The Sage of the Lighthouse

The Sage meets you at the diner well past midnight, and at first you don’t realize he’s a Sage at all. Unlike the other two, the first so Luna they can’t stay grounded, the second Undine enough he seems he might lose all solidity, this Sage seems to be just a man.

“I’ll leave room for questions once I’ve finished every pair,” he tells you as he slides into the booth across from you. “Does that sound good?”

You nod. Outside it’s just finished raining. Cars slide by, their headlights blurry on the rainslick pavement. You look at the Sage right when a car headlight catches his eyes, and you realize that his eyes are not just dark—they’re infinite, black-hole dark. He notices you notice, but he doesn’t say anything. He leans forward, and begins.

“Salamander,” he says, “is the element of external change. Like a chemical reaction producing heat, and heat changing everything it touches. Those that it doesn’t burn, it kills. Salamander is volition in motion. It isn’t just impulsivity or passion, it’s just that those traits often lead to Salamander actions.

“Crimson/Stings and Kills is a very Salamander character, as they tend to take over the story whenever they show up, directly inserting themselves into everything and using their legendary strength to enact their will.” The Sage pauses for a perfect beat, and then in completely deadpan tone adds, “That’s why it’s okay to kill the Scorpion Queen.”

You admirably do not break into laughter. You give yourself at least one point for that.

“Undine is the element of adaptability and consistency. Often represented by water, or the very least a liquid, the reading is that it conforms to whatever shapes it is put in, on, and around. Undine is not passivity to Salamander’s motion—Undine is being able to persist while still holding form, no matter the challenge. This can be either reactive (evasive) or active (quickness).

“Undine adapts, and is still itself—the ‘form’ is still of water, but now it’s in the shape of a crazy straw or beaker or the fluid that seeped through the cracks of the foundation and threatens to upend the house.”

Cars continue to slide by while the Sage takes a moment, and then he says, “Salamander characters are the fire that burns. Undine characters are the water that thrives.”

When the Sage asks if you have any questions, you shake your head. You want to hear what’s next.

“Jinn is the element of power beyond reproach, often in the form of lightning. The mandate of heaven. Deities, royalty, even large enough systems often both generate and are powered by Jinn. It judges—swiftly, utterly, and makes no apologies. Whether it is seen or unseen, it is lethally powerful. It is described as lonely, though this Sage thinks that is more of an examination of its typical representatives rather than its nature.” The Sage’s tone goes to the wry deadpan again, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “One Sage even thinks it to be the element of birds, which is ridiculous- birds are judgmental, sure, but I mean, ‘birds of a feather flock together?’ Swarms of birds migrating for seasonal patterns? Be serious, now.”

The waitress comes to take your order. You pick the first thing off the menu you see. The Sage either does or doesn’t order food—you miss what he says to the waitress. He turns back to you.

“Gnome is the element of community. Gnome is a stone thrown in execution of a criminal, while also being every stone thrown in the execution of a criminal. The key of Gnome is that it is many—Gnome can be large, it can be small, but it is always many, and that is its actual strength. The largest of boulders can break, mountains can erode. But the eroded pebbles still exist, and can still matter. A stone alone, though, is just a rock.

A car with overbright LED headlights streaks by, and you see the infinite darkness in the Sage’s eyes again. You always think you see—but no, that can’t be right.

“Jinn,” the Sage says, “is when you live in a society, and society in the abstract hates you. Gnome is when you live in a community, and each community member is a very nameable personae that hates you.”

You don’t have any questions here, but you do laugh. Flat, unhappy, but amused all the same. Yes, that makes sense.

The waitress comes back with food for both of you. The Sage did order something. You weren’t aware Sages ate, but he seems to be eating the exact same kind of unremarkable diner food you also have chosen to eat. Time ticks on, and the traffic outside slows.

“Dryad,” he says, “is the strength of history, tradition, and ritual. When a gambler blows into the dice for their next roll, it is Dryad. The harvest festival done each year with specific times, themes, and events, is Dryad. It is not enough that something be old to be Dryad, but it has to be relevant to its existence. A pub on a sterile starship that has been in transit for 500 years is not Dryad on its own; the ship itself is likely more important to garner any narrative (and therefore, elemental) importance. But a pub that has existed for 500 years in the same location, despite dozens of border changes, power struggles, war, famine, pestilence, death? That tale of its history is why you flip a copper to them before leaving on an adventure, and not any other pub.

