Bearers of the Black Staff

The old man shakes his head. “He has gone too far inward in his mind. He no longer sees the world as it is or even himself as he has become. He no longer understands what it means to carry the staff. He has forgotten the oath he took and the cause he embraced. He does not say so; he gives no hint of this. But it is there in his distancing, in the small span of his attention, and in his look. I cannot reach him.”


“What will happen now?” the boy asks.

The old man pauses, looking down at his hands and at the black staff he carries. “Nothing we can prevent,” he answers finally.

He says nothing more after that. The boy thinks to ask him of the details of what happened, but he knows the old man does not wish to speak of it. They go back to things the way they were before the old man left. The old man returns to teaching and mentoring, and the boy returns to his studies. The days pass as they once did, and life settles back to what it was.

Until, on a day so bright and clear it suggests that the boundaries of the valley no longer exist and the layers of mist and clouds and rain have dissipated forever, the bearer of the other black staff, the one who would not listen, comes to find them.

The boy and the old man are sitting on a hillside looking out over the valley, talking anew of the way that the power of the staff can alter the bearer’s thinking, a subject that seems to be ever present in the thoughts of the boy’s mentor these days. Power corrupts, and if not watched carefully, if not kept under control, it will come to dominate the user. This is the risk of wielding it; it is always a danger to the bearer. Caution is necessary, even in the smallest usages, because the power of the staff’s magic is an elixir that will build within the body and break down all resistance. Tolerance is possible, but a ready welcoming of the feeling it generates is anathema. It may not seem that there is any danger, especially in times like these, when use of the power is so seldom required. But an understanding of what it means to invoke the staff’s power will help keep the bearer safe and alive.

The old man finishes, looks off into the distance toward a forest down the hillside from where they have climbed, and gets to his feet.

“He is here,” he says.

At first, the boy does not know who he means. But seconds later a figure emerges from the trees, a gaunt specter bearing a black staff, and there is no longer any question. The Elf has the look of a man returned from the dead, clothes ragged and dirty, features scratched and bruised, shoulders bent as if he bears the weight of his own tomb. The boy stares in disbelief for a moment, not quite able to grasp yet what this unexpected appearance means. But his mentor already knows, and he is advancing to meet the other man, his own staff held at port arms before him.

“Greetings, brother!” shouts the tattered Elf, his voice as ragged and worn as the rest of him. He seems casual and relaxed, an old friend come to visit. But the boy senses instinctively that this isn’t so.

“I am not your brother,” his mentor replies. “Don’t call me that. Why are you here?”

“Because I’ve done what I said I would do? Surely you didn’t think I was lying!”

The old man shakes his head slowly. “No, I never thought that. I hoped you might instead come to your senses. I even warned the King, as I told you I would. It wasn’t enough, apparently. Why don’t you stop where you are?”

He makes it a command, and the Elf stops. “Nothing you could have done would have been enough, brother. Warning the King only made it harder than it might have been otherwise. But this was a test I sought. I needed to see if I was strong enough, to discover if my power was great enough. I was, and it was. Dozens of dead Elves would attest to this if they could speak from whatever resting place they’ve found. They came at me in waves once their King was dead. They came at me with everything they had, but it wasn’t enough to stop me. So here I am.”

“Do you believe yourself strong enough to kill me, as well?”

“I’ve come to find out.”

The boy goes cold at these words and immediately searches for a weapon. But he carries none. There is no need when he is with his mentor, who is a match for anything. Except, perhaps, this time. The boy rises, prepared to do whatever he can to help.

“Your pup would defend you, brother,” the Elf says lightly, happily. He almost laughs. “I think I must kill him, as well. I wouldn’t want him to come looking for me later, should he be rash enough to do so after I’ve finished with you. Revenge is such a tiresome business.”

“If revenge is so tiresome, you must be weary, indeed,” the old man says, shifting the black staff in his hands. “Why come searching for me, seeking my death, if revenge is all you expect to find?”