Hældáris’ mind passes in and out of thought and awareness, in and out of dreams and reality, tasting hope and tasting despair, tasting reality and tasting the fear of nothingness. And all throughout he seeks for the light beyond the darkness, for life beyond death, for an end to this story different than the one he has received. He reaches out for the one whom his heart has loved so deeply for many years; but just as in the water of death, she continues to slip away from him, and no matter how much he grasps for her, she is gone.
And then in his memory he again stands before her as if for the first time, the light warmly and gently filtering through the leaves of the trees and casting dappled light upon the forest floor, playing also upon her face and her form as if to highlight and accentuate the beauty of her body and her spirit. And it is precisely her light that moves him even more than that of the sun and the day, the forest and the trees, for it is not a light merely visible, but invisible, shining from within her as a presence both kindly and intense. Yet even as she draws near to him, and he to her, the memory begins to fade and soon she dissolves into nothingness and disappears, slipping from sight even as he looks upon her. Panic-stricken and afraid he clings to her in the hidden places of his heart, searches for her, calls out to her; but as he searches even the memory of her begins to erase itself from his mind. Terror of terrors! That the beloved of the heart, upon their death, would truly be forgotten! Is not love strong enough to endure even beyond death, to hold the beloved in mind and heart even when their flesh is no longer seen? Is love not indeed, however mysteriously, a promise of life beyond the dissolution of the grave, a hope of enduring communion when all else fails?
Yes, it is. But then again, no; by itself alone, it cannot be so. It cannot be more than a wish, a longing, an aspiration—for there is nothing in human love that itself can sustain the very promise that human love makes. For even if one heart says to another “totally and forever,” nothing in this heart can safeguard such a gift and such a pledge, for not only is it weak and faltering, but at the end death claims all, plunging it in endless night.
And so Hældáris is carried through forgetfulness and loss, through grief and beyond it, and he finds himself in a foreign place which he does not recognize. He stands in newness unrecognized and unexpected, and then he remembers all—in a deeper remembering that has held him even in his forgetting, and has upheld his love even in its loss. And he sees Relmaríndë bathed in an immense light, radiant and pure, intense and yet gentle—a light that does not dim her own light but enhances it, augments it, and sets it free. He raises his hand to her, to hold her and not let her go, but in the same moment he knows that this is not the right response. And so, with hand still outstretched, he releases her, releases her in the frailty yet authenticity of his love unto a greater love, a greater light.
And as she blends into this light that envelops her, she becomes light in turn, invisible to his eyes even while in the same moment she comes to live in the recesses of his heart, abiding forever.
† † †
And now Hældáris’ mind carries him back in memory to the earlier years of his life, and he sees them anew, with unhurried glance, as if nothing matters now but to look with truth and to see with light.
He is again a child gazing into the faces of his mother and his father, knowing even before thought that this love, this security, is the truest thing of all, promise of a love greater than itself, of which it is but an image and a reflection. He is again a boy at the edge of adulthood, sparring with his dear friend in the outer bailey of the citadel, laughing and joking in the joys of friendship and unspoken understanding even as they bruise one another with practice swords made of wood. He again sits atop the ramparts of the citadel as the evening sun descends below the mountains in the west and sends rays of reddish light across the cloud-laden sky, his wife silently at his side, her hand held within his. He is again a full-grown man bidding farewell to his family for the last time, embracing his mother and his father with heartfelt affection.
The memories come, living within him, in no particular order, some newer, some older, and yet all coming to abide in a ceaseless present that can only be called “now.” And indeed, in and through all of the events of his life, yet also beyond them, holding them and sheltering them as a mother’s womb shelters a child, he senses a “Now” that has always been, in fullness of life, before time ever came to be, and which shall continue to exist even when time is no more. And in this eternal “Now,” this everlasting present which is fullness of unbroken life and the consummation of every promise in love unhindered, love abundantly fulfilled without limit or end, he knows that he finds home.
By all this he is consoled, even as, in the very embrace of this experience, he realizes something else: it is not for him yet to enter definitively into this eternal light. And he is saddened by this thought. For glimpsing this light one cannot but long for its fullness. And yet he feels himself sinking back into shadows and into loss, into the struggle and grief of mortal life suspended between life and death, between light and darkness, even as by light it is ceaselessly held. And despite the pain he accepts this return, a temporary sojourn from the light for a time, until unto light he returns again, for ever without end.
