“I have been bereaved of my parents twice over,” Eldárien says when the account has concluded, “and yet I have also found a kin whom I did not know, and a home deeper than memory, untouched by evil or by harm.”
“That is indeed true,” Seriyéna says, her countenance touched with tender compassion as she beholds the response of these two exiled children to the words of her husband and herself. “And we understand that your hearts must walk a journey in order to understand and accept the truth that has been revealed to you.”
“A journey of the heart lies before all five of us and before each one of us uniquely,” Cirien says, looking at his companions. His gaze falls intently not only Eldárien and Elmáriyë but also Rórlain and Tilliána, who have been silently present throughout this conversation. “But none of us shall walk alone, for we shall accompany one another through everything. I think in this I can speak for all of us. And we shall most especially walk at the side of these two children of the Velási, come what may.”
“We appreciate your presence and companionship,” Elmáriyë says quietly. “We cherish it. And all the more precious shall it be as we walk into the unknown, into great mystery, some of it bathed in immeasurable light and radiant beauty, and some of it replete with anguishing darkness and evil.”
“May the light sustain us even through the darkness, and may we pass through even the darkest of darknesses unto light deeper still,” Tilliána says, and the others turn their gazes to look at her. Until this moment she has been mostly silent, but to their surprise and also their gratitude she appears visibly moved by all that has been recounted to her friends, almost as if it was said unto her.
“I do wish to ask another question,” Elmáriyë says, turning back to the Velási after a long moment of silence in which the five companions speak to one another without words. “I wish to ask what the implications are of this truth. You speak of a journey, but it seems to me that, even if it calls for a great deal of…how can I say, adjustment…the words you speak to us offer a destination and not a journey.”
“They offer a destination insofar as truth is the home of every restless heart,” Sílion replies, “and the Love that has made all things the only true and enduring security and rest. It is also for you, I trust, a destination in the sense that now you know the people of your origin, your kin, as Eldárien has said. But it means something else besides, to which we have not yet adequately given voice.”
“What might that be?”
“I explained that the gift you bear, this gift of compassion beyond the normal confines of human feeling—though it is in reality accessible in some measure to all men who love in truth—comes from the mystery of your birth. The same can be said of the gift of channeling the light of the One which Hiliána has entrusted to you. But let me speak more precisely now: the gift of compassion comes through your mother, but the gift of channeling the light comes through your father.”
“Through Æyden?” Eldárien asks, not understanding. “How is that so?”
“Before the destruction of Fálstead, there were three surviving families in whom the blood of the ancient king Séra Galáptes still flowed in some measure,” Sílion explains. “One was the Illómiel family, who adopted and cared for you as their own son; the name Illómiel is a distant memory written in language of the light that the king once bore in his days of glory. The other family was named the Maldrenás, all of whom were slain by the brigands who laid waste to the village. The final family was that of Æyden Galteä, the most direct descendant of the ancient line of kings, and the most rightful heir to the throne of the Galapteäni, or to speak more precisely, of the whole of Telmérion.”
“Æyden was a descendant of Séra Galáptes?” Eldárien asks. “How do you know this?”
“We have attentively followed the line for many generations,” Eléndras says, breaking his long-held silence now that they have returned to matters of which he can again more directly speak. “It has been my special duty and pleasure to do this. And thus it was a great sorrow to me to witness the destruction of this line…save, that is, for yourselves.”
“Eléndras speaks truly,” Sílion affirms. “But now you also see why the two of you, Eldárien and Elmáriyë, were under the particular attention of our gaze and our care, even though there was very little we could do for you than to trust you to the providence that guides all things. And now we see that, even through much anguish and sorrow, we were not disappointed. For you are not only the sole surviving heirs of the high king of Telmérion but also the sole conjoining of mortal father and Velási mother. It is in the confluence of these two gifts that lies your path and the service that you can offer to the hurting people of our age.”
“If our lives were so unique and irreplaceable,” Elmáriyë asks, “why did you not take us into your custody and raise us to adulthood here, in the velstadeä?”
