It was the third day of the ninth month, and much like any other day, I spent most of my time in the academy's bibliotheca. Though I had only been employed there for two years, it had already become a second home. Books, scrolls, and writings spanning ten thousand years were preserved here, awaiting the most curious and studious of mage apprentices. Yet the longer I remained in this place, the more I noticed the dwindling number of visitors. I understood why: in the past seventy-five years, magical networking technology had advanced to the point where copied versions of countless texts were publicly available. Most students now came to the bibliotheca only to access resources not included among the texts readily available to mages — and even to serfs. I hated seeing that. To me, there is a unique reward in experiencing a text in its raw, physical form. I don't say this simply because I work here, or because more visitors would make my duties less monotonous. I say it because I truly believe it is beneficial.
There is everything here for anyone who is interested in anything. Advancements in areas such as magic and science? It is here. The history of conflicts between humans and harpies, elves and dwarves, all here. Those resources can be all found on the weave, yes, but the bibliotheca is a physical building. We have places for people to congregate, in-person, and even private areas for people to work, indulge in leisure reading, or simply to get away from the chaos of their academic life.
Suddenly, a familiar yet gruff voice barked from behind me, "Julius. Julius. Julius, my lad! How long are ya going to gawk at them elvish scratches? I need some help with putting away the new novellas, it's not like these bloody, dusty things are 'bout to shelve themselves, lad. Haul your arse over here!"
Oh, it's Brandir. I tend to call him Mr. Brandir, though. Rough around the edges, but a noble man nonetheless. He fought in the Elistree–Duergar conflict some two hundred and fifty years ago, and I sometimes worry he might take offense at my fascination with Elvish texts. I shouldn't be blamed, my mother was elvish after all. That dwarf has lived a life full of battle and hardship, and yet here he is, shelving novellas in the bibliotheca with me. I often wonder what brought him here. Brandir has always struck me as the sort who would be happier at a forge, or standing shoulder to shoulder with like men, charging elven cities.
"Ah, please, forgive me, Mr. Brandir! I wasn't fixated on Elvish texts alone, but analyzing the entire collection of texts in this collection!" I said, with a hint of fear. Mr. Brandir wasn't bad, as I had previously mentioned, but he was intimidating. When I began my employment here, I was convinced that I would end the day with an axe splitting my head!
"Bah! You're as every bit of a bookworm now as you started working here, wimp!" Brandir bellowed, "I woulda thunk that bein' around books eight hours a day would make you grow weary of being around them entirely! It sure has done 'dat to me!" Brandir stated, lightheartedly, "C'mon boy. We ain't got but half-a solar hour till I go to da' tavern!"
Mr. Brandir gave me a gentle slap on the lower back. It was just a shame that a gentle slap from him almost knocked the wind out of my lungs! I stumbled, caught myself, and followed him to the boxes stacked by the front door of the bibliotheca. I wrestled awkwardly with one of them — I was a bookworm, not an athlete, after all. Brandir, meanwhile, hefted the remaining two with ease, one balanced on each arm, as we carried them toward the back.
"Laddy, has all of the texts been reshelved?" Brandir would inquire.
"Yes, sir. The catalogue has been updated with the returned texts, the borrowed texts-"
"You're not fooling me here, boy. I haven't seen a single man come in here to grab anything off the shelf!"
"That is true, but we did have someone return two borrowed texts, and those at the very least have been shelved and recorded."
"Good, lad. I ain't got a hefty pool of aether, so did ya take care of the wards that needed replacin'?"
"The wards that were about to expire? They're all set."
"Thank Ironhand! Boss would have our head if any of those old tomes corroded!" Brandir shuddered.
I looked down at Mr. Brandir, hoping to break the endless loop of idle chatter as my curiosity finally got the better of me. I was a lover of education, after all. If I had a question that was unanswered, it would annoy me until the answer was found.
"Mr. Brandir, if it isn't rude of me, I'd like to know why you're here. You fought in the war nearly three centuries ago, and you were part of Critical Arrow — the guild that slew the frost behemoth ten years back. Why come to a place like this to work? Surely you've enough coin to retire and enjoy your golden years."
Mr. Brandir would scowl, well- he always scowled under his beard, but more so now. It was very obvious that- at the very least, he didn't want to be here. "Golden years? Da' hell do you take me for, Julius? Some old dwarven has-been who's desperate for some coin?"
He'd pause for a few seconds.
