Despite their desire to depart with haste another week passes for them in the city of Onylándun, as they are occupied with the recovery of their bodies which sustained abiding trauma from the events of the siege and the absorption of the dark, and also with aiding however they can in salvaging some sense of life for the people after so much death and loss. Elmáriyë’s recovery in particular is difficult and prolonged, and she lapses back into what appears to be a mysterious illness, but which she and Eldárien know to be the result of the darkness that she has taken within herself and that she still bears. She is often confined to bed, or to a chair, her gaze far off and distant, as though looking through a thick fog toward destinations unseen but known, unreachable but desired. Only toward the end of this week does she begin to show signs of recovery, though this is in no part complete, and they begin to realize that she may never entirely recover, and instead shall walk precisely as she is, finding in weakness not an enemy but a friend.
They hold converse with their companions, and though the news of their solitary departure is grievous, it is expected. Deep in their hearts each one of them knew that it was necessary and awaited it. Tilliána is silent, withdrawing further into herself in the grief of another loss, and Cirien bears the news with wise and knowing equanimity; it is Rórlain who is vocal about his concerns and about his feelings. He speaks alone with Eldárien as they sit in the bedchamber of the latter, the hearth burning quietly between them, wood popping and crackling steadily beneath the flames.
“It is difficult for me to allow you to depart,” begins Rórlain. “I spoke truly when I said that I intended to pay the life-bond by remaining always at your side, through life and death. And yet now you say that you must go to a place where I cannot follow. I understand why this is so, since here I must remain to protect the innocent people of our land from the onslaught that would destroy them, and there you must go to root out the darkness itself in its very origin. I only…I only wish it were not so.”
“As do I,” says Eldárien, “for your companionship—no, your friendship—is precious to me. But though we renounce the former, at least for a time, I trust in the endurance of the latter.”
“You are certain that there is no other way, however, than to go alone with Elmáriyë? Could not others accompany you on this path?” proffers Rórlain, uncertainty in his voice.
“I am not certain that it is the only way, but it is the way that I have chosen,” Eldárien replies. “I would not put anyone else at risk accompanying us to the place to which we alone are summoned. For of that I am certain: that we are called there and nowhere else, and that there is asked of us something that can be accepted, can be given, in no other way.”
“But trouble enough there shall be everywhere in our land,” Rórlain says, “that the path you walk may be no more dangerous than anything else.”
“I wish that were truly so, not because I wish great trouble elsewhere throughout our land, but because I wish for a little less before Elmáriyë and myself. But I am confident that it shall be otherwise.”
“What do you mean?”
“We walk into darkness and strife, passing not out of danger but into it,” Eldárien explains, “and only in this way can we hope to spare others, our people, from darkness and strife themselves.”
“You intend to confront the brunt of the evil and pain so that others may be spared? If you sense this so clearly, it makes it even harder for me to allow you to depart, despite the fact that I know that I can neither prevent you nor accompany you.”
“Your support shall be for me a strength and a consolation, Rórlain, even at a distance and even in the silence of the heart. To know that you support me as I walk, and that you know whence I go while you remain to aid our people in their fight—this shall be for me a source of strength.”
“Then I shall give it,” says Rórlain. “But I ask you also not to forget me, and especially to never lose sight of the people and their conflict, for the sake of which you walk.”
“You have the pledge of my heart that I shall remain vigilant always, insofar as is within my power, to this lamp of love burning always in the spirit. But, along with all else that I have been given to see and to feel, I sense that before us both lie tests that shall be greater than our own strength or resolve.”
“That does my heart fear,” Rórlain sighs. “I have been thinking much about what awaits the people of Telmérion in the coming days, and about what should be my response. Am I merely to remain here in Onylándun in case of future attack, or should I travel elsewhere? And if so, how shall I know where the power entrusted to us shall be most needed? For with your departure I alone shall be the custodian of the light in the midst of this war, and my very presence shall be a boon in battle unlike all others. This is a heavy burden to bear, for how shall I choose whom to aid and whom to abandon?”