“A just question,” Sílion says, “though of course every life is unique and irreplaceable in equal measure, in that boundless value that lies deeper than every gift or task, every role or relation, in the relation of love that gives life, meaning, and security to all of us. But the answer to your question is simple: we were not allowed to do so. It became apparent to us that the risk we were being asked to make was to allow you to grow up, each uniquely, in the midst of the anguish and trials of our age. This, in fact, has been more difficult for us than anything else that we have been asked to do in the many centuries that we have followed the line of rule since it was first sundered. But our gladness is all the greater now, having made that act of faith and of trust, to see the two of you rejoined and sitting now before us, the more mature, indeed the more beautiful and compassionate, for the path that you have walked.”
Eldárien nods and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he says quietly, “I am surprised at the response that comes to me now, a response that I never thought I would give. But I can say truthfully that I am glad that it has been this way. Despite the anguish of my journey and the profound and repeated loss, and even the mistakes and infidelities that I have perpetrated, I would have it no other way. I see now, inscribed into the lines of my own life, the reality which you call providence. I see the hand of Love, and this, despite my enduring frailty and fear, gives me the courage to walk forward into whatever may await us in the future.”
Elmáriyë, placing her hand momentarily on her brother’s hand, says simply, “I agree with everything that he has said, and I feel likewise.”
Sílion laughs heartily to this, a laugh of deep mirth and lightheartedness saturated in gratitude, and he replies, “You truly are marvelous, both of you. I know no better way to say it. You bring such consolation to my heart that has weathered centuries upon centuries of strife and pain in the path of suffering that our people have walked since the beginning of time.”
Bowing his head humbly, Eldárien says, “But we still do not know what this means for our path, nor is every question answered.”
“Nor do I expect it to be,” Sílion replies.
“Why ought the ancient kingship be reestablished?” Eldárien asks. “That is my first question.”
Nodding in understanding, Sílion answers, “For the same reasons that the people still ardently await the coming of the one called the Scarred King.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they know that only one anointed by the light can bring together in harmony their people torn asunder by sin and strife.”
“What do you mean?”
“The grace of kingship encompasses you, Eldárien. This none of us doubt, for we all witness it,” Sílion says, while the other companions nod silently in agreement. “Were you to seek the kingship for yourself, something would be profoundly amiss. The choice could never rightly be your own alone. Rather, for such a ministry you must be chosen, and the people have long awaited such a choice, and hoped for it, even if of such a longing you have been largely unaware.”
“The longing was there,” Eldárien says quietly, touched by the gazes that are directed toward him, and yet feeling very small, very inadequate, before the contours of what is beginning to emerge before him. “It was small, hardly more than a spark still alive under ashes. Yet we did yearn, as a village and as a people we did yearn, for the return of the kingship and the reunification of our scattered peoples.”
“And you will find that west of the mountains the longing is stronger tenfold, even a hundredfold. Of this, through what we Velási have seen, we are certain,” Eléndras says. “Indeed, many hold the wish that the man named Wýgrec Stûnclad may prove to be a ruler to unify the people. This is a large portion of the fuel that drives the conflagration that is the civil war—an aspiration that is true, if misdirected both in its choice and in its methods.”
“But I do not wish to be king,” Eldárien says simply.
“Nay, not for yourself would you wish for this,” Sílion replies, a mysterious fire kindled again in his eyes as he looks upon Eldárien. “But you also know that your love for your people would drive you to it, and in this you would find both peace and joy. And when I spoke of the grace of kingship, your heart resonated within you: for you know that you have been called and chosen.”
Eldárien opens his mouth to respond but, finding no words, he closes it again. He knows that Sílion speaks the truth.
“There is one final aspect of this that we must mention,” Sílion continues. “I have spoken of the blood of the ancient king, and I have spoken of the dual gift that comes from the mingling of this blood with the blood of the Velási through Hælia, your mother. This part of your heritage, too, is of great importance. But in order to understand this, it is necessary to recall the gift of the Velási: our task is that of remembrance and that of expectation. So too, you are to be the people’s living memory, when all are tempted to forget. For we know that the days of the Velási, though long-lived far beyond the span of mortal man, are limited, and they shall draw to a close. We live as enduring memory and as vigilant expectation: as memory of the revelation of love that has given rise to our belief and our conviction, our life and our worship, and as expectation for the future revelation that shall bring all partial knowledge and imperfect relationship to fulfillment, even as it carries history forward through its final stage to its definitive consummation. But in the intervening time, when we have passed away and the final consummation has not come, many shall forget, and they shall be glad to forget. But then their children and their children’s children, no longer knowing the revelation of our origin and our foundation, shall fancy for themselves what they shall believe, reaching out blindly for the One whom they once knew but have forgotten, and yet whose face every man cannot cease to seek with his whole being.
“Indeed it shall be a temptation for humanity throughout history: for a man to believe what he wishes to be so rather than what has been revealed unto him. Many men shall still turn away, choosing to worship the objects of their own making, or even their own liberty and self-made freedom, rather than the Author of all things and the gift that comes from him alone. They may even worship the powers of darkness, falling to their seductions in the lust and blindness of their hearts. And yet before all of this, can you not cast your gaze upon your people, upon the aching land of Telmérion, and wish that the light of the All-Giver would shine full and undimmed upon them, bring the light of truth and the gladness of love?” He fixes his gaze anew upon Eldárien and Elmáriyë, and his eyes are alight. “Such is the gift entrusted to you both in atonement and in kingship, in confronting the powers of darkness and in the luminous custodianship of love. For you, in whose veins flows the blood both of Velási and of mortal kind, shall be the living memory of the children of Eldáru. Be then the living continuation of our hope and our expectation. Give enduring voice to our longing, our remembrance, and our future.”
“But even be I the sole heir of Séra Galáptes and a child of the Velási,” Eldárien protests, “how shall men accept me as their king?”
“The unity that Eldáru wills is universal,” Sílion replies, “but your part in that is smaller and but for a time, an intervening step in a long journey. Yet that part shall be important enough in its own right, and indeed it is irreplaceable. All I can say to you is this: do not doubt the longing in the hearts of your fellows nor their memory of the times that have been lost. Many still remember the Scarred King and look forward to him as a future hope, even as they recall him as a past hero. I say it firmly: let the blood be revealed and the rightful ruler be crowned.”
“What then are we to do?” Elmáriyë asks. “What path are we to walk?”
“What path indeed?” Sílion sighs. “It is not an easy path, nor does it have safety in human measure. What I see now is that your company is to travel to the city of Onylándun. There you shall find the next steps that you are to take.” An inscrutable expression passes over his face and he adds, “There is one more thing to say. You have received the authority to exorcise the powers of darkness, and the light given to you has saved you and your companions in the face of certain death. And yet this light was not given to you for war but for redemption.”
“This much my heart tells me,” Eldárien replies. “And yet what precisely do you mean? What is this redemption of which you speak?”
“I mean that the light does not operate by using power against power, might against might. Or rather, it does not save in this way. It may repel the darkness by its purging might, but its truest and deepest work goes far deeper.”
“You speak of what we call bearing?” Elmáriyë asks. “That is the most intimate work of the light, healing the inmost recesses deeper than any touch.”
“Yes. Liberation from the assaults of darkness alone does not make a man, or a people, free,” Sílion explains. “For example, say that your friend has been taken captive by bandits, and, after many months of anguish and torture, you finally manage to rescue her. You slay the bandits and destroy their camp so that they can be a threat to no one any longer. Is your friend therefore free?”
“My immediate response would be ‘yes’,” Eldárien says, “but…no. Not only are there other bandits elsewhere who can threaten the world, but the heart of my friend, through the anguish that they have endured, has changed.”
“That is correct.”
“In both of these matters, resistance alone is not enough,” Eldárien says, giving voice to his inner thoughts in speech. “There must also be a cure that goes to the root. It must heal that ill which stirs men to banditry, but it must also heal the wounds that have been inflicted by their evil in human heart and life.”
“That is exactly right. Most important is that you speak of a ‘cure.’ Reflect upon this, and your heart will come to understand, as much as it is able: what is needed is not merely to push back against the darkness, to overcome it, but to find a cure for it, to heal it.”
