The Collected Recollections of Sir Atelon Scrudton

Greetings dear wanderers of the Jarthenverse! In what many experts are describing as possibly the most ground-breaking discovery in Jarthenology of the past week, the Jarthen Foundation, in conjunction with the Worthis Trust, are proud to present the memoirs of spy, scholar, and man-about-town Sir Atelon Scrudton. Written several years after the conclusion of the Border Wars Trilogy, this work offers a unique insight into the life and times of one of Elothnin's most respected gentlemen. Without further ado, I give you the first installment of

Collected Recollections

by Sir Atelon Mavelyn Scrudton

Introduction

It has always been my opinion that the memoir is the most vainglorious of literary genres. Since man first put pen to paper, he has by and large worked with the singular purpose of celebrating his successes, recounting his moments of epic triumph often with more poetic license than respect for veracity. I doubt that I need indulge in so disreputable an act as to name such narcissistic works for the reader to know of what I speak.

Thus I realize it is with no small amount of hypocrity that I have undertaken the very task I have just lamented. Why, the patient reader might inquire, would I so disparage the very form I now use to express myself? A valid query, indeed. The impetus, I warrant, is two-fold.

On the one hand, I seek to elevate, to reclaim after a fashion the memoir from its inauspicious place in the literary canon. Despite the incredible proliferation of these works very few of them deserve more consideration than the latest sensationalistic pulp novels so beloved by the less-sophisticated members of the reading public. It seems that no sooner than a man reaches a certain age and achieves a modicum of success, there comes to him the overwhelming urge to capture his victories in prose, no matter how utterly trivial the subject himself or lacking his narratorial abilities.

I aspire to cast off the gilded raiment of the traditional autobiography, laying bare the man beneath, leaving my flaws and follies visible for all the world to see. The tale here presented is as honest and open as has ever been recorded. I realize full well that in doing so I expose not only my abilities as a storyteller to the caprices of critics both familiar and foreign, but so too my innermost self, my dreams, desires, failures and victories alike. I grant that I feel a tremor of trepidation at the thought of what some might say in response to my story, but, alas, I am an elderly man now and time itself has become my most treacherous adversary. In the face of life's inexorable march towards death, a pen wielded by even the most sardonic of hands is a less frightening prospect.

Secondly, I contend that I have led a peculiar sort of life, the likes of which few have experienced and of which still fewer have written. The abundance of unlikely and remarkable events to which I have been privy, the curious turns and unexpected encounters with individuals of note, and the unprecedented times in which I have lived make mine a story particularly worth telling. I do not propose that I, as an individual, am of especial importance or interest, but rather that I was simply fated to be thrown into singular situations and surrounded by fascinating people. Above all, I hope that this account grants the reader a sense of the tremendous influence others exert on our selves; no man, not even the solitary mage, is truly alone. We cannot exist as individuals without the benefit of society.

In deference to the limits of the reader's patience, I will politely forego those remarks the memoirist tends to make at this juncture about the morally uplifting nature of his tale and the great example it should be to others. It is in the reader's hands alone to judge my life's significance or lack thereof, and to take from it what he desires.


I Enter the World

On a cold winter's morning, Nedralyn Colmes Scrudton began a labor that would take a full two days to complete: my birth. Although the physician suggested that she retire to the coast for her confinement, mother was far too stubborn even as a newlywed woman of a bare 19 years to consent to abandoning her household duties. Even in her depleted condition, such an action was absolutely incompatible with her constitution, maintaining her ever-watchful eye over the servants until her water broke and she was carried to the bedchamber. It wouldn’t surprise me if the exceptional length of my delivery was due in part to her unwillingness to relinquish control over the smallest of tasks, even in the midst of such an arduous ordeal as childbirth.

After I finally emerged from her womb and was suitably cleaned, the doctor placed me in mother's arms and she gazed lovingly at my infant form. "What is the child's name?" the physician asked, turning to my father’s motionless form, ensconced in his armchair and snoring peacefully. Father, who had opened a bottle of champagne as soon as mother's birth pains began, had continued to consume bottle after bottle of sparkling wines and all manner of spirits for the duration of the process and was unable to respond or comprehend his words at that point. "Well, Mrs. Scrudton, do you know what your husband wanted to name the child?" he said, turning back to my mother.

"I haven't the foggiest," she said fixing the poor doctor with one of her famously daunting looks, for she was a woman whose gaze could very nearly freeze blood. "And, frankly I do not care what he wants to name him. After all, I did all the work didn't I? It only seems fair that I should get to name him."

"It is traditional for the father’s wishes--"

"To hell with your traditions, sir!"

"Ma'am this is highly irregular. If not for your present condition, I should not be able to excuse such a tone!"

"Never mind your delicate sensibilities! We'll name him Atelon, after my father," she said, defying the doctor to contradict her.

The poor man quailed in the face of her forceful personality. "Very well. Do you wish him to have a middle name?"

She thought for a moment, before a wry smile flitted across her lips. "Mavelyn, after the main character in Of Fields and Fantasy."

"Well at least your literary taste is better than your manners," the doctor muttered, but Mother had stopped listening. She had turned her attention to me, already planning ahead, envisioning all that the future might hold for her son. Mother was one of those souls to whom such notions as retreat, idleness, and frivolity were nonsense, unthinkable and unforgivable. Eminently practical and wholly intolerant of indecision, she sought from my very first breath to imbue me with strong values, wholesome tastes, and the same strength of character that made her such an imposing figure. As will become quite apparent from even a brief accounting of my father’s subsequent conduct, such persistent attention on her part was an entirely understandable attempt to overcome any negative influence he might have passed on to me. From that very first day, Mother saw to it that I should not fall into the same pits of dissolute depravity inhabited by Father, going so far as to select my clothing, determine my diet, and organize my itinerary until I left for school at the age of 16.

Although some proponents of so-called scientific child-rearing might hold that the exertion of a preponderance of influence by one parent over the other is an impediment to a child’s development of a well-rounded character, even the most impartial assessment of my own life proves otherwise. Indeed, I benefited tremendously from a lack of siblings, which allowed Mother to be so personally involved in all aspects of my daily routine. However, try as she might, there was no way she could completely insulate me from Father, and I became all too familiar with his failings at a very tender age.