Erasmus Wordweaver's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Erasmus sat with the dry pen in his hand. The gift lived in him, ready to pass, but he had no words for the passing. He had written mountains and storms. He had never written the giving away of his own power. One wrong phrase, and Aldric would hollow out like the first shell. The boy waited across the table. Sylvara stood by the wall, watching them both. The cottage door opened without a knock. An old elf stepped in, white hair to his waist, a worn satchel at his hip. He set the bag down like he had done it a thousand times here. This was Aelindor Firstborne, who made the pen before language had a name. He wandered the world and stopped in on old friends. Erasmus had not seen him in a hundred years. "You look tired," Aelindor said. He did not smile. He crossed the room and lifted the dry pen from Erasmus's fingers. "And this is empty. I made it. I know when it's spent." "There's no ink left," Erasmus said. "I spent it all on him." He nodded at Aldric. "He's ready. I can't pass the gift. I don't know the words." Aldric's gold eyes moved to the elf. He read him the way he read everyone. "He wants nothing from us," the boy said quietly. "He came to say goodbye to a friend before the friend forgets him." Aelindor turned the pen in his hand. "The boy sees true. Good." He looked at Erasmus. "You think the words are a spell. They're not. Ink was never the power. It only held the shape steady. The power is yours to speak." "Then tell me the phrase," Erasmus said. "There is no phrase to learn," Aelindor said. "You name what you are giving and to whom. Plain. Wrong words come from wanting to keep a piece back. Keep nothing back, and there are no wrong words." Sylvara stepped forward. "He's afraid of hollowing the boy." "Then he still wants to keep something," Aelindor said. "That's the danger. Not the words." Erasmus understood. His fear had been the flaw all along. He looked at Aldric, the mind he had made hungry on purpose. He let go of the last piece he had held for himself. "Aldric Truthseeker," Erasmus said. "I give you all of it. The power to shape what is real. I keep none of it back." Heat left his chest and crossed the table. Aldric drew a hard breath. His gold eyes flared bright, then steadied. His hands trembled on the wood. The gift had passed clean. He did not hollow. He filled. "I feel it," Aldric said. "All of it." Erasmus felt his hands. They were only hands now. Old, light, empty. The power was gone, and the boy held the world. Aelindor set the dry pen on the table. "Now," he said, "he'll need ink of his own."