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Have you stopped and smelled the roses today? Oh, you have? That’s a shame. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it–you don’t have the time to.
Welcome to Faerghus.
-
Felix had taken to late nights in the lab, dragging out daylight’s last remnants, pushing past the time he was set to depart. There was familiarity in the beakers and test tubes, the smell of bunsen burners and anesthesia. It was a more comforting environment than his own home, and not only because of the shrieking mold forming under his bathroom sink.
Sunset was not regular in Faerghus: the sun’s orbit was tenacious and dependent on a variety of factors such as general ambience, or its mood. By the date, afternoon should have faded to evening at 6:32pm, but now as it approached 9 at night, the sun’s rays continued, strong and defiant.
Felix turned the knob on the analog radio beside him. Hopefully the day’s horoscope would offer some hint of whether it would still be high noon by the time he retired to bed.
As he did, a familiar velvety voice crackled to life, setting Felix at ease.
“An impromptu and mandatory press conference was held today…”
There were only one and a half stations that Felix could tolerate within Faerghus. The locals’ tastes were… questionable. Sometimes 102.666 played pop music, but it was often interspersed with ancient chanting that made his walls weep blood, facilitating a mildew problem.
Amongst the horror, Sylvain Gautier’s broadcast was a welcomed reprieve. Sylvain took his time when speaking, his tone easy-going, each word carefully enunciated with a balanced rhythm; he interwove delicate humor throughout, the report free of stuttering or rambling repetition. It was a comfort within Faerghus’s solitude. Something to keep Felix company as he continued his study of the region's unknowable depths.
“...Seiros Secret Service would like to emphasize that the raptors outside of Kirsten’s Market will not hurt you. At least not physically, and even if they did, a single band-aid should be sufficient care for any egregious wounds.”
The corners of Felix’s mouth turn down at the mention of the raptors, currently occupying the local grocery store’s return cart area. Earlier this week, he barely managed to prevent his arm from being taken off by one as he slid his cart past their leathery wings.
“When asked for comment on the raptor problem, Mayor Dimitri shrugged his large shoulders and stated, ‘I think they’re quite nice! It’s wildlife engagement like this that will keep local businesses thriving and big corporations out of Faerghus!’ He then proceeded to swing his lance wildly at the encircling reptilian beasts, face red and drenched with sweat.”
Felix scoffed at the image, clearly picturing Mayor Dimitri’s forced cheer as he defended himself from the violent prehistoric assault. The broadcast continued as Felix returned to his work, chasing the lab’s silence, cloaking him in a parasocial embrace.
“Now, some more personal news. It is with a heavy heart that I regret to inform you all of the disappearance of intern Ignatz,” Sylvain’s voice was thick with polite grief. “During a coffee run, intern Ignatz made the mistake of stopping to gaze at the sky to sketch the clouds’ configuration. As per recent church mandate, cloud-gazing is strictly prohibited. As a result, intern Ignatz has been sent for reeducation and possible dismemberment.”
Felix gritted his teeth, a shudder briefly inhabiting his body.
“Lady Rhea has kindly suggested this humble station reminds Faerghus’s devoted population: clouds are not real. ‘Everybody knows clouds are whimsical designs created by the goddess,’ Lady Rhea said. ‘So, no plagiarism! If you’re going to do art, try and doodle something useful like traffic lights or hieroglyphs.’ For more information on the science behind this, citizens can check their government-issued bible.”
Felix blinked in surprise, struggling to process Sylvain’s words. The high turnover of interns was nothing new, nor the swift punishment to follow. But to claim that clouds weren’t real? And then call that science? Blasphemy!
Unperturbed by the sacrilegious injustice he had committed against the entire field of meteorology, Sylvain moved on, only a quiet sigh lingering on his breath.
“To the family of Ignatz, our deepest condolences. To the greater Faerghus area, we are now accepting intern resumes to the fastest college-aged applicant who can bring me a caramel macchiato.”
As a scientist, it was Felix’s sworn noble duty to prevent the spread of misinformation. He worked in a field fueled by facts and logic. The weaponization of ignorance was Felix’s greatest enemy.
Therefore, it was impossible for him to ignore Sylvain Gautier’s flagrant disrespect of natural science, shamelessly displayed by his insistence on clouds being a myth.