“My heart already knows and tells me so, though the contours of this awareness are obscure,” Eldárien says, turning to look at Elmáriyë and then adding, “We both feel it.”
“That is true,” she says. “It is an awareness that has accompanied us mysteriously through every day of our lives and has only grown with the passing of the years. It is the conviction that though darkness can be resisted with power, with might, it can only be healed by suffering love that through such suffering brings atonement.”
† † †
Eldárien and Elmáriyë walk together under the canopy of trees in the fading evening light, the words of the previous conversation filling their minds—or rather, the events unveiled by those words, events that lie at the origin of their own existence and also bind them together as brother and sister. They think of their parents and of the love that united them, and they sense, even at a distance of so many years and with no memory of their faces or their form, the depth and sacredness of what lived within each, and even more so the sacredness of the love that knitted their hearts and lives together, and that bore fruit in their children.
“Our lives were born from profound love,” Elmáriyë says, “but also from deep suffering and immense loss.”
“That is something I have known for a long time, though not in this way,” Eldárien replies. “Suffering and loss have been the cradle of my life since the day I left the ruins of Fálstead behind. But what I did not expect was also to find such light and such beauty, in the womb from which I was born and the begetting from which I was conceived. But knowing this, I grieve the more; I grieve at the loss of our parents. I grieve that I remember not my mother and was never able to say unto my father, ‘Ta,’ the true address that I felt in my heart.”
“They gave everything, and indeed sacrificed everything, that we might live,” Elmáriyë whispers. “And now we are asked to do similarly, that our people might have life in the face of death.” She inclines her head and looks tenderly at her brother. “I keep turning over in my mind and heart what our mother must have suffered in that terrible imprisonment that she endured, and to what lengths she went to protect me and eventually to deliver me from that place that I might have a chance at life.”
“It lingers in my heart too,” says Eldárien, and he takes Elmáriyë’s hand in his own as they walk together through the trees. “I think of those ten years at the beginning, held in her womb, and of what she communicated to us during that time. And yet I was borne within her during the time of joy, when she and our father lived together in peace and serenity, and you were borne within her during the time of pain, when she was alone in the crucible of anguish and loss and captivity.”
“But your joy turned to anguish,” Elmáriyë replies. “You lost all that you loved and endured a pain perhaps not unlike hers, whereas I was taken from that place of pain and welcomed into a life of peace and joy, into a family that lives unto this day. So I think that our paths have been not unlike, in joy and pain both, and most especially in the same love to which we owe everything that we are.”
“Elmáriyë,” begins Eldárien, turning to face her and looking into her eyes, “the way that Sílion spoke of love…it is unlike anything I have ever known and yet, in a way, it is something that I have always known. The love of which he speaks is not a mere trait of being, or even an act or disposition of human hearts toward one another. No, the love of which he speaks is real and alive, active and intelligent, present and personal. It is present in all things and yet surpasses them all, their origin and the goal toward which they tend.”
“You feel that you have always known him?” Elmáriyë asks. “I have.”
“I think that we all know him, even if we are not yet consciously aware of it or do not acknowledge it to ourselves, for he is our deepest memory underlying every other memory. The awareness of him cradles every awareness, like the air or the light in which all is seen, like the atmosphere in which alone anything else is visible, and beautiful, and good.”
“The Imageless who is revealed in a thousand images and yet surpasses them all, who transcends every hope and imagining and yet is more intimately close, as the fulfillment of every slightest wish or desire, than we could ever have expected him to be,” says Elmáriyë. “Yes, he fulfills every sigh and every prayer, their true object, and gives rest even as he enkindles in the heart the longing for the great journey that has started from him and in him alone finds its destination and its consummation.” Then she takes a step toward Eldárien and lays her head against his breast, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Let us speak no more for now,” she says quietly. “I want to allow the silence to enfold us: the silence of this place, the silence of this world, which is filled with echoes of the original music vibrating through us still, as it flows on unhindered through every discord and strife toward the harmony that awaits us all.”
Eldárien responds simply by drawing her fully into his embrace and holding her close.