Eldárien does not immediately reply to his friend’s heartfelt questions, but rather reflects in order that his words may be spoken from the same depth of the heart and the same stance of reflection from which Rórlain’s queries spring. When he does speak, he says, “A heavy burden indeed. And yet all the burdens that man is asked to carry in this life are not his to bear alone. Seek counsel with others, as you are now doing with me. But also look above all to the One who has placed this burden upon you, for I believe that even the very circumstances among which we now find ourselves—pulled in different directions by both the call of the present need and by the voice of the heart—are not merely random, but are arranged by a deeper wisdom. And if this is true, then you need not fear falling short of what is entrusted to you by weakness or limitation, but only by infidelity. Such an awareness and such a trust remains my only solace and consolation during this time, and I would wish for you to find solace in the same.”
“That I shall try to do,” Rórlain responds simply. “But even on the level of natural prescience, based on the knowledge that we have, there are certain questions that trouble me.”
“To what do you refer?”
“I refer to the fear that our enemy is manifold, and multifaceted, and that we have little hope of holding off the attacks that shall surely come upon us in coming days. After all, has that not already been the case? With our departure from Ristfánd, did we not leave the people throughout the lands of Rhóvas, and even farther north, bereft of our aid and the light we could bring?”
“That is sadly true,” agrees Eldárien, lowering his eyes. “And that is why I cannot bear to delay my quest any longer. For there is a line drawn straight from our departure from Ristfánd to the departure of Elmáriyë and myself from Onylándun. They are along the same trajectory, the same movement, which leads from the superficial conflict to the heart of the problem, that it may be solved. But…I am well aware of the suffering and loss of life that my absence may have allowed. How much, after all, would one wish to hold the entire world and to prevent all suffering and death! That is why I said that the only path we have is that of trust and obedience in what has been entrusted to us. No man, however great or however gifted, can hold the entire world, nor bring it salvation.”
“You are right, Eldárien,” says Rórlain. “And I had not thought before of the continuity between Ristfánd and now. It is just…it is just difficult.”
“Terribly difficult, enough to tear the heart in twain,” Eldárien confirms. After a moment’s pause, he then asks, “You spoke of the multiplicity of our enemy. Did you have something in particular in mind?”
“Aye. I think of the Lords of the Draíon whom we have encountered. In standing before them, it felt like I was facing a force so much superior and filled with such incredible malice and will to destroy. And each seemed a lord and leader in his own right. In my inner heart it seems that they all, nonetheless, converge into a single many-headed beast intent on wiping out the people of Telmérion.”
“You fear defending against one head while another strikes elsewhere,” remarks Eldárien, and though it is not voiced as a question, Rórlain nods in assent.
“So you do not think that the Lord of Death spoke true when he said that both Maggot and the Lord of Mæres would trouble us no longer?” asks Eldárien.
“I am certain that he spoke lies,” replies Rórlain without hesitation. “Now, granted there were seeds of truth in what he said; such, after all, is every effective lie. But on the main his words were false. Maggot, or the Lord of Worms, may be a petty lord in his eyes, a mere worm obsessed with worms. But I do not believe that Maggot thinks so of himself. Nor does what I have encountered of the Lord of Mæres convince me that ‘his day is past.’”
Eldárien thinks on his friend’s words for a few moments and then he nods, saying, “I must agree with you. There is something that puzzles me about all of the Draíon whom we have encountered, and my mind has been casting about for a solution to this question for a long time. I think only now is my thought beginning to yield itself to some sort of answer. The uncertainty is this: the assault being waged upon our people by the creatures of darkness appears unified, as if guided by a single hand. Would you not agree?”
“Indeed.”
“And yet among all the commanders of the legions of darkness whom we have confronted, we have encountered only myopia…indeed a firm insistence that they stand alone, with no lord or master above them.”
“That also is true.”
