Ben
In Valkryn, the situation had grown crowded—outside and inside alike. In one of the guesthouses, on the upper floor, in a room with a single window, the morning sun poured through the glass, casting a pale golden rectangle across the wooden floorboards. The light crept slowly toward the beds, as if greeting the sleepers one by one.
In the room, there were four beds pushed together, sharing one frame as though they had been forced into alliance. Beneath the blankets, six women lay sleeping—curled, sprawled, tangled in each other. Their legs moved restlessly beneath the covers, shifting and twitching in their dreams.
And beneath them all, something was moving.
Ben emerged from between them, pushing aside the blanket inch by inch. He slid out as a man emerges from the depths of the sea—slowly, carefully, holding his breath. His small frame slipped free, and he landed on the floor with a soft thud of bare feet on wood. He took a long, deep breath, filling his lungs as though he had been submerged for too long. His chest rose and fell. His shoulders relaxed.
Then he looked back at his six wives. His head turned slowly, his eyes moving from one sleeping face to the next. He held his breath again, listening. One of them stirred, her arm reaching out across the empty space where he had been. He froze. She settled. He exhaled.
He said in a low voice, his lips barely moving, hoping not to wake them: "What are the odds that a dream turns into a nightmare? A suffocating nightmare."
Ben crawled across the bed—careful, deliberate, his small body barely disturbing the blankets. His hands pressed into the mattress with each movement, testing, retreating. Then he jumped from it, landing lightly, and walked to the window. He stood there, looking at the sunrise, his eyes closed, his head tilted back. The warmth spread across his face, and for a moment, he seemed to enjoy it—truly enjoy it. His lips curved into a small, private smile.
Then he turned toward the travel chest, where his clothes were supposed to be. His smile faded.
He rummaged through the bags. His hands moved faster with each passing moment, tossing aside fabrics, pushing through layers. Nothing. Nothing but his wives' clothes. His only set of clothes—the ones he had arrived in—had been washed and were still drying somewhere downstairs.
Ben stood there, his small hands resting on the edge of the chest. He looked down at his sleepwear. Then he looked at the door. His jaw tightened.
Ben was forced to go down in his sleepwear.
He crept along the wall beside the reception area, his bare feet silent on the stone. His back pressed against the cold wall, his eyes darting left and right. He was heading toward his children's room when one of the workers, who had been sleeping in the reception area, stirred. The man had picked something up from the floor and suddenly rose to his feet—and found Ben standing before him in his nightclothes.
The worker blinked. His eyes traveled from Ben's face to his bare feet to his nightshirt, then back to his face. "Welcome."
Ben's ears reddened. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it down as though it might grow longer. He straightened his back, trying to summon dignity. He said with embarrassment: "A bright day, isn't it?."
The worker said, nodding slowly, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth: "Yes, it is."
Ben continued toward his children's room slowly, passing through the most awkward moment of his life. His ears burned. His steps quickened. His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
When he entered, all his children were asleep—boys and girls, scattered across the beds like fallen leaves. Ben went to their bags and began searching, rummaging quietly, his small hands moving between the clothes, looking for something to wear. His fingers brushed against fabric, then pulled it out, examining it, then discarding it.
One of the children woke and looked at him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Father, what are you doing?"
Ben said, not turning, his voice light, his hands still searching: "Nothing. Just go back to sleep."
Ben found something that fit him. He didn't put it on yet—he placed it over his shoulder and headed back to the reception area. He looked at the worker. "Is there hot water? I need to change my mood."
The worker said, gesturing with his hand toward the corridor: "Yes. Go to the bathhouse—everything is ready. The tub too."
Ben said, nodding once: "Good."
The worker said, tilting his head slightly: "May I ask you something?"
Ben said, pausing mid-step, turning halfway: "Go ahead. Ask. But don't ask a strange question."
The worker said, leaning slightly against the counter: "Are all of these... your family?"
Ben said, his hand resting on the strap of his shoulder bag: "Yes. Why?"
The worker said, his eyes moving toward the room where the children slept: "It's just that you've booked the entire place."
Ben said, his lips curving slightly: "Isn't that what you want? To fill the place?"
The worker said, lowering his head a little, his voice softer: "I'm grateful you did. That you for choosing our house."