† † †
The days pass almost timelessly while the company remains in the velstadeä, each moment lingering as if a minute is an hour and an hour a day, and yet with no fatigue, surfeit, or impatience. A sunrise which in the surrounding world would burst forth with beauty and color for a few moments, enrapturing the heart and yet quickly passing on into other hues with the ascent of the sun into the sky, here in the velstadeä abides for a time that seems almost to endure as long as the contemplating heart itself remains present to it. And the capacity for such contemplation itself is prolonged; an attention which is usually distracted or wearied here feels carried by some mysterious presence and continues to breathe forth, continues to spread abroad its fragrance throughout the heart, far beyond its ordinary limits and beyond the frailty that marks it in this broken world. So it is with the unique beauty of each moment of the day, be it morning, midday, afternoon, or evening, or even the depths of night.
During this time, the companions notice that the fatigue and sorrow that they have borne from their travels and their loss are eased, and they find in its stead rest of both spirit and heart. Each person is also often drawn, by a longing beyond their understanding, to a grove that lies in the midst of the village, circled about with trees more ancient than they have ever seen and untouched by any of the artifice of man, be it however beautiful. In the center of this grove lies the eldest tree of all, and embedded in its trunk the crystal that, though now bereft of its original light, nonetheless serves as both memory and hope and as the sign of the vigil that the Velási keep unto this very day.
Sílion makes a point of speaking also, one to one, with each of Eldárien’s and Elmáriyë’s companions. For though the confluence of blood and destiny of which they have spoken may not be theirs in the most specific sense, nonetheless they share in the same journey and in the same goal, and in the kinship, struggle, and sacrifice that this entails. Sitting on a bench at the edge of the village, the autumnal air warm and the woods glowing with their perennial light, Rórlain and Sílion speak together, and the questions that the former carries within himself are able at last to find full voice. Among the many things of which they speak, Rórlain questions Sílion about the reality that he came to understand in the darkness of the black castle—which he learns has been called for ages the Carotách, and its bowels the aïnónnun—and Sílion does not seem at all surprised by his question.
“The squire of the knight,” Rórlain says, “that is what was said and given unto me. The words are mysterious and yet full of meaning.”
“As they ought to be,” Sílion replies. “They express a profound and beautiful reality, one which I suspect your heart already knows more deeply and intimately than your mind alone.”
“That is true. Long have I felt that my life was meant to be caught up in some greater cause and placed at the service of a mystery that is not my own, and yet in which I participate.”
“That is the case for all of us, my friend. No man, no woman, was fashioned in order to serve himself alone, to seek only his own interests and affairs, wishes and desires. He truly comes home to himself, therefore, when he goes out of himself to another. But that is not just any other, mind you, but the Other in whom his own self adheres and from whom it is ceaselessly born in an act of ineffable kindness and tender generosity. How, in fact, could you extend yourself outward in love in such a way unless the Origin of your being has first extended himself outward to give life and being to the universe and to you within it? All that you are and all that you do is but a response to this prior gift, to this prescient act of love. Or rather, what you are is the love he has for you: you are seikáni, beloved and cherished. This is your being, your life, your identity…as it is uniquely and unrepeatably for each one of us. For like the light of day, the love of Eldáru shines upon all equally and yet upon each as if for him alone. But unlike the sun, it never dims or sets, and it penetrates into the heart of even the darkest nights.”
“I slowly begin to understand that of which you speak,” Rórlain says in hardly more than a whisper, “but there is much in me—much indeed—that resists it. For so long, and in so many ways, I have sought to give meaning to my life by my own efforts, by this or that thing to which my heart has clung. And ever since I was released into the very heart of the light like an arrow from a bow, I struggle to keep up with myself. And the only way to proceed, the only way not to get bogged down by questions, fears, or the desire to control, is to simply surrender myself, and to live henceforth with open and empty hands that, while receiving everything, cling to nothing.”
