Prologue: Tristan
On the last day of his life, Tristan, wrapped in his Kuwamne, the traditional red-and-black Lillecian robes of death, strode and stumbled past the monument he had carved for his love. A somber gray monolith 12 Lillecians high, he had lovingly inscribed each letter by chisel and candlelight over the past three months. An Arhnaikuri, it was traditionally a record of the departing soul’s life and wisdom, carved in stone by the soon-to-be dead, and kept in city vaults deep underground. Usually, it would have already been carted away to the vault before the elder Lillecian was to begin their Kuwazda – death party. But Tristan had no interest in celebrating in the usual fashion.
Tristan, gray-haired, wrinkled, and limping with his cane, was fast approaching his end. Lillecians were preternaturally intelligent, but very short-lived, needing only 5 years to reach the age of sexual and intellectual maturity, and living just 10 short years afterwards, aging rapidly in the final year. Tristan belonged to a relatively small but proud cultural heritage, the Friebsachs, a culture which took death very seriously. A Friebsach was expected to spend their final days with friends and family in a lively celebration, their Kuwazada, in which they shared the wisdom and parabolic stories they accumulated over their lives. After several days of celebratory festivities, eulogies, and copious weeping, the Lillecian of honor’s children and nephews were to carry them up to the top of a beautiful high place, bind them there with stakes and chains, and leave them to die of starvation overlooking a pleasant view.
Tristan rebuked all this. It was beneath him. Instead, denying his protesting kin their death-party, he dragged his Arhnaikuri away from his aghast family and out past the walls, to the heavenly domain of his muse, his protector, his goddess – his Venus.
The hole he carved in the wall was much bigger than the ones he usually carved, to accommodate the large monument. This was quite against the rules, which dictated making your breaches as nondescript as possible. Any giant looking at the wall touching the back of the woman’s nightstand would easily notice the hole, so brazenly placed along the top surface of the nightstand. They might even investigate, which could cause a huge problem for the Lillecians, who had never before revealed themselves to the giants. Tristan didn’t even pretend to care anymore about this. He was dying.
He lowered himself to the nightstand’s false-wood vinyl surface carefully, trying to avoid placing weight on his bad joints – but remembered that the painkillers made that unnecessary. And soon, there would be no need to avoid hurting himself. He plopped down and contemplated the monument, the product of his hard work these last few months. Normally, Venus’s glasses would be in this spot, so she was bound to see him clearly in its place. His red-and-black robes contrasted nicely with the dark surface.
Ah! Her glasses. They were here earlier, when he hauled the monument this morning, while she still slept peacefully, her massive gorgeous face so tantalizingly close to the nightstand. She must have already seen it and read it. He could hear the running shower in the adjoining bathroom. She’s showering earlier than usual – perhaps to freshen up, in anticipation of meeting him?
From above, the dappled sunlight shone through the window and warmed his wrinkled and spotty neck. Listening to the distant shower with his shattered hearing, gazing out over the familiar bedroom with his cataract-riddled vision, he felt at home, he felt at peace, he grinned a pale-lipped smile, and waited.
This is what he wrote on the monolith: