Hældáris rises early, before the sun, needing little sleep because of the Velási blood within him, but even more so unable to find repose because his heart is restless and tormented. As quietly as he can he pushes open the door to the house and steps outside, drawing his blanket over his head and tight around his body, a functional cloak to replace the one he has lost. For the air outside is quite cold, its chill bitter and uncomfortable, although not quite freezing. It is still so early that not even the slightest hints of color or light have yet begun to appear on the horizon, yet Hældáris does not take thought for this. Night or day, it matters little to him, and in fact he has long had a preference for the night, for its stillness and silence, for the veiled solitude and hidden quietude that it allows. Around him, the buildings of Ûlfaeng are hardly more than shadows and silhouettes, as all evening lamps have been extinguished and those of morning have yet to be lit. The only lamps are the stars, and the waxing moon, and the light invisible. He walks slowly through the silent streets, listening to the slumbering quiet and feeling the nocturnal stillness, even as the countless stars continue in their soundless dance and ceaseless revolution above him, following the music that is deeper than ears of flesh can perceive. When he comes to the easternmost edge of town he stands upon the quay at water’s edge, the glistening of the countless celestial lights reflecting visibly upon the waves of the sea, as they roll in their ceaseless rhythm, sounding their rumble and whisper as they collide with the awaiting land, still as a sentinel.

But his heart neither sings nor glistens, neither dances nor abides in stillness. It roils in turmoil and boils even to overflowing in anguished questioning, reaching out with pained longing into the dark depths of the ocean, as if its very life has been lost therein. And there is truth in this, for his wife has been so intimately woven through love into the fibers of his own being, into his own existence, that her loss can do nothing but tear him open and leave him bleeding. And so he reaches out toward her in a way deeper than awareness, though this same reaching out wells up continually into his consciousness and grasps it again and again. He thinks of her almost continually, and even when she is not consciously in his mind the sense of her absence is upon his heart, and he aches with longing for her. He remembers her presence, the contours of her face, the tenor of her voice, and all of this is like an absence amid presence, like a shadow among the trees, like a dark cloud in a starry sky. And the remembrance presses on toward fullness of presence, yearning to find her again where she has been lost, to discover her invisible face, to embrace her lost figure, to hear her and to see her, to touch her and to receive her anew, with love and with gratitude, with cherishing and with care. But she is not here, and he encounters only a gaping void of absence.

And it is not only the loss of her that tears Hældáris’ heart in twain; it is also the loss of the men entrusted into his care, and the failure of his quest before it has even begun. It feels to him that he lost himself in the waves of the sea, not only in losing Relmaríndë, but in losing the sense of security and purpose, in losing the very confidence of love and goodness upholding his life and giving it peace. And now he feels naked and exposed before the bitter winds of life, naked before every breath of evil, be it deliberate malice directed at him for ill or the seemingly random absurdity by which all things descend into nothingness despite their longing for being and life. He shivers at the thought of this and pulls the blanket tighter around himself, though he knows that the cold he feels comes not from without but from within, not from the coldness of earthly temperature but from the invisible realm of the spirit where the true conflict of love and apathy, care and hate, security and insecurity, meaning and meaninglessness occurs. Or perhaps this conflict has already resolved itself, and absurdity has won out in the end. Such does he in this moment feel, and, even if he does not believe it, even if he rejects it as a temptation born of pain and despair, the feeling makes him sick.

And in this bitterness and this grief, in this pain of his heart, he cries out to the All-Giver, to the Father of all, the silent witness of all this evil and suffering, who nonetheless in this witnessing continues to hide his face: You are the light and joy of my youth, the hope and gladness of my people, the home in which we have found true rest and peace beyond measure. But now look—look upon my life and the lives of my men! Look upon the life of my wife! What has happened, and why? I heard your voice speaking silently in my heart, inviting me to depart on this journey, to step into the unknown trusting in your goodness and your plan. And all that has awaited me is death and loss. How is this compatible with your goodness and your justice? Our quest has been destroyed before it even had a chance to begin, and their lives were cut short in an act of incomprehensible evil. So many innocent people have perished in the ocean to no cause or purpose. What did they do to deserve such a fate, and why did they perish and not I?