“Your speaking thus shows that you have begun to learn the first lesson of being a child,” Sílion affirms with a smile, “a child of the All-Father who cares for every moment, however small, in the lives of his children. And this consoles me greatly. For if you saw the light that has touched you only as a task or a burden you must carry, however fitting and however desired, you would be doomed to fail. For the first lesson of life is the realization that every act of giving springs from a prior receiving, and every movement of love is but a response to love received.”
Rórlain nods in silence to this and then says, “And the receiving itself is the greatest gift, and sustains every other gift. Is this the origin of the wonder, the play, and the light-heartedness that so deeply and mysteriously pervades this village and the men and women who live herein?”
“Yes, it is the knowledge that one is loved and held, seen and cared for, and that one’s life, one’s every thought, desire, and act, springs forth from and within this all-enfolding love at every moment, and shall return to it again at the end. And so it is for the whole universe,” Sílion replies, his smile spreading across his entire face and causing it almost to glow with warm light. “That is it in short, though an eternity of life shall not be enough to catch up with the depth and breadth of its beauty.”
Both men lapse for a while into silence, and the stillness of their tongues lends to the singing of birds in the woods around them, and the soft harmonies of the wind blowing in the boughs of the trees, and the chorus of their own breathing mingling with the breath of the air all around them. At last Sílion speaks, “I am a song sung forth in love by the great Lover, and my whole life is a song sung back to him, or rather, sung by him in me. Thus to turn my whole being toward him, to gaze with the eyes of the heart upon his face, is to find myself in truth. It is to be what I have always been, and to find fulfillment in unsealing the song within me, that it may echo forth and join with the song that is his beyond all other songs, and yet within them, and which shall be the song of eternity in which every song lives, and is fulfilled, in the one great Music.”
Rórlain nods and then replies, “And yet the song we sing now passes through pain and strife, anguish and loss, war and death. I wish it were not so.”
“As do we all,” agrees Sílion. “The discord of Igrándsil, and of all the infidelity that has followed upon that first act of rebellion, mars the beauty of the music unto this very day. And yet here in our sanctuary, and indeed in the stillness of our hearts, we come to understand something that the Anaíon have always known. However seriously and gravely they understand evil and mourn for it, they know that the very discordant noises sown into the fabric of the universe, even these, are being incorporated into the one Song. They are already being made into something new, not as a mar upon its beauty, but as a proof of the Song’s glory and its victory, a theme that yet enhances the melody that carries it unto endless consummation without the least shadow of darkness or discord.” Then Sílion turns to look deeply into Rórlain’s eyes, and, with genuine sorrow upon his face, he says, “But sometimes a glimpse must be enough, and then enduring trust. In the darkness, at times the cacophony of voices, being so loud, so raucous, seems to be all that there is. And we must endure what may come with trust in the greater light, the wider harmony, which sustains the heart even when it falters.”
“I do fear,” Rórlain says. “I fear faltering in the face of what awaits us. And I…I fear the suffering and the death of those whom I have come to love, and for whom my heart bears great affection. I care for them, for each one of them, and I wish not to lose them nor to witness their destruction.”
“And grief and fear indeed await you on your journey,” Sílion answers, “no matter how much I wish I could spare you of it. I cannot offer you any assurances of the future, for I myself do not know all that it shall hold. In this as in all other respects, I am as poor as you—as empty of hand and of heart, only to receive and to give without clinging. But I know that, whatever the future may hold, he shall be there. Never shall we be bereft of the presence of the One who made us, who holds us unceasingly in his love, and who shall carry us forward unto the destination that awaits us.”
“And in that I must find my security,” says Rórlain. “I understand. It is not in assurances of the future, or even of the present, that I may find security, but in that which, while beyond time, holds all of time. Yes, I glimpsed that, felt that, in Hiliána’s touch in the darkness. And ever since then my heart has not been the same. It is impossible for me to forget that touch and that presence. I shall ever yearn to be in contact with it again. I only hope that this longing, and the impress of that touch, however intangible, shall carry me through everything that awaits.”
† † †
Only a week passes before they are summoned again to the council chambers, though it feels much longer in the timelessness that holds them. Here they are greeted by the full council of the elementári, the elders of the Velási, who sit in the semi-circle of chairs as in audience. The five companions stand before them, and the room is filled with an aura both heavy and light. Sílion speaks and says unto them, “You leave upon the morrow. Therefore, before our parting gifts and our final farewell, I wish to ask: do any questions remain on your hearts to which you now wish to give voice, in the presence of the council, before you depart?”
