The small company departs shortly after first light, Aeyósha and Îsáric walking while Hældáris rides, his wounds from the mykkëvéngr still causing him pain. They travel this way for two more days, and the woods continue thick all the while, shading them from a chilly north wind that blows in for much of both days. But by the time the sun hangs low over the horizon on the eve of the second day, the trees have begun to thin and the earth to be littered with stones, cloaked in waving grasses and shrubs, and pock-marked with little gullies and rugged ravines: the beginnings of the Vægo Moorlands. That night they sleep under the stars, which are spread almost unobstructed above them except for the occasional stray wisp of cloud moving quickly to the south.
When they wake in the morning, to their surprise, there is a dusting of snow upon the ground, and the air is bitterly cold. They eat their breakfast quickly while gathered around the fire and then depart on their way. By the late morning most of the snow has melted into a soft dampness upon the ground with the exception of what is shaded by the girth of the few sparse trees or larger boulders spread about. Here and there can be espied the ruins of old stone houses hundreds of years past fallen into disuse and disrepair, or fieldstone fences edging what must have been long ago pasture or farm land, but which now lies fallow, buried thick under centuries of growth.
“What happened to this land?” Aeyósha asks, gesturing to the ruins that surround them.
“I do not rightly know all the details,” remarks Îsáric by way of response, “but there are at least two causes that I know of for the land to be as you see it now. One is the simple fact of the urbanization of this part of Vælíria, and in truth all of Vælíria, during the reign of the Empire. There were many incentives for the people of the wilds to seek their well-being, fortune, or safety in the cities and towns, or even to gather together in simple settlements such as what we saw in Hinstad. The other reason…well, is of a more grievous nature.”
“War?” guesses Aeyósha.
“Aye, war. These stretches of land—from the western border of the forest through the moorlands and up into the Vollrænd—were a stage of much conflict in the inter-tribal strife at the beginning of our history as a people. These lands became the prime bargaining-chip, as it were, in the petty wars between the tribes that would become the clan of Ulfäs and those that would become Turínhäs.”
“Ulfäs and Turínhäs,” asks Aeyósha, “those are the clans of which Ûlfaeng and Turholm are the seats of leadership?”
“You guess rightly,” comes the voice of Hældáris from atop the wain that rides a short ways ahead of them, though clearly near enough for him to both hear their conversation and to take part in it. “However, during the long years of the Empire the distinctions between the clans became much less important than they once were. It is not much different than what happened in our own Telmérion during the Imperial occupation, though to a much greater extent. Is that correct, Îsáric?”
“Exactly so. Certainly a community does not lose its own local identity when incorporated into a greater unity, and not even, for that matter, when suffering oppression, at least at first. But with time can come forgetfulness. And while the extinction of all conflict and warfare between the clans is certainly a boon, there is also much that I fear has been forgotten forever in the unity that the Empire effected among our people for so many centuries.” Îsáric falls silent for a moment as if thinking, and then speaks again, correcting himself, “My choice of words was a poor one. I did not mean to speak of what the Empire brought us as true unity. Authentic unity never dissolves distinction, nor absorbs and annihilates those who are incorporated into it; it rather deepens, expands, and brings to flourish this very distinction and uniqueness. However, uniformity, as the lifeless and twisted mockery of true unity, cannot abide such diversity, and it will bring about its eradication either through a subtle and gradual suffocation or through a violent onslaught. The former has been at work among our people for so long that we cannot even remember it being any different. We can perhaps find in ourselves hope for something else, but too many generations have passed for the history of the clans before the Empire to live in anything but books and ballads.”
“I lament the loss of these lands,” says Aeyósha, still looking about with something akin to fascination written upon his face. “Walking through them now, I can almost feel, can almost imagine, the lives of those who once called them home.”
† † †
That evening, with the descent of the sun and the coming of dusk, the temperature drops significantly and a biting chill envelops the land once again. Thankfully the north wind has ceased and is replaced by an almost total stillness. The air is so still that everything upon the land, too, seems to have stopped as if in homage to the silence; and whatever sounds there are, be it the cracking of a twig or the hoot of an owl, seem both magnified and muffled. In other words, they sound forth from this stillness and silence and in it remain enfolded, only enhancing and deepening the sense of its all-enfolding presence. Combined with the silhouettes of ancient stones and the rubble of abandoned homesteads standing stark against the last light lingering on the horizon, this stillness creates an almost eerie feel, as if the world itself has drawn in breath and is paused, hesitant, before the exhale. That, at least, is how it appears to Hældáris, his heart still recoiling in shock from the events that have recently befallen him. For Aeyósha, on the other hand, the stillness feels like a moment of restful repose, and the echoing silence of the broad land roundabout and the sky wide and expansive above, and the noiselessness which is yet so full of voice, is a welcome companion at the end of the day.
