The River that Flows Eternal

     “Okay, so move your left foot and parry. Other way. No, other way. You want the tip of my blade to hit the base of yours. Right, just like that—ow! You’ve gotten faster.”

     “You’re going easy on me, Rikti!”

     “Not a chance.”

     It was mid-morning. The brothers were dueling in an open field under the summer sun, a little ways south of Swampedge City. Only wooden swords for now, though Mokti swore up and down he’d be ready for the real deal by next week. Rikti, for his part, was taking things slow for once. Teaching was more fun than it looked. He had only started his apprenticeship a year ago, but he was already looking forward to having real students of his own.

     Parry, feint, thrust. The lesson went on for a bit before Rikti finally called a halt. They sat down in the shade of a nearby tree, breathing hard. “Sure you don’t need to head back yet?” Rikti asked as he sipped from his waterskin.

     Mokti looked up at the sky, then back at the mass of thatched roofs in the distance. “We can rest for a bit first. I haven’t got much left to sell this week anyway.”

     “No surprise there!” said Rikti. Mokti had settled down here amid the booming population a while back, with his usual eye for profits. It seemed his efforts were paying off handsomely. “Well, that’s good news. It’ll be a while before I make any money myself.”

     Mokti patted him on the head. Usually Rikti would complain about that, but today he let it slide. “I think you’re doing just fine,” said Mokti. “I’ve got two left feet, and look how much you’ve taught me. You’ll make a great swordmaster one day. The best that Neopia City’s ever seen, if I had to guess.”

     Rikti blushed, but could find nothing to say. He still wasn’t much for heart-to-hearts. “Same to you.”

     A few months had passed since their last meeting; Rikti had been so busy between lessons and training that it had been hard to find the time to sail for Swampedge City. He was grown now (“nearly grown,” Mokti always insisted, but what did he know?), and grown-ups had no end to their duties. The days flew by, rich with promise. He and Mokti were far from the only one prospering. All of Neopia was blossoming from every sunup to every sundown.

     Only two years ago this field had been nothing more than another nameless patch of dry grass in the Wide Plains. Now it was soft and green, fed by some new watering technique that was fast becoming all the rage. Every time Rikti visited he saw new farms spreading south. Slowly but surely, flowers and seedlings were burying the stagnation of the dark years. There was a song on every tongue, and a light on every horizon.

     None of the farmers had reported seeing a ruined temple or an underground maze of illusions. Maybe that too had been washed away. Rikti could only hope that Erick had found peace, wherever he was; that he and Aelon saw those flowers and knew that their time, with all its joys and sorrows, had gone quietly to its final rest.

     Mokti squeezed Rikti’s shoulder. “Thinking about something? Now that’s not like you.”

     “Hey!” Rikti pinched him good-naturedly. “We’ve sat around long enough. Let’s go back and eat.”

     They dusted themselves off and strolled back down the road to the city. Mokti practiced his form as they went, kicking up clods of dirt. Rikti, meanwhile, pulled some papers from his bag.

     “I got some stuff in the post from Sunnytown last month,” he said. “Thought you’d be interested.”

     “Post? Oh, that. All these new-fangled things have me out of sorts,” Mokti grumbled. “So, what is it?”

     Rikti examined one of the scrolls. “This one’s from Eleus Batrin. Seems his stay at the Guild of Scholars is going well, though his allergies are giving him trouble.”

     “No doubt,” Mokti chuckled as he scanned the handwriting. “I always could tell the scholar life suited him better than smithing. It’s never too late to pick up new skills, I say!” He punctuated his words with an especially enthusiastic swing. Rikti ducked just in time.

     “Speaking of scholars, how’s your friend Tylix?” Mokti went on.

     “Actually, the other letter is from him,” said Rikti. He held up a second scroll.

     Mokti took one look at the cramped script and made a face. “You’d better read that one aloud.”

     “And everyone calls me the illiterate one,” lamented Rikti with a mock sigh. “Fine, whatever you say.”

