Elmáriyë and Eldárien speak with the parents of their mother until late in the night, sharing with them much about their own lives, though their grandparents seem to know a great deal of it already. They also receive tales of their mother in her youth, and their hearts are stirred with wonder and gratitude to see the visage of their progenitor, of the womb of love from which they sprung, arise before the eyes of their minds. It feels indeed as though Hælia comes alive within them, taking up her place of abode within the inner recesses of their being and there becoming a source of consolation, counsel, and strength. This is the greatest gift that they receive from Meldáris and Martínia, though they are also given tokens whose significance lies not in being useful as much as in being meaningful.
To Eldárien is given a tabard with a matching cloak of cloth and fur, the dye used on the cloth of each a dark red like that of the last light of day descending into night or the first light of day breaking night’s darkness. On the tabard’s front, upon his breast, is woven in silver strands the same design that the ancient king wore engraved in his own armor. And this Eldárien dons with humble trepidation and with gratitude. To Elmáriyë is given a lantern of crystal glass encased in intricate bands of dark ebony metalwork, delicate in appearance and yet not in any way fragile—hard, rather, as diamond—and no more than the size of her hand. “We think that it shall serve to channel the light that you bear in a similar way as does the sword of Eldárien, though to illumine and not to smite,” Meldáris says as Elmáriyë holds it in her hands and looks upon it. “The Creator has made us bodily for a reason, and sometimes a simple object can summon forth in the heart things deeply buried, so that even when all seems to be darkness a glimmer of light may yet be found. May it prove both an aid to you in clinging to this light always and also a remembrance of the love from which you have sprung.”
As parting words, Martínia says, “It is a joy and a delight to behold the features of our daughter alive in the faces of her children—even more so because, unlike the great majority of the Velási, she has already passed beyond the barrier of death, and we shall not behold her until we meet again in the mystery that lies beyond the grave, hidden in the promise and the intent of Eldáru.”
“And we find great joy in meeting the parents of our mother, to whom our very life is indebted,” replies Eldárien. “In your faces we are perhaps allowed to see something of our mother, whom neither of us can recall with waking eyes.”
“I believe that you do see her,” Meldáris says, “for she looked much as we do. In fact, among the Velási both the resemblance to one’s progenitors and the uniqueness of one’s own beauty, the irreplaceable nature of one’s features, is heightened. We look, in other words, both more alike to one another and yet also more distinct in our beauty.”
“Then we shall take what we see of her,” says Elmáriyë, “and bear it always in the thought and affection of the heart.”
† † †
In the morning, shortly after dawn’s first light, they take leave of the Velási and depart again into the woods to the east. Their hearts are immeasurably lightened by their time among the Velási, bathed in the radiance that seems still to linger in abundant measure even though the Illûstra has during this age of the world lost the full radiance of its light. And as they walk further and further from the abode of the Velási, their hearts grieve at the departure, even as the mystery and the love and the knowledge given unto them continue to hold them and to carry them.
It feels almost too soon when they come again to the edge of the forest and enter the caverns of passage that shall lead them to the other edge of the Stïeka Mára. Each one of them feels a profound desire to remain, to abide always in the embrace of the light and in the veiled playfulness that throbs at the very heart of all life and love. But they know that they must fight and suffer to protect precisely this reality, even as it remains their goal, their true destination, and their final home. In fact, how else can they fight, how else can they stand strong against the barrage of powers of darkness inconceivably deep and wide, which threaten to engulf their entire civilization, except to stand in the lightness born of trust and in the play of being held? Perhaps this, in fact, is the true test that lies before them, or the foundation on which all else is laid, as a house is built upon rock and a civilization built upon truth, beauty, and goodness. But for the heart that has been wholly ravished by the light, wholly taken by the radiance of being, such lightness is not a goal that is consciously sought or an object impartially scrutinized, but a reality lived in the meekness that is hardly aware of itself, born of primal wonder at all things as on the first dawn of creation.