“And therefore either our perception of a unified evil, indeed a unified personification of evil guiding all other evils to our destruction, is wrong, or there is another Lord at work whom the ones we have encountered do not recognize. Or at least they refuse to give him obeisance and to reveal him to us.”
With downcast yet intense eyes staring toward the unseen—a gaze revealing a thoughtful mind intently at work—Rórlain presses his palm against his cheek. Then he rubs his eyes with the heels of both hands as if to dispel some of the confusion or frustration or fear that he feels. At last, glancing up for a moment, he says, “But perhaps they did, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“You recall what was said to us by the Lord of Death? He mentioned that there was another, the greatest of their kind. He called him—”
“The Lord of Darkness,” Eldárien concludes for him. “Yes. I remember now, though it had slipped my mind until this moment. How hard it is to remember what they say unto us, for the entire time of our converse with them is like an obscure fog or a torrential storm which one can only weather as best one can.”
“That is true, and well spoken,” Rórlain says grimly. “But at the same time, the lies they speak seek to pierce the soul like flaming arrows, and so they linger long after they are spoken, assailing the heart that would dismiss them.”
“Like lightning flashes in the storm. All else is obscured, all goodness, all clarity, all ease of thought, and the mind is pushed into a state of passivity, its ability to resist almost entirely drained. And it is there that they speak their most dangerous word, their most venomous poison. Like a shock it sears the flesh and seeks to paralyze the heart.”
“So what was the lie that he sought to speak into us?” Rórlain asks.
Now it is Eldárien who lowers his head in thought as he searches for an answer or even a path toward an answer. Rórlain waits patiently for his response while also joining him in the journey of thought. At length Eldárien says, “The lie is twofold, I believe. There is a deception in what he sought to convey and a deception in what he sought to conceal. He sought to convey that he was the only one whose gaze was turned upon us for ill and that from him alone would come the strife that awaits us. And what he concealed was precisely that there are other forces also at work, alongside his own as well as greater than his own, and that these, too, we must be prepared to combat.”
“So we have not seen the last of the Lord of Worms and the Lord of Mæres…”
“I fear not, though we cannot know for sure until we either encounter them or witness the end of this war, whichever comes first.” Eldárien exhales deeply and adds, “And thus it is well to be prepared for any eventuality.”
“Three Draíon who, whether they themselves know and admit it or not, are working together for our destruction…” Rórlain says, anxiety and sorrow in his voice. “How could we ever combat such a thing? Even one wields power far beyond our imagining.”
“That is true, and yet power also holds us and has been entrusted to us,” Eldárien replies. “It is in this that we can put our trust. And the ultimate answer lies, as Sílion indicated while we were with him, not in direct confrontation but in the purging of the very foundations of evil from which the forces of darkness are fashioned.”
“And thus the castle from your vision?”
“Precisely. The beholding brought with it the awareness: what I seek is there. There lies the root of the great, wicked plant that is choking out the life of our people. But this does not remove the fact that there are other branches also stretching out to cause harm, branches that need to be pruned, or at least curtailed, if cut from the plant they cannot be. And if I am asked to walk one path, it is your part to walk the other. And may the light remain always with us both.”
† † †
While Elmáriyë rests, leaning into the process of recovery that will allow them to depart soon on their journey, Eldárien speaks with Brýma and the council about current events and about his plans to depart.
“So you are saying,” Brýma responds after he finishes his account of the vision he received during the battle, “that you beheld an ancient castle and knew, by some gift of awareness, that it was the place that you seek: the abode of the darkness that must be vanquished?”
“Aye, and that my sister was granted the same vision,” Eldárien says.
“So you are willing to hinge the welfare of our entire nation upon some spiritual experience, some intangible awareness within the heart?” asks Brýma, the tone of his voice hardly concealing the depth of his incredulity.