After voicing this cry of the heart, he sinks into silence, a silence that feels to be not life but death, not vigilant waiting but numbness in loss; and yet he also knows from long life experience that what man feels is never the whole story, and that much happens deeper than he can either see or feel. And so he stands, the cold breeze off the ocean cutting through his blanket and his clothing and chilling his body, and yet also keeping his senses and his mind alert. And time passes like this unnoticed, in what seems almost an instant, and when Hældáris raises his eyes again, he sees that the sun peeks over the horizon far in the east and sends glimmering rays across the surface of the ocean. But this light is cold, and the splendor of the colors and the shimmer of the light do not pierce through the gloom that Hældáris feels. But neither does he reject them. He simply nods his head as if in greeting to the rising sun, and then turns away, walking slowly back to the home of Îsáric once again.

† † †

Aeyósha and Îsáric are both awake when he returns. The hearth blazes brightly in the center of the room, sending slanting light and dark-bodied shadows across the floor and the walls, though the cooler light of dawn also mingles together through a window open out onto the street facing east. Their host busies himself over the flames, stirring something in a pot—their breakfast—while his companion stands in the corner cleaning his teeth. His hair is still damp, a clear sign that he recently washed his body as well, something long-needed and desired since they washed up on the shore. Back home, no matter the grime, dirt, and sweat that might cling to one at the end of a long day’s work, it was always possible to wash up. But the coarseness that has clung to their skin and roughened their hair as a result of the harsh salt water of the ocean, the only source also by which they had been able to bathe, is finally replaced with a cleanness that truly feels as such. For after a simple morning greeting Hældáris himself washes, and by the time he is done their food is ready.

“I fear it is only a bit of bread boiled in milk and dried berries,” Îsáric says to his guests, “a kind of grain meal, you can say, for I had neither oats nor flour. The bread was too hard to eat dry and this was the best solution.”

“It is more than sufficient, and indeed I find it appetizing,” remarks Hældáris. “My life has accustomed me to nothing more than simple fare. Rarely, indeed, do Telmérins seek or expect more, except in rare cases or among certain kinds of personages. Such has always been our way.”

“In that respect, as in many others, I believe that despite our many similarities our cultures are quite different,” says Îsáric. “For in our land the wealthy and powerful keep lavish tables with food enough to feed an entire hamlet. And it is not only a matter of quantity; rare and exquisite foods are considered a sign of status and prestige, setting the lofty apart from the low, the well-to-do apart from the wretched and poor.”

“Our land too has known injustice,” Aeyósha interjects, “though perhaps not in the exact manner as has yours. After all, wherever upon the face of the earth he may be, man is man, and his heart remains always the same.”

“That is true,” agrees Îsáric, “and yet this heart is capable both of evil and of good, of degradation and of nobility, of descending to the depths of darkness worse even than the beasts or of ascending to a goodness that is a breath of the divine itself.”

“What you intend to say, if I understand you correctly,” Hældáris begins, “is that among your own people the evil and injustice within the heart of man have been codified in institution and in law. Unlike in our own land, where for the great majority of our history evil and lawlessness have always gone together, and faith and goodness, law and nobility, have been wed, in your land law has become a cover and a bastion of wickedness, and religion itself has become a vessel of the abuse of power.”

“Yes, that is precisely it,” remarks Îsáric, his expression showing surprise. “How you were able to perceive that in the little that I said, I do not know, but it is what lay underneath my spoken words.”

“It is a shift for us, a shift in thinking,” Hældáris continues. “This you must understand, even as we ourselves must strive to understand the mind and heart of your people, their life and experience, and the structure of their society. We Telmérins have known aberrations, perversions of law and order, of the impulse toward the divine, and of the use of authority, certainly; but never on such a scale or to such an extent as have you and your people. We have known cults that worship the Draíon or other elemental forces of the universe; we have known wars over territory or succession or peoples, and we have known corrupt office-holders who use their authority not for good but for gain, or are so blinded by their own narrow vision that the common sense of goodness that unites all men is crushed under the weight of fanaticism. But considering what you shared yesterday, and the import of your words today, it is clear that even more can be said about the people of Vælíria. Why our cultures have developed so differently and have had such radically diverse histories, I do not known. Why one seed grows and matures into a full-fledged tree and bears abundant fruit while another dies even in the soil, I do not presume to understand. What are the forces that have led your people through so much suffering and loss, so much oppression, so much perversion of what is right and true? I know not. But I think that perhaps the seed that never sprouted—or rather, the tree that has become gnarled and twisted through what it has weathered both from within and from without—still bears hope of flourishing and of bringing forth good fruit.”

