Note: I entered the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest last weekend. I had 48 hours to write a 1,000-word story based on the following prompts:
Genre: Fantasy
Setting: A Snack Bar
Object: A Flyswatter
The idea below came to me almost immediately, and I liked it, but not sure it fit the flash fiction requirements well.
Two Old Heroes at the Edge of the Festival
The Tallow music carried across the
festival grounds as the daytime games and contests relented to the evening
revelry. Baldir grimaced, and for Galadrin, it was still bizarre seeing the
dwarf’s facial features so clearly. Baldir’s once plush beard was gone along with
so many other aspects of their former adventurous lives. The dwarf travelled
the festival circuit these days, selling ale and various seasoned meats on
skewers at an outdoor stand. Patrons didn’t appreciate the famous beard dipping
into their ales or brushing against their chicken or lamb, so Baldir shaved it shortly
after becoming a food peddler.
“Seven Dread Lords have forsaken
FarHaven over the last thousand years, and every time, the cursed Tallow have followed
them while the rest of us have fought against the evil, but at every blessed
festival, there’s nothing but the pounding drums and blasted horns of the
miserable Tallow music!” Baldir seized his flask, chasing his bitter thoughts
with a healthy swallow of dark ale.
“When this valley was filled by a
forest and fantastic creatures, the jubilant anthems and sorrowful laments of
my elven ancestors echoed here,” Galadrin said. “Now the forests and the
creatures and the elves have vanished from this place.”
“Aye,” Baldir didn’t say anymore.
They were friends, more like brothers, but neither could fully erase the
deep-seeded resentments felt between their two races. The great elven realm of
Noltha Fey once ruled this region and often quarreled with the dwarves of the
Wolf Fang Mountains to the north. Both races did things to dishonor themselves
during those conflicts.
A DragonFly landed on their table
top. The split-wing bug had a body the size of a baby’s fist that appeared to
overstress its skinny six legs.
“Remember when these damn things
used to spit fire?”
“I am old enough to remember when
they talked.” Galadrin remembered how DragonFlys were once intelligent and
often devious, but now they were empty-headed nuisances scavenging for crumbs. The
world was changing, and Galadrin wasn’t sure anymore for the better.
Before it came near Galadrin’s
skewer of chicken, a wooden mallet with a wide face and pointed barbs smacked
down atop it.
“Damn buggies,” Lara said. She was
the wench of Baldir’s food stand, and Galadrin suspected their business
relationship extended beyond that. She lifted the swatter, the DragonFly’s body
was impaled on one of the barbs, and wiped the table with a rag with her other
hand, removing the blotches of green and yellow innards.
They were the only three at the
stand, which was arranged on the outskirts of the Anniversary Festival. The
crowds were enjoying the music and temporary taverns in the center of the
activities, leaving the two friends alone in the torchlight.
“Twenty-three years,” Galadrin
pondered aloud the anniversary of Arturo’s coronation.
“Aye, about twenty-five since we
vanquished Darorath Bloodstone,” Baldir snorted, “Not that it’s talked about
anymore, and most say the Doom of Alecsandri or the Velkan Trolls or the Charge
of Zaelwo Hill are figments of old soldiers’ imaginations.”
Galadrin sighed. Thousands of
elves, including two of his brothers and one sister, died at the Charge of
Zaelwo Hill, but in the end, they had broken Darorath Bloodstone’s eastern
forces, allowing Galadrin to march his remaining force straight to the palace. Concurrently,
Baldir’s regiment overwhelmed the Velkan Trolls at Metahischoo.
Now Baldir shilled skewers of meat,
and Galadrin was part of an exhibition that celebrated elves’ customs and
culture. He and his remaining kin were curiosities for women and children to
stare at.
“Arturo has brought prosperity and
peace,” Galadrin said.
“And compromise.” Baldir’s bitterness
was once again clear, as one of the most notable compromises was deploying the
Wretches, the deformed former soldiers of Darorath Bloodstone, to the mines. A
move that had undercut dwarf society, forcing most to scatter for work. Like
the Tallow, whose culture had thrived after being enemies to man, the Wretches
were said to be flourishing in the mines. Arturo believed this sort of progress
would undercut any future rebellions by the two groups.
So far, it had worked: No war in
twenty-five years, the proliferation of stone roadways and increased trade and
commerce, and improved health and wealth. But, the elves and dwarves of the FarHaven
with their thinning numbers and lost homes were diminished, and old adventurers
like Baldir and Galadrin were relegated to the fringe and to lore. And the magic, once so prevalent in FarHaven,
was dissipating. Everything was turning to stone, steel and gold, choking the
mystical and miraculous from the hills and valleys.
“I have heard whispers that an
Oracle has foreseen the rise of another Dread Lord. Could be tomorrow, could be
a hundred years.”
“Aye, I am already too old to
fight, and if it’s a hundred years, I won’t see it at all. We dwarves live a
long time, but not forever like you elves.”
Galadrin eyed the two empty skewers
before him; elves traditionally hadn’t eaten meat, but now he couldn’t seem to
get enough. He wasn’t positive that immortality was a guarantee anymore. A
bright flash burst across the sky, followed by a thunderous boom. The
pyromancers’ fireworks show was starting.
“Will Arturo’s heirs withstand an
evil uprising?” The dwarf grabbed their empty mugs and skewers.
“I imagine a new hero will be
required.” Galadrin had met both heirs, noting they were accustomed to comfort.
They might have the old blood of Arturo’s line, but they lacked their father’s
honor and grit.
“Another man sent to save us,”
Baldir snorted. “The Gods should choose another race to rule next time.”
More fireworks blasted, and the two
old heroes watched silently. They were removed from the story now; they could
feel it.
“It was good to see you, my
friend,” Galadrin said. Baldir nodded.
Galadrin journeyed toward the
darkness, away from the fireworks, the festivities, and the memories. He wished
there were a true forest near, one where he could hear the birds and echoes of
old elven songs.
