Prelude to a Story

Written by Sir Talmid

I have no idea when it was first posted.

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Sometime after the Britayan war:

A single glass paned window remained lit on Mrenin Street, in the perpetually medieval town of Scottar, Britay.  The light had lit up at dusk, and remained alight well after the town hall’s towering clock building signalled the eleventh hour after noon, when the rest of the town had descended into slumber.  Behind the glass was a warm room, perceptible only in its dark orange, firelit coloration, with all other details hidden by the frost of that autumn night’s cold snap.

Inside the room, beside a long desk slouched a thin man, one hand gripping the monocle over his right eye, and the other holding open a book in front of him.  Many more books lay about him on the desk in two distinct piles, some open and some closed, some bound in aging leather and some existing only as yellowed pages stripped of protection.

The man’s eyes squinted in the dim light of the room, until another set of hands, dark, smooth, and dainty appeared.  They tended the depleted candlelamp, replacing the old wax with a new LongLife Duraglow candle, and relit it with the click of an electric lighter.

“Many thanks, Elspeth.” muttered the man, his name being Morgan.  His eyes never left his parchment, and now with his light renewed, he could discern the words much better.

Morgan continued his reading, effectively disregarding the presence of his assistant, until she reminded him, “It’s nearly midnight.  You really should get to bed.  You’ve been reading for hours.”

He turned a page.  “I’m nearly finished with this last addendum.”

Elspeth leaned over his shoulder, quickly scanning the paper.  “This is Ancient Ankorian parchment, 15th Century.” she noted.  “From before King Garast’s venture - before the Sorcerer's reign, even.  How did you get this?  Original History needs a license to study.”  She turned to Morgan, who barely responded with more than a twitch.  “Morgan?”

He half nodded.  “Yes.  This is Original History.  I know it’s illegal.  But I must find the truth.  The last king of Ancient Ankoria is dying, and indeed he is the last, since his daughter refuses to rule a land riddled with natural disasters....”

At Elspeth's touch of his shoulder, Morgan sat up suddenly and blinked several times.  It took a few tries, but he turned his neck to face her, putting down his monocle.  “Sorry.” he said with a short laugh.  “The books must have caught me again.”  He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.  “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight,” Elspeth repeated, confirming the time with a glance to her wristwatch.  “Actually it is midnight now, just about.”

Stifling a yawn, Morgan stood up and stretched.  “I think I’ll make some tea, then I’ll head up.  Thanks for keeping me sane.”

“Anytime.” Elspeth said.  “See you tomorrow, if you're still alive by then.”

 She left the room through the apartment’s short hallway, and Morgan followed, splitting off for the dinette while she went upstairs.  He raised a stainless steel bucket from the RefrigerWell built into the counter, poured the water into a kettle, and set it over the kitchen’s wood stove.  After a few attempts with an electric lighter, a spark of flame shot out and set the wood alight.

While the water brewed, Morgan returned to contemplating his studies.  The last book he’d been reading was a pikeman’s account, from the party of Garast I the Fearsome, which took Ankoria from the Sorcerer who ruled previously.  In revenge, the Sorcerer had put a curse on the land, and the entire region became a parched, dilapidated place.  After a minute, the kettle’s whistling drove Morgan from his thoughts, and he poured himself some tea, before he continued his thinking.  He had a theory involving his land’s perpetually medieval state: maybe, a long time ago, someone had cursed Britay and the rest of the known world around it too, to a state of technological stoppage.

 

Britay was only one of the nine known lands on planet Militiregnum.  The other were Ankoria, Aquila, Easterland, Elepharia, Morcia, Norden, Sutherlany in the Southern Isles, and Karribea across the provenly crossable Uncrossable Sea.  All the lands were currently in a union, called the Amalgamated Lands, ruled by a powerful fellow called “Thedude,” who introduced modern technology and information about other worlds to Militiregnum.  It was also Thedude who outlawed Original History, which encompassed everything before the planet’s recorded third millennium.  It wasn’t without trepidation that Morgan disregarded that ruling.

 

As he sipped his tea, Morgan considered the electric lighter he held in his hand.  It constantly malfunctioned, just like the automobiles, wheeled contraptions that were once methods of transportation.  Thedude introduced them in the mid 2020s, but according to modern, legal historical accounts, they all stopped working.  As if, Morgan thought, the world itself repulsed them.

He almost wanted to go back to his study, leave the fireplace and the DuraGlow candle lit, and continue reading.  He still had more books to read, hopefully to add depth to his minimal knowledge of magic, enchantment, and curses.  They included tales of the ancient Morgai, human wielders of dark magic, and their relations with the mythical elves.  He also had accounts of the Last Sorcerers of the Third Millennium, a group of enchanters who, like all other aspects of magic, disappeared from history with the formation of Thedude’s Amalgamated Lands. 

But what in the world will all this do for me? Morgan thought glumly.  He was an unlicensed reader of Original History, so he could never share his thoughts and findings with anyone else, except for Elspeth, who he trusted dearly.  He was pretty confident in his theory, and at most a conclusion should calm his mind... but would it?  Would he want to live in a land cursed to remain ancient and technologically challenged?  He doubted he could leave even if he wanted, if the curse ensures all means of leaving the planet were inoperable. 

But, Morgan knew, Elspeth was right, as the time for staying up had long ended.  It was late beyond feasibility, and he needed his energy for another day.  He finished his tea with a final sip, and let his eyes droop.  Now was the time for him to extinguish the flames, go to his room, and sleep.  Tomorrow, after he woke up, went to work, and returned, then he would have time to keep reading and continue his research.   He would dwell on his curse then.

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