“I would not do so if there were any other choice,” replies Eldárien quietly. “It is often better to follow the eyes of prudent discernment, the voice of the intelligence, than to trust blindly to the feelings and experiences of the heart. For the heart can be easily swayed by its own selfish wishes and desires, or by its own presuppositions. It can easily convince itself that what it wishes to be true is actually true, or that what it wishes were not true is false. And yet the mind can tap into the current of human thought and experience as it is spread out throughout time, and can learn from the wisdom of others and from the guidance of tradition. It can also gauge values, good or evil, as well as the consequences of thoughts and actions.” Here he pauses in the effort to collect his thoughts and his words, and also to give space that what he says following shall have as much effect and import as what he said previously.
When he continues, he says, “All of that is certainly true and important in its own right, and indeed essential. But there is more to the picture. For it is also true that the mind can constrict itself out of fear or the wish to understand and control everything, attempting to avoid the risk that is inherent in all love, courage, and heroism, the risk in fact that is necessary for life to remain alive and to blossom rather than to stagnate into staleness and death. While the mind rightly has authority over the inner domain of man’s subjective life, and over his actions in the wider world, it is also true that the heart speaks with a voice just as deep—indeed the same voice in a different mode—to which the mind itself must listen with humility and reverence. In both, mind and heart, thought and feeling, reflection and seeing, the voice of the divine seeks to resound as a single voice and to speak a single word. And the more humble a heart is, and the softer is the fabric of intelligence and feeling, of willing and acting, the more easily and deeply can this voice resound. In such a way is this word more clearly heard, without distortion or self-imposed interpretation, though such a word also always remains intimately personal, spoken precisely into the contours of the unique heart that has been prepared to receive it.”
“I understand the wisdom of your words,” Jatíldë says in response, “and myself agree with your assessment from the experiences of my own life. And yet I also agree with Brýma that it would be good to have more concrete evidence before you set out on your journey. We have seen the horrible things that the powers of darkness can do, and I fear that they could sabotage our efforts especially here, leading you away from your true destination on a fruitless quest.”
“I wonder what other evidence we could possibly have,” remarks Eldárien. “I shared with you what we know from our encounters with the Draíon—with Maggot in Ristfánd, with the Lord of Mæres in the castle in the mountains, and with the Lord of Death here in Onylándun. All indicate that there is yet another power behind them, whatever it may be, which is deeper than their own planning and which yet stands as the ultimate origin of these wicked beasts. So too, even more importantly, spoke the wise Silion, the great father of the Velási, who told us to embark on precisely such a quest to discover the origin and heart of the darkness.”
“Is that really the case?” asks Brýma. “It appears to me that adequate evidence exists that these ‘Lords’ of whom you have spoken have fashioned—or summoned—these creatures themselves, and use them to wage war against us.”
“Was there not a forge in the mountains from which they were born?” Víndal asks. “What has become of this now?”
“It has turned into a fortress of crystal, a tower like the blade of a massive sword piercing toward the heavens,” Eldárien replies. “If I were relying on my own suspicions or my own interpretation, I would have guessed that what I sought was there, in that place of great evil. And yet…and yet I know that this is not the case. What I seek lies elsewhere.”
“And how do you know this?” another counselor, the woman Méric, asks.
Eldárien reflects on this question for a while in silence, asking himself the same question internally that was voiced to him externally, and then he answers, “The Lord of Mæres is a petty lord, not only in the domain of his interests and plans but also in the hierarchy of those who set themselves against us. This much has become apparent in our dealings with the Draíon. I cannot believe that it was he who stirred up the Empire to dealings with themselves, and who agreed to yield the vrû’ádach and the other eötenga to their cause. You see, we also encountered a fourth creature—I suppose a Draía—in the barrow of Séra Galáptes, though this encounter was only momentary and at a distance. He was unlike any of the others that we have met. And yet neither is he the one whom we seek, only yet another proof that others there are at work which we do not know. But I believe that behind them all another intelligence is at work. I have felt it in my encounters with these creatures, and I have felt it in the darkness that assails us. It is a heart of indescribable malice and of unutterable power. And unto his stronghold am I called, for there alone lies the conflict and the solution that we seek. So did Sílion direct me, and so does the gift within me beckon me. To occupy ourselves with besieging other strongholds, though it may be part of the war, is not part of its ending. In only one place alone, the very heart of this darkness, can one deal the final blow to our enemy and bring about peace instead of warfare, and light instead of darkness. Yet I did not know where to seek for this ‘heart,’ or even where to inquire after its whereabouts. Even Sílion did not know, though he was confident that it would be revealed unto me. I believe that what was communicated to me in interior vision by the One who also entrusted to me my task is the answer to my questions and the response to my prayer.”
