Recorded by Pindle Quickquill, by permission that was never fully rescinded
It has been pointed out to me—often, and usually with concern—that I should be dead by now.
This is not an insult. It is arithmetic.
Kender do not linger. We dart, we wander, we trip into history and then out of it again. We are made for moments, not monuments. I was fully prepared to become a footnote myself. A charming one, naturally.
Elysira disagreed.
She has never said this was a reward. She insists it is a practical decision, delivered in that calm winter tone that means the matter is settled and further discussion will result in snow appearing indoors. According to her, a realm that forgets its beginnings becomes vulnerable to repeating them, and someone must remember the things others choose not to write down.
Unfortunately, that someone was me.
The extension was gentle. No dramatic ritual. No glowing circle. One moment I was complaining about ink freezing, and the next I was informed—politely—that I would be continuing my work “for a while longer.” How much longer was not specified. I have learned not to ask questions that cause long silences.
There is, however, another reason she will not admit to in formal records.
I was there.
Not for the world before—no one living was—but for the moment after. I was one of the first to greet her when she finished saving Aurelthrym and looked around, expecting gratitude, fear, or awe. Instead, she found a Kender offering her a scarf, asking if she preferred tea or soup, and immediately requesting permission to write everything down.
We talked. I asked questions. She told me to stop asking some of them. I did not. This pattern has continued for over a century.
I suspect she keeps me alive not just because the history matters—but because I remember her as she was then. Tired. Determined. Slightly baffled by how quickly a realm can fill with people once someone decides it’s worth saving.
She finds this irritating.
She has said as much.
And yet, when new scholars arrive, when old truths begin to blur, when the Arcs whisper a little too loudly—she still looks in my direction.
So I remain.
Not immortal. Not ageless. Just… continued.
A walking inconvenience.
A living record.
And, apparently, a friend.
(I am told this section is acceptable for distribution. Several adjectives were removed. As per Elysira's instructions I'm not to say which, a bit stingy isn't it. This pattern has also persisted)