     Really, he was just used to Tylix’s way of writing letters—there weren’t many (postage was expensive), but he read and reread every one. No matter where life took the two of them, no matter how different their paths were, something special always kept them together.

     Rikti touched a few trinkets in his pocket. He had taken them from a certain enchanted bag two years ago, somewhere out on these very plains: a pair of shiny dice, a fragment of a stained-glass window, a little figurine of a Mynci in a grass skirt. They were small and worn, and would have mystified anyone else who saw them. In fact, they mystified Rikti himself. But to him they were no less than an iron anchor.

     He was still sad, of course; there wasn’t a cure for that. The sadness itself was a precious memory. But Rikti knew his spirit wasn’t the type to falter on account of the past. It wasn’t what Evett would have expected from him, either. So he touched those trinkets and held fast to them. He wrapped his sadness with the gifts of each passing day, and with the love of his friends and family. That was enough to keep him grounded.

     Clearing his throat, he began to read.

     ”To my dearest friend, I hope this finds you well...”

     ———

     Tylix put down his quill and yawned. He’d finished his letter to Rikti right on time. The candle was beginning to gutter. It was well past sunset, and his window showed nothing of Sunnytown but a few scattered dots of lantern light. He’d passed many a night like this before, reading and writing until he fell asleep at his desk. But those lonely nights were long gone now.

     A knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” he said. Denethrir bustled into the little room, followed by Margoreth. “Good evening, Tylix!” the Bruce bellowed.

     Tylix stood hurriedly. “Uh, good evening. What brings you here, Master Denethrir?”

     “I’m here to congratulate you, naturally!” he said. “Your investiture ceremony is tomorrow, but as far as I’m concerned your tenure’s already begun! How does it feel to be a full scholar at last?” Without waiting for an answer he shook Tylix’s paw vigorously.

     “You’re going to be focusing on excavating the Institute, right?” Margoreth asked. “Let me know when you go. I could use some more sources on plants for my next book!”

     “I‘ll make sure to keep you informed,” said Tylix with a smile. “There’ll be a lot of new discoveries coming out of the Institute soon, now that the monsters are gone.” He thought of Tower Gaia, with its long hallways and dim laboratories. There lay the seed of Neopia’s misfortune; and yet, for him, it was the seed of every blessing he’d ever had. It was only fitting that he make it his life’s work.

     Not that it would be the only one, of course. The Guild was growing by leaps and bounds. Bridges, artifacts, even irrigation—this age was promising to be one of great knowledge. Tylix had his sights set on nothing less than all of Neopia, and even beyond. What secrets did this world have for him? What could he give future generations to make them soar to yet greater heights? In place of the old visions, he dreamed now of the lands over the horizon. No darkness haunted their borders in Tylix’s mind. They were not bound by fate or possibility.

     “So?” Margoreth asked, beaming. “How does it feel to be a scholar?”

     “It feels... different,” Tylix said, after a moment’s reflection. Even after all his studies, there were some feelings he could never quite put into words. “I never imagined I would make it this far.”

     “Things were certainly difficult for a while,” said Denethrir soberly. “The battle of Sunnytown was hard on the Guild. I’m sure you were terrified.” He didn’t know the half of it, Tylix thought wryly.

     “But you made it! As we all knew you would,” said Margoreth. “Congratulations, Tylix. You’ve worked hard for this.”

     “Congratulations!” came a chorus of loud voices from the hallway. Five eager apprentices barreled into Tylix’s room with a plate of biscuits.

     “We were taking this upstairs, but then we saw you were still awake,” Kuent explained. “Fancy a nighttime snack, anyone?”

     Denethrir helped himself to a few, followed by Margoreth. Tylix demurred, up until Rys threatened to stuff his mouth by force. “What’s with the modesty? You’re getting your investiture before any of us,” she said. “This party’s your reward!”