This was… this was injustice! This was a tragedy! This was an event that warranted the strictest of actions and most damning of confrontations:
Felix would write a letter.
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Dear Sylvain,
Mr. Gautier,
To whom it may concern,
On your broadcast you incorrectly stated that clouds are not real. Preposterous. Clouds are a well documented fact of nature, consisting of water vapor adhering to small particles such as dust, ice, or sea salt. These masses of gas can be categorized into three distinct types: stratus, cirrus, and cumulus. These aerosol giants not only provide rainwater, but are essential in regulating the temperature of the earth.
I highly recommend you perform the barest amount of research when reporting on what you claim to be “science” to avoid disgracing the profession of radio host.
In this envelope I’ve enclosed a diagram depicting the water cycle for further explanation.
Do better,
Felix Fraldarius (the scientist)
-
Anticipation mixed with anxiety in the quiet as Felix listened to his writing spoken out loud. A long pause followed once Sylvain finished reading the letter to its completion. For a second, Felix wondered if he was too harsh in his critique, but he quickly dismissed that worry as an impossibility. When was Felix ever harsh?
When Sylvain did speak, his voice carried an unfamiliar tone, distant and almost airy. “Felix Fraldarius, of all the letters I’ve received, this may be the kindest, gentlest, and sweetest love confession of them all.”
Felix nearly choked on his own tongue.
“Thank you, Felix Fraldarius, for taking the time out of your very busy day to send me written correspondence that may be filled with a bounty of lies and riddles, but is poetry nonetheless. As this town’s local heartthrob bad boy, with your beautiful raven locks and insomniatic eye bags, it is an honor to have your fiction on our broadcast. If I’m not mistaken, you’re a Pisces, right? According to today’s horoscope–”
Felix didn’t wait for Sylvain to finish his astrology reading, snapping off the radio’s power in a seething rage. Poetry? Felix did not write poetry, Felix wrote facts. He composed theses and field reports, not love letters. How Sylvain could reach such an illogical, infantile, and unscientific conclusion was beyond him.
Furious and flushing, Felix whipped out a pen and composed a follow-up letter. And then he wrote three more.
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In today’s sports news, the Faerghus Knights are departing this evening to nearby town and longtime rival, Adestria. Be prepared for an intense battle on the basketball court. Fans are encouraged to bring their ceremonial knives as a show of support. Spiritually and physically.
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Felix waited two days for a response.
“There has been some feedback with regards to the broadcast’s accuracy,” Sylvain addressed the controversy with careful enunciation.
“First of all, I would like to thank you, Felix Fraldarius, for taking time out of your busy day to write in to your local radio and show your support. Now, you raise some interesting points about the merit of evaporation and the water cycle. In fact, I’ve even framed the fun little drawing you did! Maybe we could discuss your art in private, at dinner perhaps or–Oh?” A jaunty tune cut his monolog short. “Listeners, it seems that I am receiving a call. Hello?”
“This is bullshit,” Felix said, simply.
“Felix, this isn’t radio-friendly language,” Sylvain replied, breezily. “On air, it’s preferable to curse in more family-friendly languages. Like Pig Latin or Mesopotamia’s Akkadian.”
“The only language I speak is science,” Felix said with icy resolution. “Also English… And some Portuguese.”
"Well, boa tarde, senhor! How can I help you?”
“You can help by not spreading false information. I don’t care what your government-issued bible says. You’re propagating falsehoods and incorrectly attributing a fact of nature to some goddess–”
“Felix, Felix, Felix,” Sylvain interrupted. “The only thing I’m propagating on these airwaves is the word of our sponsor. We’ll be back after this ad!”
Without further warning, a quiet click sounded in Felix’s ear.
-
Tired feet traverse the length of a desolate battlefield, empty of life other than one, solitary figure. Smoke meets the eyes, but no tears remain to slice through the black ash staining your skin. Look around at your creation. Take a peek at your carnage. Three houses, three birds, three friends who are nevermore. Cold sweat drips down your back, and a choking, foreboding fear seizes your neck, telling you to move. An arrow grazes your cheek, its cutting speed a bloody kiss. In mud, you struggle. Held down not only by your wounds but the unbearable weight of the atrocities you have committed. Three lands, three leaders, three ghosts that haunt you forevermore. Time is a fickle mockery, it cannot cleanse you of your sins. Who can you turn to when even the goddess is deaf to your mournful pleas?