† † †
Even in the midst of the affairs of his own service, the king always made time to be, along with his wife, the primary educator of his children. He often taught them himself the subjects with which he was acquainted and also read them books before their nightly retiring. He and his wife fostered in their household a spirit that brought together the two often opposite dispositions into one—namely, discipline and freedom, consistency and space for spontaneity, hard work and a spirit of playfulness. For they understood that, in truth, these mutually conditioned and corrected one another, allowing each to blossom in authentic maturity without any excess or narrowness, but rather in the full expansiveness of truth. Such was the youth and indeed the early adulthood of Hældáris and his sister Almaréä. They learned from a young age to work hard and to appreciate discipline as an indispensable atmosphere of true freedom, and yet also to experience the spirit of wonder and of playfulness as the fuel underneath even the most menial work or the most difficult of disciplines.
The king was certainly generous with his time and with the affection of his heart, both for his children and for all whom he was called upon to love. But it is also true that the very affairs of his kingship were mitigated in part by the wisely ordered decentralization of government in the land of Telmérion, which not only eased the burden on the king and provided safeguards to any abuse of power, but also fostered a sense of communal responsibility among both the lower and higher citizens and among all those in roles of authority. The king knew, in this regard, that he stood in a long line of history and tradition to which he was indebted, and of which indeed he was but a custodian and a safeguard, to interpret the truth that came not only from men but from the Creator of men, and to aid all those under his custodianship in living according to this truth in right and in good. And in this he was greatly aided, not only by his friends, companions, and counselors, but also by the faith that had been rekindled—yes, that had been unveiled from beneath the forgetfulness of history—and became again the primary motivating force, the primal light illuminating all things, for the people of Telmérion. Here occurred a true renascence, an authentic rebirth, that did not destroy what had come before, even during the ages of forgetfulness, but rather penetrated into it and healed it, lifting it up into a synthesis that was unattainable by the light of natural wisdom alone but which, in the wisdom from above, created a unity no less human, but rather even more authentically so.
Perhaps the attitude of the people toward the seven divines, henceforth called solely the Anaíon, was most illustrative of this truth, though it manifested itself in countless areas of life both great and small. The belief of the people of Telmérion in the caregivers of the world, the Anaíon, which had endured now for two millennia, was not betrayed nor even lessened by the birth of conviction in the sole true and full deity of the All-Giver, the one Father of the world and Maker of all things. Rather, the real nature of the seven was revealed again in its pristine truth, which had for a long time been cast in an imperfect light, or held in partial shadow, as a consequence of the forgetfulness of the One. They were now recognized as finite spirits of great intelligence and will who had themselves been created, in time immemorial before the foundation of the visible world, by the All-Father, who himself existed from eternity unto eternity, being uncreated and everlasting and the sole source of all being, since all things live in him who is Being itself. The Anaíon thus manifested in this world his own presence and closeness, even as he himself did not neglect to be close to his creatures and his children. They were, as it were, but the light of his loving countenance directed upon the world and most especially upon his beloved children. This the people came to understand, and in this understanding they rejoiced. For now the light of which the Velási had been the custodians for long ages shone forth again for all, and, without coercion or force, faith in the one Father spread like wildfire across the continent. This was made even more firm by the evident truth of the claims of this faith, not only in the realm of reason and will and affection—which received such precious guidance and clarity from this revelation—but also from the manifest gift bestowed upon the newly crowned king in the name of Eldáru, the All-Giver himself, through the mediation of the Anaía Hiliána and in remembrance of the ancient custodian of faith, Séra Galáptes.
A marvelous thing thus occurred that is the trait of all truth, particularly the truth relating to the divine nature and to the unity that he creates among all that exists. Namely, whereas worship of each of the seven Anaíon before had tended toward segregation and selectiveness—with each person or community tending to focus devotion upon that Anaía toward whom they felt especially inclined or in need—now, with the rebirth of faith in the One, true devotion to all of the seven spread and deepened as well, such that every community came, in the worship of the One, to adhere also fittingly to all seven. And this naturally created a piety that was broader and deeper, less fragmented and more whole, than had previously been known, as each of the seven reflected with a particular intensity one or other aspect of the All-Father’s care and love for the world, and yet all were united in harmony and peace within the sole providence that is his. Thus was illustrated the truth that authentic unity is not in competition with diversity, but is in fact its only true safeguard, as in the embrace of truth’s unity alone do all diverse persons and gifts find both their security and the space in which to blossom, mature, and become most fully themselves.
