The Truth-Giver

20250826

Written for the "Kev's Odyssey" series.

CW: Reference to suicide ideation.

Once, so far away that it could almost be quite close, there was an alchemist told to find Truth. For the people.
She spent weeks learning how to titre the essence of knowledge from library dust. Months crafting a perfect mirror whose reflections produced no distortion. Years finding a seashell with the correct shape to whisper deep intuitive wisdom.
Finally, after two decades, three years, seven months, and change, she returned to the college to share the fruits of her labour: the Truth Giver.
It was ugly. A tangled trunk and web of wires, a dozen metals twisted together to hold a plain sheet of silvered glass and a dangling seashell polished colourless and a common brass hearing trumpet.
The college council was unimpressed as she explained how you knelt here, and looked into the mirror, and held the seashell to your ear with one hand while using the other to position the trumpet in front of your mouth, and after speaking your question the construct would give the truth of whatever matter you laid before it.
While they all agreed that their duty required them to test her claims, first they pointed out the many flaws in her design. Kneeling on a sheet woven of metal wires was uncomfortable, even painful for the older alchemists. The composition of metals looked a mess, with no visible rhyme nor reason nor pleasing pattern. Likewise the mirror had no frame. And the seashell was an awkward shape to grasp.
Still, they agreed to test it.
The result of her project was recorded as “functional”, but her project submission failed by nine votes out of eleven. A “valiant attempt”, the head kindly wrote in the margin.
And the failed construct, which after all had been made using college money, was sent to the workshop to be recycled.
“Wot’s this, then?” The scrapper wondered aloud, amazed by its ugliness.
A whisper came from the shell.
He cocked his head, stooped, and placed the shell to his ear. It was now silent.
So he repeated again - “Wot’s this?”
And with utter, perfect honesty the construct explained.
He listened.
He asked who made it.
He asked where to find her.
And he put the Truth Giver in a storage room for safekeeping while he headed out.
The alchemist was drinking alone in her little dorm room. Staring out the window. Sometimes looking up at the ceiling beam, and then at her wardrobe as she wondered if any of her belts were strong enough. If they could hold this weight she couldn’t bear to carry. At least long enough for her to leave it behind.
He knocked on the door.
She ignored it. At first. After half an hour it was clear whoever it was, they weren’t going to go away, and the noise was beyond annoying. Even despair struggles to withstand irritation.
So she answered.
He told her who he was. Why he was here.
Soon she was sitting in the workshop, next to her failed construct, drinking coffee and weeping as she explained how first the council had sneered, and then when they tried it they became angry, and how all she’d ever wanted was to help.
He listened.
He paced around the construct, inspecting it from every angle.
He spoke to her about design. About ergonomics. About casings and frames and optics.
She spoke to him about how the truth is a delicate thing, and needs a precisely calibrated cradle.
They both nodded and shook.
She went to sleep off the stressful day, her heart now light and open.
He went to the council, money in hand, to buy the college’s materials used for the construct.
On hearing his plan, that he intended to use the construct in its current form, they immediately insisted that he also pay for the construction.
Twenty-four years’ worth of skilled labour.
He folded his arms.
He raised an eyebrow.
He smiled.
He observed that they’d been underfunding the workshop for decades; that he was the only person left with actual training in dismantling magical objects; that they hadn’t managed to hold onto an assistant long enough for him to train anyone.
Then he threatened to resign.
While the fight took weeks, during which the scrapper and the alchemist, in trust and hope, rebuilt the Truth Giver anew, finally the college gave in. The project could be resubmitted. It would pass.
On the condition that the finished construct be presented as a triumph of the college.
The pair agreed. And the finished Truth Giver was installed at the back of the library.
It was now a booth, with a proper seat. The mirror had a demure, tasteful frame which was pleasing to the eye without drawing attention. The metal wires were behind polished wood panels. The seashell was wrapped in a casing which was protective and comfortable to hold.
The truth it gave was unchanged.
Many people who tried it still became angry. Some even still tried to blame the optics. But many others found great value in their visits.
Sometimes, people experienced all three. Truth can be a difficult thing to grasp, no matter how physically comfortable you make the process.
So the alchemist sits in the library by her construct, guarding it and giving advice and support to anyone who wants Truth.
And reading. She has plenty of time for reading now, and is hopeful she’ll one day catch up everything she missed during those years of work.
And the scrapper continues his job. The college is now very keen on him training a replacement, to the point they’ve increased funding to the workshop. Because of his age, they say.
He folds his arms. And raises an eyebrow. And smiles. And says that’s sensible.
And he now inspects everything sent to him very carefully. Asking. Listening. Just in case.
He also, whenever the topic comes up, surreptitiously suggests people try asking the booth how it came to be.
And it tells them the story I’ve told you.

Prompt was “Truth”.