Tide Sticks. A stain remover designed to help eliminate some of the toughest fresh food and drink stains on the spot.
-
“Felix.” Sylvain said as the sound of the advertisement continued to play from the radio by Felix’s side.
“Gautier.” Irritation laced the name with a barbed tongue. “Did you cut my air time?”
Sylvain chuckled, a sound deep from his chest. “Some things aren’t radio-appropriate, Felix. Personally, I enjoy having alternative viewpoints on the show, but there’s a process to it. I have to keep our listeners in mind. Selective information keeps everyone happy.”
“Worried your listeners can’t handle the truth?” Felix asked with a scoff.
“Just one listener, Felix. A smart, handsome, stubborn listener.” He sighed, and the sound of fingernails tapping against the plastic receiver in consideration sounded in Felix’s ear. “Science is subjective, isn’t it?”
“It literally is not.”
“It is in Faerghus.”
“I can prove it,” Felix held fast to his integrity. “Tomorrow. At the radio station.”
When Sylvain laughed, it was like the release of a pressure valve, relieving the tension in the room. “Then it’s a date.”
“It’s not a–”
“Sorry, commercial break’s over! See you tomorrow!”
And with that, the line went dead.
-
Dearest listeners, we are in for a real treat today. Our most special guest in Faerghus, Felix Fraldarius, has taken the time out of his very busy day to perform a magic trick. Pardon? Sorry, Felix kindly requested for me to clarify that he’s not doing magic, he’s doing science… Mhm… Yes, of course. Also, that this isn’t a date. Wink wink.
At this moment, Felix is setting up some strange machine he brought. According to him, the chamber within it will mimic the conditions of the outside world. With the proper humidity, water vapor will accumulate in the air which will then condense into a so-called ‘cloud’ or some sort. This is truly fascinating. Felix has turned on his magic machine and just as he said, some form is taking shape within it. Listeners, I’m no expert, but it does bear a shocking resemblance to the projections in the sky. I believe that–
Oh, what’s this? Intern Ashe, who makes a mean macchiato, is gesturing wildly through the plexiglass surrounding the recording area. He seems to be giving some kind of warning. Someone… Someone’s coming? But who? Listeners, several masked figures have broken into the studio and are charging straight towards Felix and his wizard machine. Intern Ashe is trying to hold them back, but there’s only so much an unpaid employee can do. Ashe! Ashe, no! Put down the knife, don’t attack the masked figures!
As for Felix, he has turned the dial to max, and dense cloud-like forms are filling the studio. I believe they are cumulus clouds. Nice. The masked figures are rapidly approaching. They don’t seem to find the word cumulus funny. Listeners, I am going to try to mediate the situation. I present to you, in great irony, the weather.
-
Felix’s cloud generator was confiscated by the Seiros Secret Services.
“It’s all part of the show, folks,” Sylvain had assured the handful of agents in a pacifying tone. “Felix was showing off a few of his magic tricks for the station. Of course, he knows clouds aren’t real. Everybody knows clouds aren’t real, right Felix?”
The urge to argue was strong, but before he could open his mouth, Sylvain had nodded towards intern Ashe, hogtied in the corner in preparation for mandatory reconditioning. Unwilling to follow suit, Felix grunted in vague agreement, a nasty expression on his face as one of the masked figures broke off pieces of his cloud generator to swallow. Faerghus’s favored method of coverups: digestion.
Little else was said after that, and Felix was instructed to go home through a series of hoots and hollers.
Sylvain’s expression dimmed in disappointment as he watched Felix ready to leave. “I was going to take you to dinner after this, but I guess we can do that on our next date.”
“This isn’t–” Felix began to correct him, but was too tired to follow through. “Fine. Next time.”
Sylvain beamed in response.
-
The day draws to a close. The sun still burns. It will not yield to the demands of night. Like science and magic, its collision blurs two dichotomies into something new, and beautiful, and terrifying, and familiar. To stare is to offend, but you may peek if you can. Stay tuned for the same exact thing. The same exact people. Just completely, unrecognizably different.
Farewell, Faerghus. Farewell.