Tinton Terrace was a wonderful place for any human from Albia to start their journey through Wonderia. It wasn’t the only place in Wonderia that was kind to Albians, but it was definitely one of the most kind to them. It also was full of excellent shops providing everything anyone could conceivably need on a long journey through the strangeness of Wonderia.
But most importantly, it was a cozy, comfortable, calming town that never failed to put a smile on Roland’s face. And it did an excellent job of easing Albian newcomers into how different and surprising a place Wonderia could be in comparison to their home.
Carved out of and smelted into the Ore-Some Cliffs — a long line of startling, shimmering cliffs of pure metal of all kinds — Tinton Terrace was a city of layers, stacked upon layers, nestled into other layers, and folded over still more layers. It was a startling testament to the metalworking prowess of the Tinton Terrace Temperers — a metalworking guild small in size, yet rivaling the prestige and prowess of even the biggest names in the metalworking world. Roland’s and the twins’ footsteps rang with a soft resonance on the metal path beneath their feet. Erika paused, gazing up through a skylight that gave her a view to three whole layers overhead, while Enrique looked over the railing, down the precipitous drop to the forest floor far below.
“We’re awfully high up,” Enrique said, his voice trembling slightly.
“It’s marvelous!” Erika said before Enrique had finished speaking. She beamed, spinning in a circle, arms outstretched, taking in all the sights around. And the smells. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air. “Oh, it’s so wonderful here! There’s a bakery, isn’t there? Roland, can we visit it?”
“We’re not here to see the sights, sister,” Enrique said, slowly backing away from the edge.
“But we need food for the journey, don’t we?” Erika asked with an innocent, hopeful stare.
“I…” Enrique started. He looked at her, and wilted under her gaze. “I suppose you’re right, sister.”
Ah, the puppy-dog gaze of a young girl. Impossible to say no to.
Roland smiled. “We shall indeed visit the bakery,” he said. “There are a few other stops we need to make as well, and we needn’t hurry. We’ll want to spend the night here. There will be plenty of nights spent on the road, but when we can sleep in the safe confines of a town, that is always preferable.”
“Is nighttime dangerous?” Erika asked, looking more excited than afraid.
“It can be,” Roland said. “We’ll take precautions before we move on. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
“You really have been here before, then,” Erika said, gladly taking Roland’s hand. Enrique grabbed onto Erika’s other hand firmly, shooting a quick glare up at Roland.
“Many times,” Roland said. “Though it’s been six years, it’s barely changed. It’s… good to be back.”
“You seem happier than in Albia,” Erika said. “Is Wonderia preferable to you?”
“It was,” Roland said. “But I’m sure some of it has changed. I know I have.” He gazed across the great expanse, taking in the view that stretched out before him. Wonderia’s topography was startling and breathtaking no matter where one went, but this region in Western Wonderia was one of Roland’s favorites. Towering peaks were carved up by precipitous drops, like a geographical skyline above a dense forest below, bursting with color and frequently partitioned by winding rivers and foaming waterfalls that fed into multi-tiered lakes. Even further beyond could be glimpsed a rugged landscape of blue-and-silver rocky plateaus giving way to scarlet sand dunes.
“Something tells me,” Roland continued, “that even though we’ve both changed, this is still the land I fell in love with. I hope so.”
“Why have you been away so long?” Erika asked.
“Six years, you said,” Enrique added. He was pointedly keeping his attention away from the view of the wide open landscape. “Are you sure you know where to go?”
“Things… happened,” Roland said, his heart heavy with memories. “I lost someone dear to me.” He hesitated a moment, but then his smile returned. “I’ll tell you all about it. But not standing here at the entrance. Come on, let me show you around.”
As they walked, Erika’s attention turned to the people. Despite Tinton Terrace’s friendliness towards humans, there were very few humans there today, leaving the town packed with non-human Wonderians. “Everyone’s different here,” she murmured, staring.
“Everyone’s different back home, too,” Enrique said. “Humans aren’t all the same.”
“But he has fur!” Erika said, pointing. “And he has feathers, and a beak! And she’s… is she a tree?”
