Eldárien and Rórlain make camp under the canopy of stars, the sky unobstructed above them except for that part hidden by the mountains rising in the west, snow-capped but now a dull mass of black against the speckled firmament. They have traveled four days across the highlands, walking for most of the day with only one or two stops for rest and food. At night, they find the most sheltered places that they can amid the wide expanse of the land, which is barren except for scattered boulders, a littering of a few trees, birch and alder, and clefts in the earth through which run crevices or from which rise cliffs of dirt and stone, five, ten, sometimes fifteen feet high, only just as quickly to merge back into the flat and formless earth once again. It is as if the land was scarred in times long past by a great earthquake or by torrents of water cutting their way rapidly across the land, tearing long scars into the earth or pushing up banks of higher ground from the uniform surface. But whatever processes formed this long stretch of land under the shadow of the high peaks of the Teldren range to the west and yet looking down on the hills and forest to the east as they make their way to the sea, no one now remembers. The Aldéra Highlands are like a great shelf of land jutting eastward out of the feet of the mountains, a shelf that has broken into pieces and creased, as if a piece of cloth were pushed simultaneously from both ends and became wrinkled by the force exerted upon it.
The night is cold, but not as cold as it has been so far in their journey, and they sit around a small fire which crackles and sputters as it consumes the minimal amount of fuel they could find among the grasses and sparse trees of the highlands. Without tent or shelter, they have been sleeping with nothing but fur bedrolls to keep out the elements; but until now this has not been a problem, as not even a rain has come since they left the woods. The weather has been fair, a true onset of spring, however delayed. Yet as much as the pleasantness of the weather encourages them, they know that much of this warmth will be forfeit when they approach the foothills of the mountains. The numerous little springs that trickle down from these mountains, gurgling among the rocks, witness to the snows, some melting with the change in weather and yet many remaining unchanged even into the warmer parts of the year. Their water is icy cold, and the two men use it to refill their waterskins, to bathe, and to cook. But now, with a stream not far away whispering softly in the night, they sit together near the fire, its vivid light upon their faces and casting heavy shadows all about them.
"I still struggle to understand," Rórlain begins, "what exactly you hope to find in Séra Galáptes. Shall we simply engage in combat any of these creatures should we happen upon them? And if so, what good does that do for us?"
"I was hoping, rather, to find whatever may be disturbing their rest."
"It seems like a frail hope and a weak expectation."
"I grant as much," Eldárien says. "I have not much hope, but I know not where else to turn. If anything, we will have ruled out one avenue and will be able to direct our steps upon another."
"If that is all we have at the moment, then that shall be good enough," affirms Rórlain. "I don't have any better suggestions."
"It should be, I think, another four or five days until we reach the foothills," Eldárien says, changing the subject. "But even then, if my understanding of the landscape serves me correct, we will need to skirt around the base of the range—much more feasible than trying to climb it—if we are to draw near to Fálstead and the barrow of Séra Galáptes behind it. It is nestled quite deep between the mountains, in a natural basin. So I expect another week and a half of travel, perhaps more depending on the speed of our progress."
Rórlain nods in response to these words, and the two men sink into silence for a while, before he says to Eldárien, "I want to thank you again...for accepting me upon your journey."
"I am the one who should thank you," replies Eldárien. "As I have said before, I lead you into danger, perhaps unto death."
"You also led me out of a place of death. My life is indebted to you both in gratitude and in justice, and so I shall follow you to whatever end."
"I wish you would follow another," Eldárien sighs. "I have led many men into danger and death, both their own and that of others."
Rórlain looks at him with questioning eyes but does not speak, as if afraid to force anything that Eldárien does not wish. Yet the latter volunteers the information freely, "If you are to travel with me, it is only right that you know the path I have taken to this place." And he explains to Rórlain his former role in the Imperial army and the circumstances leading to his return to Telmérion. He does not hide, either, the fact that, in the name of the Empire, he had acted with injustice and cruelty on the pretext of following the orders of his superiors. "The path that I walk now is seeking to set right in some manner the ills that I myself have either perpetrated or ignored and to discover some way that I may be of aid to our hurting people." Looking deep into Rórlain's eyes, he adds, "I understand if this changes the way that you see me."
"If it changes anything," Rórlain replies immediately, "it only deepens my respect for you and my trust in the integrity of your heart. Thank you for speaking so openly with me."
"Perhaps I should have done so from the beginning."
