Post by Lantlas on Apr 22, 2006 1:09:51 GMT -5
1981 - Munich, Germany
Two parents were very proud of a new light that had entered their life. Albeit a non-biological one to accompany their only blood son Neovan, he was certainly one of a kind. Mrs. Anduril had never heard the name Lantlas before, but she believed it wouldn’t be right to change a child’s name for commonality purposes. Captain Anduril didn’t get to spend much time with the young one, but he kept a picture of him inside the Bible in his breast pocket. Often while in the midst of battle, he would clutch his chest, wondering if he would ever see his children again.
Mrs. Anduril was a different story. She had certain, if not strange, affection for the young one. Before they’d moved from England, she’d heard rumors from those who’d found him that he was not only a foreigner to the land, but to the race as well. Mrs. Anduril often had a firm grip on reality and let the rumors and laughs fall off her back like rain on a poncho. In her eyes, the child who sported light blue hair was not a freak to be mocked, but a unique rare sentiment to be cherished as one of her own. Neovan was hard to control at times. He was nearing that age of the terrible toddler, and Mrs. Anduril found herself chasing a kid who was running around like he forgot to take his pill that morning.
Young Lantlas, however, was quite a different story. There was speculation to whether he even knew how to speak. It was not normal for a five-year-old boy to be so silent. The estimations of mental handicaps were quickly given up when Lantlas was assembling projects of the junior-high level by the time he was three-years-old, so the assumption quickly became that he was either mute or extremely shy. No one ever thought that he might just be the observant type, preferring to learn by taking notice of actions, body language, and tone… Seeing beyond the words that are being spoken, perhaps. Little did they know that young Lantlas knew more about his parents and his brother than they would ever care to share with him at his age, but those facts never reached the lines of communication.
1981 was becoming a difficult year for the family. Despite Anduril being promoted to the rank of Captain, the pay increase that was promised by the British government never appeared. Living in a foreign country on a military base wasn’t exactly paradise, to say the very least. Mrs. Anduril reluctantly worked two jobs to make ends meet, disregarding her firm belief that a mother should be with her children at all times during their young years. She could not afford a babysitter, but a friend of the family would come by to check in every now and then. For an approximately five-year-old child, Lantlas took exceptional care of his younger brother. It was only when Mother was around that Neovan would release all the energy he’d built up from sitting, quietly fearing the blue-haired presence across the room.
One particular night, Mrs. Anduril came home a bit more run-down than usual. The stress and exhaustion were building up in both physical and emotional senses, and not having her husband around wasn’t helping the matters much. Expecting to arrive to a mess created by two small children, she instead found Neovan fast asleep in his bed, and young Lantlas was reading to him… out loud. Mrs. Anduril didn’t dare approach the room yet, for fear that Lantlas would return to his recluse, silent state. The size of the book amazed her, for it was no children’s book in the slightest. Not only that, but also Lantlas’s language and articulation skills were flawless. He was pronouncing words that Mother herself didn’t quite grasp.
“Half an hour later it occurred to him to look through the window. The first thing he saw was a green suitcase, with the initials L.C. painted on the lid. Joy flared up like fire within him. He picked up a stone. The smashed glass tinkled on the floor. A moment later he was inside the room. He opened the green suitcase; and all at once he was breathing Lenina's perfume, filling his lungs with her essential being. His heart beat wildly; for a moment he was almost faint. Then, bending over the precious box, he touched, he lifted into the light, he examined. The zippers on Lenina's spare pair of viscose velveteen shorts were at first a puzzle, then solved, a delight. Zip, and then zip; zip, and then zip; he was enchanted. Her green slippers were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He unfolded a pair of zippicamiknicks, blushed, put them hastily away again; but kissed a perfumed acetate handkerchief and wound a scarf round his neck. Opening a box, he spilt a cloud of scented powder. His hands were floury with the stuff. He wiped them on his chest, on his shoulders, on his bare arms. Delicious perfume! He shut his eyes; he rubbed his cheek against his own powdered arm. Touch of smooth skin against his face, scent in his nostrils of musky dust–her real presence. ‘Lenina,’ he whispered.” (Author’s note: This scene took place very soon after their move from England, so Lantlas was speaking English at this point.)
