The beaten side bag dropped from my shoulder as I fell to the ground in a sitting position. The large man standing before me seemed to sneer, his lip curled in that persistent ‘I’m better than you’ way; his eyes were slightly narrowed in a combination of boredom and annoyance. Two bodyguards stood tall on either side of him, eyeing me up and down as I reached into the bag slowly, worried about the condition of their trigger fingers. Pulling out a small gnarled notebook and ink quill, I tried to ignore the guards and directed my voice to the man. “I… Mr… sir, would you… l-like to hear what I have so far?” The Waterlord nodded solemnly, and trying to keep my voice from cracking, I began the tale.

“No one is sure if it was the chemicals that poisoned the water, or if it was through the plants that we genetically altered. With the p-plants, it could be a…. byproduct… “Unsure whether he was following me, I glanced up. ”Like how the plants take in carbon dioxide and give out oxygen.”

“The plants changed and grew wildly out of control,” I continued, “A few water treatment facilities were founded all over the world, like yours, sir, and some smaller bodies of freshwater have remained unaffected. For the most part, though, the world’s water became toxic. Entire species were wiped out, thousands of lives on smaller islands lost.”

He looked bored, like he was waiting for me to stop wasting his time. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my hands were shaking so much it was getting harder and harder to read from the paper. I put them down and took a few deep breaths.

“So,” I started and winced as my voice cracked, “this city is kind of like a fiefdom. The treatment facility offers some jobs and beyond that people barter food or trade services for the water you provide.” I paused for clarification but after a few seconds of not receiving any, I continued. “Who rebuilt the city?”

Waiting for an answer, I started to glance around the small chamber. It was decorated with lavish works for art, from paintings to sculptures. The dim yellow light gave even the most beautiful paintings, by artists like Ravelle and Gilman, an almost haunting aura to them. A pedestal caught my eye.

The Waterlord nodded. “My grandparents rebuilt this city and the facility itself. The-“

“Is that what I think it is?” I blurted out in excitement. “I’ve heard stories of a book that contains maps and information about the world, what it was before and what it is now.”

With a hoarse laugh, he replied, “Of course not. That merely functions as a decoy to fool her. The real one is kept safe. Now, as I was saying…”

“Yes, my Lord. I’m sorry.” Feeling a bit more relaxed while I waited for him to talk, I picked my papers back up and prepared myself to write as he spoke.

He waited for me to get settled and then began. “My grandparents had no long-term view of things. They used to give everything away for free, and it caused so many problems. There were hundreds, thousands coming to get water at one point, and the facility couldn’t keep up. People died in the streets outside waiting for water. I vowed never to make the same mistake, and I came up with a complete trade system. You can fish or make shoes or teach, and exchange those services for water or whatever else.”

“Having that kind of absolute power would corrupt most people,”the Waterlord remarked proudly.

I chose my words carefully. “You must have a… powerful sense of res….responsibility… to the… people.”

With a smile like a hungry wolf’s, he calmly replied, “You’re right. Lesser men would have buckled. It’s an incredibly fragile system. If I were to abuse people, well…” He chuckled softly. “Who knows what they would do.”

I laughed nervously and wrote some things down on the glowing paper. The fish oil burned into it, embedding the letters forever. He noticed this and spoke the first unprovoked words out of the entire conversation, in an almost curious manner. “There’s enough technology around that you could find a better way to record things. Why do you use such an archaic method?”

Feeling slightly more comfortable, I smiled. “We’ve fallen back to some old times. Trade routes and nomadic tribes. Small communities and professions based around this idea of helping others and doing what’s necessary. Me? I collect and tell stories… Love stories for the romantics. Stories of glory and – and honor for the veterans. Stories of discovery for the travelers. Everyone needs something to believe in.”

I shook my head. “It’s important to remember where we came from and necessary to shape where we’re going. Don’t you agree?”

The Waterlord was silent for a few minutes, reflecting, I assume, on some private decision. When he looked back up his gaze went right to the pedestal and the book that had previously caught my eye. Staring at it for a few seconds, he seemed to grow instantly older and more worn and tired. “Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”