"I understand why you waited, and I am content," Rórlain says with a sober smile. "In fact, there is something I should perhaps have told you as well. At any rate, it would be wrong of me now to hide it, hearing what you have told me."
Eldárien waits silently for Rórlain to continue, which he does shortly, after he has gathered within himself either the presence of mind or the courage necessary to speak.
"I too come from warfare, though it has marked your life and scarred your experience much more deeply than it has mine. Perhaps Father told you that I was away from home for a few years?"
"I think he mentioned it offhandedly at one point."
"Well, during that time I traveled to Minstead and sought to join up with the rebellion."
Seeing Eldárien's expression, he laughs softly and adds, "Worry not. We are not enemies. Not in any way."
"Clearly," Eldárien says, "I am no longer fighting for the Empire."
"But you still have your oath."
"That I do." Eldárien breathes deeply and pauses in thought for a moment before adding, "But I know not what it means to be faithful to that oath under the present circumstances. Is that why we are not enemies? You think I will side with the rebellion?"
"No, that is not it at all!" Rórlain exclaims, raising his hands as if in protestation. "I am sided with neither the Empire nor the rebellion. I think we are much alike, Eldárien, not only in what we have learned from the experience of war but in our hearts' purpose. For we both side with Telmérion and her people."
"You speak truly," Eldárien agrees.
"And I can speak from the other side of the field of battle, if such an expression be allowed," Rórlain continues. "The night grows late, but I will share much more with you soon, as not only do you deserve to know everything—and it may help to guide us in our journey—but also because I want you to know. There can be no secrets between us, particularly not of a nature that could sever us from one another, from a sole intent toward a single goal. Indeed, I desire there to be among us not only a single goal, but a unified path to that goal."
"You speak with wisdom," Eldárien says, "and I will look forward to hearing more of your story soon. But you have already well gained my trust, so I despise not the time of waiting."
"Thank you," says Rórlain with a bow of the head. "And I hope that when you hear what I have to say, that trust will only deepen. No, not trust. What I mean is rather that our vision may align more and more in insight and intent, and thus our paths converge as our hearts have first been intertwined."
Eldárien laughs softly at this, not in humor or mockery but in gratitude and delight, and says, "Truly the crossing of our paths has been arranged by a vision much greater than our own. It is a boon far beyond my hope or expectation."
After this they speak little more before retiring for the night, and they depart not long after sunrise the next morning. By the end of the following day, the land begins to rise gradually, and the rocky crevices cutting through the earth increase both in number and depth. Soon they find it necessary to navigate their way around these rifts, either scaling the cliffs or walking around them upon whatever grassy turf or level stone they can find, and this slows their progress. Eldárien begins to lead them further to the south even as they still progress toward the mountains, walking most often in a southwesterly direction, though even this, because of the terrain, often becomes straight south or straight west, depending on need.
At last, after five days of travel, they come near to the feet of the mountains, with rocky slopes rising quickly ahead of them, grasses and various trees growing from the cracks in the stone like streaks or veins of color and life in the hard and colorless face. Here they turn directly south and follow along the line of the mountains, which, after passing around the base of a great cliff which rises above them to a snowy peak clothed in mist and cloud, begins to curve gradually southwestward. "It is not far now," Eldárien remarks. "We will be entering Galas Basin within a day or two."
It is true. In the late morning of the second day after this remark, the two men stand in the midst of a wide span of land that rises on either side of them, climbing up to mountains on both their right and their left with an escarpment cradled between them. The trees have returned now, too, and as they progress, the barren land is replaced by thick foliage and eventually by a dense wood. Here, despite the altitude, a great variety of vegetation thrives, ferns, carpets of avens, and tussocks of saxifrage along the floor of the forest, and trees of aspen and spruce and towering pines reaching up to the sky and creating a lush canopy overhead. Through this canopy and among the massive trunks of the trees, which stand like sentinels of the ages, light shines in shafts of visible light. The luminosity is made almost tangible, as it were, within the thin mist that blankets the basin, a glowing white sheet that dampens their clothing and their hair as they progress.
A couple days later, in the early evening, they draw near to Fálstead. Cresting a small hillock, they find themselves looking down upon the skeleton of the village, the structures of buildings long slumbering and now garmented in moss and vines and interspersed with young trees, all the while engulfed on all sides by the wider forest that clothes the basin from mountain to mountain. Eldárien pauses and draws in a deep breath, allowing his eyes to scan the village which is laid before their eyes in its entirety. Rórlain takes a step back and remains silent.