“The citadel of the ancient king itself, overrun by our enemy and inhabited by the ruler of the forces of darkness?” Brýma exclaims. “It exasperates the heart even to consider…though I suppose it also makes a terrible kind of sense, given the nature of our enemy and their delight in desecrating all that is good.”
“That is sadly true, indeed,” says Eldárien.
“And yet if you and your sister intend to depart on this road, what of your other companions? Shall they too accompany you? You mentioned them not in this regard,” Jatíldë says.
“They shall remain behind,” says Eldárien. “This path is for my sister and myself alone. I also believe that our companions shall be of more assistance if they remain among the people, aiding in what way they may. Rórlain, at least, has no choice but to remain, for he alone, besides my sister and myself, can channel the light required to dispel the creatures of darkness in such a way that they cannot take form again from the shadows. And yet I believe that Tilliána and Cirien also shall be of great if humble aid to your people, or to whomever they are sent. And I wish not to endanger them on this path, which surely holds untold dangers. Here the might of man may stand against the power of wicked beasts. But where my sister and I go is rather like walking defenseless into a trap. And yet we seek precisely thus to conquer our enemy’s main fortress and stronghold, not with the strength of the arm but with the weakness of the heart and the vulnerability of its love.”
“And that is truly what you propose to do?” Brýma asks. “Why not bring a legion of soldiers with you?”
“In such a journey speed and secrecy shall be a much greater boon than more arms to wield the sword. As I said, the battle that Elmáriyë and I go to fight is not a conflict that can be won with strength of arms or might in battle. It is the steep way of compassion for our hurting people and of courage to confront darkness in its very origin, that there it may be purged. You understand, do you not, that I cannot ask anyone to accompany us on this path which has been requested of us alone?”
“No, Eldárien,” says Brýma shortly, “I do not much understand. But then again, it is you who bear the signs of the kingship of light and not I. It is evident that you see things that I do not—both with the mind and with the heart. I can only defer to your judgment and to powers greater than my own, which I myself see and feel little or not at all. It may seem a leap into the dark, but perhaps that is my small share in the risk of which you have spoken. And if, beyond all expectation, you return victorious, then I shall not hesitate to give you the role of kingship and to speak of you boldly as king before all the people.”
“I fear that many other risks shall yet be asked of you before this war is done,” says Eldárien in response. “They shall be asked of all of us. May we find the strength and the courage, the serenity and the surety, to bear them as we ought.”
† † †
Elmáriyë, wrapped tightly in cloak and scarf, walks upon the ramparts of the city, her eyes looking often and long into the darkness as if grasping for some hidden semblance of light concealed within it or beyond it. She has been walking frequently during these past days, insofar as her physical weakness permits, seeking a deeper aloneness in which to reflect upon all that has happened within her and around her, and seeking above all to sink into that sacred space of solitude that has held her and accompanied her throughout her life. She knows that solitude is the native state of every human heart—solitude which is not mere aloneness or isolation, but rather the primal existence of the person in their origin from the creative love of Eldáru and in relation to him who holds them ceaselessly in existence. Thus the deepest solitude is not the greatest isolation but rather the overcoming of all isolation, the deepest and widest communion. It is the blossoming of the relationship that lies at the origin of all relationships and is their rule and measure, the relationship, indeed, which establishes each individual as the person whom they are: seen, known, and loved from all eternity, and sustained in time from conception unto death, until eternity too becomes their home.