“I hope so,” says Îsáric. “What worries me though is that what seems to await us instead is another war drenching this land in blood. For if the revolution of thirty-five years ago brought conflict mainly between those who rose up against the government and those whom they sought to overthrow, I fear that the conflict that grips us now is more far reaching, and its consequences more heinous. If what we have heard of the growing conflict spreading from the center of the republic is any indication, the artificers of this new war are more than willing to bring the weight of the sword to any town or settlement that they encounter.”

“Have the rulers and the people of Ûlfaeng done nothing on hearing of these things?” Aeyósha asks.

“We have spoken, thought, and deliberated,” replies Îsáric, “but you are right: we have done nothing. They fear getting involved in a conflict that is still distant and whose nature is so difficult to understand with any great clarity. We know neither the true face of our enemy nor whom we may trust as our allies. I myself tried to urge some intervention, but my plea was not accepted and the council, in almost unanimous agreement, chose to wait for things to further develop.”

“An unusual thing, is it not,” Hældáris says, “that one can hear of conflict in one’s land, and yet ignore it even as it grows and spreads?” And, seeing Îsáric’s expression, he corrects himself, “I do not mean this as an accusation. Not at all. It is merely an observation. The hand of war spreads across this land and yet the people stand ignorant of the poison in their midst, turning their eyes away to other things…and I just fear that it shall be too late when they finally realize the threat for what it is. So it almost was for us under the rule of the Empire. They played the role of our benefactors for many years, for generations, until even our memory of the ills of their conquest were replaced with a white-washed version, causing us to accept this unnatural state of affairs as the natural one. And so even if some of the means of the Stûnclad Rebellion were ill-conceived, perhaps the intuition beneath it was correct: oppression cannot be allowed to fester and spread until it stands before the remnants of peace like a grown man clad in armor threatening a small child with hardly more than a stick to defend himself.”

“But this raises the question of the right use of violence in resistance,” Aeyósha says, turning to his friend. “There is also the question of seeing and acting with true judgment, rather than cloaking one’s own wishes or goals in the name of justice and truth. Nonetheless, I agree with you that we must resist that which would destroy what is precious to us, the inheritance of light that we children of this world have received. But it is also true that no man, however wise, is the final judge of this world. We cannot take it upon ourselves to excise all the evil from our midst. It is rather our humble part to foster and protect what is good.”

“You speak wisdom, Aeyósha,” agrees Îsáric. “But I also think that the king’s son has a valid point. The inner journey of the human heart is different than the external conflict of nations; for there are many things within us that no human hand can touch, even less change, and only a greater hand can accomplish this within us through our own trust and surrender. But in the conflict of men and men, if one is too passive in the face of growing evil, then perhaps the evil will grow too great to defeat—or at least not without great suffering and loss. Regardless, we stand here before a great mystery: the mystery of the perennial conflict between light and darkness, between good and evil. And perhaps as long as this world lasts in its present state, marred as it is and cast into shadow, we shall indeed feel like nothing but weak children trying to protect ourselves against an evil that is larger and more powerful than we.”

“So it was for my father and for our own people in the War of Darkness,” Hældáris says, “and if possible I would like to prevent such a dire situation among your own people…if it is not already upon you. So whatever course of action we discern, I insist that we do not delay.”

“And in that, my friend,” says Îsáric, “we are in agreement.”

“I concur with that as well,” Aeyósha says. “That is the entire reason we have come. We have come not to sit and watch but to deliberate and to act. And forces stir that demand a response. Our role as messengers and delegates of Telmérion will be a small one, but we wish to support your people, Îsáric, in whatever way we can.”