“It’s not polite to stare and point,” Enrique said, pushing his sister’s hand down.
“They’re not unused to newcomers to Wonderia,” Roland said with a laugh. Those who had been singled out by Erika simply smiled at her as they passed. That, at least, hadn’t changed in the last six years. Tinton Terrace was one of the most welcoming communities in Wonderia.
Roland took them along the busier thoroughfares, so that Erika and Enrique could see as much of the city — and as many of the Wonderians — as possible. It helped to get exposed to as much of this newness as possible on a first visit. But Roland didn’t just direct them aimlessly. He had a plan in mind, a destination picked out, and this just happened to be a very effective route to get there.
“You noticed the smell of a bakery,” Roland said, stopping before an open bake shop and café with a chainmail-styled awning instead of a roof. He spread his arms wide and smiled. “Welcome to one of the best bakeries in all the realms, Wonderian or Albian: Confectionary Craftworks Cluillain!”
Erika’s eyes positively sparkled with delight. Beside her, Enrique continued his attitude of protective oversight and caution — but he did show more interest than he had up until now. And no wonder. The smells were inescapable now, the glorious aromas of cinnamon and sugar, of frostings and fruit fillings, of dough rising, of dough baking, of careful spices applied with masterful, artistic panache. There were two dozen round tables for seating, and more than half were occupied with the wonderful variety of Wonderian inhabitants — including a few that looked exactly like humans, but weren’t. Or rather, they might be; there was a whole academic debate over whether those human-looking and essentially identical-to-humans-in-biology Wonderians should be simply called “Wonderian Humans,” as opposed to “Albian Humans,” or if they should be called Wonderians just like all the rest, but, well…
That wasn’t Roland’s department.
And who cared about such things? Just like Enrique had said, no humans are exactly alike — even he and his twin sister were strikingly different, in personality, at least. The same went for Wonderians. And even then, there were numerous Albians who had taken up residence in Wonderia and now called it home, and — though far fewer in number than the opposite — there were a not-insignificant number of Wonderians who had come to call Albia home. Must people make such intense distinctions over appearance, or land of origin, or genealogy, or biology?
Not to mention Roland’s own heritage, a mixture of various lands and peoples all across Albia, none of them native to Ars Moran.
Our differences reveal the marvelous imagination of creation’s Creator.
And, if you want to be more academic about it, civilized life has inhabited both worlds, and intermingled across both worlds, for so many centuries that every single one of us is made up of so many different biological strains and ancestral combinations that it’s impossible to know all that we are. Not one of us is “pure” in our heritage.
We are, all of us, an unknowable mixture of so many peoples, cultures, lands, and histories from across the generations.
Wonderia’s more obvious varieties and differences only draw further attention to that. And here, as in many other towns and cities across Wonderia, people of all shapes and sizes, of often wildly different ideas, cultures, and histories, call each other friend and neighbor.
Meanwhile, there are still so many Albians who discriminate against each other for even the smallest difference. There’s so much petty in-fighting, so much heartbreaking discrimination and cruelty, and for what? Because he has a different hair color, or her eyes are two different colors, or his skin is too dark, or her skin is too light, or he comes from wealth, or she rose up from poverty, or, or, or…
On and on it goes.
Don’t be blind, though, Roland. Such petty, hateful squabbles can be found in Wonderia, too. Thankfully, though, we are far from where those are prominent. And nowhere are they as incessant as in Albia.
“So?” Erika was asking, the latest in what Roland only now realized was a long string of “so’s.” “What shall we order?”
“Whatever you like,” Roland said, his hand instinctively going to his wallet. Thankfully, he hadn’t forgotten it — it wouldn’t have been the first time — and it had a slight heft that proved it still had as much money as when he’d last checked it. “Although, not one of everything, please. Let’s look at the displays, first, shall we?”