And yet the newfound darkness that has penetrated the heart of Elmáriyë militates against this, threatening to crush out this sacred space, this holy habitation, and to thrust her into exile, into a spiral of loss and confusion blurring mind and crippling spirit. She seeks to return, to find some refuge in the storm, some anchor in the tempestuous waves. It is also simply true that she seeks to return because her heart cannot desire to be anywhere else than this, for its own sake and for the sake of others. For what greater gift can she give to others, and for them, than herself in her inmost integrity, a space both of welcome and of gift? And yet precisely here in this space she feels violated, ravaged by wickedness and evil, such that the home at time seems nothing but a horror and the gift nothing but a theft.
But in all and beyond all, even as what she seeks slips from her conscious grasp, she leans into the trust that all of this is only a yet deeper fulfillment of that wish, in the gift that she is from the loving hands of Eldáru, to become gift for others, a living love in which their weary hearts can find security and rest on their journey to the abode of true and lasting peace. With the onset of this anguishing darkness, her relationship with Eldárien has also changed. If it was a new and blessed experience to allow him so deeply into her solitude, first in Ristfánd and increasingly so upon their shared journey, so now she finds herself leaning upon him in her pain. And there is a tension here, for she wants to lean farther, to surrender deeper: to the One beyond humanity, who alone understands all the intricacies of the human heart and in whom alone solitude and togetherness intersect, fully united and fulfilled.
But this tension is fruitful, and she knows it, even as she feels the stretching: of keeping her heart open to the Infinite, a home for the Creator of all and her true Love—who dwells always within her, already given even if unfelt—and also of welcoming into this same heart the frail yet beautiful presence of her brother. In the same moment she feels herself stretched outward toward him, and with him toward all of their people, and indeed toward all the children of humanity near and far. And this stretching, born of her solitude, causes her pain, like the dilation of labor pains. At times it feels like every last fiber of her solitude is lost, crushed and destroyed by the pained presence of others, and when she turns back toward her own aloneness and seeks repose in the One who is here present, she finds only darkness and anguish. In response to this, all that she can do is trust—trust and surrender in the hope that even in the darkness there is light, hidden but true, and that this light shall bring healing and fulfillment of desire for her and for all whom she bears in the dilated sinews of her heart.
† † †
Tilliána is restless and pained. The pages of life are turning so quickly for her now that she feels as though she hardly has time to read the words inscribed upon them. The realization beggars belief that only a matter of months ago she was in Ristfánd with the members of her family still alive at her side. The time that has passed since she first met Elmáriyë, and shortly after her Eldárien, Rórlain, and Cirien, seems to be a great stretch of years for all that it has borne within it and for all the ways that it has challenged her, consoled her, afflicted her, and changed her. It is surprising to her to realize that the time since then and now is only the passage from early spring to the full onset of winter. Perhaps in fact, she realizes, the depth and breadth of human life is not measured in the passage of hours, days, weeks, and months, in the cycle of the seasons and the passage of the years, but in the journey of the heart and in the shared journey of hearts who walk together. And if that is the case, then she has experienced more “time” in the last months than she has in the entirety of her previous life. For during this period she has suffered more deeply, been loved more radically, received and given more vulnerably—and has experienced more both the joy of the interlacing of hearts and the horror of indescribable evil—than ever before.