“You have my thanks, and I hope someday also shall have the thanks of many. I wanted to ask you a question, though, before we deliberate about our course of action—though in my mind there is only one course.”

“By all means,” replies Hældáris, and Aeyósha nods in agreement.

“Very well,” continues Îsáric. “It is this. I wanted to speak about the foundations of your people, about the solid bedrock of Telmérion both as a culture and as a nation. For it seems to me that what binds your people together, and what stands as the cohesive force even of your political structure, is faith. And therefore what you can bring to us is a rediscovery of a political order, of a structure of rule, that is in accord with the dictates of this faith. Is this true?”

“I understand what you are expressing, and it is true insofar as it goes,” replies Hældáris, “and yet it should also not be understood in the wrong way. It is true that there is a deep and intimate alliance between the high kingship of Telmérion and the faith of the All-Giver, for so it has been given by the intervention of the One himself, who through the mediation of Hiliána manifested himself to the king who was to rule and entrusted to him power and authority. But he remains merely a man, and he is neither a religious leader nor does he exercise his office in strict cooperation with those who stand as guardians over the worship and life given by the All-Giver. The great-father of the temple, however, is a dear friend of his, and they both discovered the beauty of the One together; yet this is not an institutional association, but an intimate, personal one. What the future of the Telméric kingship may be in days to come, I do not know, and whether there shall be a longstanding spiritual alliance between the political state of our people and the faith that we have come to know even after centuries of loss, I cannot say. I do hope so, in the sense that I bear the complete conviction that the inheritance of our faith, faith in the one Fashioner of the world, is simply the foundational truth about reality, illumining all else in its gentle, deep, and broad light. However, also do I know that the faith is so much greater and freer than any nation or political institution, for it is but the revelation of the truth that is common to all men, and which binds them alike with the cords of goodness, of beauty, and of love that are the path to true freedom.

“Even if Telmérion were to collapse into the sea, therefore, this truth would endure. And even so, true faith and religion cannot be forced upon a person, nor merely absorbed like dew upon cloth. Though the truth of faith may illumine a nation, indeed every nation, a nation is not an adequate safeguard of the truth of faith, nor should it takes its dictates directly and solely from religion in the sense of being a religious authority itself, or an arm of such authority. As in all truth, it comes to us in freedom, and it elicits freedom, binding us together cohesively in a single reality, but also needing the personal sanction born of the heart of each person. For a man comes to faith not simply by being raised in a nation in which this faith surrounds us like the air we breathe. Rather, faith speaks to each one of us in the inner mystery of our conscience, where the voice of the One resounds. For this truth is not an ideology, and certainly not a myopia; it is not even a philosophy, even if it illumines all philosophy, gives it order, and sets it upon a new foundation. It is a relationship of trust and of love, giving birth to communion between man and the One who made him and loves him, between the human and the divine, and bringing forth in the world actions that are right and true, beautiful and good.

“Mere political structure therefore cannot be an adequate safeguard of the integrity of faith, and of the worship and life to which it gives birth; nor yet can faith replace the right and reasonable discernment of political life in the sense that the authority of the priests and clerics would cast a shadow over the authority of the kings and jarls and counselors. The current atmosphere that has blossomed in the rebirth of Telmérion is an encouraging thing, and a good example: all occurs in the freedom and trust of a dialogue of love. And this dialogue occurs within the truth that shines the deepest and broadest light upon all the issues of human life, from the intimate relations of the family and community to the very unity that makes up a people, a nation, and humankind itself.”

“What about the exercise of the high kingship? Does he not hold absolute, or at least final, authority in the governance of the people?” Îsáric asks.

“Absolute authority? Certainly he does not, nor has he any right to exercise that. And as for final authority, I suppose if it is ever necessary, he shall indeed be the custodian and safeguard of the unity of our people by speaking as their last voice when discordant voices would silence them and their true good. But in ordinary circumstances he always seeks to act along with all others who hold custodianship of the people alongside him.

