1.3

 In his poisoned dream, Aytheur passed out of time. He saw visions of the ancient world: a powerful wizard leading a goblin horde against the orcs. Aytheur looked out from the wizard's eyes and could not see himself. He was always in the thick of battle, blasting distant siege weapons with fire or deflecting flying arrows with a gust of wind. More importantly, he gave orders and the goblins obeyed; their respect was perfect, better even then Bellea's Twin Kings receive. There were elves in the battle too, fighting alongside the goblins. In the dream they were unnaturally tall. Stretched creatures with vast, brooding eyes. He knew the dream-elves were untrustworthy in the extreme, barely better than the orcs. Elves have always been content to have minimal contact with goblins. This is not on really moral grounds, but any city-state that might expand tends to be blocked by the rest. Orcs, on the other hand, pursue a standard policy of relentless expansion, even today. In the dream, though, he knew he must play one evil's power off the other to survive. 
 Aytheur saw the triumphant goblin horde returning home. Their rocky coasts with small, stony fields and the craggy pastured hills felt perfectly familiar to him. But these homes had been defiled. When the army returned, the smoke of burned houses was long gone. The bodies of the slaughtered were putrid. Yet the soldiers – both men and women, though in the dream Aytheur did not think this odd – embraced them just the same. It was horrific. The goblins' rage was terrifying, even for him.
 The vision shifted with the story unresolved. Aytheur now saw his space in the dormitory of the Academy. Vera was there, talking about her latest cause. Aytheur hear Delthias' voice just outside the room, the perpetual student was explaining the mysteries of philosophy. And in the center of the room stood Ambassador Beilen. He was pleading with Aytheur, but the words made no sense. Only his name stood out. Beilen called him Aytheur, not Arthorus as he was called by the elves. Liacorous, easily the most able martial student of the Academy, stood over him, laughing about Aytheur's bleeding nose. Alethia was there too, turning her back to him because she'd learned who is was. 
 Aytheur's hands began to glow with fire, and it terrified him. When he was very young, Aytheur touched this gift accidentally, once. Like many, it was suppressed after that, quite subconsciously. Until in his anger, Aytheur touched it again. He touched it, and the room burst. No, it exploded in flame. Explode is a rather new word for the elves, something borrowed from the dwarves, but it describes this perfectly. And in the explosion they were all consumed: Alethia and Beilen, Delthias and Liacorous and Vera. 
 [Sorry for the apparent retcon with his name. It's like this: Ghaent named his son Aytheur, but that name fits better with the goblins and with Ghaen't people than with elves. So, to blend in, Aytheur changed it slightly. Schmitt to Smith, essentially.]
 The dream shifted a third time. Now Aytheur was running. On both sides there were faces he recognized shouting at him. They called him immortal-killer, firebringer, murderer of Romaybath the Dragon-tree, slayer of the tree of memory, all the things his father was called. The faces also charged him with Beilen's murder, and with cowardice for running from justice. Cowardice for choosing ostracism. 
 As the dreams continued, they lost all sense but the sense of terror. Aytheur came to a lake, and tried to swim, but his arms failed him. He began to drown. He fell through the water, then it turned to air. He was falling freely from a great height. Like the poor low-elf worker he saw in Bellea. He was just trying to clean the precious glass windows of a tree-mansion, but he tripped or lost his balance, or a cord broke. He fell, a bucket of water followed him. It spilled, but did not catch up with him. There were a few screams before the sicking crunch. Though Aytheur's eyes were, in his dream, that of the low elf, he heard the crunch just as he had in life. His stomach twisted. 
 In that moment, though, Aytheur realized he was dreaming. It made no sense to hear the noise of one's own death. Not when one died like that, at least. There'd be no time for it. Everything came back to him, the wastelands, the sunrise, and the insect. Arachnid, probably, some relative of the scorpions. In the Forest there were small arachnids, not so different from this scorpion, except in one key thing. He learned of this creature years ago, it was a tool of the orcs. This poison would not kill or even harm the victim, but left it completely incapacitated. Worse than paralyzed; completely helpless, trapped within their own mind. It was the perfect tool for capturing leaders, because the dream state rendered them suggestible. Aytheur wondered what nonsense he had been saying. Then he wondered how he ought to wake up. 
 The world is made up of elements of magic. Sure, it is also made up of matter, with all the atoms and electrons, all the properties that science would one day discover. But it is also made up of the elements: wind, and water, fire and stone, and earth. Water is known for its purity, so Aytheur directed the dream again. Back to the lake... it was hardly more than a large pond in the little corner of the Forest he grew up in. Aytheur learned to swim there, but in the dream he was drowning again. Still, there was water. Even while the water filled his lungs, Aytheur spoke to it. He pleaded with it and begged it, because he needed help. 
 That is how magic always works. It isn't something you spontaneously create, but something that exists outside you. The spell caster, whether troll or apprentice, doesn't just command it. He may also console it, bargain with it, reason with it or appeal to it in an emotional way. Magic acts rather like a person, though the “personality” of magic is different for each caster and for each spell. A troll can command magic and it will normally respond. Most others require more careful and detailed work, although the nature of most spells is more careful than those of fire. These effects enhance each other. 
 The water responded. In the dream, Aytheur breathed deep, though still under water. But the water was not foreign to him anymore, his lungs did not reject it. The panic left him, as though he were safely on the surface. He touched the bottom of the pond and looked up. There the sunlight danced on the small ripples above him. It was beautiful.

 Aytheur awoke with a start. He coughed a few times because the feeling of water was still in his lungs. The sun was low in the sky now. Just at that moment, Aytheur didn't know if it was rising or setting. Had he missed a day? A day and a night? Or had barely a moment passed since he was stung? His hand seemed fine, just a tiny scab marked the point where the stinger had entered. The creature was long gone. 
 The sun set. For a moment it was half-covered by a mountain. The shape looked black now, but Aytheur knew it was deep green. That low mountain, a glorified hill, really, is last in the chain that run up the center of the convenient. That is Ballea.  
 Somehow, Aytheur felt he had quite enough sleep already, so he rolled his blankets and set off, away from the sun.