Elmáriyë replies, “There is indeed one question which preoccupies me.”
“What is it, child?”
“You have said to us that the time of the Velási is limited, that you shall not always be here as the memory and the hope of the people. And yet in the Arechaíon that you gave us to read, it says that lasting life was promised to you, to ‘live for ages in expectation of the Giver’s visitation, the fulfillment of his promise—and only at this time to find your life come to peaceful and joyous conclusion.’ How are we to reconcile these two statements? Does that mean that such a visitation is near?”
“I understand your confusion. There are many visitations, some more evident and some more concealed, but the visitation of which you speak is many centuries hence. We know not the time, but we know that much still humanity needs to be taught, and much must happen, until the soil is prepared for the seed, and until the heart of man is prepared to accept.”
“Then shall you not remain here until that time?”
“We know not the fullness of the One’s future intentions concerning us, but we are confident in his promise. He has promised his presence with us, and our endurance in vigil until the definitive revelation, but little more than that can we cling to for security, nor is it necessary to do so. What awaits us in the centuries between then and now, we know not. But whatever it may be, we trust that it is held always by the One who has promised to keep guard over us in the shelter of his presence.”
“You stand within a great mystery,” Elmáriyë remarks simply.
“That is true for all of us,” says Sílion. And then he asks again, “Are there any other questions?”
A long moment of silence follows and Sílion is about to speak again when Tilliána says, “We have found here both questions and answers in abundance, like the start of a great journey—the greatest journey of all. But it feels unfitting to give voice to these questions now, as the path they mark out is not one that grasps for immediate clarity but rather opens yet more deeply into mystery, into trust, and only thus into knowledge both intimate and true.”
“Does Tilliána speak for all?” Sílion asks, looking kindly upon the travelers. They all nod or gesture in agreement, and so he says, “Very well then. I am consoled, for she speaks with wisdom and understanding. We shall therefore proceed.” With this he turns to another of the elementári, a man whom they have not yet met.
This man steps forward and addresses the five companions, “You have already spoken of your next destination. This Sílion has explained to us. You go to Onylándun, and there you shall find war and bloodshed. There, too, you shall have conflict with the beasts fashioned by evil craft from the bowels of the earth. And so we offer you, we seven elementári, the blessing that we bear from ancient days, that it may go with you and give you strength.”
And the Velási who sit before them then stand and, raising their hands in blessing, sing a song in rich harmonies that fills the room—indeed as it were fills the entire village—with its music. It permeates not only the ears but the whole body, saturating it with its melodies and its chords, as voices rise and fall and interweave, playfully dancing about one another and melding together into unity which does not quell uniqueness but rather unseals, deepens, and affirms it. And the blessing does strengthen the hearts of the companions, anointing them as an oil that brings vigor and life, taking up abode within them, whatever it may be; perhaps it is the music itself.
When the song has concluded, Sílion steps forward and says, “I knew the man Séra Galáptes. As did many of us who dwell here. He was the last mortal man to set foot within the veiled space of the Velási and to be acquainted with us directly. He was a just king, and merciful, and he held many peoples in peace and harmony for numerous years. Our hopes and prayers now rest with you, in the desire and expectation that you shall become as he was, perhaps more, and shall bring about a similar harmony. For the land of Telmérion, indeed all the ends of the earth, are crying out for such unity and such peace. Do your small part, for that is all that is asked of you. As others have come before, so others shall follow after. And in all things, we wish you to live in the place deeper than all, in the depths of the sanctuary of the heart, enduring and unchanging, where kings neither come nor go, nor does strife and division mar, but the one King rules over us all, and from this place to find the strength, the wisdom, and the lightness of heart to walk the path before you, and to become forgers of peace and harmony.”