The unspoken awareness resides among them all that Elmáriyë, uniquely touched as she is, already abides deeply in this place; and her companions find solace and encouragement in her presence, as quiet and unassuming as it is. But toward Eldárien, too, there is kindled a fire in the heart of each, a fire from what had been a spark before, as if placed there long ago and awaiting only the right breeze to ignite it. King. The word remains with each of them, and they cannot dismiss it, as impossible as it seems of realization. What the people of Telmérion need more than anything else is precisely a lighthearted king—in both senses of the term—a king whose heart is bathed wholly in the light and who, from this light, lives in the lightness that sets the spirit free to see, discern, and live in every moment and circumstance according to the wisdom beyond the world and yet concealed and active deep within it.
With these thoughts and many others they pass through the caverns and trace their way around the mountains to the south and west, more or less retracing the path that they had taken to this place. A light flurry of snow meets them as they turn their faces full west at the southern end of the Teldren Mountains, and they pull their cloaks tight around them to shield as best they can from the bitter air. Two weeks in full does it take them before the city emerges into sight, nestled as it is at the foot of the southernmost Teldren Mountains as they yield to the wide plains that descend gradually toward the sea many leagues to the south.
The city of Onylándun appears before them encircled in age-old stone, weathered and worn and stained by time, though the roofs of many houses, some wooden and some thatched, appear younger, as the inner precincts of the city climb upward to the crown of a hill at the base of the mountains, where a great citadel is built, its bastions and battlements dark in the fading evening light. As they pass near to the gates of the city they find them barred: wooden doors closed and reinforced, and the portcullis lowered, its iron bars glistening softly in the light of large lamps that burn nearby. They have hardly a moment to stop and think before a voice addresses them from upon the wall. “Where be you travelers from, and what be your business coming to our city at the brink of night?”
Eldárien raises his eyes, though in the darkness he cannot see his interlocutor, and replies, “We come from the city of Ristfánd, survivors of the battle that was waged there a few months past.”
“Many have come from those parts in the last season,” replies the man, “and the city is swarming with them. But as with the rest, you will find it little shelter and even less comfort.”
“Why is that?” asks Rórlain.
“Oh, you shall see. Though I am surprised that word has not spread far enough yet for you to have heard of what goes on in these parts.”
“What do you…? Never mind, I suppose we shall learn soon enough,” Eldárien sighs. “But perhaps we can be of assistance. We come not seeking shelter but seeking rather to offer our aid.”
“And what aid could you give to us?”
“We have among us two warriors who have weathered battle and wish to protect the innocent and defenseless, and there are also in our retinue two clerics of the temple of Nirániel. Surely they may be of assistance wherever they be, and in all circumstances.”
“Aye, that be likely, and such are needed here. More the second than the first. A blade is worth little in Onylándun these days, but healing and prayer may yet do some good.”
“So we may enter?”
“We have command to shut the gates at dark and to allow none entrance.”
“It is not yet full dark, correct?” Rórlain asks by way of persuasion.
“That is true, I suppose, but near enough to it. And the gates are closed already,” the man responds, as if his answer is definitive.
But at that moment another voice sounds from atop the wall and says, addressing the first, “Come, Féndra, let them in already. Orders are orders, sure, but when we’re standing right at the edge of night, the judgment is ours. I cannot bear to force these good people to remain outside the city walls for another night.”
“Fine, fine, Rícktë,” says the first. “Raise the gates and let them in.” And then, addressing the travelers again, he says, “You had best find a place to stay the night quick as you can. No good will you find elsewise until the morning comes.”
And then Rícktë adds, his voice more distant now as if he has withdrawn a ways in order to raise the gate, “I recommend that you seek lodging at the Whistling Willow. It is not far down the main thoroughfare and should be easy enough to find in the darkness. Just look for the colored lights. You cannot miss the music and the voices, either. Cheapest place you can hope to find, with plenty of rooms.”
“Aye, that’s your best option,” Féndra agrees, “though I hope the clerics among you find it accommodating enough. Not much of a friend of silence, that place.”
“It shall be well enough for one night,” Cirien remarks kindly.