Sitting on the trunk of a massive tree long fallen and beginning to decay into the earth, Aeyósha looks out longingly at the last light fading from the sky, a colorless gray now passing quickly into black. He remembers his home and aches, more than he has since his departure, for the moment of return. Though he is unwed and both of his parents died years ago, an elder sister and a younger brother await him in Fian’caehil. Litrædi and Efnílir are both within two years of Aeyósha in age, and they have always been close both in heart’s affection and in the shared substance of life. The former, sickly and incapable of bearing children, has also remained unwed, working as a seamstress from home, though she has also found joy in being for the children and younger people of the town a kind of mentor or mother-figure. Her quiet demeanor and her joyful endurance of suffering and illness has given her an evident authority for all who meet her and, perhaps paradoxically, it has made her attractive to those who are young, and who precisely thus are so adept at sensing hypocrisy or superficiality in their elders. Efnílir, on the other hand, has been wed for six years, and his wife and child live with Aeyósha and Litrædi his sister, in an expansion to their childhood home that was built during the couple’s engagement. Through all the years of his life, therefore, Aeyósha has yet to live apart from his siblings, and their absence now is so tangible that it feels like a presence. He grieves at this absence and prays for their well-being, letting his heart miss them and long for the sight of their face or the touch of their closeness.
But he grieves, too, at the loss that has greeted Hældáris and himself upon their arrival in Vælíria, feeling all the while the radical vulnerability in which they now find themselves, two sole survivors trying to continue a mission which has changed so much in character and form even if the inner essence, which is invisible to the eye, remains the same. Thinking of this, he turns to direct his gaze, half unconsciously, upon Îsáric. He feels gratitude for the man and for his openness to them, something so unexpected yet so helpful and consoling. But to his surprise Aeyósha does not see him anywhere in the camp, either lying down to sleep or seated around the campfire that casts its ruddy light upon the weary faces and figures of those near to it. He must have stepped away for a moment, Aeyósha thinks, but I hope he returns soon. It is dangerous away from the group.
It is almost pitch black in both earth and sky by the time the form of Îsáric makes itself visible in the light of the fire, and his voice sounds as he speaks to one of the merchant brothers about a trivial matter. Aeyósha cannot hear what they are saying, but he does not need to. He is simply grateful to have the presence of others with himself and the king’s son on their journey, something, however small, which is a sign of kindness when all else has been lost.
† † †
Hældáris wakes with a start long before dawn, when the world is still cloaked in darkness and cold, though his heart races and his body is clammy with sweat. He sits up and looks about, but even the campfire has dwindled now to hardly more than fading embers, and all those around him sleep but for the one who keeps watch half a dozen yards away, only his silhouette visible as a darker shape against the dim glow of the nocturnal air. The nightmare lingers in Hældáris’ consciousness even more vividly than does the world before his eyes and the soft noises of night sounding in his ears and the chill against his flesh: he sees again and again the form of Relmaríndë slipping away from him, and no matter how much he reaches for her, and how vehemently, he cannot cross over the distance and save her from sinking into the abyss.
Overcome with grief and a sense of utter powerlessness, he weeps silently for he knows not how long. And then he rises to his feet and approaches the sentinel, though he cannot make out who it is without more light by which to see. “I will take over the watch until sunrise,” he says, trying not to startle the man, who, when he turns to the voice, is revealed to be Astër.
“I am struggling to keep my eyes open with so little to focus them upon,” Astër replies, “so I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure,” says Hældáris. “I do not think I could sleep more, even if I tried. And I enjoy waiting for the coming of the sun.”