The great-father of the temple of the All-Giver, a dear friend and heart’s companion of the king, was for him, for the years that he yet lived, a rock of strength and a font of understanding and insight. Being beloved of the king and an intimate companion with him in the battle for the soul and life of Telmérion, his presence was also of paramount importance in the years of the nation’s rebirth and rebuilding. Hældáris himself could sense the intimate bond that united his father and his mother to the great-father, and his own love for them, a love which also manifested itself deeply and tenderly toward Hældáris himself and toward Almaréä his sister. He died when Hældáris was in his late teens, and the loss was grievous for all who knew him. The memorials of his beautiful life spread far and wide across the land and thousands traveled to attend his funeral and burial in the main temple in the settlementof Fian’cæhil. After him came a great-father who, in a not unfitting manner, carried on his legacy. This was a legacy of humility, kindness, unbounded care and compassion, and the wisdom that is held and shared with all not in the self-righteousness that looks down upon others, but rather in the transparency that shares freely what one has first received, knowing that truth is not the possession of one but the home of all, the little and the great alike.
Other things also were precious and dear to Hældáris during the early years of his life. Among his favorite pastimes, he enjoyed playing the lyre, an instrument which had been gifted to his father by a traveling bard and passed on to his son. The king did not collect gifts to add to his wealth, and so whatever he received he made use of for the benefit of others, unless they were things that were immediately of use to himself in his own needs or the needs of his custodianship. And in fact he had no wealth, unless care of an ancient citadel was considered as such—a citadel, in fact, which was home not only to a training center and barracks for soldiers, but to kitchens that prepared food daily for the less well-to-do of the nearby town, and to a hospital and infirmary where the sick or injured were kept and treated, not only by trained doctors and surgeons, but also by the king himself, his wife, and his children.
Hældáris felt early on in his life a deep love of music, and an aptitude for it. As he grew his voice became full and sonorous, and yet light, and he loved to sing the ancient songs of his people, both in the original tongue as well as in translation—a translation which he himself often performed, though at times with the help either of the king or of the great-father of the temple. The lyre came more slowly for him, and less intuitively, and he found the delicate use of his fingers to be quite a challenge in comparison with the swordplay and manual labor to which he was accustomed. Nonetheless he found playing the lyre delightful, and soon (this was around his late teenage years) he would descend the mountain slope—now well paved with stone steps—and play for the people of the town.
Fian’cæhil was quite small at first in comparison with other towns in Telmérion, and certainly with the great cities such as Ristfánd and Brûg’hil, and even with Onylándun and Minstead in their own reconstruction after the war and the damage of the Earthrend. But the population swelled from a couple thousand at the time of his birth to close to fifteen thousand by the time thirty years had passed. Yes, there were many children born during this period, but the main reason for such a growth was the immigration and settlement of people from other places in Telmérion, places that had been scarred by the fateful events of the War of Darkness. The proximity of the king and his citadel also brought with it a number of boons.
Once Haeldaris reached his eighteenth year, the king began to bring him along every summer as he visited the various clan-lands of Telmerion. These travels allowed the king to remain acquainted with the local culture and customs of the various clans and settlements, as well as with their struggles, problems, and aspirations. Since travel often took many days, even weeks, only two clans were visited in a given summer, thus allowing each to receive visitation every three years. This was a time of great joy for both father and son, for each had a great love of the wilderness and delighted in the rugged beauty that marked the land of Telmerion, be it highlands and steppe, woods and hills, or snow-capped mountains and the valleys stretching at their feet. But above all they found joy in one another’s company, in simple conversations shared around a campfire in the dwindling light of evening or in the early morning, in jokes and tales, laughter and song, in stories of the past and stories woven of no more than heart and imagination. But in addition to their shared joy, both men also encountered much in their travels to stir reflection upon the role of a king, upon the importance of his custodianship and also upon its limitations; for as good of heart or wise of mind as a ruler may be, little in fact could he change for the better by his own decision or rule alone, and found his truest service in facilitating the freedom and responsibility of others, and their vibrant life.
What stood out to Hældáris the most from these times, even more than his growing acquaintance with both the unity and diversity of the people of his land, with their joys and sorrows, were the glimpses of his father’s personality and experience, formed in him gradually over many days interacting with one another at close quarters. Not only did he witness the king’s simple-heartedness and his constant prayer, but also his cheerfulness and his humor; and he also witnessed his pain and the sorrow that he bore, soberly yet lightly, knowingly and yet with a joyful self-forgetfulness, as if the sufferings and shadows of life were hardly worthy of attention in comparison with the light and love that, even greater, cradled and encompassed it.
