BASTIAN REMAINED SILENT, WATCHING THE SPECTACLE UNFOLD. THE ARROGANCE OF THE CITY'S INHABITANTS WAS UNDENIABLE. THEY BELIEVED THEMSELVES SUPERIOR TO ALL OTHERS, AND THEY WEREN'T SHY ABOUT IT. THE ELVES WERE INDEED UNMATCHED IN BEAUTY, MAGIC, AND CIVILIZATION, BUT THEIR BELIEF IN THEIR OWN SUPREMACY, THEIR ENTITLEMENT TO ENSLAVE OTHER RACES, WAS STAGGERING.
IT WASN'T UNIQUE TO THIS PLACE, THOUGH. EVERY POWERFUL RACE HAD A SENSE OF SUPERIORITY, BUT THE ELVES, ELEGANT, LONG-LIVED, AND BLESSED WITH ARCANE MASTERY, TOOK THAT PRIDE TO AN EXTREME. THEY TRULY BELIEVED THEMSELVES TO BE THE CHOSEN ONES, AND THEY MADE SURE EVERYONE ELSE KNEW IT.
"MIXED BLOOD? IN THEIR EYES, IT'S WORSE THAN FILTH. TO THEM, THE VERY EXISTENCE OF A HALF-ELF IS A STAIN ON THEIR RACE, A SIN FROM BIRTH. FOR ELVES, IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT RACIAL PURITY, IT'S ABOUT SUPERIORITY. BUT THERE'S SOMETHING DEEPER TOO. A FEAR, A GNAWING UNEASE ABOUT THOSE WHO SHARE EVEN A FRACTION OF THEIR BLOOD."
BASTIAN REFLECTED ON THIS AS HE WATCHED THE CAGED HALF-ELVES SHUFFLE BY. THEIR FACES WERE DULL, DEVOID OF HOPE. EACH ONE A PRODUCT OF TWO WORLDS, AND YET FULLY ACCEPTED BY NEITHER. THOUGH THEY LIVED SHORTER LIVES THAN PURE ELVES, THEIR BODIES GREW STRONGER AND FASTER. DWARF, DRAGONBORN, GIANT, WHATEVER THEIR MIXED LINEAGE, HALF-ELVES WERE OFTEN MORE PHYSICALLY ROBUST, THEIR POTENTIAL HINTING AT SOMETHING THAT FRIGHTENED THE ELVES DEEPLY.
"THINK ABOUT IT," BASTIAN MUSED TO HIMSELF, "A HALF-ELF AND A FULL-BLOODED ELF OF THE SAME AGE, WHO WOULD WIN? THE ELVES MIGHT NOT SAY IT ALOUD, BUT THEY'RE AFRAID. AFRAID OF WHAT THESE HALF-ELVES REPRESENT."
IT WASN'T JUST THEIR SPEED OF GROWTH OR PHYSICAL STRENGTH. IT WAS THE VERY IDEA OF DEGENERATION THAT HAUNTED THE ELVES. THE HALF-ELVES WERE A REMINDER OF WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN TO THEIR OWN RACE, A POTENTIAL DOWNFALL DISGUISED IN THE FORM OF THESE MIXED-BLOODS. AND EVEN MORE UNSETTLING WAS THE IDEA THAT THESE OUTCASTS MIGHT SURPASS THEM, REPLACING THEM. THE ELVES COULDN'T BEAR THE THOUGHT THAT CREATURES THEY CONSIDERED "IMPURE" MIGHT POSSESS GREATER POTENTIAL.
"THEY SEE THEM AS MONSTERS," BASTIAN THOUGHT, GLANCING AT ONE PARTICULARLY YOUNG HALF-ELF IN THE CAGE. "TWISTED BEINGS, TOO MUCH LIKE THEMSELVES TO BE IGNORED, BUT TOO DIFFERENT TO BE ACCEPTED. THEIR DISGUST COMES FROM SEEING A REFLECTION THEY CAN'T BEAR."
IT WAS THIS TWISTED EMPATHY THAT MADE THE ELVES' HATRED OF HALF-ELVES EVEN MORE PROFOUND. THEY COULD UNDERSTAND THEM BECAUSE THEY SHARED THE SAME BLOOD, AND IT WAS PRECISELY THIS CLOSENESS THAT MADE THEIR REJECTION SO BRUTAL.
FOR PURE-BLOOD ELVES, THE WORST CRIME WASN'T BEING AN ENEMY, BUT BEING "IMPURE." AND BASTIAN OVERHEARD SOME NEARBY CONVERSATIONS THAT CONFIRMED HIS DARKEST SUSPICIONS, THESE HALF-ELVES WERE TO BE THROWN INTO THE COLOSSEUM TOMORROW, TO FIGHT LIONS AS PART OF THE VICTORY CELEBRATION.
IT HADN'T ALWAYS BEEN THIS WAY. IN THE PAST, THE ELVES' HOSTILITY TOWARD HALF-ELVES WAS LIMITED TO INDIFFERENCE OR BANISHMENT. AFTER ALL, THEIR MIXED HERITAGE USUALLY CAME FROM UNIONS WITH SO-CALLED "FRIENDLY" RACES. BUT AS THE WAR ESCALATED, SO DID THE PREJUDICE. NOW, INTERBREEDING WITH ANY "INFERIOR RACE" WAS SEEN AS A DISGRACEFUL CRIME, AN ABOMINATION. THERE WAS NO MERCY FOR THESE "PRODUCTS," AS THEY WERE CALLED. NO ONE WANTED THEM TO LIVE EVEN A DAY LONGER.
BUT IT WASN'T JUST THE ELVES WHO WERE CRUEL. IN THE WAR, NO ONE HAD BEEN TREATED WORSE THAN THE HALF-ELVES. THEY WERE NEITHER FULLY ELF NOR FULLY ANYTHING ELSE, AND AS SUCH, BECAME SCAPEGOATS. BOTH SIDES OF THE CONFLICT VENTED THEIR ANGER ON THEM.
BASTIAN'S FISTS CLENCHED AT HIS SIDES AS HE STARED AT THE HALF-ELVES IN THE CAGE. THEY LOOKED SO BROKEN, SO DEFEATED. YET, DESPITE THE FIRE BURNING WITHIN HIM, HE COULDN'T SEE A WAY TO HELP THEM.
"SAVE THEM? AND TAKE THEM WHERE? NOWHERE IS SAFE FOR THEM..."
THE WAR HAD TURNED THEIR LIVES INTO A NIGHTMARE, AND OF ALL THE VICTIMS, NONE SUFFERED MORE THAN THOSE CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.
"LET'S GO," HIS COMPANION WHISPERED, TUGGING AT BASTIAN'S ARM. "WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO WASTE HERE. OUR CONTACT IS WAITING."
BUT BASTIAN HESITATED, HIS EYES CAUGHT BY SOMETHING AT THE END OF THE PROCESSION. A TWISTED, GNARLED PINE TREE, UNLIKE ANYTHING HE'D EVER SEEN.
"WHAT IS THAT?" HE ASKED, FROWNING AS HE STEPPED CLOSER.
"STRANGE," SOMEONE MUTTERED BESIDE HIM, "THERE'S A FACE ON THAT TREE."
"A TREE DEMON?" ANOTHER VOICE CHIMED IN. "BUT HOW COULD IT BE SO TWISTED?"
"NO," AN OLDER ELF SAID KNOWINGLY. "THAT'S A SOUL-RECEIVING TREE. THEY'VE BEEN APPEARING ALL OVER RECENTLY. THEY SAY IF YOU GET CLOSE, YOU CAN HEAR IT CRYING."
THE TREE STOOD BLACKENED, ITS ANCIENT BARK TWISTED INTO GROTESQUE SHAPES. WHAT STOOD OUT MOST WERE THE FACES, COUNTLESS, ETCHED INTO THE TRUNK, THEIR EXPRESSIONS EERIE AND UNSETTLING. SOME APPEARED TO WEEP, OTHERS TO LAUGH HYSTERICALLY. A FEW WERE TWISTED IN AGONY, AS THOUGH LOCKED IN AN ETERNAL SCREAM.
BASTIAN MOVED CLOSER, STRAINING HIS EARS. AND THERE IT WAS, FAINT, BUT UNMISTAKABLE. THE SOUND OF WEEPING, CURSING, A CACOPHONY OF SOULS TRAPPED WITHIN THE ANCIENT TREE.
"THIS WAR," HE WHISPERED UNDER HIS BREATH, HIS HEART HEAVY WITH THE WEIGHT OF ALL HE HAD SEEN, "HAS TWISTED EVERYTHING, EVEN THE TREES."
AS THE ELVES HAD MENTIONED, IT WAS JUST A "SOUL-RECEIVING TREE," A STRANGE, NEWLY EMERGING PLANT THAT HAD ONLY APPEARED IN THE PAST FEW MONTHS. DESPITE ITS EERIE PRESENCE, IT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A TREE, NO MONSTROUS POWERS, NO THREAT, NOT EVEN SELF-AWARENESS. ITS ONLY REMARKABLE FEATURE WAS ITS APPEARANCE, GROTESQUE AND UNSETTLING.
THESE TREES WERE BECOMING INCREASINGLY COMMON, BUT THE ONE BEFORE BASTIAN STOOD OUT. ITS TRUNK WAS TWISTED, GNARLED, AND COVERED WITH HUNDREDS OF HAUNTING FACES, EACH ONE CONTORTED INTO DIFFERENT EXPRESSIONS, GRIEF, ANGER, DESPAIR.
"WHY WOULD THEY BRING SOMETHING LIKE THIS INTO THE CITY?" BASTIAN MUTTERED UNDER HIS BREATH, NARROWING HIS EYES. "JUST FOR SPECTACLE? THERE'S NO NEED FOR THAT."