He situates himself looking toward the east so that he can watch the first light begin to paint the sky, harbinger of the coming sun, though he regularly turns back, too, to scan for the blackness in the west. Camped as they are in a wide plain, the travelers are exposed on all sides with little to defend themselves, and so Hældáris, as much as he desires to drink in the consoling beauty of the sunrise unhindered, knows that in this moment watching all flanks of the company is necessary. Eventually he embraces this task wholeheartedly and in fact finds in it perhaps more beauty even than merely sitting staring to the east. For he rises to his feet and paces slowly and quietly around the perimeter of the camp, looking about at all the silhouettes visible in the distance, black shapes of greater darkness against the dark sky. This vigil is only interrupted, as the streaks of pre-dawn light reach out their thin fingers through the low hanging clouds in the east, when Dágra rises from sleep and softly calls out to him.
“I am going to begin preparing a bit to eat, so that we can depart shortly after the others rise,” he says. “Come sit next to me, will you? I would like to speak a bit.”
“Very well,” replies Hældáris, and he seats himself near the mercenary, relaxing the intensity of his watch somewhat though keeping his senses alert to their surroundings and his eyes on the perimeter of the camp. And as Dágra rekindles the fire to a strong flame and begins to place strips of salted meat upon a flat metal skillet, he asks, “Was there something specific about which you desired to speak?”
The man does not immediately reply, whether he is thinking about what he wishes to say or simply finishing the task at hand first, Hældáris does not know. But then Dágra sits back on his haunches and looks at the king’s son, and says, “You travel toward Vælaróma in order to seek peace for our people. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
“And you place your life and well-being in danger for a foreign nation, and with no thought for gain?”
“I have not thought of it in such a way.”
“But it is the truth?”
“I suppose so.”
“Truly you seek nothing from this? There must be in you a desire for glory, or praise, or perhaps for a handsome reward. Or maybe the approval of your father is enough to motivate you.”
“I know not all the depth of my motivations, Dágra, though I can say with certainty that I seek not my father’s approval, nor any earthly reward—for I had all that I desired on this earth already before departing from my home, and this I have lost on my journey; and my father’s approval and love has been given freely from my earliest days, and never have I conceived of earning or augmenting it by my own accomplishments.”
“But do you see any hope in your endeavor?”
“There was very little tangible hope to begin with,” replies Hældáris, “and there is even less now. We have come simply because we were asked to come.”
“By your king?”
“By the people of your land, or at least those who think to represent them.”
“Who can truly represent the people but the people themselves?” Dágra asks, and though his questions come one after another with hardly a pause, his voice is kindly and bears no accusation or doubt.
“In truth no one can, at least not in fullness,” Hældáris says after a moment. “And yet represent them some must, for so it is in this life, that a man must speak for the people to make their desires and needs, their pain and their plight, known. And so it is, my father has taught me, that this very desire and pain must be borne by some for the sake of all. A single man, as it were, can carry the world, if he truly lets himself be carried deeply and firmly enough by what is greater than he.”
“You believe that is true?”
“A single man…no, not as a man alone. It is impossible that a man can carry the world. We are too small, too frail, too limited to let our hearts dilate to such proportions. But in the One who is not a man, in the One who is boundless, perhaps we can be granted a participation in a greater and wider bearing, in the very Love that holds the world.”
“How do you speak thus, son of the king?” Dágra says, and in response to the tone in his voice Hældáris turns to look at him, their eyes meeting.
“What do you mean?”
“You speak not as of something you have thought or heard, but of something you have experienced, something that in your heart of hearts you live as your deepest truth.”
“Whether it is my deepest truth I do not know,” says Hældáris, “though I hope that it is, or may be so. But I know that it is truth, the truth for each person and for all.” He sighs and then continues, “And yet in the same moment I struggle, for the pain and loss of these days has plunged a knife into my heart and it twists within me, threatening to sever something in me that was never meant to be severed.”
“Again you speak of experience deeper than I know,” Dágra replies. “I know how to take a man’s money and swing a sword where he tells me to swing it. I know that I want to be free to work for a wage and to receive it, and to not have another man tell me what I may think or say or do unless it truly be to protect me from my own stupidity. And yet you speak of a thought deeper than my thinking, and a feeling deeper than I feel. Your culture must be far different indeed than ours to have preserved some spark of life or light that among us has been extinguished or has at least grown dim.”
“The light of which you speak is within you,” Hældáris says, “otherwise you would never recognize it. It burns within all of us, and thus we may recognize it when we see it outside of us, provided our hearts are pure and simple enough to see.”
“So says your father, right?”
“Yes, so says my father, who found the light within and who brought light external, light from beyond this world, to a people plunged into darkness even unto death.”