Since the day inclines already toward evening, Ródric suggests that Eldárien wait until the morning to set out in search of Rórlain. And though Eldárien is anxious to begin the search, fearing that, if it is not too late already, it will be soon, he understands the prudence of the recommendation. If anything, whatever tracks there are that could give him a hint of Rórlain's location would be almost certainly missed during the darkness of night. Therefore, he accepts waiting but insists that he will leave at first light, before the sun even crests the horizon in the east. Ródric provides Eldárien a hearty meal that evening, after darkness has already fallen and the forest sleeps in deep silence, punctuated only by the call of nocturnal birds—owls and doves—the occasional howling of wolves, and the almost inaudible music of a light wind caressing the trees. After they have both eaten, Ródric replenishes Eldárien's provisions with dry food goods and also refills his waterskin, promising more upon his return.
"I hope to be gone no more than a day or two, but I will do whatever is possible to find your son and bring him back to you," Eldárien says, receiving the provisions and squatting down next to his pack, beside which his traveling cloak is rolled up. He fits them into the bag, rearranging the other objects already within it to do so, and then ties it closed again.
"I appreciate your willingness to help," Ródric replies quietly, almost shyly, "but do not let yourself be excessively put out by me."
"Currently our intentions align, and helping you is the best way to continue pursuing my own aim," explains Eldárien, tying the waterskin, now filled, to his pack. "But even if they did not, a human life is at stake here. I could not pass by without doing the little that I can do."
"If only more men of our time were like you, perhaps Telmérion would be in a very different state."
"Like me?" Eldárien looks up at Ródric, and his eyes speak of deep hurt, a reservoir of pain that keeps him from receiving Ródric's words as a compliment, but which also shields him from the slightest thought of vainglory. He is aware of standing under an infinite debt that he can never repay, such that even if he were to spend an eternity doing good to make up for it, he could never fill in the slightest portion of what is owed. No amount of his own goodness could ever atone for the evil that he has previously committed. This he knows.
While the two men look at one another in silence, Ródric startled and confused by the depth of pain in Eldárien's eyes, the latter becomes aware of what he is feeling and, with a sigh, asks, "Am I only doing good in the attempt to equalize my balance sheet, or even with the presumption of turning the scales toward goodness?"
"Pardon?" Ródric asks, not following the train of thought, since he was unable to discern what occurred beneath the murky surface of those eyes, in the depths within.
"Forgive me. It is nothing," says Eldárien and he lowers his eyes again. "I did not even mean to speak that aloud." Another moment of dense silence passes and then Eldárien rises to his feet and says, "Tell me about your life here. How is it that you sustain your living alone in the woods like this?"
"It is quite simple, actually," replies Ródric, relieved for the change of topic and the easing of the heavy atmosphere that had descended between them. "Rórlain and I make our living hunting and trapping, mostly, with a bit of gardening on the side. And you already saw the spring. As I already said, the water is excellent; and as long as we do not over fish, it provides us also with some supplemental fish every year."
"What about your other needs, those beyond basic nourishment?"
"Both of us can sew and weave well enough to make or mend our own clothes, though my wife was far more skilled in that regard," answers Ródric, and now it is his eyes that reveal a hidden depth, a deep intermingling of love, grief, and nostalgia: the experience of missing someone who was so close as to be woven into the very fabric of one's own heart but now is gone. "Yes, she made little masterpieces. At least, that is what I always told her and what I have always believed. It was her joy to do it, to participate in our lives not only in a 'woman's work'—which Rórlain and I both do now on our own and are no less men for it—but above all in providing for us something beautiful, were it only a pair of gloves or a belt or a cloak."
Eldárien smiles at this and watches as Ródric pauses and lets memories carry him in their train for a few moments. Then he stirs himself back to the present, "Ah, I was telling you about our way of life. My apologies, I allowed myself to be carried away."
"It is no problem. Please, continue."
"Well," says Ródric, trying to pick up on the thread he had lost, "it is a simple life, if a hard one, particularly during the winter months. We stock up as much as we can before the first snow, since, depending on the year, that snow lasts, at least in its substance, until the first thaw four or five months later. But I assume you know that well enough. After all, your childhood home was higher in the mountains than we are now."
"Indeed." replies Eldárien. "We were at the base of the three greatest peaks in Telmérion, and oft the entire valley in which my village lay was buried under a thick layer of snow from early winter to the first weeks of spring."