Ben said as he headed toward the bathhouse, waving his small hand dismissively over his shoulder: "No problem, my friend. No problem."
After bathing, Ben dressed in his children's clothes and went out to wander a bit in the market of Valkryn in its bright morning. The streets were already busy—merchants calling out their wares, carts rattling over cobblestones, the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat drifting through the air. Children ran between the legs of adults. Dogs barked. Somewhere, a woman laughed.
After a while, Ben returned to the guesthouse. He seemed to have had a good tour. His steps were lighter. His face carried a faint glow. The sleeves of his son's shirt hung past his wrists, and he had rolled them twice.
The worker was standing there, leaning against the doorframe. "Did you walk through the market? How did you find it?"
Ben said, stopping before him, his hands on his hips: "Crowded. Noisy. Alive."
The worker said, nodding: "Every day." He paused, then said, his voice dropping a little: "Have you passed by the herbs there in the market?"
Ben said, his brow furrowing slightly: "Why would I do that?"
The worker said, leaning in slightly, his voice conspiratorial: "They say there's an herb with a magical effect. It increases the length of things. Most men use it for one thing. But you might be the biggest beneficiary."
Ben smiled, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He said: "I don't believe in that, my friend. When God failed to make me tall, the herb won't do it either."
The worker said, shrugging, his palms opening: "As you wish. I only wanted to help."
Ben said, patting his stomach with one small hand: "I'm hungry. Do you serve breakfast here?"
The worker said, straightening up, gesturing toward the main hall: "Yes, and we've already done so. Go to the main hall. We had difficulty bringing enough chairs for your number. I hope you appreciate our efforts."
Ben said, already walking toward the smell of food: "If the food is good, then everything is good."
Then he headed toward breakfast.
Inside the dining hall, the hall was already noisy. The whole family was gathered around one large table—many chairs, much food. The family was already eating, especially the small children. Their voices rose and fell, overlapping, a chaos of laughter and arguments and clinking utensils.
Ben entered the room. He looked at the table—at the row of chairs, at the sea of faces, at the food spread across the surface. He exhaled through his nose. Then he climbed onto his chair with difficulty—his small hands gripping the edge, his feet searching for purchase, his body hoisting itself up inch by inch. He settled into his seat and looked at the table and said in a low voice, almost to himself: "They really did do what they could."
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One of Ben's wives looked at him, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "Where did you go in the early morning? You not used to you waking up early and going out for a walk."
Ben said, reaching for a piece of bread, tearing it with his fingers: " here, things are different. Here, morning is truly morning—not just glimpses of light. You should have seen the city outside. The market. Everything here tastes different. How do I put it... ah, yes. Alive."
One of Ben's small children had been staring at him for a while, his little brow furrowed, before saying: "Is that my shirt?"
Ben said, looking down at himself, then back at the child, his expression unapologetic: "Yes. It suits me, don't you think?"
The child said, pointing his small finger at Ben's chest: "Why are you wearing my clothes?"
Ben said, leaning back in his chair, his hands spreading: "I think I was careful to bring my books, but I forgot my clothes on the other side."
One of Ben's small daughters said, tugging at her mother's sleeve and giggling: "Father, it suits you."
Ben looked at her with a smile, his eyes softening, his head tilting to one side. He said: "You think so? I am lucky to have this many children. And my little ones, you are the best. it's better that you don't grow up—or you'll have to watch your father naked walking around the house. Trust me, that's not something you want to see."
The children at the table laughed. Their voices rose in a chorus. Ben received a blow on his shoulder from his wife. He looked at her, rubbing his shoulder with exaggerated pain, and said with a laugh: "What?."
On the opposite side, the older sons were quieter—especially Harold. He sat apart, his food barely touched, his fork resting beside his plate. His eyes were fixed on his father. His jaw was set. His fingers drummed once on the table, then stopped.
In the afternoon, Ben was searching through the bag. He pulled out his large book. Its cover was worn, its pages yellowed, its spine cracked from years of use. He ran his hand over the cover, brushing away dust.
Someone knocked on the door. Two knocks—firm, deliberate.
Ben said, not looking up from the book: "Who is it?"
The voice came from outside: "It's me, Harold. Father."
Ben said, closing the book but keeping his hand on it: "Come in, Harold."
