They turned off their machines, crawled into bed after turning off the light and slept. And Dreamed. The wizard in their dream introduced themselves as Wraithvine, and smiled. "So, what is your time like?" "A time of peace, I guess, lots of hard work, but, meh, not so bad." -- Anon Guest
[AN: Are you trying to tie my universes together, Nonny? It doesn't work like that. Alfarell has a history incongruent with Amalgam Universe. That glue won't stick]
So many machines invented with the good intention of saving time and labour often end up doing neither. The cotton gin ended up extending slavery rather than rending it obsolete. The spinning jenny ended cottage industry, true, but it also ended childhoods, lives, and the dexterity of more than enough limbs[1]. Printers saved the labor of the typesetters, but it also allowed less effort spent in creating the written word. And as for code made to save the effort of creation itself... the less said about the results, the better.
Most of that has not happened here in Alfarell. Not yet. It could, with different names, but the potential and the need have to meet in just the right way.
Mass production is very different in a world where the right spell and components can just copy something. Nevertheless, machines rise where magic simply cannot suffice. Something is needed to turn the crank, unclog the gears, grease the wheels, or otherwise keep it running. And in that, there's always someone necessary but also looked down upon.
It's the grease or soot all over their person. Does it every time.
And when someone is looked down upon, it's ridiculously easy for those doing the looking to also tread downwards, too. Despite everyone decent's efforts to stop them doing so.
Glix knew none of this. He just knew that he lived in the midst of fascinating gears and cogs and chains. He just knew that the clatter of machinery drowned out all the noises he hated, and the Maester of the machine fed him once a day. And if a rat or a bird flew into the mess, he could keep it as a bonus.
This was an ideal life for a Gobelliin. His little space was just right. Warm and dry and just right to snuggle into when he was tired. There was a chamber pot that automatically cleaned itself when he was done, and a drip of water into the jug charmed to keep its contents pure. He had everything he could need.
Once a year, for Midwinterfeast, the machine shut down and Glix was forced outside. It was always cold and damp and people sneered at him. Everything there was too big and inconvenient for him to use. Some threw him copper coins. Some gave him blankets and pity. More than a few gave him soap.
He didn't much like Midwinterfeast.
This night, when the grand machine was in slow mode and Glix could sleep... he dreamed.
He dreamed of a Gobelliin city, where everything was sized right for him. Where others like him played with gears and cogs and a grease stain was no source of shame. Where there were all kinds of things that a Gobelliin loved to eat but the bigger ones sneered at.
He dreamed of one Elf who did not sneer. Who sat to reach Glix's eyeline and did so without condescension. "Are you happy, where you are? What are your days like?"
"It's not so bad," said Glix. "I have a place that's just right for me and I have lots to do and lots to eat. I can sleep soundly and I don't get sick."
"Nothing wrong? Nothing you'd rather fix?" said the Elf.
"I don't like Midwinterfeast. The machine has to stop and the Maester throws me out into the streets. It's full of mean people and it's always cold and hardly anyone gives me food. I'd rather stay inside."
A fellow Gobelliin looked to Wraithvine. "That's not how Midwinterfeast is meant to go," she said. "You're meant to get gifts, and share a feast with everyone you love. And there's fish. Or a roast bird."
Glix said, "I eat my pigeons raw."
The other Gobelliin said, "You don't have to."
When Glix woke, he tried cooking his next mangled pigeon with the heat of the machine. The boilers were nice and hot and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Until the Maester screamed at him for endangering the machine. Threatening him with being thrown out into the street for good. That was the moment that Glix knew... the machine was more important to the Maester than the Gobellin who helped it stay operational. To the Maester, Glix was just as replaceable as any gear or belt in the machine.
Even though there weren't any other Gobelliin for miles.
The next time Glix dreamed of the Elf, he told hir everything.
Then Wraithvine said, "I'll see what can be done."
[1] I think we can all agree that the ideal number of children's hands macerated by machinery is zero. Many factory moguls in the Victorian Era were wont to disagree.
[Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash]
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