Mother Anduril knew those words; she’d read the book a while ago herself. How a five-year-old was not only reading this, but comprehending it was beyond any explanation. While contemplating when the proper time to enter the room would be, she felt something sharp digging into her thigh from her front pocket. Digging through the spare change and loose bills stuffed in her pocket after another slow evening at the café, she reached for the object creating this irritating prodding. Bringing it into her field of vision reminded her of what she’d forgotten in her haste. A gift from Lantlas’s biological mother, wherever she may be, was presented to her earlier in the day from an unknown source. She inspected the small glass emblem, depicting trees with a small dirt path running between them. She, however, did not notice the small writing along the edge.
Finally, Mother Anduril tiptoed into the room, but the silence was no use. Lantlas knew of her presence long before she’d revealed herself, and he continued reading to his little brother in between glances towards his mother. She was lost in the sense of time, merely watching as Lantlas read the book to the very conclusion, then closing it and placing it very neatly back on the bookshelf from which he took it. Sitting back in his chair, his eyes not leaving the returned stare of his mother, the look in his eyes prompted her to finally break the silence.
“You read so well for a child your age,” she gushed. “Where did you learn to do this?” Lantlas didn’t respond, so after a few seconds of nothing but an unbroken stare, his mother continued. “Why is it you have not told us of your ability to speak, Lantlas?” Again, his mother’s question was unanswered. Mrs. Anduril feared that his trust of his somewhat-new parental figures had not quite been built yet, but then she remembered the emblem. Leaving her seat on the side of the unused bed, she knelt in front of her blue-haired mystery she had grown to adore. Holding the emblem in her hands, she felt a tear drip from her eye.
“I know this may be hard for you to understand, but I love you as much as my own son. I may not understand where you have come from, or what your life was like before we were blessed with you, but if you never trust me for anything else, take my word on this; no matter where you go in this life, I will always be inside your heart. I will never attempt to replace whomever your real mother was, but I hope until the day that I die that you’ll love me the same.” Fighting back the river of tears, Mother Anduril placed the emblem in Lantlas’s small hand. Lantlas closely inspected the object, then back at her with a questioning glance. “This was a gift from your mother,” she continued. “I have not ever met or even spoke with her, but she loves you like I do. The instructions I was given have informed me that this keepsake is for you to hold dear to your heart, and to remember your origins. The problem is, neither of us really know, do we?”
Lantlas clasped the emblem firmly in his hand, and finally looked back at Mother Anduril. His lip trembled, as if he was trying to find the right words to express his response. After a few moments, a very meek, shaking voice escaped his lips.
“Mommy?”
Mrs. Anduril’s heart melted at the sound of the word, but she once again held back her emotions, at least for the time being. “Yes, Lantlas?”
“Why doesn’t my mommy want me?”
Something inside of her dropped, and Mrs. Anduril abandoned her cautious approach and wrapped her arms around the small child. Lantlas seemed confused, not sure how to return this display of affection. Mrs. Anduril backed up, and began to explain things. “I am sure that your mother would be with you if she could,” she insisted, hoping the child would buy it. Mother Anduril certainly had no idea if this was indeed true or not. “When I held you just there, that is called a hug. It’s something two people do when they care about each other, as I care about you.”
Lantlas trembled again slightly, then without hesitating wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck. She embraced him, trying not to hurt him. She heard a small whisper in her ear, “please don’t ever leave me, mommy.” Her eyes caught the reflections from the shiny emblem, but she saw something she didn’t notice before. Words were inscribed in very tiny print along the right outer edge. Twisting her head just enough to make out the words, she read them to herself.
“Keeper of the Elven Path. Son of the Immortal, Child of the Earth.”
…
April 21st, 2006
Infuriated, a long way home was just what I needed to put things in perspective. In the night, the swamp soon began to surround me, and a presence was felt beyond being around mere humans. I was close to Charleston, but still a few miles away. The fog rising from the cool water in the dim light from the moon was a beautiful sight, and I found myself contemplating what had happened here in years past. In America I may not have been born, but its history I know quite well.
At one time known as Charles Town, this particular landscape held the memories of both the Revolution and the Civil Wars, each in which inspired many later tales of freedom and heroes on both sides of the brutal conflicts. History was told by those who lived it, as was their perspective on any issue that happened to occur. Looking at the Revolution, it could very well be seen from two completely different angles. From the Colonial side, they were fighting for freedom from an oppressive crown, ruling with taxation without representation. On the English side, ungrateful rebels decided they were more important than the Crown and could just foolishly stand against the most powerful nation in the world, committing treason against the very country that brought them there in the first place.