"Almost twenty years," Eldárien says at last. "It has been almost twenty years since I was last here."
His heart aches, and he tries to stifle the memories that threaten to engulf him were he only to allow them to spread. They must come, he knows, but not here, and not now. He intends to at least enter the village with Rórlain and to find what they shall find. He intends to at least make camp somewhere first, before giving free vent to his emotions, feeling what he must feel and thinking what he must think. He turns to Rórlain, "Well, shall we go?"
"Upon your word."
"Then let us descend. It looks deserted, so it may serve well also as a shelter for the night."
They pick their way among the trees and foliage and stone, down from the hillock, until the land flattens beneath them and the first buildings of the village appear around them. Few are left untouched by fire, and most are hardly more than the rubble of a few remaining posts, perhaps a chimney standing alone in a pile of burned wood or a doorway of post and lintel with no door and no interior to protect.
"I am surprised," Rórlain says softly, as they walk among the ruins, an overgrown stone path hinting to its presence beneath their feet, "that this place has not since been inhabited."
"The Relihím have their own way of life," Eldárien replies, "and it seldom involves living in one place for long. No, having a stable village would not be their way. They could have taken it if they wished, but it seems it was enough for them simply to destroy. And I suppose there was little reason for others to come to this place to rebuild a village that was never their own."
"So why then do they cause such destruction?" Rórlain asks. "Is it truly simply because those who are destroyed cannot fight back?"
"I fear so. And if there is no village left, it is not likely that others will come to occupy it. And there is also no accounting for the depth of malicious delight that a perverted mind can find in acts of violence and destruction."
Even in its shattered state, Eldárien recognizes the village of his youth, and before his mind's eye, the ruined buildings are, as it were, again made whole. On its abandoned streets again walk the humble and beautiful people among whom he grew and learned and whom he had loved so simply and naively. He sees Sjót the blacksmith, pounding away with a hammer in the heat of the forge, sweat on his face and a gleam in his eyes, looking up and smiling as Eldárien walks past. He sees Fára and her husband, Kómen, sitting on a log bench in front of their house, while their three children play along the path: Tûlka, Halía, and Kærk. Unconsciously, Eldárien steps out of the way so as not to interfere with the children's play, only to feel a new tear open up in his heart at the realization that they are now nothing more than a memory within him, however vivid. As the two men move further into the village, Eldárien raises his eyes and sees the town square before them, a circle of cobbled stone with a statue in the middle—a statue now torn down and cast to the earth, with thick vines interweaving across it and the pedestal alone remaining standing. Here Eldárien kneels down and begins to pull away the clinging vines.
"Can you help me?" he asks, turning his gaze to Rórlain.
"Certainly."
When the vines have been removed, the two men look down upon the fractured figure of an ancient king, a crown upon his brow and a sword in his hands, elegant armor covering his breast and a cape upon his back.
"Séra Galáptes," whispers Eldárien, and then adds, with a gesture to the pedestal, "The inscription is there, in ancient runes."
"Was this his seat of government?" Rórlain asks.
"Oh, no... He lived higher in the mountains, in a city of stone which has long lain in ruin. It is said that dragons came from the north, from the highest peaks, stirred to jealousy by the achievements of men. That, along with the wars of humankind, and perhaps wars with something even more vicious than men, brought an end to the line of the once glorious Galapteäni kings. And so ended the most noble kingship that the world has known, one blessed by the divines themselves." Eldárien pauses and sighs before rising to his feet. "But now what is it? Dust and ashes."
"The memory has been all but forgotten," Rórlain observes. "It is surprising that you recall so much."
"It is written deep in the memory of our people," Eldárien answers, "or it was. I am the last remaining of those who lived in this village for generations. Of course, the blood of this once glorious clan continues to flow in the veins of many, near and far, but by most our history is much forgotten."
"Your clan?" Rórlain asks. "But the Galapteäni ruled before the clans were even born, in the ages before Telmérion became what it is today, or what it was even in the centuries of warfare."
"Such history is shrouded in darkness, and we know very little. However, the clans existed long before they were unified by Séra Galáptes, and even his own clan, I believe, went by another name. The Galapteäni, in these earlier years, were also caught deeply in the inter-clan wars that ravaged the land, and it was from among them that arose one who was able to surmount bloodshed and to establish peace. Like so many others, our history is marked with unjust blood, but within it too can be found moments of heroism, justice, and peace." With this, Eldárien bends down toward the statue and says, "Will you help me lift it?"