And now yet another unexpected and nigh unbearable experience comes upon her, and her heart spontaneously draws back from it as if to erect a wall to prevent her being hurt yet again. For to give her heart is to let it be wounded, to open it to loss and mourning and the sundering of communion, and this she does not wish to bear. Indeed, how could anyone possibly risk such love in the midst of a war that threatens the destruction of a nation and the annihilation of an entire people? But what she fears in this respect is not dying, but rather losing again those to whom her heart has been bound—despite its resistance, fear, and self-protection. And yet this fear is already being fulfilled, as Eldárien and Elmáriyë, the two living souls who are most precious to her in all the world, depart now upon a journey along which she cannot follow. And how little hope is there, in the cold light of her vision—or rather in the all-enfolding darkness that now engulfs the land—for her to see them again when these terrible days are passed. There is a tangible sense of finality to their departure. All of the members of the company feel this, though almost without exception they refrain from giving voice to it in speech.
Afflicted and preoccupied by these thoughts, Tilliána garbs herself warmly and steps out of the citadel and into the streets of the city, in large part ruined by the assault of the eötenga and the fire of the dragon, though even in the icy cold of the beginning winter the people of Onylándun have commenced both cleaning and rebuilding after the attack. But why? What good does it do? The enemy could return any day without warning to bring even greater destruction. Or the people could be called upon to forsake their city entirely, taking refuge elsewhere or engaging in a hopeless armed struggle against a superior power in lands not their own. Realizing that her mind is poisoned by these despairing thoughts, Tilliána tries to check it in its flight and grasps instead for some stability, some rock of normalcy, when the whole world appears to her now bathed in utter loss and dire danger.
As she struggles within she walks without, through the city streets, from the citadel through the middle city to the lower city, and then up the stone steps to the battlements surrounding the city and looking out over the plains to the south—though these plains are now cloaked in darkness. As she gazes out into the darkness, Tilliána feels the urge to scream, to release all the pain that she feels inside and to express it both as a rebellion against the darkness and as a lament unto the light that is no longer visible. But instead she simply leans against the stone wall and grips it so tightly with her hands that it hurts, her fingernails scraping against the frigid stone. She imagines the ocean of whiteness that extends beyond her gaze, now hidden by the veil of darkness, in the snow-covered plains below, and she grieves for the loss. She misses the pallor and splendor of the snow that in other circumstances she would have seen as a frustration and an inconvenience, a hindrance to travel and a cause of suffering to the people of Telmérion in the bitter months of winter. But now this snow is hidden such that its miles and miles of shining whiteness is prevented from being seen by the beholding eye, as no light of the heavens nor of the earth can reach it; and even within the city, where torches burn at intervals with flickering red light, only the smallest patches of snow remain after the all-consuming fires enkindled by the dragon’s attack.
With these thoughts Tilliána shakes her head, astonished at herself. Why is she allowing herself to be carried by such useless considerations? What does snow matter? And what, after all, does the veil of darkness matter? It is the conflict, the horror, the death, that grieves her and which she fears. But too much to confront directly, too painful to reflect upon with eyes unshielded, she has deflected her thought into symbols and expressed her grief in icons. Stepping back from the wall, she tries to tear her eyes away from the darkness and to fix her gaze elsewhere, but everywhere she looks darkness is all that she beholds. Exasperated, she sinks to her knees and buries her face in her hands.
In this manner she remains for a long time, her thoughts sinking into thoughtlessness and her grief into an abyss of nothingness, until she is wrenched back to herself through the sound of footsteps drawing near on the battlements. She raises her head and looks up, but she can see nothing in the darkness, not even the silhouette of a figure. Nonetheless she feels a presence, a familiar presence, and she says, “Eldárien?”
“It is Elmáriyë,” comes the response from the direction of the footsteps, which then fall silent within a couple yards of Tilliána. “Were you also out walking and thinking?”
Pushing herself up and rising to her feet, Tilliána replies, “Yes, though both have ceased now.”
“Would you like to return to the citadel together?” asks Elmáriyë.
But before Tilliána can respond, a sound comes from below the battlements, down in the plains. The echo of a horse’s hooves pounding through snow can be heard plainly penetrating through the dull silence that now hangs over everything like a damp and heavy cloth. And as the two women turn spontaneously toward the sound it ceases, only to be followed a moment later by pounding upon the thick wooden gates of the city.