This did not mean that the king was insensitive to his own desires and his own happiness, nor ignored those difficulties and struggles that were uniquely his own, though in fact this was a particular tendency of his, an imbalance growing out of his empathetic nature and the seriousness of his disposition. Like all men he struggled and doubted, failed and started anew, and in particular he had to learn—though Hældáris saw only glimpses of this jurney—to find the way that was uniquely his own in a centuries-old office that he had inherited, and whose duties and responsibilities he was asked to fulfill. At times the king had to be reminded (primarily by his wife) to let himself feel, to weep, and to yearn for the good things of life, and not only to live for the welfare of those entrusted to his care. Little by little he learned how to avoid becoming subsumed by his office or absorbed into his service, but to rather hold his heart always in a place of primal belonging, of intimacy—with the One and with all those to whom he was entrusted in this life—within which alone his authentic service and ministry could blossom and bear fruit. But the deepest matters of his heart he did not often share with his children, but reserved them for his wife and for his dearest friends; and Hældáris sensed that he also spoke often of his heart’s deepest affection with his sister, long dead and yet remaining for her brother a presence always near and ever precious.
The king was thus stretched between the loneliness of compassion and care and the togetherness of loving belonging, between what was life-giving for him and the giving of his life for others. Standing as it were between his longing for the fullness of life (glimpsed in this life although awaiting fulfillment beyond the confines of this world) and the needs and sufferings of his people, which he willingly took upon his shoulders and into his heart, the king was a person and a presence both mysterious and enthralling to Hældáris his son. The latter often witnessed, either at home or on these summer adventures, how the king would need to retire to a space of solitude and silence after witnessing or hearing of the sufferings of his people, there to hand over the burdens to One who could truly hold them, and to root himself anew in the life that, in his very holding of others, held him. Otherwise he would have long before broken under the strain of his office and become bitter and resentful, performing the external actions required of him yet without the heart that gave them life and beauty, sweetness and fruitfulness. Only a handful of times over the years did Hældáris witness the king grow impatient, or voice a word of complaint, though more often he failed to hide the depth of his feeling, wearing his heart so visibly upon his countenance and in his words, though by such outbursts or revelations Hældáris was rarely burdened as rather touched—grateful for the glimpses of his father’s heart which he had come to desire and to relish whenever they were given.
A few times Almaréä his sister also joined her father and brother on these travels across Telmérion, though her health was almost too frail for prolonged journeys, and she had many affairs at home with which her heart and her mind, her hands and her spirit, were already occupied. Hældáris was close to his sister from early on and throughout his life, and when Relmaríndë arrived and entered into the orbit of their family, they too became dear friends and spent much time together. Almaréä and Relmaríndë would often disappear, just the two of them, into the woods at the base of the mountains, only to reappear hours later, sometimes passing the entire day from morning till evening, with nothing to say beyond their own pure-hearted smiles and the joy of their hearts. But this was not so surprising, for the woods held a kind of enchantment about them such that anyone was liable to spend hours in their embrace without noticing the passage of time, spellbound by their ancient beauty and the sense of timelessness that endured within them. Indeed, since the reestablishment of the high kingship and the return of peace to the land, the moon moths—the symbélyia—had returned to the woods of Galas Basin and shone for miles all around, their bluish light radiant and pure, whenever the moon’s face was full revealed in the heavens above.
And thus was revived the ancient monthly celebration which had decayed not long after the loss of the line of the Galapteäni kings: nïeranátas, night of the moon. During this festival the streets of Fian’cæhil—and indeed the custom spread to many other settlements near and far—were decked with banners of vibrant colors and stalls offering food and drink and games until late in the night. Stage plays were also held recounting great events of Telméric history or even imaginary stories created by the bards and storytellers who throughout the year traversed the land to sing and perform in inns and taberna large and small. And at the conclusion of these celebrations, when midnight came, the people would gather together and, after a prayer to the seven Anaíon and, above all, to the All-Giver himself—a prayer of thanksgiving and praise and a petition for blessing and care in the coming month—they would walk out in complete silence into the woods to behold the dance of the symbélyia for a full hour or more.