The trio peered through the displays at the shop counter, which showed examples of every single item on the menu. It wasn’t all that different from many bakeries and cafés in Albia. But that was because nearly half of the most prominent recipes in use in Albia now had originated in Wonderia, and vice versa. Of course each world put their own distinct spin on things — he never saw cinnamon rolls in Albia with fruit inside the spirals along with the cinnamon and sugar, and the topsy-turvy, a type of multi-layered fruit pastry, had a much more decadent, frosted variant in Albia that you wouldn’t find anywhere in Wonderia — but this once again showed the ancient, enduring history of these two very different worlds being unavoidably interlinked, each sharing with the other, learning from the other, and richer because of the other.
After Erika had pointed out four different pastries that she wanted to try, both Roland and Enrique had to stop her and limit her to two choices. “And we must make sure we get more than just pastries,” Enrique said with passionate fervor. “A balanced meal is a requisite before setting off on a long journey into the unknown.”
“Right you are,” Roland said, smiling at the boy — who looked away, his cheeks coloring slightly at the praise. That only made Roland’s heart warm further. He’d been just like that at Enrique’s age, often praised and easily embarrassed — and secretly uplifted — by the attention. “And Maestro Cluillain has you covered.”
“As always, Roland!” said Cluillain, the owner of the bakery, in his lilting Western Wonderian accent, a musical dialect that always charmed Roland. He was a big man, covered in reddish fur, with a white-furred “mask” around his eyes and tufting his pointy ears. He wore a sleeveless tunic over breeches and sandals, all a sky blue color, with an opening in the back to let his long, fluffy, ringed tail hang free, and over his clothes he had a white apron that had artistic renderings of fruity cinnamon rolls and topsy-turvies amongst musical notes, with childish script that read: “Baking is an ART.” He smiled broadly at Roland, his dark eyes twinkling, his whiskers twitching. “It’s nice to see you, after so long. And with guests, too! What have we got here? A niece and nephew?”
Roland was about to correct him, when Enrique spoke up adamantly. “Yes, sir,” he said, suddenly adopting a Leucen accent like Roland’s — it was quite a good imitation, Roland had to admit. He looked up at Roland, seeming suddenly far more childish than he ever had previously. “Uncle Roland is showing us around Wonderia for the first time. We’re so grateful to him.”
Roland saw the subtle hint in Enrique’s eyes.
And decided to play along.
Thankfully, Erika did, too. “Oh, Uncle Roland!” she pleaded, adopting a Leucen accent as well as she grasped Roland’s hand. “Can I pick three pastries instead of two? Please?”
“We don’t want to spoil your appetite,” Roland said, chuckling. “Your brother put it best. We’ll ensure a balanced — but still delicious — meal. Won’t we?” He looked at Enrique, who nodded with purpose. Cluillain laughed heartily, and then Erika launched into questions, and he swiftly fielded them with that impeccable charm of his.
The trio finally went to a table, by this point ravenously hungry, with two trays bearing three apple topsy-turvies, two cinnamon rolls (one with apple swirl, one with strawberry swirl), and a small plate of mini-cakes, a dozen in all, all of them bite-sized and popping with color. Along with those delectable treats, they each had a small bowl of creamy soup, and grilled sandwiches for the children, while Roland had an egg-and-cheese bowl stuffed with a medley of vegetables — a favorite of his at Cluillain’s.
And it had been too long. He savored the aroma, before even taking his first bite, as he and the twins bowed their heads and said a brief prayer of thanks for their meal. And then came that first bite, and he was transported to a happier time, a whole other lovelier life that he’d had so long ago.
Before everything had gone terribly wrong.
Roland ate mostly in silence, smiling as he enjoyed the twins’ banter. Enrique started to loosen up — sugar did wonders for a child’s heart — and he and Erika talked about the food, about the smells, about the world around them. About the sky, and the wind, about how even the smallest things were different from what they had always known.
And Erika asked about the “uncle” ruse. “Why are we lying about our relationship?” she asked. “And why the accents? It’s quite fun,” she smiled broadly at that, “but why must we pretend?”
“Because explaining why we are actually with Roland entails divulging our quest, and our ultimate aim,” Enrique said. His faked accent faded as he spoke more seriously. “And after those masked men found us in Ars Moran, I don’t want to take any chances, or draw undue attention to ourselves.”