"I have never been to Fálstead. What is it like? Or, I apologize, what was it like?"
"The area is forested quite heavily, much like here if a little less dense. But were one to travel even less than a day out, the elevation would rise quite quickly. As you crest the hills, you come to the taiga, sloping up the sides of the mountains, until the trees themselves are left behind, unable to endure the cold, and are replaced first by sparse grasses and heather, and then by rugged stone. That, at least, is the landscape of Fálstead and its surrounds. The climate was frigid during the winter, as I said, but in fact the valley was usually spared the bitterest of winds and even, at least as I imagined to myself, kept warm by the embrace of the land. Perhaps I was just equating the warmth of the earth with the warmth of home, or rather, letting this latter warmth color and saturate my experience of the former."
"Not such a bad thing to do, I suppose," Ródric says, with a glint in his eye.
"I suppose not," Eldárien agrees, smiling slightly in response. And then, changing the subject, "But that is long passed now. What about you? What was your reason for departing from home?"
Ródric lowers his gaze and remains silent for a moment, and Eldárien quickly interjects, saying, "I do not insist! If you wish to share, then I happily receive. But I do not want you to say anything you wish not to say."
"You are kind," Ródric replies, "yet you need not worry in that regard. I need not say much, as some things need only a few words, and much is said by these few. I left because I was fleeing from danger—or fleeing from myself, or fleeing from the law, whichever best expresses it. All three were true in their own way. I grew up in poverty and fell in with a gang who fancied themselves brigands. Bandits. Relihím. To pass from loneliness to a group of people sharing a common life day in and day out; to pass from hunger and poverty to sustenance, even at times to wealth, however ill-gotten; it was a welcome change for me, and I relished it. I was young then. Young and stupid. When I became a little older and a little wiser, it became clear that the only way out was to leave entirely, beyond the borders of our lands. The Relihím do not take kindly to those who wish to part from them. I had met Gníssa while in the group, and we fled together. It was not long before we were wed and made our home here. That is the story in short."
"And many years have passed since then," Eldárien replies with tenderness in his voice, "and you have not gone back on that choice."
"Sometimes, in the beginning, I had twisted thoughts of returning, of going back to all the gains to be had in such a life," Ródric admits. "But that was only in the beginning. Not only did love for Gníssa carry me through and, a growing love for our land—and then before long a love for our son—but also an encounter with those very ones with whom I had once identified myself. Or rather, it was an encounter with more of their kind, since these were not the same group whom I had joined."
"They came here?" Eldárien asks. "I had wondered how you could live in the woods without being troubled by those who make raiding in the wild their profession."
"A small, poverty-laden homestead such as this is usually left alone, as they go for finer pickings," replies Ródric. "We have been untroubled all these years, save once." He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment in remembrance before continuing. "That was the first and only time that I have killed. Two men. Before the rest fled. And I am glad that they did, for, though there were only five of them, I could not have resisted them all. Rórlain was still young at the time, and I could not expect either he or Gníssa to stand up against these men of the wild. I suppose it was this awareness that set a fire deep within me. I protected them, and that is the only time I have been called on to protect those I love in such a way."
Eldárien nods silently as he receives these words, and a moment of mute recognition passes between the two men before he says, "I will do all that I can to bring your son back, Ródric. If he is beyond your power now to protect, I will with my own attempt to make your reach a little longer and a bit stronger."
Ródric smiles a heavy smile, mixed more with sadness than with gladness, though marked with true gratitude, and then he presses his hands together as if in decision. "What say you to calling it a night? You shall rise early, before the sun, and I wish to see you off. Let us both get some rest."