And with this the gate is raised and they pass into the city. Immediately it is closed again behind them, creaking loudly on its bars, and the vast wildness of the night is shut out. Nonetheless, as they step deeper into the city, chuckling at the humorous manner of the two gatekeepers and relieved to be sheltered again in a human settlement, they are surprised by the sense of heaviness, of dread, and of fear that envelops them. It is tangible in the streets of the city, as if a sludge oozing from the cracks in the doors and windows of the houses, or a bad odor lingering from those who had walked about on its cobbled streets during the daytime hours. There is also another odor which surprises them—this time bodily in nature—and it takes them a few moments to identify it: sulfur. The smell of burning lingers about the streets as if the very stones have been singed by fire or the roofs lit like torches only just as quickly to be doused and extinguished. But now that night has fully fallen upon the city, it is impossible for them to make any fruitful efforts to unravel these riddles, and they proceed quickly down what is obviously the main thoroughfare that runs along the center of Onylándun, rising steadily with the slope of the land.
Their destination is indeed unmistakable, as the sound and the color greet them simultaneously at the very moment their faces peer over the crest of a steep rise in the cobbled road. Light dances in a multitude of colors from paned windows of tinted glass, playing upon the tall half-timber houses nearby and across the street. And accompanying the color, as if its inseparable companion—a duo of mirth seeking in some way, however weakly, to dispel the heaviness that lays over the rest of the city—is the sound of music, conversation, and laughter. As they come within a few feet of the entrance to the building, a heavy wooden sign hanging over the doorway gives final confirmation that this is their destination: etched upon the wood is a flute with musical notes proceeding from it, and over it the gaudy letters: The Whistling Willow.
As they pass through the doors and into the taberna, they are greeted by a dense cloud of pungent smoke and the strong smell of hearty food and bodily odor intermingled with it, and the tune of a whistle and a lute that rises and falls above the dull hum of many conversations. Stepping fully into the building, they find themselves in a room lined with tables full of persons engaged in conversation, debate, or games of chance or skill. Few eyes look up as they enter. They are, however, greeted by a barmaid who, with a toothy smile and a broad wave of her hand, says, “Welcome, ye travelers, to the tastiest taberna this side of the Téldrens. Would you like to find ye a table and have some food and drink? And what about a room for the night? Despite all the goings-on, we still have some vacancies. I’d be happy to help you in whatever way ye find works for your wishes, though I got other customers to attend to as well, you know. But feel free to call at any time, and I’ll come as fast as me legs can carry me. You can always talk to Bérthold the Barkeep, too, if yer wanting a faster response, or one of a different sort, though he’s busy dispensing drinks and preparing the food for the feasting, if you know what I mean. Anyways, what can I get ye?”
These words pour out of the woman’s mouth in such a steady stream that it is difficult to discern where one thought ends and the next begins. After the woman’s profusion, the terse and yet kind response of Eldárien sounds almost discourteous. “Thank you for your welcome. We shall be having just a meal and a room, if it pleases you. And may I ask your name?”
“Aye, I can do that for ye, though I’m surprised ye ask for me name, as most folks round here know it already, and known it for years.” She cocks her head to one side and looks at the travelers with a curious expression in her eyes, and for a moment her words are replaced by silence. But then she continues, “But in fact there are many wanderers from the wild wallowing through here on their way to the west. Or they just set up camp right here in our town, though the winged reptiles and the rumors of war are more than enough to set them on their feet once again as soon as they begin to get settled, if you know what I mean.”
“We actually do not,” Rórlain begins, interrupting her. “To what are you referring in the latter?”
“Oh, ye don’t know? Well, I’ll want ye to know that I’m not the best person to ask: just a humble barmaid, I am. Bétta Bjórin is me name. But I really need to tell you: you are welcome here. Make yourselves at home. But I do need to be on me way to attend to the other customers. Have a good night!”
And with this she is off, making her rounds throughout the room, words still streaming from her mouth this way and that as she responds to requests all around or engages in converse with the patrons of the taberna.
The companions walk further into the taberna and approach the bar, where the barkeeper greets them with a great deal more tact and measure, his face beaded with sweat over his grisly beard and his eyes glistening both with exhaustion and with keen perception.
“My apologies for the barrage that Bétta brings. It is usually overwhelming for new customers,” he says. “You are travelers from far away, am I correct?”
“You are correct,” replies Eldárien. “We are looking for a simple meal and a room for the night, private if one is available. And if we could take our meal in our room, that would be appreciated. The road has wearied us. Otherwise, we are not averse to eating in the common room.”