"You'd be quite right," Brandir grumbled. "Me wife and I made a risky investment a few years back — put most of our fortune into that grand expedition to the Western Continent. The expedition that never happened, mind you, because the bastard organizer ran off with all the coin!" He let out a heavy sigh. "Cost me my marriage, it did. And now I spend my evenings at the tavern… aye, and sometimes the mornings, the afternoons — you get the point."
I would look down, somewhat regretful that I had even asked the question. I knew something was up with his life outside of the bibliotheca, but I had never assumed that Brandir of all people was one of the big shots that got scammed in that expedition. I must've wrongly assumed that combat was his passion, perchance, it could have been adventure?
"All I'm sayin', lad…" Brandir sighed, his gaze drifting away. "You're on the right path. You'll end up a professor — nay, an administrator — at this academy when you graduate. Your talent for magic's shaping up fine, but you're no fool like me, chasing fame and riches and near gettin' myself killed for it. Don't take those risks, son. Live your life here, be comfortable. Who knows? Maybe you'll marry my daughter someday! Bah! I'd rather she bring home a man like you than some dwarf who spends his nights — and half his days — at the taverns I haunt."
"So you've said, Mr. Brandir, and I can agree with you. I don't see much purpose in chasing anything else. Education is what I'm good at, so I'll play to my strengths. I don't really have ambitions beyond that." I leaned down, smirking. "Besides, you know that offer would fall through. Have you forgotten my mother's an elf? You'd end up with a half-elf for a son-in-law."
Brandir scoffed, then let out a chuckle. "Yeah, yeah — now that I think of it, my daughter doesn't need a stuck‑up treehugger for a man!"
I recoiled at his words, though I doubted he meant any harm. I could imagine he still carried his gripes with elves. Truth be told, he hadn't even wanted to work with me at first. I'm glad things have changed — a new zeitgeist, as my professor called it — where dwarves and elves no longer cared much about being around one another. I like Mr. Brandir's dry sarcasm too much for me to dislike him, after all.
"Stuck‑up? When have I ever been stuck‑up?" I retorted.
"True, true. I was outta line. My gripes with elves died when I got far too old to fight them." Brandir laughed half‑heartedly. "Anyways, it's about time we pack up our things. I've got a date tonight!"
"A date? That's excellent news! It's good to get out there, meet new people."
"Not with a lady, ya dense elf. We got our pay this mornin' after all, I'm going to drink at least two gallons of ale to celebrate!"
"You know…" I muttered, "For a dwarf talking about elven stereotypes, you sure fit the stereotype of the 'drunken dwarf' quite well."
"Ah! Shut it! See, you're a stuck-up youngin' after all!"
Soon enough, it was time for Brandir and I to part ways. The evening had come, and Brandir had already run off to go drink away his frustrations. On the other hand, I was not a hardened warrior looking to spend the night with ever-flowing ale, rather, a peaceful walk to my dormitory would suffice.
Paleowl Academy. It was not the largest academy of magic in number of enrolled students, but it possessed students who had the highest caliber for talent… with the exception of the very many legacy students that populated its halls. I loved the Academy, and all the knowledge about magic, mana theory, and magical science it had brought me- but even I couldn't deny that the halls were filled with nepotism. Princes, princesses of every country were populating the classrooms, alongside students from noble houses and the underachieving sons and daughters of famous adventurers. There were many cases where these legacy students had genuine talent, in fact, some of the legacy students were the most talented. However, there were many that were there based on their last name alone. I honestly do not know where I fit in among students like these.
Many of my fellow students would go on to big things. Ruling over the nations and empires promised to them, joining bands of mercenaries and adventures that paid big, creating business empires that would spread across the world like an effective plague.
Why must I join them? I could end up exactly like Brandir, a victim to an unfortunate loss of fortune that had been amassed? Alas, it is my belief that the world needs more people like me. The ones content with what life has served them. I don't think I need anything more. I would be happy spending the rest of my days at Paleowl, teaching and administering others who go on to do great things, and some that may even lose it all. It would be nice to marry, have children, but that is not necessary.
I could spend the entire time I have this life in that library, admiring elvish tomes, the ones with wards that needed to be replaced.
Unbeknownst to me, I had erred in renewing the wards that protected the shelves. The very Elvish tome I had been so enamored with — a legendary tale of a humble shoemaker content with his simple life, had withered away from aging by the next rising sun.