† † †
Despite his exhaustion, Eldárien does not rest well, passing in and out of sleep until, in the early hours of the morning, he rises from bed and sits staring into the fire. He places a few small logs upon it and tends them until the fire burns brightly again. Try as he might, he cannot cause his mind to stop traveling in circles, inspecting and re-inspecting the events of the previous weeks, and in particular the conversation of last night, trying to find some hint or clue about the path before him or about the precise nature of the mysterious burden weighing so heavily upon his heart. Ever since he returned to Telmérion, it has been as if a yoke has been placed on his heart, as if some great evil has settled upon him, not his own but felt as if it were his own. Or perhaps it is his own, entirely his own, nothing more than the deep awareness of the blood on his hands and the pollution in his heart, and his fear of being in the future what he regrets being in the past. He cannot make any clear sense of his emotions at present, and no amount of thought seems able to bring order to his interior turmoil. He knows that thinking in circles will not bring an answer, but he knows equally well, from long experience, that he cannot simply stop thinking. He has always been pensive to a fault, his father used to affectionately joke (with the emphasis on the affection), and though such thoughtfulness has served him well many a time, it has also made him experience the crises of life, the dilemmas, choices, and turning-points with more anxiety and fear than they warrant. He cannot seem to learn the lesson—in his heart of hearts and in the wellsprings of his mind—that only living itself can ultimately answer the questions raised by living, even if thought has a place in discerning the path ahead and cradling all of life in the bosom of universal goodness and truth. And even then, when it comes to concrete circumstances and moments of difficult decision, sometimes only the next step can be seen, or even a half or quarter step. Indeed, sometimes one simply walks in trust without seeing or understanding, and it is only after the fact that the beauty and meaning in the path dawns upon one's interior vision.
The only way to gain more light, then, is to take another step, and then another, and another, in the trust that truth lies not in one's own making or control, or even in one's own comprehension; rather, truth enfolds and permeates life without ceasing, and one's own personal history is inscribed on its fabric and written within its folds. Realizing that his thoughts have carried him this far, Eldárien smiles to himself. So the circle broke after all, if only for a moment? Just as he feels his heart surge in readiness to take the next step—a step into the unknown—he hears a voice behind him. "You are awake already?"
"I am," he replies. "I could not sleep."
"I hope you will not tire on the journey," Ródric says and, appearing at his side, sits down.
"And I hope that the journey will be a short one, and that I will find Rórlain quickly."
"It feels like too much to hope," Ródric whispers, "that such a thing could happen. Is it possible, Eldárien, to hope too much?"
Pausing to reflect upon the question, he replies, "I cannot believe so. If hope is rightly placed, it cannot be too strong or too firm."
"And how do I know if my hope is rightly placed?"
"I do not know," answers Eldárien quietly.
After this short exchange, the two men sit silently side by side, gazing into the dancing flames of the fire, orange and red touched with yellow, with a blazing center of blue, and listen to it crackling and popping as it consumes the wood and transforms it into living flame. Time passes quickly in this way, and in what seems like only a few moments (though it is actually over half an hour), Ródric stirs and rises to his feet. He walks to one of the windows and opens the shutters.
"Look," he says as he directs his gaze out of the window, "the first light appears on the horizon. A pale and grim dawn awaits."
Without delay, Eldárien puts on his outer clothing, pulls on his boots, and wraps his cloak tightly around his shoulders. After securing his pack, he turns to Ródric, assuring him, "I will make all haste."
The old man nods and says, "But you forget this," and turns and lifts Eldárien's greatsword from where it rests against the wall.
"I hope that I shall not need it," Eldárien replies, receiving the sword and securing it in its place on his back, "but that is in this case perhaps an ill-placed hope."
"You have the look of a seasoned warrior," Ródric observes, not knowing the depth of truth in his words. "Many carry swords in our world and many die at the edge of them. Even though you are the former, may you not be the latter."
"Thank you," says Eldárien, "but it would also please me more than anything that the blade I carry never knows what it is to be stained by blood."
"What about the blood of the beast that has taken my son, if that is what it comes to?"
"Another asked me a similar question not long ago. And my answer to you is the same: that, I would not hesitate to do."
Ródric lingers a moment longer, looking at Eldárien, a subtly veiled anxiety in his eyes, as if by his gaze he wishes to impart unto Eldárien a secret favor or blessing by which his endeavor may not go ill but come to a good conclusion. "Actually," he says at last, stirred from his thoughts, "it may be good to take this with you. It is not our only one, so keep it with you wherever you go as one of your own possessions."
With these words, he takes a short hunting bow from where it hangs on the wall and, with a quiver full of arrows, gives it to Eldárien. He receives it with a grateful bow of the head and then turns and steps out the door into the cold morning air.
He looks about the clearing, on which a deep mist lingers, curling and whispering among the trees which stand stark as dark silhouettes against the gradually increasing light of day.The upper parts of the mist glow gray in the early morning light while the lower parts are veiled in deep shadow, untouched yet by the coming of day. The grass is wet with dew, and the trees themselves drip with moisture, an audible plopping of heavy drops of water from leaf to blade, from canopy to earth. There is not even the slightest hint of wind, not a sigh among the trees, not a whisper among the plants of the wood. Eldárien draws in a deep breath of the fresh morning air, cold but not quite freezing, and starts his journey to the northwest.