At this Seriyéna joins him and stands at his side. And they give unto the five companions gifts fitting uniquely to each. To Rórlain they impart a great shield etched with the seal of the Galapteäni of old, which was also in its day the ensign of the unified peoples of Telmérion; large but light, it is plated with the same metal, myéllion, of which the lightbringer was forged, with a strap by which it may be slung onto one’s back for easy carrying during travel. “This shall deflect any blow or stop any arrow,” Sílion says as he places the shield in Rórlain’s hands. “You are the squire of the knight, and may you also be his shield. May you indeed be the shield of all the defenseless and the protector of the weak. For though a squire you be, you are also this day knighted, a warrior of the light.”
Unto Cirien they give a thick book, bound in faded leather and tied with a clasp. With a knowing smile, Seriyéna says, “To assuage and yet to deepen the wonder and curiosity that you bear within. Much that you have long sought you shall learn in these pages, and the history of your people and of our own you shall discover from those whose memory is not marred by forgetfulness.” Cirien, upon receiving the book, bows deeply in thanks, and the two gift givers pass on to the next in line.
To Tilliána they give a leather-bound diary with thin and delicate pages, accompanied by a quill and a bottle of ink protected within an ornate wooden box. “That you may cherish and remember,” Seriyéna says with gentleness, “both the past and the present, and indeed the future as well, a future which you had nearly lost but, through love, have found anew.”
“Eldárien, Eldárien,” Sílion says, standing before him. “You carry a great weight, but it is my hope that you may you carry it lightly. For that is how Eldáru holds the world, and we can do no other than share in his love, his life, and his creativity. Like a young child’s nursery games, so is the world to its Maker. And yet he also loves and cares for us with a deeper seriousness and gravity, with an immense tenderness and compassion, that is yet freer, happier, and more playful than we yet know. That is my prayer for you, and my heart’s desire: that you may know the lightness of the One even as you share in his compassion and in his care, and in the suffering that channels healing light into the darkest of places.” He then draws forth from his robes a bundle of brown cloth neatly folded. “This tunic is both light and warm, and shall not burden you in the heat while still providing surprising warmth during the chill. It is one of the unique artifacts of our creation, unknown outside the confines of the velstadeä. I hope that you find it of great use.”
To Elmáriyë, last of all, Sílion speaks. “And what can I give to the daughter of the Velási, who already wears her mother’s ring?” And at her expression of surprise, he smiles and laughs softly. “Oh yes, though we did not speak of it, I saw it upon your finger. You knew and did not think to ask: it was hers. I hope you take solace in its band around your finger, and in her blood flowing through your veins.”
“I do,” replies Elmáriyë, “but I also wanted to ask: what is the tower that is upon the design?”
“Metalworks are rare among us,” answers Sílion, “for we wish not to depart from the garden sanctuary that is ours. If necessary, not far from here is a small quarry, still hidden by the forest, and at times some of us have gone there, drawn by the longing to witness and to fashion beauty also in stone and in precious metal—though for us even a pebble along the path is equally precious in its own way. The ring that you wear was fashioned by one such…by Hælia’s father, in fact, though that was many years ago. With the full womanhood of his daughter, when she thought of departing from our land, he bestowed this ring upon her as a gift, a sign of his paternal love and of his intimate trust in her heart and in the song that it sought to sing. So before answering your question, then, I say this: wear the ring likewise, in remembrance of the love with which it was both wrought and given.”
Elmáriyë smiles to this and nods in agreement, though she is too moved for words.
Sílion continues, “Now for the answer: the tower etched upon the ring is the ancient citadel of the king, Séra Galáptes, high in the Teldren Mountains, long abandoned and even forgotten by men, but remembered still by us in all its glory. It is fitting, thus, that you wear its design upon your hand, for one day you may stand again among its halls, restored to former beauty.”
Then Sílion takes a step back and, looking at both Elmáriyë and Eldárien with a playful glimmer in his eyes, he says, “The final thing I wish to give I cannot give to one of you alone, but I must give it to both of the siblings, brother and sister alike. I would like you to meet Meldáris and Martínia, the parents of your mother. I believe you call them grandparents. They shall give each of you a parting token, and then we shall grant you time to speak together to your hearts’ content.”