“Even here my father does not intend, in fact, to uphold or expand any form of aristocratic primacy among our people, be it that based upon wealth or even upon merit. Rather, he seeks to foster its giving way to a more equitable sharing of power and a common responsibility for the material well-being of all members of our society. We do not seek to grow in wealth and power either as individuals or as a society—and I speak here of our cultural attitude, for avaricious men always exist, as do prideful and lustful men as well. Rather, a great movement has been born among us, starting with the king, to seek to give landholdings and the opportunity for individual ownership, responsibility, and care to each man and each family. We see this as the best avenue toward material prosperity, and an impetus toward a spirit of custodianship, even as it is also a curb on the instinct toward acquiring more and more wealth beyond one’s measure. Each person is given his own domain in which to exercise his right and duty as a custodian of the one Creator, responsible to the One who made him and responsible also to all of his brethren to seek the common good even in his private actions, be they working the land to bring forth its fruit, or raising animals, or exercising some trade or overseeing and fostering it as a leader of a guild, or devoting oneself to the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom and its sharing with others, or any other manner of work.

“So too, in his own rule, even if my father has embraced kingship in obedience, he recognizes his role as one of pure service to the common good of our people—indeed of all men—and the fostering of the just use of power in all communities. He recognizes that all power is but an entrustment from the Creator even if it has been allocated by the will of the community and according to their own human discernment and deliberation. When he ascended to office, he did so very much at the insistence of the people who saw him as representative of a dawning light after decades of darkness and loss of identity, and after the anguish of a war that threatened the very existence of our very people. But the first thing he did on taking office was to emphasize the freedom and responsibility of the people, from the common laborer in his field to the officials who stood in custodianship over others, be they guildmasters or trainers in the crafts, or the hærási, council members, or other bearers of office.

“So if you are hoping for the birth of a monarchy or other political structure to solve the griefs and pains of your people, to bring some resolution and stability to the chaos that has afflicted your people for so many years, I am afraid that is not what we can offer you. You must find your own path, among your own people, to the form of government, as of trade, commerce, and labor, that is appropriate for you. Of course we shall be happy to walk hand in hand in this discernment and to aid you in whatever way we can. The one gift that we can offer to you, and which it is our deepest desire to offer, is our witness to the truth that is our inheritance, and which we ourselves, through no merit of our own, have received from those who are his living memory in the world: the truth of the All-Giver and his design.”

“You give me much to think about, Hældáris,” replies Îsáric. “Long have I assumed that the only answer to our ills was replacing the false religion of the state with a true religion of the state. In this I have placed my hope. But now I see that there might perhaps be more nuance to the matter than I first thought.”

“What you thought is true as far as it goes, however,” Aeyósha says, adding his voice to that of his friend. “It is true insofar as truth alone is the safeguard and custodian of freedom and justice. But it is also the case that when a religious man or institution tries to be more than it ought to be, it does no good for anyone, but rather harm. For our true religion, our communion with the One who made us and who has promised us dawn’s light even in the darkest night, is not something merely institutional and social—such as an ideology for change or a revolutionary outlook or a program for justice. Rather, it is more akin to the very air that we breathe, permeating everything and giving it life, while also allowing everything to be what it is. Yes, it is not intrusive in the manner in which your people have so sadly experienced it; it is not exercised in power and the abuse of authority, but by the gentle, effective persuasion of truth. Like the breath of life it enfolds and fills all things, cherishing them and protecting them even as it grants them their very being and life. And this means that we can never be anything more than humble custodians and servants of this truth, this truth that is so far beyond us even as it makes itself intimately close to us and to all of our cares, concerns, and desires, both as individuals and as a community. This, and this alone, is the reality by which we can judge the right response to the evils that beset your society today, and can discern the way toward their healing.”

“I only wish that we knew more about the precise nature of such evils,” sighs Îsáric, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair. “Yet I have no one but myself to blame for my ignorance of the true state of our land. Rumors of war and echoes of conflict are hardly enough to guide our steps. And if light alone can mark our way, it is nonetheless true that I have no idea how to combat an evil unless I know the nature of that evil. As long as the darkness remains but a whisper at the edge of consciousness, or a shadow on the corner of vision, our hands remain tied and our feet unsteady.”

“Perhaps so,” remarks Aeyósha, “but I suspect that soon we shall know more than we ever wished to know, and shall yearn for the days when the weight of such darkness did not weigh so heavily upon us.”