Why is everyone placing weapons into my hands, he thinks as he walks, when what I desire most is to leave them all behind?
In only a matter of minutes, the first rays of the sun crest the horizon in the east and cast shimmers of light through the dense fog, turning the gray and colorless wall into a sheet of white and crystal. Eldárien walks quickly but attentively, scanning the ground and the trees as he passes, looking for any clue or hint which would direct his hunt. The fog hinders him, as he can see no more than ten or fifteen feet in front of him, and the trees enshroud him like ancient sentinels stepping forth from the gloom, though it is he who approaches them while they stand unmoving for ages, rooted in the silent earth while reaching their branches to the sky, abiding, as all trees do, in the wordless watch of ceaseless vigilance which is also a dance of wind and sky and earth, of growth and fruit-bearing and slumber, in a continual cycle.
As Eldárien walks, first light passes to dawn, and dawn to day. Soon it is midmorning, and the sun is high in the sky behind his back. The mist has almost entirely dissipated, consumed by the rays of the sun, though the grass is still damp, hidden as it is under the canopy of trees and rooted in the wet earth. And the air remains cold, even though the sky is almost entirely cloudless, with only a few wisps painted pale against a canvas of deep blue. The forest unchanging, the trees thick, the foliage full in the first blossoming of the late spring, and the land undulating gently as the hills rise and fall, all accompany Eldárien on his journey. The first significant change in scenery he comes upon is a narrow river threading its way through the woods, the water fast and gurgling against the rocks of its bed. It would be easy to cross, as in most places the stream is only three or four feet across, and relatively shallow, boulders breaking the surface in places and creating billowing trails of white foam across the surface of the water. But rather than crossing the stream, he follows along beside it, since it flows forth from the northwest, the direction in which he wishes to travel.
He continues in this mannerpast midday, keeping the river to his right, closer or nearer as may be, as it weaves back and forth along the path it has carved out over the course of time, between tree and stone, hill and dell. Only when the sun is high overhead and beginning to dip westward does the landscape begin to change. The density of the trees begins to lessen, and the undulating rise and fall of the hills gives way to a steady upward slope, quite steep though marked with numerous crevices rutted into its surface, with rocks littering its sides. Eldárien follows the slope for a good distance, for perhaps half an hour, until it crests and reveals a wide expanse of rugged plain stretching before him. He stands now at the meeting of the hills and the highlands, the edge of the forest and the start of the tundra. This tundra, at least at this time of year, is not icy or snow-laden but rather cloaked in brown and gray heather and also budding forth with varied flowers of yellow, blue, and white, some of which first peek from the earth underneath the snow and appear from it as it melts in the great thaw of spring. With the prolonged cold of a long-clinging winter, however, the richness of the springtime is subdued, and the flowers are few, some in full bloom and some still buds yet to open, even after the snow has bid its farewell
Here Eldárien pauses in his trek to the northwest and explores his surroundings for any clue that would aid him. And such is not long in coming, as only a couple hundred yards to the south he finds the carcass of an elk lying among the grass, with an arrow still embedded in its flesh. Eldárien removes the arrow and inspects it; it is of the same kind as those he has in his own quiver. It is evident that Rórlain shot the elk, but did it flee from him and die without him finding it, or was it here that Rórlain was led aside from his hunt, whether through force or curiosity? It is not likely that the elk fled, Eldárien notes to himself, since the location of the puncture would have killed it quickly, if not instantly. What then? He rises to his feet and scans the landscape surrounding, within many yards of the elk, then down on the hillside to the east, and north and south along the plains, until at last, returning closer to the elk, he finds markings in the grass shortly to the west, which he had missed upon first inspection. The grass is trampled and the earth kicked up, as if here some sort of confrontation occurred. The marks of boots are visible, whereas until this point in his journey he has seen few, a stray print in a spot of mud or in soft bare soil, and none since leaving the forest. But here the prints are more vivid and clearly defined, because the grass itself in places is torn up and the soil exposed. With this, Eldárien's heart sinks. The fears borne by Ródric and himself seem to have been realized, as whatever beast had torn up the earth to remove the carcass of the bear also seems to have found Rórlain and, judging from the markings in the earth, to have attacked him. But where has he gone now, and what has befallen him?