“A private room is indeed available, and a meal in said room shall be no problem at all,” Bérthold says. “Be glad, though, that we have some space for you, particularly of that sort. We are almost full up. And that is an unusual thing, since we own rooms along nearly the entire block from Brûchost to Teldvále.”
“We are glad indeed,” Cirien remarks.
And without further ado they are shown to their room, far down a hallway to the right, and the door is shut behind them. The conversations and music from the taberna are now almost inaudible, no more than a distant murmur, and the silence that envelops them instead is almost tangible. While they wait for their food to arrive, they speak quietly to one another about what they have both felt and heard since entering the city of Onylándun.
“Winged reptile,” Tilliána says with a sigh. “That probably explains the smell. Do you think it is truly attacking the city?”
“It seems the most reasonable explanation,” replies Cirien, “though if it assails them in earnest, then I am surprised that they have withstood it for this long.”
“Perhaps there was only a single attack or they have begun only very recently,” suggests Elmáriyë.
“It is possible.” Cirien rubs his wrinkled forehead with the pads of his fingers, as if trying to ease out some clarity of thought from his tired mind. “Only daylight shall tell, and probably converse with the people of the city.”
“I think we should speak with those in the governance of Onylándun, if that is possible,” Eldárien says. “The clan leader has his seat here, does he not?”
“That is right,” replies Rórlain. “And I imagine he already knows well what happened to his fellow in the seat of Rhóvas. The news of events in Ristfánd has surely traveled here and much farther to the west by now. It should not be difficult for us to learn much with the coming of day.”
“But there are other things I suspect it shall not be so easy to learn,” says Elmáriyë. “For I sense much under the surface of this city that will not be immediately apparent to the eyes, nor freely spoken.”
“I think we all feel it, at least to some degree,” says Tilliána with a nod of her head. “There is fear and dread dripping even from the walls, and filling the air.”
“That is true, but it is something more than just fear and dread that I feel here,” says Elmáriyë. “It is also malice.”
“I feel it too, like a fume that makes it difficult to breathe,” replies Eldárien. “But I know not whence it arises, nor its true nature.”
“Malice?” asks Tilliána thoughtfully, and after a moment’s silence, she adds, “Yes, that is precisely it. I could not name it before. That sense of wrongness…that loss…that oppression as though someone filled with hatred wishes to blot out my very ability to think, to breathe, to live, to blot out the very light of the sun, if they could. Is this what it is like to bear, as you have done?” she asks, looking to Eldárien and Elmáriyë. But before they can answer she responds to her own question, “No, there must be much more. This is something almost at a distance, anonymous, nameless. Or rather, I know not the individuals from whom it arises, nor does it assail me directly or take up abode within my heart. It is just there—or rather here—like an atmosphere, like a stench that will not go away.”
“You are perceptive, Tilliána,” says Eldárien with a gentle smile. “The evil is the same, and to feel it is a mark of great sensitivity on your part.” And then he adds, his smile sobering but remaining genuine nonetheless, “But to bear it is in some way to make it one’s own, to feel it as if it were part of me, as if it were my own malice—or to feel the assaults of the darkness, from whatever source, as if I were the sole object of their malintent, the aim of their destructive tendencies. It is a painful thing that I would wish upon no one.”
“But however much darkness one may be asked to hold,” Elmáriyë says, picking up on the train of Eldárien’s words, “one holds it within a greater light, which holds all things. This alone, in fact, makes the bearing possible and allows it to be a joyful, light, and hopeful thing, however strained at moments such hope may be, and however heavy the lightness.”
“Aye,” says Eldárien, “but we should not speak too much of this. It is something lived truest in silence and trust, with confidence and security placed not in myself but in another. No heart, however mature or however pure, could do this except by a greater gift and as a vessel of a deeper compassion. We can only…how shall I say?…we can only lean into it, and let it be done in us and through us, at the very heart of our poverty and need.”
