[Freeform] The Caretakers

[Vilidius]

The two aged caretakers sat at a small table in the middle of the guild hall, taking their afternoon meal. It was a simple repast of biscuits, sliced apples, and water. They ate the same meal every day together, and they had for as long as either could remember. The guild stores were rich yet, in provisions laid down that would never spoil thanks to means both magical and mundane, and the guild coffers were yet full enough to replace anything that might need replacing. The caretakers were well provided for in their duties. But their needs and tastes were simple. And somehow austerity seemed the order of the day.

The taller caretaker was very thin and fine of feature. He (or she?) might have been an elf, or a fine-boned human, or even a Erudite in some prior age. Time had smoothed and bleached and worn down all of the caretaker's most distinguishing features. Now the caretaker was simply tall, and thin, and quite old. The tall caretaker had care of the library, and the tomes, and the stories of the guild. All of the accumulated tales, whether written in books or recorded by other means. The caretaker also had a deep store of oral tradition, stories known to no one else, and told only in hushed tones. Some truths, after all, are better not recorded at all. And some stories age better when they are not strictly constrained by the truth at all.

The other caretaker was shorter, and stockier. As indistinguishable of feature as the first, she (or he?) might have been a dwarf given too long to a sedentary life, or a gnome who got too stout, or a larger halfling simply settling into advanced age. In all events, the shorter caretaker was a fit companion for the first. They knew one another from many adventures long ago, and shared so many ideas and thoughts in common that even speech was often unneeded. The short caretaker had care of the stores, and the trophies, and the treasures of the guild. Many items were only of sentimental value - reminders of long-ago battles and adventures. Some still contained great power. Several were once items of great power and value but had long since been eclipsed by other tools. Still, who knows what the future may bring, and what new use these old powers might find?

The tall caretaker turned to the short and said "so, how fares the arms and armor this month?" It was the final quarter of the month, when the short caretaker always turned his attention to the south wing and the many armaments stored there.

"Dusty," replied the short caretaker, "and I find myself disinclined to care."

"Ah yes," nodded the tall one. "I am presently engaged in transcribing a volume of stories which are, if I may say, not the most inspiring. But the original has faded so badly it can scarcely be read, and if they are to be preserved they must be copied. I also find my enthusiasm limited."

The sat in silence again for a time. The short caretaker absently chewed on a biscuit. Finally the short one spoke again.

"Do you really imagine any of this matters? This old guild hall falling to ruin. Stories that no one reads. Armor that no one wears. Even if the wars should start again, even in the greatest of emergencies, do you truly imagine that anyone is going to rush down here and don this old rubicite to face their great battle? Will they consult your stories and find insight by hearing of the exploration of Kunark, and of Velious, when those lands were new and uncharted?"

The tall caretaker shook his head. "No, no, of course not. They will craft new armor, they will explore new continents. They will tell new stories and even build new halls. We don't preserve in the vain hope that the past will come again in the same form. That has never been our charge."

The short figure considered this for a moment. "Alright, I accept as much. You know I always have. Though it's bloody hard to keep dusting off the armor knowing no one will wear it. I wonder how you keep on with those quills. Still, new stores, new adventures, new stories, new hall ... if everything should start again, and everything were new, then how does the past even matter? Why bother? New adventures by a new breed of hero. Feet that never walked these halls and ears that never heard these stories, nevermind lived them. What does it matter to say the guild continues if the spirit is elsewhere?"

"Ah, there you get to the crux of it. New heroes. Yes ..."

There was another long silence.

"Dara Darkmoon, you know, was a wonderful artist, but a poor companion in the field. She had no constitution for challenge, and for setbacks, and for difficulty."

Another silence.

"Eliezer was a terrible snob. Few people noticed because he was, of course, an Erudite. But he'd go some way to avoid the company of folks he found tiresome, though he'd never say as much in their company."

...

"Valquiss Silverpalm was far too enamored of his own company. He would decline opportunities for adventure, even from close companions, to pursue his own goals alone - often achieving very little of consequence as a result."

...

"Syllestrae had very little tolerance for incompetence. She would lead willingly into the darkest places, but would have little patience for those unable to follow her with confidence."

...

"Mixxi, Keshu, and others were ...."

"What the hell is your point?" the short caretaker finally snapped.

The tall caretaker blinked, as though coming out of some reverie. "I suppose I got lost for a moment there. My apologies. My point is that they were always flawed. We were always flawed. We can burnish the past until it glows like silver, but we can't allow it to blind us to the truth."

The short caretaker grumbled. "I don't want to hear about any of this. I've devoted too many hours and days and years here to listen to you run down the old days."

The tall one laughed. It was a short, light laugh utterly out of place in the dim, dusty hall. For a moment the gloom lifted, however slightly. "It's not wrong to admit that the heroes of yesterday were imperfect. In fact it's to their credit. They accomplished much in spite of their flaws. Perfect beings deserve no praise, and their stories are uninteresting. That has never been our guild."

"How can you possibly say all of that? If anyone comes, if anyone builds, if there are future adventures - then none of this matters? And the old heroes aren't special, the old adventures aren't unique, the old stories aren't epic - what in the world are we preserving them for? How does the history even matter?"

"Well, my young friend," (the short caretaker snorted, 'young' was a long-standing joke between them), "it matters because it presents an ideal to strive for. The memory of something special. The echo of something great. New heroes will follow the old. And they will be worthy successors, whatever your fears may be. But they will never be entirely comfortable with their worth. Whatever they build on the ruins of these old halls, whatever may cover these dusty chambers, they will know it's all down here. Whatever new stories they tell, they know the old books, the oldest tales, are still remembered. They will feel the weight of history. They will struggle against it. They will strive to be even greater, for fear they are not great enough."

"And that's enough for you, to justify all of this?"

"That, and one more thing. Every hero wants to leave more than a footprint in the sand. Nothing lasts forever, but forever is a long time. True stories should at least endure for an age. We have a covenant with the past, and with the adventures that were. By honoring them we honor ourselves. And we offer promise to the future. To those who will come. That even when their halls are dusty, and their armor dull, and their stories half-forgotten, yet the history will remain and will be cared for. That's why they will build here, over these old bones. That's why they will come here and join us."

Only the final question remained. Between them it was always the final question, in this old debate. This ritual.

"But will it be the same? Will it be Saga?"

And the answer.

"It can never be the same. That's impossible." And yet. "How could it be anything else?"