The Civil War began in this same place, with the first shots firing on Union Soldiers stationed at Fort Sumter. Blood was spilt from killing their own countrymen, men dying by the thousands for ideals and principles in which they so strongly believed. Many held in slavery, and many willing to fight to free their brethren, even though they would not see their acceptance in society for many years to come. Humans can be such petty creatures at times, speaking of men being created equal, but turning around and being so very ethnocentric. Perspective can sometimes be misinterpreted as fact, and I began to wonder if down the road, this epic battle with Ace Anderson would become a wrestling folklore, as the one that brought me into the business. Would this be a story to be told to a new generation of wrestling fans? Would it be one of the matches a hardcore fan would not hesitate to present to a new fan, in hopes of hooking them to the product, thus forming a new connection between two friends? The potential was certainly there. Arguably the biggest names in Pure Class Wrestling would be squaring off for the second time, and the strange unknown had accomplished much more since their last meeting.
Ace Anderson was the world champion, extremely talented, and ruthless when it came time for a showdown. His arrogance was not without merit, even though I sought to wound the egotistical shell in which he hid while speaking to me. He might be the best human wrestler the Pure Class Wrestling has to offer, but at the end of the day, he’s still flesh and blood mortal man. Twelve times has someone stood opposite the ring of the Elven Warrior, and not once has a defeat been recorded. The same could not be said for Ace Anderson, and while he does like to brag about his most total wins in PCW history, having more than three times the matches I have does affect that judgment. I had won twelve contests in a row, and Ace had won a mere two. Regardless, I am the heavy underdog, although that position has become quite frequent. Most have been betting against me from week one, and I will shove it down their throats as I have continuously done so before.
All the thoughts of warfare only increased my appetite for the destruction of Ace Anderson. His association with humanity was more than enough fuel for the fire at this current point and time. Ungrateful spawns of hatred and ignorance, they all seemed to be becoming. Waltzing around, unaware of anyone but themselves, and Ace Anderson seemed to encompass this definition on quite successful levels. Hell, I could probably defeat him cleanly at this week’s Trauma, and he’d find an excuse for that as well. You can never prove anything to some people, and humans will often dispute in order to protect their fickle pride.
Before I knew it, I’d escaped the swamplands and found myself finally returning to my comfortable locker room in the PCW Arena… or so I thought. The smell of smoke drifted to my nostrils as I was walking down the corridor towards my concealed corner of the world. The door was broken down, and inside existed only ash! Trying to suppress the smell, I peered into my dark, destroyed former residence. I soon became worrisome, as the emblem I’d held dearly since my childhood was in this room. The only sentiment my true parents ever left for me, it was the representation of everything for which I stand and fight. The safe in which I’d concealed this priceless heirloom had to be fireproof, didn’t it? Searching along the wall, I located the corner where the safe sat nearly unscathed. Cranking in the combination, I tore the door off its hinges, desperately hoping to find the same shiny glass emblem that comforted me throughout even the darkest of times. Instead, I found an empty plate. The only thing inside the safe was a folded note, and I unfolded it.
Who’s going to walk down the Elven Path now, bitch?
“Ace dares cross our Elven boundaries and steal the sentiment of our lives,” I heard myself scream. “Let him fall, let him be destroyed for such hedonism!”
“And so I shall,” I shouted. “Ace, I WILL END YOU!”
…
“You burned down his locker room too?!” Devon exclaimed with sheer disgust. “Are you trying to destroy him?”
“Devon, you fail to see what the results of this plan will be,” Kieran replied.
“A plan, a plan to destroy the life of the only existing member of the Elven race you know,” Devon accused. “Very nice. VERY!”
“Devon, this human in which he will combat is much stronger than the others. His frame of mind will determine the outcome of this contest. You see, Lantlas has something very special hidden in that locker room. An emblem, which was a message from his parents, trying to inform him of his immortal destiny was given to him from his human mother. A note was left inside the safe where it was kept, and if this goes as I planned, Lantlas will believe that only Ace Anderson would commit such a heinous act.”
“I can’t believe these are the lengths to which you’re reaching,” Devon condemned. “It’s sick.”
Kieran smiled as she flipped the emblem out of her pocket and stared at it long and hard. “We’ll see how much longer Ace can make jokes about the Elven Path,” she snickered. “Silly humans.”
NOTE: Reading excerpt from “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley