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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/That2009WeirdEmoKid on 2025-07-05 13:45:18+00:00.

Humans are people that thrive in contradictions.

It’s both the most impressive and annoying thing about them. Since they can’t use magic spells, one could easily be fooled into thinking they’re just pragmatic, community-oriented folk that always look out for each other.

And it’s mostly true.

Mostly.

While social bonds are incredibly meaningful to them, at the same time, there’s also a vital caveat one should keep in mind when interacting with them:

Nobody is capable of hating a human more than another human.

In fact, the more similar they are, the more likely it is they will despise each other.

Paradoxical, I know. You’d think this would result in a dysfunctional culture, but it’s a quirk that actually works to their benefit.

Every long-lived apprentice of mine is usually baffled by this, and I don’t blame them. It always reminds me of the time when I was first beginning to understand Arthux, my human mentor.

It was a hot summer day when we had finally made it out of the Farthest Valley. Part of me felt relieved that we didn’t have to worry anymore about flash floods, though that was quickly replaced by a sweltering contempt for the heat.

Those of you who haven’t traveled the countryside of Illuria probably don’t understand my plight. I would soon learn that even the local humans had to invent measures against it. As a high elf from the north, my upbringing just hadn’t prepared me to handle a tropical climate such as this.

I could handle the bugs. They were plentiful and noisy, yet harmless.

I could tolerate the humidity. It left me perpetually sticky and smelly, but I ultimately got used to it.

What I refuse to ever experience again, however, are the gods-forsaken flame trees.

These plants are an abomination against sentient life. Their buds are made out of a highly flammable material that blossoms into a literal foliage of fiery leaves. The color of the flames usually varies from tree to tree. Most are bright red, some are yellow, and a scant few have a deep sapphire hue.

In the summer, it creates a dazzling landscape that almost hypnotises people with its flickering beauty, but only from afar.

Up close, when walking through a field of them, one can easily see them for what they truly are:

The embodiment of hell.

Not only do they slowly cook people alive, they also cause mind-numbing insomnia since they are only extinguished during winter nights. By the third day, I was ready to collapse both from the heat and mental exhaustion.

Each step grew heavier and heavier until I had the bright idea of attacking a random tree, wasting my dwindling mana on a pointless tantrum.

Arthux, however, quickly smacked me in the head before I did anything stupid.

“What was that for?!?” I shouted, wincing.

“You were about to be an idiot.”

“Y-yeah… Ok… Sorry.”

I was amazed at how easily he perceived my delusional intent. Now that we had left the riverside, I was responsible for our water. If I ran out of mana, I wouldn’t be able to cast the spell that creates it anymore and we’d both die of thirst.

“It’s fine,” said Arthux, “The heat’s messing with your mind. Stay engaged and keep talking to me. We’re almost there.”

“That’s… surprisingly kind of you. Thanks.”

Arthux grimaced, utterly repulsed by my gratitude. “Don’t read into it. The last thing I need is yet another rookie dying from the heat. It’s always a pain in the ass to explain.”

“Wait.” I wrinkled my face, concerned. “Yet another. How many times has it happened?”

Arthux started counting in his head and I realized I didn’t actually want to hear the answer. A few minutes later, we had a water break and, as we resumed walking, he casually said:

“Have you ever heard the lore behind the flame trees?”

“Not particularly,” I said, wiping sweat off my brow.

“It’s fascinating, in my opinion. A perfect example of the interplay between mortals, the natural world, and the divine. Are you aware of how spirits are created?”

I nodded. “From the faith of mortals.”

“Exactly,” said Arthux. “And the humans who lived here-”

“PEOPLE LIVED HERE?” I shouted, stunned.

Arthux narrowed his eyes, annoyed. “Yes, humans will live anywhere. It’s one of our quirks.”

“Then what happened? Why isn’t anyone around anymore?”

“Well…” Arthux chuckled. “…that’s because they genocided each other, which is another of our human quirks.”

I stopped walking. “How can you laugh at that?”

Arthux stared into my eyes, softening his face with sorrow. “Well-”

“That’s ridiculous! How badly did they hate each other? There’s not even any ruins left!”

Arthux frowned. “Stop interrupting me and I’ll get to it in a second!”

I suppressed the urge to argue further, realizing the heat was getting to me again. We then continued walking.

“Anyway,” muttered Arthux, “my point was that the heat got so bad here, that the local humans kept praying for a refreshing wind.”

“And they got it?”

“Indeed,” said Arthux, “They made a brief paradise out of hell.”

“That’s incredible! But… how? ”

“Well, their faith inevitably gave birth to wind spirits. This merely cooled them off at first but, after several generations, they learned to build gliders and windmills to take advantage of the gales, which made them very wealthy. As a consequence of this, people had even more faith in these wind spirits, creating a cult that started spreading along the Illurian coast.”

“The famous Winds of Illuria,” I said, starting to piece together his point. “And then other people throughout New Gaia heard their legends, generating even more faith in them…”

“…until the winds had their own momentum,” continued Arthux, “and didn’t need to be fueled by the flame trees anymore.”

I pursed my lips, thinking. “But, if these trees were so important, why haven’t I ever heard about them?”

“That’s the thing,” said Arthux. “People started having more faith in the winds than in the heat. The local humans then grew resentful at this. Since their cult had outgrown them, they gave birth to a different cult, one of the flames.”

“Oh…”

“Yup,” said Arthux, confirming my assumption. “They inevitably went to war over this, and wiped each other out. That’s why there’s also no cult of the wind anymore.”

“But the winds of the coast keep blowing,” I said, amazed at this. “The entire region still relies on these spirits for a lot of its economy.”

Arthux smiled. “Precisely. Even though history forgot about them, the results of their actions still outlive them to this day, which means… their struggle wasn’t entirely meaningless, right?”

I didn’t know how to respond.

Arthux detected this. “I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He looked away, slightly embarrassed. “I know I’m kind of a faithless bastard, but try to have a little faith in me. We’re making it out of this hell soon. I guarantee it.”

I thought I was hallucinating. For the first time in my apprenticeship, I felt like my mentor actually cared about me. The heat grew weaker from that point on. It wasn’t too long until we reached the coastal highway, and I was met with the most refreshing wind of my life.

Now that we were away from the flame trees, walking along that sea-side paradise made me feel lighter, as if carried by the salty air. I couldn’t believe how reinvigorated I felt in comparison to just a few hours prior.

It was then that I truly began to understand the paradox before me. Something that can’t be intellectualized; only experienced.

Arthux was the living embodiment of it. He loved judging others for being lazy, while unloading his workload onto me and taking multiple naps throughout the day. He mocked wizards who were obsessed with studying magic, while also reading more books about the subject than an accomplished arch-mage.

More importantly, he always scolded me for being too compassionate and yet, while I would never admit it to his face…

…Arthux was also the most empathetic person I’ve ever met.

This contradiction is the one that perplexed me the most. Centuries later, though, I’m pretty certain I understand it better now.

Arthux was someone who had witnessed a lot of death. He rarely showed it, but it haunted him day and night. His empathy made it too easy to know exactly why people killed each other, which made him a brilliant Inquisitor, but inevitably jaded him, nurturing his utter contempt for the world.

And yet, deep down, he understood the value of life in a far deeper way than anyone else I’ve met.

I never saw him the same way after that ordeal. By learning to reconcile these contradictions, he was slowly turning into the greatest teacher I would ever have.