When Harold entered, Ben said, his eyes still on the book: "What do you want?"
Harold stood there. He looked at him calmly, seriously. His hands were at his sides, his shoulders squared. He said: "Why are we here? Why are we really here?"
Ben said, his fingers tracing the edge of the book's spine: "It doesn't matter, Harold. You shouldn't think too much. Just enjoy the light while you can."
Harold said, stepping closer, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving his father's face: "Is it true that you're going to the war?"
Ben said, his hand pausing on the book: "Who told you that?"
Harold said, crossing his arms over his chest: "You are not the only one who knows things, Besides, I'm not half mind as you previously claimed."
Ben said, looking up at him now, one eyebrow raised: "Did I say that?"
Harold said, shaking his head slowly: "It doesn't matter. Just answer me—are you going to the war? But You've never carried a sword."
Ben said, leaning back in his chair, his hands folding over the book: "Because I don't need one, Harold. My war is fought with a pen, not a sword. And that's not a choice—it's the only way to live. The only way for our family to live."
Harold said, his hands dropping to his sides, his fingers curling: "Then what will you do in the war?"
Ben said, his voice calm, measured: "I'll fight my way. As you know, there's no better way to write history than from the heart of history itself."
Harold said, his voice rising slightly, his head tilting: "You're going to war with your book? Why?"
Ben said, his eyes dropping to the book in his lap: "As I said—it's not a choice."
Harold said, stepping forward again, his voice urgent now: "Can I go with you to the war? If you can't carry a sword, I'll carry it for you."
Ben said firmly, his head snapping up, his voice sharp: "No."
Harold said, his hands opening wide: "Why not?"
Ben said, his hand pressing flat on the book: "I don't want you to carry a sword. The pen is safer."
Harold said, his jaw tightening, his voice hardening: "Didn't you say it wasn't a choice for you? But I, Father, am not a dwarf. I have every right to choose."
Ben said, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to something cold: "No. That's final."
Harold said, his hands clenching at his sides, his voice breaking slightly: "Is that all you have? I know, Father, that in your eyes we are just things that carry your legacy and preserve it from being lost. Everyone sees it. I don't think you've made any effort to hide it."
Ben paused. His fingers tightened around the book. Then he said, his voice quieter now: "I only wanted to protect you?"
Harold said, his eyes blazing, his chin lifting: "Really? Then tell me—why do I have so many brothers and sisters? Isn't it to increase the chances of preserving your legacy?"
Ben paused. His fingers tightened around the book. His eyes dropped to the cover. Then he said, his voice slow, each word pulled from somewhere deep: "In truth, yes. That was the first idea. as in stories, things change. In a story, it begins with an idea and ends with a feeling. I have a feeling. I love my family. And I don't intend to use them—but to protect them. And if it's at the cost of my books, I'll do it. I won't hesitate. Not for a moment."
Harold could not respond. His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes dropped to the floor. His shoulders sagged.
Ben said, standing from his chair, tucking the book under his arm: "If you have nothing to add, I have important things to do."
As Ben headed toward the door, Harold said, his voice smaller now: "Where are you going?"
Ben said, his hand on the door handle: "I'm meeting an old friend."
Harold said, looking up: "And you're taking the book with you?"
Ben said, opening the door, his small frame silhouetted against the corridor light: "Old friends have many interesting things to say."
Among the crowded alleys of Valkryn, busy with war preparations, Ben was passing through the legs of people with difficulty. He clutched his book to his chest, stumbling over cobblestones, then rising again, then walking quickly toward the palace. The streets were thick with soldiers, with carts, with messengers running in every direction.
When he arrived, he stopped before the great wall and the massive gate. He looked up—the gate towered above him, dark and heavy. His neck craned back. Then he approached one of the guards.
The guard looked down at him, his shadow falling over Ben's small frame. "What are you looking at.?"
Ben said, adjusting the book under his arm: "May I ask you something?"
The guard said, shifting his spear from one hand to the other: "What?"
Ben said, tilting his head up to meet the guard's eyes: "I want to meet a friend. Can you bring him to me? He's inside these walls."
The guard said, his eyes narrowing: "Is he a servant?"
Ben said, shaking his head: "No."
The guard said, leaning slightly on his spear: "Is he a guard or a knight?"
Ben said, shaking his head again: "No."