"We can try."
Together the two men are able to raise the fallen statue from the ground and to place it again upon its pedestal.
"Even though they have departed, the dead deserve our respect," Eldárien remarks, and Rórlain knows that he speaks of more than just the statue of the ancient king.
"I would like," begins Eldárien, after a long moment of silence, "to be alone for a while. Would that be alright?"
"It is only fitting," Rórlain answers. "I will have a look around myself and perhaps find a good place to set up camp."
"I will find you soon enough."
"Of course. Take your time."
With this Eldárien turns away and continues along the path, letting the memories return and wash over him again. If he had avoided recalling the early years of his life until this point, now that he finds himself here again in the very place of his most grievous loss, the longing stirs within him to return to it, to call it all to mind, to reverence and remember and abide. Is it not this longing which drew him here in the first place, which led him to return here, to enter the village, when he could have easily passed by on the way to the barrow?
I know that I cannot move forward unless I am willing to look back, he thinks to himself, and he feels the desire stir within him to cast an anchor over the recent years of his life—years of bloodshed and war—to the purity and simplicity of his youth. If only it were possible to recapture it, even in small measure! With these thoughts, he raises his eyes and sees the remains of Aédin's house, now an empty and hollow shell. This man, his tutor and guide, had truly been as a second father to him from his earliest days. He recalls his face and his form now, with the eyes of his heart, and finds himself transported in memory back into the past. Aédin's reddish-brown hair, thick and pulled back into a ponytail, dances in the breeze, with a few loose strands blowing in front of his face. Brushing these aside, he says, "One more time, my son." It is his usual manner of expression, though Eldárien is not his son; it feels fitting for both of them, a title of tenderness and affection, which in no way lessens the bond between Eldárien and Bierand, his father by blood. It is a joyful agreement between both men that they love and care for the boy, with one fruit only: that he himself feels by it doubly blessed.
"I'll get you this time," young Eldárien says, raising his wooden sword in front of his body and planting his feet firmly in the ground.
"Will you, now?" responds Aédin with a smile. He too raises his practice sword and waits for the younger to initiate.
They engage for a few swings, Aédin parrying Eldárien's strikes and yet being blocked in turn, until Eldárien succeeds in breaching his tutor's defenses and laying a blow against his chest.
"The match is yours," Aédin says, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender.
"You gave me an opening!" Eldárien cries.
"Yes, but you took it. This shows that you are learning."
"But I want to beat you fairly."
"You did beat me fairly."
"I mean, I want to beat you when you are trying your best."
"I expect that someday you will. You are learning quickly and well." Aédin looks at Eldárien with a mysterious glimmer in his eyes and then says, "What say you to a little walk?"
"In the woods?"
"Aye, and upward."
"Upward?"
"Just a little ways, until you can see the whole village laid out before your eyes."
"What are we waiting for? Let's go!"
And so they walk up through the woods, through the dense trees and undergrowth, as the ground gradually rises under their feet. Before long, they come to a wide shelf of stone rising out of the earth, like a rift from the mountain jutting into the basin of land in which Fálstead lies. Aedin leads Eldárien around its base and then helps him climb up onto the stone at the lowest spot.
"Come, we are almost there," Aédin says, gesturing for Eldárien to follow. He leads him along the top of the shelf, which rises quickly to their right, until the stone itself stands above the trees, reaching out like some great finger of the earth pointing toward the sky. "Here we are. Look."
Eldárien turns and gazes out in the direction in which Aédin waves his hand and exclaims softly, "Ah..." The entire treeline between them and the village is laid beneath their gaze, the tops of the trees swaying gently in the breeze and their leaves rustling softly like water. In the distance from which they came, the houses of Fálstead are visible, their wood or thatched roofs glowing in the sun and smoke rising in spirals from many chimneys. From this vantage point, Eldárien can see the shape of the village and the layout of its paths, practical and yet elegant, a single main road down the middle with three branches on either side, almost like an eight-pointed star.
"Someday you are going to leave this village, Eldárien," Aédin begins, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "And I want you to remember what I have taught you. I don't mean the swordplay techniques, but the honor—the fidelity, humility, and spirit of service." He looks at Eldárien, and the glimmer in his eyes turns into an ocean of tenderness, a torrent of love. "Man is very small and yet also very great. In this lies the mystery of every human life, your own as well as mine."