“I think that I am beginning to understand a little,” Tilliána replies, “and your words help to further clarify things within me. So, thank you.” She lowers her eyes for a moment, in deep thought, and when she looks up again she says, “But I am torn between fear and desire. What we encountered in the Velási forest, or rather who we encountered, has lit a fire deep within me. And this draws my heart onward with longing. But there is still so much fear within me, and hesitation, too. I feel divided, torn right down the middle, as it were. How can I fight for the light when, along with the yearning that I bear in my heart, I also bear so much darkness? And how could I ever hope to benefit my fellows, to suffer and love and act and rejoice for their sake and on their behalf, when I have not even confronted and conquered the evil within me?”
After allowing these words to echo in the silence, and receiving them in the way that silence alone will allow, Eldárien replies, “Your question is just, and your feeling right. This is a question that has pierced my own heart for many months, indeed for many years, born of the anguished awareness of the darkness within me and of the evil that my own hands have inflicted or allowed. And the way before you, I cannot tell you. Only in the depths of your own heart shall you hear the answer, the answer unique to you alone, spoken by the voice that, however many times it speaks and even says the same words, never repeats itself. My words can do nothing but point you toward that deeper voice.”
“But the answer is the same, is it not?” Tilliána asks. “I mean, there is only one truth for all of us, binding us together, as there is only one world born of a single creative intent?”
“That is correct,” says Eldárien, “but the voice of this truth, to truly be your own, to touch your heart in the way that it needs to be touched, cannot come merely through another human voice. In the sanctuary of the heart: this is where the drama plays out in its deepest truth and its inmost mystery. But I will simply say this: the interior conflict within you and the exterior conflict outside of you, the battle between light and darkness within and the battle between light and darkness without, they are one and the same. The victory of the latter depends entirely upon the former, more deeply than words spoken depend upon the thought from which they are conceived, or a child brought forth into this world depends upon the womb in which it grows and from which it is born.”
“But how can I know that I am walking in truth, that I am following the path toward the light and not in fact seeking my own self instead?” Tilliána asks.
“Let me tell you a story of a young man who was filled with all kinds of desires and aspirations,” Cirien begins. “Having grown up in the countryside, working day in and day out on his family’s farm, he came to the city to join the temple of Nirániel. Part of him was restless for more than his current life offered and part of him was impatient with the normalcy in which he felt trapped. But part of him also truly aspired for something that he had glimpsed—the beauty within every beauty and yet beyond it, the goodness for which his heart thirsted, the object of his faith, drawing him even in hiddenness. And being accepted into the temple, he embraced enthusiastically all the rules and regulations set before him, and more: he sought for every little hint or suggestion in the books of the order that could lead him closer to his goal, and he put them into practice with vigorous effectiveness. But not yet knowing the deeper truth of the heart that informs and gives meaning to all rules and to all actions, the logic that they express and which they serve, he nearly destroyed himself in his striving.
“The moment came when he had to surrender control, to let go of his so-called achievements, however hard-earned, and to find in all that he had sought, in all that he had learned, not directives for self-attained perfection, but rather a loving face gazing upon him and inviting him, and arms stretched out to embrace. In seeking the divine, he had sought, sad to say, very much his own self. He came to learn a precious lesson: no man or woman can act in truth unless he acts out of longing for his Beloved, and in pursuit of the Beloved’s face. And sanctity of heart and life, too, is not the result of human striving but the fruit of the hidden activity of the Beloved at work within us unseen and unfelt, molding us every day of our lives in mysterious ways. You see, this young man learned that every act can be an act of love only when it is born of the heart’s longing for the face that gazes out through every thing as an alluring mystery, a gentle presence, a call both elusive and intimate, so near that it is never far from us and yet so deep, so wide, that it cannot fit within our grasp but rather holds us in all our struggle and striving, in all our reflection and our rest.
“It is, I suppose, simply part of the nature of this broken world, of the wounded human heart, that most of us start out from the self and seeking the self, however subtly, and only over a long and painful journey come to seek the Other truly and purely. And then a marvelous thing occurs: in him we find ourselves more deeply and more truly than we ever could have by seeking ourselves. For the Beloved whom we seek, we come to realize, is first of all the Lover, and the Lover first. We can seek, we can long for the vision of his face and the embrace of his love, only because by him we have first been seen and held, and are held at every moment in that glance of the eyes, enduring, that makes us to be the very person whom we are. But the beautiful thing is that, looking back from his old age now, this young man now weathered with many years sees the entire process of the journey, its every moment, as meaningful and beautiful. Even the imperfect beginnings bore seeds of beauty that sprouted later, and the later fruit healed and lifted up the earlier strivings. So to answer your question as best I may: do not trouble yourself too much with fears of seeking your own self. Just fix the eyes of your heart again and again upon the One whom you seek, and for whom you long, and he shall stir up, deepen, and purify this longing in the way that only he can. And if you cannot even look, cannot even long, then only consent to be approached, to be wooed by the kindness and love devoid of all violence and force. From the experience of being loved, all else shall blossom.”