Finding no body nor sign of blood, Eldárien allows himself to cling still to hope that he may yet be alive. Stirred by this hope, Eldárien attempts to follow the tracks away from the site of the tussle and realizes, gratefully, that this is not difficult to accomplish. The grass is bent and broken under heavy footsteps trailing almost directly to the west. But what kind of creature would have trampled the earth so easily? Something large and without delicacy or lightness in its walk or its bearing. This appears to be a creature that—unlike the other creatures living in the region, which respect the environment that feeds them and leave almost no trace behind them of their passing—crushes and mars what it touches.
After following the trail for the better part of an hour, Eldárien comes to a great rift in the earth, looking as if it were cut open with a massive blade wielded by giants or split by an earthquake ages ago. The crevice's appearance is surprising, not because of the texture of the rippling stone walls or the floor, but because there is no clear indication as to how such a rift came to be; it certainly was not carved by the flow of water, as there is no point of outflow. It appears rather like a monstrous mouth gaping open in the face of the earth, a rift caused by some secret subterranean shifts that rippled to the surface. The path of enigmatic footprints and torn earth that he has been following leads him into the ravine, and it is not difficult to enter, as the land slopes gradually down until rock walls dressed in tufts of grass and clinging vines stand tall to his right and his left. The air here is dense and still and deathly quiet—not with the silence that sings, with the silence that opens up a space in which the heart can dilate and expand, but with a silence that is oppressive, even suffocating. Almost unconsciously, the thought comes to Eldárien, and he finds himself whispering, "This is a place of death." But the sound of his voice dies on his lips, as if snuffed out or consumed by the oppressive air around him.
Fear stirsunbidden in his heart and he tries to suppress it, but he cannot help that his pulse quickens and a knot forms in his stomach and a lump in his throat. Cautiously he moves forward along the floor of the ravine, staying close to the wall on his right in case anything is looking along the narrow passage created by the crevice to see signs of movement. As he walks, bones of various animals begin to litter the floor—those animals that were unlucky enough to be the food of whatever beast lives in this rift in the earth. Eldárien tries to shake off the thought flooding his imagination of a human body lying among the other creatures, lifeless or even reduced, like the animals, to nothing but skeletal remains.
And the air grows dark, as if even the normal amount of sunlight that would filter into the ravine between the fissure of rock above him is hindered, forbidden from entering this dark and cheerless place. But Eldárien continues to move forward in the dim half-light, as if walking through a land in which all is shadow, all is shade, with no substance. He keeps one hand on the wall, taking courage from the cold and solid stone under his touch, proof that this is not a world of shadow and illusion only but of truth, even if the darkness seeks to veil it. Progressing in this manner, he at last comes to a place where the wall to his right gives way, and he almost falls over as he reaches forward and clutches nothing but air. But he catches his balance and stands still, listening and looking, trying to discern shapes in this gloom and to hear any sounds that will give form to his disorientation. An uncanny and unnatural air blows upon his face from somewhere to his right, where he had expected a wall to be. Perhaps this air, this subterranean breathing, finds its source in anunderground cavern, as it is not unlike the deep breath of the barrow of Séra Galáptes, though it feels more malevolent in nature, if such a thing is possible.And if Eldárien is to descend even deeper into earth and shadow, how shall he navigate in this twilight of light and form without becoming utterly lost? Then a thought occurs to him, and he kneels on the ground for a moment and loosens his pack from his shoulders. He removes from the bundle that was given to him by Mórlof the oil and cloth that it contains, and he feels around on the ground for a stick, a fallen branch, or something that he could use to make a torch. But even as he does so he knows that it is not a feasible search. There are no trees in the ravine, nor even on the surface above it.
After kneeling in the silence thinking for a long moment, with the chill wind blowing against his face, Eldárien stirs and quietly unsheathes his sword. At the end of the blade he ties the cloth, tightly so it will not slip away, and douses it in the oil. It will burn for a time, but since there is no wood to serve as extra fuel and to sustain the flame, this sword-torch will not last as long as he would wish. This done, he then, as quietly as he can,strikes stones together until sparks fall on the cloth and ignite it. The end of the sword then bursts into flame. He rises and hurries ahead, the sword extended in front of him. The shadowy, formless darkness still hems him in on every side, and the light of the torch seems frail and weak as it tries in vain to dispel the impenetrable gloom. Nonetheless it gives him just enough light to navigate by—at least four, perhaps six feet in front of him, though beyond that is shadow. He stays close to the wall still, now more for navigation than for secrecy, and finds the ground beneath him descending rapidly. Having turned to the right from the main body of the ravine, he is, he suspects, entering some kind of side passage or cavern carved out of the earth either by nature or by beast. He cannot tell which, as when he looks up he sees neither roof nor sky, but only shadow, a lifeless gray quickly descending into formless blackness.