† † †
The memory fades, and Eldárien finds himself standing on the overgrown path, the ruins of Aédin's house before him and tears in his eyes. He remains looking for a while longer, unable to move, as the grief washes over him, hesitant to leave this place behind, to say a final farewell to his mentor, but hesitant also to come to the home of his family, in which a threefold mourning awaits him. But he does so, forcing his feet along the path and gradually approaching the house. And yet he stops short, thirty or so yards before it, at the place where the last words of his father were spoken and his life so violently taken. The images flash before Eldárien's mind, and yet they mingle with other images, unbidden, which arise before him, of the blood that he too has spilled, of the death that his own blade has inflicted. The two images merge in his mind's eye, and for a moment, it is as if the two acts of murder are inseparable, identical, the butchery of his father at the hand of the lawless brigands and the deaths inflicted by Eldárien's own sword at the command of his superiors, as an arm of the Empire's might. At this, nausea overtakes him and he must restrain himself to keep from vomiting.
He tries to think through what he is experiencing, but his mind is overwhelmed, and the images of violence, all blurred together, suffocate him, and with them, a stinging feeling of shame and loss—loss not only of his family and friends—but loss of innocence, loss of being unconditionally on the side of goodness. He had assumed as a child and as a young man, rightly or wrongly, that he was sided with goodness, that his intentions and his acts were unquestionably good, or at least striving toward the good. It is not that he consciously took pride in his acts or in what he understood of his heart's desires, but he did take consolation in them, a subtle but true haughtiness and smugness which is a temptation for every person upon this earth. Yet through the crucible of flame through which he has passed these last twenty years, the very roots of this tendency have been scoured and destroyed. And now, as he stands at the place where his father died, he sees his own heart divided, torn between good and evil, between light and darkness, aspiring toward goodness and yet falling short, seduced by darkness and making excuses out of fear or convenience or the blindness that clouds every human heart.
Despite his best intentions, he has fallen immeasurably short of his deepest desires and indeed has stained his hands with blood and his heart with evil. How then can he ever hope to stand on the side of goodness and light once again? How can a man who has chosen darkness ever be light or stand for the light? Surely such a thing is not even possible. While his heart is divided, tormented by these thoughts and feelings, another word breaks through, only for a moment, only for a flash, and yet its effect lingers within him: "Lightborn." The name carries within it all that Hiliána had spoken to him—all the words of light and love and encouragement—and they pour into him a current of hope that collides with the ocean of shame and despair that threatens to overtake him.
He tries to lean into the current, to grasp for some semblance of light in his heart, but he finds nothing within himself, nothing that is not sullied by evil. Then he turns beyond himself, as if reaching out with the hands of his heart to the light that lies beyond the darkness, and in this moment he realizes that his very reaching out is light, is goodness, however weak, however fragile. It is light reaching unto light... In this, a flame begins to burn in his heart again, his own and yet not his own, beyond him and yet within him, which he can never claim as his own and yet which has been entrusted to him as his most intimate truth.
I... he begins to think and then falters, overcome by a surge of emotion, a depth of feeling that contains within it, as it were, all that he has felt throughout his life commingled together and made one. The words form within his mind now, even though they are more than words, or words containing more than they are, a deep certainty inscribed upon the heart. I am not the light, but I am saved by the light, chosen by the light, born of the light. In this alone lies my hope of standing for the light, yes, of becoming light.
After this, the experience gradually fades, though lingering with him as if taking up residence somewhere deep within the recesses of his being. Raising his eyes, he looks about him, the rays of the setting sun now bathing the village in light, painting the air and the ruins and the trees and the sky with shades of purple and pink. He draws in breath and takes a step forward, and then another, and, gaining courage, comes at last to his childhood home. There are no walls, no door, and yet he does not stand outside looking even for a moment. Rather, he enters the building, or what remains of it, with the silhouette of its form still visible upon the ground, etched in ash. Looking around, he sees that nothing is left to distinguish his family home from any other, not a single heirloom or memento. The house was clearly gutted and then burned, and nothing remains now but rubble, foundation, and a stone hearth, half-collapsed, standing like a lonely and wounded sentinel over the place where his family used to gather in love and security.
But he knows where his mother had lain the last time that he saw her in the flesh, already passed beyond the boundary of death, but her bodily form before him. He recalls her again, as if to say a final goodbye, and then kneels before where she had lain, placing his forehead against the ground and closing his eyes, letting the love of his heart, so long buried and yet burning always in vigil deep within, spring forth and speak to her in the language beyond words.