Fesealon

Fesealon

Zelnard had been quiet for six months when he first arrived in Zouken, or thereabouts, since that fateful day when the great Thalorian Sea swallowed his parents somewhere between Thaloria and Kefar. The details of the incident were murky, shrouded in the mists of a cold morning's embrace off the sea, and though he longed to know what had happened, he understood that some truths were too brutal for an eight-year-old to bear, and he never dared ask.

Zelnard’s absent response wasn’t always something he chose. When he was alone or sad, it was sometimes more like an involuntary fog that descended over his mind, a natural response to the grief that openly attacked the memories of walks on the beaches in Thaloria, playing catch with his father in the alley by their house, and the love and happiness that once welled within him when his mother would brush his hair off his forehead and out of his eyes.

Over the six months of sadness, there were fleeting moments when the fog lifted, like when a small boy in his class had laughed and farted at the same time after the head mage had asked him a question, and everyone found the affront to the classroom silence amusing. Then Zelnard’s smile betrayed his mourning and a laugh nearly escaped his lips, but each time, he quickly remembered that joy felt like a thief taking his most important memories and was replacing them with moments of frivolity.

No one would broach the subject of the loss of his parents with him or mention the details, fearing they would send him back into the silent corner of his mind where he still sometimes escaped to. No one, that is, except for Dunstor, a boy too eager to wield cruelty like a weapon.

Dunstor was a handsome boy with thick brown eyebrows and a twinkle in his large hazel eyes. His smile was large and wide and made viewers also want to smile, but he didn't smile to make others happy. His smile was a precursor to vicious comments and mean, cold words that belied the warmth of the dimples beside his stretched lips.

Once, when Zelnard had been sent down to the cellar to fetch some pickles for the mage's table at dinner time, Dunstor followed him. Dunstor was several years older than Zelnard and always seemed to hone in on the most vulnerable or saddest boys. He took pleasure in sticking in cutting comments that, knife-like, opened up the fragile wounds of the healing boys.

On this occasion, Zelnard could hear Dunstor’s scuffing, heavy feet on the stairs behind him, but he wasn't aware at that time of the evil that walked with them. Dunstor, in a seemingly friendly manner, put his hand on little Z’s shoulder and, in a pleasant tone, asked, “Need some help with the pickles?”

Z, often silent, was reluctant to respond but managed a nod and an “ok.” Dunstor then, in a playful but inappropriately forceful way, pushed Z forward down the last of the stairs, causing him to stumble a little, and said, “Mind your step. They are this way.”

When Dunstor arrived at the corner of the old wooden door of the storeroom, he stopped and put both hands on Z’s shoulders, gripping him firmly. He looked down at him and asked intrusively, “Why are you in Zouken, little one? I heard it was because no one wanted you.”

Z was defensive, even though he knew that was exactly the response Dunstor was after. “No. My parents were lost in a storm on their way to a voice casting in Kefar. My father was the caster and was to be heard by thousands.”

“Oh, he must have been so important!” responded Dunstor in a confusingly, almost empathetic-sounding voice, but Z had heard from the other boys that Dunstor was not a nice boy and had a certain level of distrust.

Dunstor then, without warning, launched into a verbal attack Z would never forget, but he did it in such a way that he forced Z to listen.

“I heard about that incident,” Dunstor started. “The storm rose unexpectedly from the east and blew the ships towards the rocks of the southern Argent Isles.”

Z was confused about how Dunstor might have details about that moment, so he listened intently to daggers hidden in the guise of information. Dunstor went on to describe the horror of that night with information that seemed impossibly detailed, until he started to speculate on what Z’s parents were doing and experiencing in their last tragic moments on Aethoria.

Z was overwhelmed by the possibility that the story might be real and was frozen until Dunstor’s embellishments became signs that something was wrong with the story. By then it was too late, and Z collapsed to his knees sobbing as he imagined his mother's last moments.

Dunstor's smile was wide and his stare intense as he saw the success of his story on the newest of his prey. Then he broke off coldly with, “Alright, let’s get those pickles then,” leaving Z a broken mess on the cold cellar floor.

Thy Quests
Dunstor is a classic bully. What should Zelnard do in the face of such cruelty? Explain your thinking using examples from the story.