The light of the makeshift torch flickers as the cloth is gradually consumed, but it keeps burning, and Eldárien presses on. Soon the ground beneath him levels out. Then the wall he has been using to aid in his progress once again falls away beneath his hand. He takes a hesitant step forward and raises the sword high, scanning the shadows with his eyes. The distinct sense comes to him that he has stepped into a wide chamber, a vast open space, in which lies also the source of the shadows that surround him. He pauses, holds his breath, and listens, and beyond the sound of the torch he hears another sound that constricts his throat: breathing, deep, raspy breathing as of a creature much larger than a man, larger indeed than any creature that Eldárien has ever encountered.
He feels an urge to turn back, to flee to the realm of light from which he came, but he resists it, hoping that nearby is to be found one—still living—who also wishes to return to the light and cannot do so on his own. So, mustering all the courage that he can find within himself, slim and frail though it may be, Eldárien begins walking again, even if his walk now is more like creeping, with as little sound as possible, toward the sound of breathing. But the torch! What good will sneaking be if he is carrying a burning light that will immediately reveal his location? Yet what wisdom lies in extinguishing the torch when he will then be left defenseless against whatever makes the cavern its home, a creature which most likely can see in the darkness with no sources of light at all. And yet he sees no choice but to leave the light he holds so as to avoid detection, and he kicks the burning cloth from the tip of the blade and lets it fall to the ground, where it continues to burn. He leaves it as it is in the hopes that it may give him some small illumination, even at a distance, as he walksinto complete darkness: an atmosphere of both secrecy and terror.Yet without hesitating any more, and with naked blade held before him in both hands, Eldárien moves forward, eyes squinted in the effort to see and ears attentive to the slightest sound.
The creature slumbers. This is the awareness that comes to him immediately as he approaches a massive shape in the darkness, a shape that takes form before him in the dim light flickering from the flames behind him, with thick skin wrinkled and dark, appearing hard like reinforced leather or perhaps like stone itself. The shape rises and falls to the sound of the breathing, which reverberates loudly in the enveloping stillness. The thought stirs in Eldárien's mind to plunge his sword deep into the flesh of the sleeping beast, and to do so repeatedly until the breath is no more. But uncertain what effect this would truly have, he instead draws back and makes his way quietly around the creature, searching for the one whom he came to find and, if possible, to save. As he walks and searches, the word forms unbidden in his mind: eöten. Could this creature truly be an eöten, one of the ancient monsters of old, fashioned of the very darkness in the time before memory, and bane of mortal existence upon the earth? Trolls they have often been called in the common tongue, though there are many kinds, from twisted mockeries of the human figure, greater in size and twisted in disproportionate shape, to creatures resembling the animals but morphed beyond recognition and yet in this alteration made stronger, more deadly and more difficult to slay. Eldárien does not know if it is even possible to permanently slay one of these monstrosities, though there are rumors of terrible wars in the past where men fought against great numbers of these beasts. At this thought, Eldárien is glad that he has stayed his hand and withheld the urge to strike. And another thought immediately follows this: he realizes how immeasurably fortunate it was for him to happen upon the beast while it slept, rather than in its waking moments.
Encouraged by this thought, he explores the cavern and, after only a little time, comes upon the figure of a man slumped against a great boulder, chin resting against his chest, which rises and falls softly as he breathes.Reaching out and placing his hands upon the man, trying to raise him up, Eldárien realizes, to his grief, that he is tied by the wrists with large, rough ropes to the boulder against which he leans. Setting down his sword, Eldárien tries to untie the knots that bind the man, but finds that they are too tight, obviously fastened by hands of inhuman strength. So he picks up his blade again and tries cutting the rope, first pulling at it, then sawing at it, in the effort to loose its hold on the man he came to save, if Rórlain this truly be. But this proves to be of no avail, and just as Eldárien begins to lose hope, he hears a voice speak. He knows not whether it resounds within him, within his own mind and heart, or whether it reaches him from without, though in either case he experiences it as an unbidden but not unwelcome guest. And the voice causes no fear and stirs no anxiety. Rather, it reverberates through him like a wave of calm, and Eldárien finds his heart ease into an unexpected peace and relaxation, born of a trust that springs up spontaneously within him from an unknown source.
