors as the liquid hovered on the edge of solidifying, maintaining its liquid state only by the energy from his moving hand. The colors changed dramatically as he changed the direction of its motion. Firelight danced along the edges of the fine crystal goblet that held the drink.
Harlequin drank from the goblet, barely sipping, and let the drink's deep fire run through him. He nearly laughed with the pleasure, but, as always, the cold aftertaste caught him by surprise.
"You have fallen far," spoke a long-dead voice.
Harlequin turned slowly from the fire and looked across the long expanse of the room. In the center of the room, caught in the flickering firelight, stood a figure. Its robes were black, torn, covered in the dirt of a thousand roads. Dark, gnarled hands hung limply from the sleeves of the robe, but no face appeared within the raised hood. In its place, he could see only smoke churning slightly.
Harlequin raised an eyebrow, snorted once, and turned back to his drink, raising it to his lips. "Oh, please," he muttered.
"You cannot ignore me," said the robed figure.
Harlequin snorted again, spraying a few drops of liquid from his mouth. "I can do as I please," he said.
"You are drunk."
Harlequin laughed. "And you, sir, are a feeble attempt to frighten me with an image so common that it would not frighten a child." He looked into the fire. "Lewis Carroll must be spinning in his grave."
"Indeed he must," agreed the figure. "You are drunk and confused. A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens.
"You fog your mind so you cannot see the truth."
Harlequin stood abruptly and hurled the glass toward the robed figure. The missile fell just short, exploding into fragments of brilliant, flashing crystal and a spray of liquid color. The figure did not move.
"Begone, foul spirit," Harlequin cried. "I summoned you not into my home and I banish you hence." He flung his hand out toward the robed figure, spreading his fingers as if throwing dust. A hint of power danced there.
The figure did not move. "You cannot," it said.
Harlequin's face grew wild. "I can and I do!" he cried again, and thrust his arms out to his sides. "M'aela j-taarm querm talar!"
The room darkened suddenly, and pockets of moisture sealed in the firewood burning at Harlequin's back burst, throwing showers of sparks into the air. They rained down up him, ignored, until a cool wind rushed back at him and damped them into embers. He brushed the char from his shoulders.
The figure did not move. "It has been a long time since those words were last spoken, Har'lea'quinn. It is not the first time you have used them against me." The figure's robes rustled slightly. "And they did not aid you then."
Harlequin paled. "No…" he breathed, and stumbled back to his chair. "You are gone… forgotten…"
"Forgotten, perhaps, but never gone. How could we ever be truly gone?"
Harlequin turned away, covering his eyes with his forearm. "You are the past. Your place is there only," he moaned. "That world is gone."
"Perhaps," replied the figure, "but as long as you remember…"
"Yes. That is the key, isn't it?" Harlequin said, standing and dropping his arm to his side. He faced the robed figure again. "My mind. You are right, whatever you are. I am drunk, and that is a bad state for one such as me."
"Then I am a figment of your imagination?"
Harlequin shrugged. "Were you ever anything more?"
The robes moved as if the figure laughed, but Harlequin heard no sound. "That borders on blasphemy. You once were more devout."
"Never for you."
"I understood you too well."
Harlequin thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. "Or vice versa."
The figure bowed slightly. "Perhaps. Madness can bring wisdom."
Harlequin sneered. "You are the Master of the Twisted Path. The only wisdom you teach is avoidance."
"And yet I am here."
"Alamestra," said Harlequin, pointing to the now-motionless, solid globs of color around the figure's feet, "is not an indulgence known for gifting wisdom."
"Then what of me?"
"What of you?" replied Harlequin.
"If I exist only as a creature of your mind, why am I here?"
Harlequin shrugged again. "It matters not. Your words are lies and your deeds treachery. Your inspiration is betrayal. I care not why you are here and will not listen to you."
"And yet you say you summoned me."
"I am, was, drunk."
"If I am of no consequence or concern, then why did your dispelling not work?"
Harlequin stared at him.
"You have cleared your mind. The fog is lifted, yet I remain."
"You are a hangover incarnate, nothing more."
The figure's robes shifted again. "You lie to yourself."
"No," said Harlequin, "you lie to me."
"As I said."
Harlequin tensed. "This is foolishness. You are a shadow of the dead past conjured by my drunken mind to vex me."
"Why me?"
"I do not care." Harlequin told the figure, turning back to the near-dead fire.
"You lie to yourself."
"You repeat yourself, bland spirit."
The figure slowly raised one arm and pointed at Harlequin. "I am Deceit. I am Deception. I am Treachery. I am Betrayal. I am the passions that bring men to lie to others, and themselves."
Harlequin turned and stared, his eyes growing slightly wider. "As you say," he said.
"As you do, now."