     “Party?” Tylix echoed weakly. But he couldn’t be too upset. This was what he loved best. This was the safe harbor he had always longed for. A warm little room overflowing with light and laughter—one of thousands on this fine evening, filling the towns and villages all over this land. Boundless, limitless.

     One of the apprentices brought in a fresh candle and some drinks. The talk and eating went on for a long while. Tylix mingled with his friends, talking about plans for tomorrow and next month and ten years from now. For the moment, his desk and its responsibilities were mercifully laid aside.

     There sat his letter to Rikti, ready to post, with books piled all around as usual. But nestled in the corner just out of sight, next to a rolled-up journal of old dreams, was one that looked a little different than the others. It had neat rectangular pages, a pygmy-pink cover, and a title that even the most learned scholar might have struggled with: The Ice Cream Machine Game Guide.

     It had not disappeared in the past two years. Neither had the trinkets in Rikti’s pocket. True, the memories were wearing with time, as all memories tended to do; Tylix could only vaguely recall Evett’s face these days, only dimly hear the timbre of his voice. But the truth of their experiences was still there. Evett was still with them, just as they’d promised him.

     Maybe the World, overgrown bureaucrat that it was, had forgotten this little inconsistency in its record. Maybe it had moved on to other pursuits, satisfied that Rikti and Tylix would leave the matter behind them. Maybe it had even witnessed their deeds—deeds that no song would ever recount, save its own—and spared their last recollections with silent understanding.

     Whatever the reason, Tylix was grateful. Once Denethrir and the rest had finally left, he pulled out the book and rubbed its corner fondly. In the silence, he began to feel contemplative again. He wondered if this future, or one like it, was still out there waiting for the river to flow by it. Such things weren’t for him to decide. He was content to take little steps.

     Next month he would be on his way to the Institute. He’d head north to Neopia City and meet Rikti again. Maybe they’d have some other brilliant adventure together. He read over the letter once before rolling it up and sealing it. A smile crossed his face. Tomorrow would come. Even without prophecies or visions... some things were certain.

     ———

     Far away, across a bottomless abyss of years, an old Kau landlady squints at the sun. It is the same sun that once set over Sunnytown and shone over Swampedge City, though those names have long since been forgotten. Tomorrow has come countless times. Now the sun rises anew, and orange light pours through the ramshackle windows.

     “It’s way too early for this,” the landlady grumbles as she makes her way down the corridor. A few tenants are moving into this block today, fresh out of the Soup Faerie’s shelter. The landlady is getting their apartments ready, though she doesn’t much relish the prospect of cleaning up after whoever was there before. They’re all so dumb and squalid and uncultured. Half the time she wonders if they even know their own names.

     212, 213... here it is. Yawning, the landlady picks through her keyring and unlocks the door of the topmost room. It’s a one-room studio, the smallest apartment she leases. But it’s not too bad, all things considered. It has a nice view.

     She steps into the room. The white walls are bare. There are no clothes in the corner, no covers on the little bed, no ghostly occupants pacing the floor by the window. Of course. This room has been vacant for months. Nothing else has ever been the case.

     The landlady draws back the curtains and coughs as dust wafts from the fabric. Light streams into the room. There it is—the view. The plaza of Neopia Central stretches out below, and the bazaar beyond it. On and on they go in the morning light, a teeming multitude of roofs and streets and crowds. Kiko Lake and the Haunted Woods are out there too, and Brightvale and Kreludor and Terror Mountain and… the whole world. This is Neopia. The toil of a forgotten past has built this paradise. There are no secrets anymore, no hidden horizons waiting to be seen. And yet Neopians go on living and loving, chasing their own little dreams.

     “Not a bad sight,” says the landlady to herself. “Just my luck I’m too busy to enjoy it.” She watches the crowds hustle and bustle for a while before she starts to clean. Somewhere in the distance, she thinks she hears music playing. Faint echoes, like waves in a seashell—a different tune, and all the more beautiful.

     The End.

     Author’s note: Thanks for reading, and thanks as always to my beloved editor, Serena.