"Lightborn, fear not. Your path has been seen and marked out."
"Who...who addresses me?" Eldárien finds himself whispering in response.
"My name is Hiliána, guardian of things that live and compassionate guide and companion."
"Hiliána..." Eldárien unconsciously looks around, as if he expects a woman to approach him out of the shadows, glowing with mysterious light. But he sees nothing, even as a light burns brighter within the recesses of his heart.
"You wish to free this man, and you have risked much to come to him, facing the fear that would hold you back. And he will be freed. Be certain of this. But also know that fear much deeper and darkness much blacker await you on your path. But I shall be with you."
Eldárien stands silently for a long moment, his sword held loosely at his side, letting these words echo and take up their home within him, as if time no longer has any importance or, in this conversation, has even ceased to exist. But at last he is stirred by the voice arising again and addressing him, "Raise your blade and cut the ropes. They will fall away easily now. For this sword is henceforth blessed and shall be called the lightbringer, for it will be a scourge of darkness and a servant of light. For the darkness of night is heavy now, descending unto midnight, and even the stars seem to humanity to have grown dim, though they never cease to shine for those who have eyes to see." The voice pauses, as if giving these words time to sink deeply into the soul, and then continues, "You are to stand for the light, little one, for it has chosen you. And know that, however dark it may seem, the promised dawn shall come. Your small part is to be a harbinger of the light in the midst of the night."
With this the voice fades away, and Eldárien feels the sword vibrate in his hand, and suddenly it is shot through with a bluish light, the blade thoroughly illumined and casting a subtle but penetrating light through the surrounding darkness. He raises the sword and with ease cuts away the ropes from the wrists of the man whose form and features he can now easily see in the dim light. Kneeling down beside the man, he looks into his face and recognizes features strikingly resembling those of Ródric, albeit younger. The man has thick, dark hair curling around his ears and a beard of a few inches bristling against his chest, against a leather hunting shirt now torn and streaked with blood.Eldárien lifts him on his back and turns to leave the chamber. But as he raises his eyes, the shadows lessen, as if fleeing to the corners of the room, and he sees before him the sleeping figure of a great beast, humanoid but twisted, with ugly and distorted features, as if evil itself were made flesh and tried to take the guise of a man, though thrice his size and misshapen beyond recognition. And Eldárien knows in this moment, knows that unless he smites this evil, it will continue to plague the land, killing the animals of the forest and the tundra and taking even human life and bringing it to an anguished end in much suffering in a place of shadow and darkness.
And so he steps cautiously forward, Rórlain on his back and the lightbringer in his hands. But he takes only a few steps closer before the beast stirs. A low groan escapes from its body, and it rises from slumber, stretching and shifting until standing to its full height. In the fear that overtakes him, the air flees from Eldárien's body and he feels faint, as if about to collapse and slip from consciousness. He squats down and allows Rórlain to slide softly to the floor before forcing himself back to his feet and raising his sword before him. I cannot do this, he thinks involuntarily, but then, gritting his teeth, No, I must.
Evil eyes are laid upon him, and the creature roars with fury. It leaps upon him with incredible agility and strength, and Eldárien is knocked backward onto the cold stone, with Rórlain beside him. The beast raises its hand to bash Eldárien, to crush him into death, but he is able to roll aside with but a split second to spare. Yet as he attempts to rise the creature swipes at him again. Instinctively he raises his sword to parry the blow, and it is thrust from his hands, clattering across the stone, and its light begins to dim. Even as the beast bears down upon him again Eldárien reacts, without the need for further thought, overcome by the need of the moment and by the grace of the light, and thanks to his years of training and experience. Dodging the vicious blows,he ducks away and leaps toward his weapon. Once his hand is laid upon the hilt he turns his body and, with both hands gripping the sword, thrusts the blade upward into the torso of the beast, pushing with all the strength he can muster. And to his surprise the weapon slides smoothly through the rough and hardened flesh, deep into its chest, and dark blood blacker than the blackest of night streams out from the wound. Light blazes from the sword as the beast recoils, a single scream of anguish escaping from its lips, and then it collapses, not into a heap upon the floor but into dust, as if its very body disintegrates and turns to nothingness upon contact with the light. Witnessing this, Eldárien sighs deeply and sinks again to the earth, exhausted and spent, and his eyes close as he slips from consciousness.