HE PAUSED, A CHILLING THOUGHT CROSSING HIS MIND. "OR… COULD THEY BE USING IT TO EXTRACT OIL?"
THE IDEA HIT HIM HARD, AND HE WASN'T SURE HOW TO PROCESS IT. WAS THIS THE FUTURE FOR THE SOULS TRAPPED IN THESE TREES? HE DIDN'T KNOW WHETHER SUCH A FATE WOULD BE A MERCY OR ANOTHER LAYER OF TORMENT.
YES, SOULS. DEAD SOULS.
THE SOUL-RECEIVING TREES WERE JUST ANOTHER FORM OF THE "LOST SOULS" PHENOMENON PLAGUING THE NORTH. THE DIFFERENCE WAS THAT, WHILE THE NORTHERN LOST SOULS ANIMATED CORPSES, GIVING THEM A SEMBLANCE OF LIFE AND MOBILITY, THESE TREES WERE MERELY VESSELS. THE SOULS WITHIN WERE TRAPPED, BUT THE TREE REMAINED A TREE, STATIC AND UNFEELING DESPITE HOUSING THE SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
AS THE WAR DRAGGED ON, AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE WAS ABUSED IN GREATER NUMBERS, MORE AND MORE SOULS WERE BLOCKED FROM THE NATURAL CYCLE OF LIFE AND DEATH. UNDEAD WANDERED THE LAND, AND THE WORLD WAS GRIPPED BY THE SAME SOUL-LOSS DISEASE THAT RAVAGED THE NORTH.
BASTIAN'S GRIM THOUGHT ABOUT "OIL EXTRACTION" WASN'T FAR-FETCHED. IT WAS A NIGHTMARE MADE REAL. THE PRACTICE OF SLAUGHTERING PRISONERS OF WAR IN FRONT OF ALCHEMY TOWERS TO PRODUCE RAW PHILOSOPHER'S STONES HAD BECOME HORRIFYINGLY COMMON. SO, COULD THE SOUL-RECEIVING TREES, FILLED WITH THE TRAPPED SOULS OF THE DEAD, ALSO SERVE AS HIGH-QUALITY MATERIAL FOR SUCH STONES?
THE ELVES' GROWING COLLECTION OF THESE TREES WAS A DISTURBING SIGN. THEIR RESERVES OF RAW STONES WERE CLEARLY RUNNING LOW, AND NOW THEY WERE RESORTING TO HARVESTING THESE STRANGE, HAUNTED PLANTS.
BASTIAN SIGHED, CASTING A GLANCE AROUND AT THE SERENE BEAUTY OF THE CITY. THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THE IDYLLIC ATMOSPHERE WITHIN THE WALLS AND THE HELLISH CHAOS OUTSIDE WAS STAGGERING.
"EVEN WHEN THE WORLD IS FALLING APART, WE STILL PRETEND EVERYTHING'S FINE," HE MUTTERED BITTERLY. "AS LONG AS OUR COMFORT ISN'T DISTURBED, WHO CARES ABOUT THE REST?"
HE COULD FEEL THE WARM BREEZE, HEAR THE BIRDS CHIRPING, AND SENSE THE LIFE ALL AROUND HIM. IT WAS HARD TO RECONCILE THIS PEACEFUL ENVIRONMENT WITH THE SUFFERING HAPPENING JUST BEYOND THE CITY GATES. THE ELVES, HE REALIZED, WERE TERMINALLY ILL WITH ARROGANCE, INCAPABLE OF STOPPING THE MADNESS THEY HAD SET IN MOTION.
BUT BASTIAN SHOOK HIS HEAD, REFOCUSING HIS THOUGHTS. THIS WAS NO TIME TO GET LOST IN REFLECTION. THE MISSION AT HAND WAS CRITICAL, AND ITS SUCCESS OR FAILURE WOULD DETERMINE EVERYTHING.
"SCORMETHEUS," HE WHISPERED TO HIMSELF, "THE FORMER FIRST SAINT AND SUCCESSOR OF THE SAGE. WHAT KIND OF ELF IS HE?"
HIS THOUGHTS WERE CUT SHORT AS HE REACHED HIS DESTINATION, A GATHERING PLACE HE HADN'T EXPECTED. THE RED DISTRICT, THE CENTER OF PLEASURE AND INDULGENCE, WAS WHERE SCORMETHEUS WAS KNOWN TO FREQUENT.
BASTIAN WAS STUNNED. OF ALL PLACES, THIS WAS WHERE THEY WERE TO MEET?
JUST THEN, HE SPOTTED A FAMILIAR FACE, A SNOWY OWL, HIS OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
"TOO SLOW!" THE OWL SQUAWKED. "IN ANOTHER WEEK, SCORMETHEUS WILL GET BORED AND LEAVE!"
THE OWL'S WORDS, THOUGH SHARP, BROUGHT BASTIAN SOME RELIEF. HE WASN'T TOO LATE, THERE WAS STILL TIME.
TIME, HOWEVER, WAS RUNNING OUT.