Luna is the power of change informed by the self. Through my will for freedom, I sprouted wings and flew. Through my hatred of my exile, I grew fangs of mythril and eyes that seek prey at a thousand yards. Through my love for her, I collapsed my lungs and now breathe of the saltwater. Undine seeks to stay as water while navigating life. Luna changes life, and then navigates whatever comes next.”

You don’t know if the longing you feel from these two descriptions is something he put there, or something you’re bringing from yourself. “Dryad is the story of existence,” the Sage tells you. “Luna is the story of the self.”

The Sage grows quiet for a long time. You eat in silence, and you feel more and more certain about the last two than you had even with Sage Icecylee. The hardest. The Sage of the Lighthouse almost voices your own thoughts when he says, “The final two elements are the important and the inconsequential. The inescapable and the ignorable. The truth, the unseen, and the question of how much any of that really, really matters.

“Wisp is the element of pure, unfiltered, blinding truth. Wisp does not obfuscate or hide—it is so obvious and direct of itself. It is unmistakable, uncanny, and so very predictable. Not that predictability is a bad thing. A story that follows beats A, then B, then C, can still be enjoyable. But if you realize you are reading a story that is following beats A, and then B, and then C, does that bother you? If it has, maybe finding the truth wasn’t what you should have been concerned with. If you need things to make sense, you will inevitably seek the light of Wisp,” he falls silent again, looking out the window. You do too. There are still cars, fewer now, and the lights of the city at night are blurry reflections in the road. The waitress comes and clears away your plates. You order coffee, though it is a very late to drink coffee.

Once the waitress has delivered the coffee, the Sage says, simply, “Shade.” Your eyes are drawn to his like a magnet to iron, to the black-hole pull of their darkness. “Shade exists in the minds of the creative and those with syphilitic insanity. It is street magic, the lowest form of entertainment. It exists, you know it is a trick, and that what you see cannot be real. The card is in the other palm, it is not actually going to be in your wallet, and you don’t know why you’re wasting your time thinking otherwise. You leave before the act is over, lazily considering an undersalted pretzel and syruped slush to graze on while you wander to the next distraction. The 6:30 train back to Topple District derails, killing sixty and throwing you into the Oasterian Gutters. The Maudlin Rovers are in good spirits when they find your broken body, but they want money before they’ll deign to help you. Shakily, you drop the wallet. They gather your crumpled lucre, and you hear ‘Oh, the boss sent you! Lads, bandage and load them up, they need a doctor!’ The lead rider is holding your card. The magician winks from the shadows.

“Wisp is the light that burns.

“Shade is the truth that burns.”

You stare at the Sage. Your skin is drawn taut with goosepimples. The moment—whatever this moment is—stretches out infinitely between you. In the darkness of his eyes, do you see stars?

His eyes crinkle at the edges. A Orion’s belt flashes at the edge of his left iris. “I told you that like a hate story with a miracle. But.” He takes a moment to think. “Shade is the impossible, shade is the inconceivable. Shade is when darkness settles, where quiet subsumes your heartbeat, where touch and smell and taste have fallen away, you think—are there really miles between us. Are we actually so distant. Perhaps, just perhaps… there is a way we can become close.”

You nod, without meaning to, signalling understanding even when you’re not sure you understand. You understand something, even if you don’t have words for it yet. The waitress brings the check. The Sage gives his card.

“And then, though you didn’t ask—The Pure of Heart. Those pure of heart can go to a whole new world. Those pure of heart always strive, become embittered by strife, love, loss, joy, and grief. Those pure of heart will triumph, changing the land with each chapter of their story. Those pure of heart will fail, will fall, and believe that, on their worst day, that they have died. But they will not, cannot, stay dead. From the greatest loss, a pure of heart will always rise the next morning, scarred and somber, but driven by the spark that is their will to create, to thrive, to be. The appearance of the pure of heart threatens cataclysmic change for the inhabitants of the world. Pray that their sparks are gentle ones.”

Your heart is beating loud. You think you might be close to crying. There are stars in his eyes, entire galaxies. Another car drives by, and you see it then. He is not just darkness, he is also light.

The waitress brings the receipt to sign. “The best way to get rid of a spark, is to lead it to another story,” he says as he scrawls his name. “The best way to bring ruin, is to stop telling a story.”

The Sage clicks the pen, sets it on the table, stands up, leaves. All intentional, not in a rush, but it feels like between one heartbeat and another, he is gone.

“Thank you for your time,” you tell the empty booth across from you. You wonder if there’s a card in your wallet.