“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Erika asked, her smile fading. “I… Mother and Father told us that this was a secret quest. But the quest itself necessitates telling as many people as possible, to gather all the wishes of the world.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that wording,” Enrique said. “And I’ve wondered what Mother and Father truly meant. But…” He glanced at Roland, sharp distrust flickering in his eyes.
“We have to trust him, Enrique,” Erika said, pursing her lips with disapproval. “If we refuse to trust anyone, then there’s no hope for us. We have to at least be able to trust our guide.”
“Perhaps,” Enrique said. He eyes Roland a moment longer, watching for something, though what, Roland couldn’t guess. “Tell us your story. The full story. Won’t you?”
Ah. Right. That’s what he wants to know.
“You were on the Path of the Eight,” Erika said. “You’ve made pacts with two of the Fantasians. And you’re coming back, after six years, to finish what you started. But what happened to keep you away for so long?”
Roland set aside his empty bowls and used silverware. Slowly, he took a drink of his berry medley, a concoction of numerous different berries, honey, and mineral water. “I… did say I would tell you,” he said. His heart was suddenly heavy, weighed down by that old, immortal ache. “I have often come to Wonderia, ever since I was a child. My… guardians used to take me. It was part of a cultural and educational exchange program, actually. But after a few visits, I met a man of Wonderia. He was a Summoner, one who had walked the Path of the Eight, met with the Fantasians and learned much from them, and yet, for reasons he never divulged to me, never made Pacts with them. But he saw in me a potential. He believed that I could walk the Path and make the pacts. That I could be a Summoner, too. He started to mentor me, and for a time, I lived in Wonderia.”
“What about your parents?” Erika asked. “What did they think of all this?”
“I…” Roland hesitated, and then shook his head, chuckling, more at himself than anything else.
Thirty-four years, Roland. Thirty-four years without, and you still get embarrassed? You aren’t the only orphan in the world.
“I never knew my parents,” he said. “I was raised in an orphanage, but from a young age was transferred to an advanced educational program for gifted children and adolescents. And then I came under the mentorship of my Teacher in Wonderia. For several years I lived with him and his sister. When I came of age, I started going back and forth between Wonderia and Albia, and… well, there are a lot of details that you don’t need to hear right away.” He waved a hand. “For now… seven years ago, I officially started on the Path of the Eight. I entered the first Canon, met with the first Fantasian, and made my first pact.” He rolled up his right sleeve, revealing the two tattoos on his forearm, and indicated the first, a green swirl of trees, flowers, and growing things, subtly arranged to create the appearance of the First Fantasian’s charming face. “Kirin, the First Fantasian, who governs the plants and animals, the song of life across the surface of the world. That went very well. Both I and my Teacher were full of confidence going into the next Canon. And we entered, and I formed the second pact.” He indicated the second tattoo, a pair of butterfly wings attached to a swirling hurricane. “Viatos, the Second Fantasian, who governs the freedom of the sky and the song of the wind.”
“You used her powers to save us,” Erika said, gazing at the tattoo in wide-eyed wonderment.
“Yes,” Roland said, smiling. “It was the first time, actually, that I had called upon Vi’s powers outside of training and sparring sessions.”
“Vi?” Enrique asked, with an inquisitive little head-tilt.
“Oh,” Roland said, chuckling. “She prefers to be called Vi. Anyway, yes, that was my first time using her power in actual combat. I was quite pleased with my success.”
“You were incredible!” Erika said. She grasped Enrique’s hand. “Wasn’t he?”
“It was an impressive display,” Enrique said. “Let’s stop interrupting; he hasn’t finished.”
“It’s quite all right,” Roland said, chuckling. “So I had succeeded in forming pacts with the first two Fantasians. All seemed hopeful and bright. My Teacher and I came to the third Canon, and there…”
His voice faltered despite himself. His mind went back to that place, to that time, more the emotions than the details. His pulse pounding, heart hammering with the dread and fear of going underwater. The cold, the dark, the disorientation. The confusion, the uncertainty, when faced with the third Fantasian in all her splendor, and his frustration at not being able to hear her song. And then…
Conflict. A misunderstanding, or a trespass — Roland had been at fault, no matter what the cause had been.