“I think I understand your words, you young man now weathered with many years,” replies Tilliána with a glint in her eye, understanding clearly that Cirien speaks of his own person and experience. “It has not, however, yet come to touch and pervade my heart…at least not as deeply as I wish. But that face of which you speak: I have glimpsed it. And that changes everything. This I believe.” She falls silent and turns to look at Eldárien and Elmáriyë for a long moment, her expression touching and yet inscrutable. Then at last she says, “You are to be memory and hope. This is what was said to you by Sílion. And yet I too feel drawn to remember and to hope. For I also know what it is to forget, and to lose hope, and to see what is not true in the murkiness of one’s fears and one’s pain; and I too want to stand in a place of remembrance, just as I want to witness before others to the memory that so many have forgotten, but in which alone we find life and joy undimmed and undying. Sílion’s words truly touched something deep within my heart. I became aware, gradually, as if a sun was rising within me shedding its rays over what had so long lain in darkness, of the true nature of the Ineffable One.” She falters for a loss for words, clasping her hands together and lowering her eyes for a long moment. When she looks up again, she continues, “But it is not like ordinary knowledge. For it is easier to know what he is not than what he is. He is not what so many imagine him to be, in the shadows and clouds of their projections, whether these be good or ill, from parents who loved us either well or poorly, or from ideas that we have conceived to help us cope with life, to try and find our way amidst its questions and its tasks, its trials and its joys. At best these give a small and frail glimpse of him, of some aspect of him, but he is so much more.
“He is not one being among many, a mere limited individual like any other person whom I know. Rather, he is person in an infinitely fuller and richer sense, and thus love, goodness, benevolence, kindness, and tender presence that is ever upon me, ever enfolding me, indeed deep within me, even more interior than I am to myself. Thus to speak to him is not to address him merely as one addresses another person in this world. He is more than that, not less of a person but more so. I cannot be apart from him, for he simply is, and all that is, though not him, exists only in him and by his gift. And the personal presence, the personal being that he is—utterly ineffable, boundless in a fullness beyond all that we can conceive—is turned upon me, an attention that is full of love and overflowing with tender kindness.
“Thus I need not seek him in one particular place, wherever I imagine that may be; for he comes to me in every place and speaks through every thing and every moment. It is all in him, and he is revealed through all of it, and yet he is more than all of it. He is the joy in my heart at the beauty that I encounter, and he is the beauty itself in supreme measure; he is the one whom I address when my heart cries out in gratitude or in pain, in longing or in hope, but he is also the one who beyond my addressing nonetheless hears every ripple or echo of the heart; he is, yes, he is the one who addresses me ceaselessly before I can even begin to formulate a response. To pray is thus not to talk to some imagining in my head or my heart; it is simply to be in him who always is, who upholds me ceaselessly and whose very gift, continually flowing forth like a torrent unquenched, makes me to be who I am, and carries me back in response, even unto consummation, just as it does everything that there is, was, or shall ever be.”
After these words no one speaks for a long time, and the intermingled silence and sound holds them as if a tangible presence: the silence of the room in which they together sit, filled with no sound but their own breathing and the soft crackling of a fire in the hearth, and the noise of voices, clattering dishes, and muffled music at the other end of the hall. They meld together, distinct and yet united, each important in its own right and in its own place: as if all sound springs from a deeper silence in which it is held, and which, however imperfectly, it expresses, even as it stirs up in the heart the longing to return to this original silence—a silence not devoid of meaning or music but rather full of it in abundance—and in this to find rest and fulfillment.