The guard said with hesitation, his brow furrowing: "Is he the king?"
Ben said, a faint smile tugging at his lips: "No."
The guard said, straightening up, his voice hardening: "Are you mocking me, dwarf?"
Ben said, raising one small hand: "No. His name is Holland."
The guard said, his eyes narrowing further: "Holland? And how do I know he wants to meet you too?"
Ben said, shrugging his small shoulders: "You won't know unless you ask. Tell him the dwarf of the library."
After moments of waiting, Ben sat on the steps of the palace walls. His legs dangled above the ground, the book resting on his lap. A voice came from behind him: "Is this really you?"
Ben turned to see a man he had known—but the face was different. He wore a mask now. He looked strange. Changed.
Ben rose to his feet, the book tucked under his arm. He stepped closer and said, his eyes fixed on the mask: "I'm not the one wearing a mask." He stepped closer still and said, his voice softer now: "My old friend. You've changed so much. You've become so ugly to the point that you need a mask."
Holland looked down at him, his head tilted, his voice carrying mockery, belittling: "And you haven't changed at all."
Ben said, looking up at him, his hands spreading: "How did things come to this, friend? You always protected yourself from the cruelty of the world. You surrounded yourself with your own world—knowledge. And what a world it was. You were the one who inspired me, who amazed me."
Holland said, turning his head away, his voice flat: "Enough with the kind words. Everyone knows I was hiding. It wasn't truly my world—knowledge. Just shelves full of dust with books that are good for nothing. Knowledge is what's in your hands. That's the real knowledge—the kind you can cut your enemies with, like a sharp sword."
Ben said, holding up his book, his voice steady: "This book? No, I don't think so. It's just a collection of paper that can easily be erased. You're the example—you were surrounded by thousands of them, but they became ash in a single moment. Whoever takes books as a sword will cut himself with it. As for me, I prefer to call my book a shield. That's better."
Holland looked at Ben with sadness. His shoulders dropped. He said, his voice quieter now: "You're right, my friend. They've cut me. But before that, you embraced me for years. They made me feel comfortable for years inside that narrow library—and I never felt its narrowness. And here I am now, thrown into the vast, wide world, only to find myself suffocating. It has become too tight for me. I found that this world suffocates more than a room with narrow shelves."
Ben said, nodding slowly, his free hand rubbing his chin: "Yes, the world is overrated,Trust me—I, who writes about it, find most of it boring and repetitive. I received news that the library burned. I denied that something like that could happen to you. And with no trace of you found—especially by someone like me—I thought the fire of the library had swallowed you. I was very sad. But here you are. Tell me, how did you disappear like that?"
Holland said, a faint shrug in his shoulders: "I'm good at hiding."
Ben said, a dry laugh escaping him: "Good for you. But for me, the fact that your hiding worked on me makes me doubt my abilities."
Holland said, leaning slightly toward him, his voice carrying a mocking edge: "Is there any chance you wrote my death? And how did you write it?"
Ben said, his smile fading, his eyes dropping to the book: "It was tragic."
Holland looked at Ben and said, his head tilting: "You like tragic things, don't you?"
Ben replied, looking up, his eyes steady: "Show me what's behind that mask."
Holland said, his hand rising instinctively toward his face: "Why do you care?"
Ben said, shrugging one shoulder: "Nothing, really. But I don't like things hidden from me."
Holland said, his fingers touching the edge of the mask: "When I show it to you, you'll wish it had stayed hidden."
Ben said, his voice light, almost careless: "Just show me. How ugly can it be? Trust me, I can handle it. I see my own penis every day. Do you know what a dwarf's penis looks like? It's strangely inappropriate."
Holland removed his mask slowly. His fingers hesitated at the edge, then pulled it away.
Ben said, his eyes widening, his head pulling back: "Oh my God. It's worse."
Holland put his mask back on and said, his voice dry: "You really haven't changed."
Ben said, adjusting the book under his arm: "Are we going to keep talking here? Aren't you going to invite me in? I heard this palace has become your palace."
Holland said, turning toward the gate: "You hear everything, don't you?"
Ben said, following at his heels: "Tell me—inside—how did he look when you told him he was no longer the legitimate king? Tell me how he looked."
Holland and Ben entered together. The great gate closed behind them.