Almaréä came to rely deeply upon Relmaríndë in many things, in many matters of the heart—a fact which Hældáris came to witness but which he did not fully comprehend. For in truth their dispositions were far different from one another and at times he struggled to understand his sister. For while they were both quiet and retiring—Relmaríndë was the one who was outgoing, providing a counterbalance to the two quiet siblings—Hældáris tended to be by nature hopeful and optimistic, while his sister Almaréä tended to be anxious and melancholic by inclination. And she evidently suffered much because of this. She felt more deeply the scars left upon the heart of their mother, and even though their mother never asked or expected it of her, she took it upon herself to carry her burdens as if they were her own. Their mother knew this, of course, and tried to counteract it both with words and with special care directed to her daughter. But as one’s own wounds, fears, or false ideas often blind a person to the truth of things, so Almaréä continued in this sense of responsibility even though it was not hers to bear. And it was not only her mother for whom she felt responsible; she was aggrieved deeply also by the scars and sufferings that still plagued the land, shattered by war and struggling to rebuild itself anew. For her the early death of a newborn child, or the hunger and poverty of a single family, or the accidental injury of a worker falling from a ladder while building a house, weighed on her deeply. They were to her as questions begging for answers. This led her to rely deeply upon Relmaríndë, but it also led her to spend a great deal of time in the temple of the All-Giver or in the private chapel in the citadel of the king.
For many years Hældáris felt estranged from his sister and unable to understand the depth of her feeling. Yet the door to deeper understanding finally opened, though the journey to understanding in large part still remained to be undertaken, whenever he witnessed her tending to a sick mother in the town. And this act of care was certainly not an exception. This woman, Halafæna, a widow, had four children under eight years of age, and yet in only two years after her husband’s untimely passing she was stricken with a severe illness whose nature no medicine yet created could adequately treat. Almaréä knew this, and moved by compassion and grief she spent the larger part of every day for months at the woman’s bedside, also caring as well as she might for her children. Relmaríndë did likewise after a week had passed like this, and Almaréä’s activities were revealed to her. Hældáris, twenty-seven at the time, was engaged in helping the people of the town and its surrounds with the grain harvest, and so at first he did not notice what was happening either with his sister or with Relmaríndë. And he had never made the acquaintance of Halafæna and knew nothing of her family.
But his attention was awakened when he noticed his sister’s expression as he passed by her in a hallway of the citadel one morning. He paused and turned to her, inquiring of her, “You look exhausted and unwell, Almaréä. There are dark patches under your eyes, and your hair is unkempt, and I see in your face an expression of sadness whose cause I do not know. Please, tell me: what is the meaning of this?”
“I have not slept at all this night,” she replied with the simplicity and trust that were so characteristic of her. “I have been tending to a dear woman in town, Halafæna by name. She is grievously ill, even unto death, and she leaves behind her four children with no one to look after them.” Looking into her brother’s eyes, she said without thought, “Would you be able to stay with her tonight, that I might sleep? I would stay with her always, but I am so fatigued that I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“Of course I will do so,” he replied. “Why did you not come to me before?”
“I did not want to bother you, Hældáris. You have your own affairs to tend to, the affairs of men, and I did not think—as I have never thought—that you would wish to concern yourself with what weighs so heavily upon my heart.”
He was not prepared for these words, and they not only surprised him but cut him to the quick. He felt them pierce some place deep within his heart and unlock it. “What is it, my sister, that weighs so heavily upon your heart?”
“You do not know?” she inquired, looking deeply into his eyes with a pained gaze that nonetheless could not conceal a longing and a gratitude deep within them: that of having her brother close to her in this place so precious to her heart.
“Please tell me,” he insisted gently, “for I do not believe that the affairs of men and those of women should be so different as we might at first assume. We are different, surely, and have unique gifts, but are we not all made of the same stuff?”
“Very well,” she replied with a soft and subtle smile, “but it is much better for me to show you than to tell you. Shall you come with me to the house of Halafæna, that you may witness her pain, and that you may look upon her little ones? Only then, I think, shall you understand both the depth of love and of pain that I carry in my heart when I witness such suffering, and may know something of what is nearest and dearest to me.”
“Please, I would wish for nothing else,” Hældáris said, and he allowed her to lead him into the town and to do precisely this. For all of that evening and night he remained in the small house, sitting by the blazing fireplace with the children all about him and the sick woman lying on a bed before him, while his sister slept curled up at his side, so close that he could have lain his hand upon her without even stretching his arm to its full length. And indeed this he did, as his heart began to glimpse for the first time a part of her heart and her life which until this moment had been concealed from him, and indeed to learn of a depth of love, compassion, and care for others that until now he had hardly imagined possible, but which he now began to intuit was the most natural and necessary thing of all, even if it was difficult beyond all telling, needing to drink for its very sustenance from a source deeper and wider than the human heart itself.