† † †
During this time food is brought in to them and, famished as they are by their journey, they gratefully welcome the nourishment. Little do they converse while their meal is still before them, not so much because they are occupied with eating as because the fatigue of their travels and of the burdens and anxieties that they carry at last catches up with them. It is as though they had outrun it while they proceeded westward around the mountains and nearly left it outside the city gates; but somehow it found its way in and, in their idleness, sneaked in and sat down beside them. By the time their plates are empty and the server comes in to clear the table, Tilliána is already nodding off to sleep where she sits, and Rórlain too props his weary head against his hand while resting his elbow on the table. Elmáriyë and Eldárien, while clearly fatigued and worn, marvel anew at the sleeplessness that seems to be their continual companion. But at least now its source is revealed: to need little sleep is in their blood, inherited from their mother, Hælia, and from the ten years of profound repose that lies at the origin of the life of each one of them, ten years in which they were held in most complete security and seclusion in the warmth of her womb and her love. They are consoled by the thought that she lingers with them still, even in death, in something as concrete as the way in which they experience fatigue and rest, just as it shall be—they realize now, though Sílion spoke little of it while they were in the velstadeä—in their experience of life and aging. In other words, since they bear within them the blood of the Velási, they can fully expect to live for a longer span of years than the sixty, seventy, or eighty (or even more) allotted to those who have not received such a gift.
But as with all gifts it is a responsibility also, and they wish to live it—to live every passing day of their lives—as a gift that has been given to them to be given back to the Giver and given also to all of the hurting people whose anguish and aspiration are inscribed upon their hearts. Thus gratitude and responsibility, wonder and responsiveness—indeed the lightness of playfulness and the heaviness of compassion—intersect within their hearts. To live is a gift, to live at all, even for a single day, an unmerited and yet marvelous gift. And yet to die, too, is a gift, a mysterious blessing even if often resisted, much abhorred, and causing fear in all of the fallen children of men. Which, after all, is to be more deeply desired, and which more deeply feared: life or death? To Eldárien and Elmáriyë they both seem fraught with wonders and with dangers, with beauty and with pain, with loss and with finding. To live without death would be to abide always in the antechamber and to never pass beyond the door in order to find the great mysteries that lie beyond, mysteries frightful in their unknowing and yet also, through the glimpses that they have been granted, wondrous and desirable. But to die without life is an impossibility, for death is but an extension of life, even as it seems to be its mysterious termination. As the time of the child’s gestation in the womb comes to a close in great mystery, and its passage through the birth canal, though it seems the end of all security, in fact leads only into a more expansive and rich life, so too is the terror and the hope of death and what lies beyond.
And is not every sleep a little death and every waking a little rising to life? With these thoughts in their minds, Eldárien and Elmáriyë look at one another and, for a moment, clasp hands under the table. Has their communion of heart truly progressed already to such a degree of intimacy and intensity that they feel one another’s thoughts even as they have them, or is this a rare and unusual circumstance, a moment of special intuition? They are stirred from all of these thoughts and feelings by the sound of Rórlain’s chair scraping the floor as it is pushed back from the table.
“I say that it is time for retiring, at least in my regard,” he sighs. And then, reaching out his hand and placing it for a moment on Tilliána’s shoulder, he says tenderly, “And I think for you as well.”
She rises to her feet and both of them retire to the back part of the room, where there are five beds—though little need do they now have of beds after so many weeks sleeping on the ground in the wilderness. The comfort of a soft bed, be it only of straw, feels like a luxury now, though they accept it gratefully.
Cirien, for his part, is lost in thought, gazing into the fire, its orange light glistening in his eyes and playing upon his face. After a long moment he rouses himself and turns to look at Eldárien and Elmáriyë. “So what think you about our plans for the morrow?” he says.
“I have truly gone no farther in thought than I already indicated,” replies Eldárien. “I think we ought to address ourselves to those in government over the city. But I know little else than that.”
“There is a temple to Nirániel in the higher portion of the city, near to the great citadel,” Cirien says. “I have been there a few times. I wish to visit this place tomorrow, whether alone or with others, not only because I am the grandmaster of the order but also in order to gauge the situation of the city through the words of those whom I can trust.”
“That sounds like a wise and prudent idea,” affirms Eldárien.
“I would like to accompany you,” Elmáriyë adds, “though you could probably guess as much.”