His heart, like a knife scything into it, as that awe-inspiring being in all her power and might attacked him…
And his Teacher protected him.
“I could not communicate with the third Fantasian, Shureen,” Roland said, bowing his head. “And there was…” he furrowed his brow, “something went wrong. She attacked me. And my Teacher… he took the blow in my stead.”
“She killed him?” Erika asked, her voice taut, hushed, her eyes wide.
Roland shook his head. “My Teacher did not die there,” he said. “He and I escaped, I carrying him out through water and darkness, back to the world above. He recovered, even — to an extent. He was struck with a wound that would never fully heal, hindering his physical capabilities, limiting his power, his command of his artes, forever.” He let out a soft sigh, blinking at sudden tears. He took charge of himself; the tears did not fall. “It was several months after that, when tragedy struck. An old foe — my Teacher had many secrets from his past, not all of which I knew before the end — came to confront him. They fought, my Teacher alone, though I pleaded with him not to go, warned him of his weakened state, begged that I at least be allowed to aid him. He went… alone. And in the end… he was slain. Because of injuries that he bore, in place of me. Because of my own failure, a failure that he paid the price for.” Roland’s voice caught in his throat, and he sat back, suddenly wishing there was more food for him to eat, or a book to read, or more than just his juice to drink. Something to pull him away from this, divert his attention and energy from these reminiscences.
And then a small, soft, warm hand rested on his own. “I’m so sorry,” Erika said, gazing at him with endless sympathy. “Offering to aid us… to walk the Path of the Eight again… we didn’t know what we were asking of you. And yet you’re sure you want to do this?”
“I am sure that it’s something I must do,” Roland said. “Desire… is a complicated thing. I want to finish what I started. I want to make up for my failures, to somehow, perhaps… make my Teacher proud. To trust that he is watching over me, that he sees this, that he will see when I succeed. And yet… I don’t want to revisit that dark place. I don’t want to fail again. I don’t want to bring more harm to others. So, in this instance, at least, I choose not to trust my desire.” He looked up, saw both of the twins staring at him, and a smile came to him — small, but true. “And yet if I were to trust in my desire, then one desire would outweigh all the rest. I want to see you two to safety and success. Safe from the masked men who hunt you. Safe across the perilous path before you. Safe to Elysia, to see your parents’ mission, now your mission, fulfilled. The wishes of all the world, carried to Elysia… it is a beautiful dream. If I can help you see it fulfilled, then I will.”
“Then we will also do all we can to support you!” Erika said, smiling as well. “We won’t let you bear all the burdens alone. Will we, Enrique?”
“No,” Enrique said. He looked at Roland now with something different. Less hesitant, less reluctant, less suspicious. “Thank you for telling us your story. And thank you for agreeing to aid us, against such personal pain.”
They walked together after that, up and down through the rest of Tinton Terrace, seeing all the sights. Roland was their guide, and not only Erika, but Enrique also, smiled and gazed in awe at what they saw, and heard, and smelled. There was lovely music on the higher levels, a new up-and-coming musical troupe bringing joy to people with their songs. The lyrics spoke of wandering, of dreaming, of a great adventure.
And as the sun set, they found rooms at a cozy establishment and registered as “Roland, with niece and nephew.”
Soft, comfy beds. A ceiling over their heads, and a cozy warmth in the fireplace.
Tomorrow, the long trek across the wilds of Wonderia would begin. But tonight, they could sleep in peace. Not just a physical peace, but a companionable peace. Roland had bared his heart to them, and they had not flinched away.
So Roland lay in bed, awake for a while longer, gazing at the ceiling.
It isn’t so terrible, is it? To bare your heart.
“Brave heart, Roland. The world is not all cold and perilous, the people not all distant and rejecting. You will find others who resonate with you. And you will not be alone.”
The words of his Teacher, in his warm voice, echoing across the years, engraved in his heart. Those words lulled Roland to a peaceful, dreamless sleep, warm and safe and happy, more than he’d been in six long years.