A great city overlooks the sea, its massive stone walls built into the very cliffs that rise above the crashing waves, as if seeking to extend them still further in the conjoining of the glories of nature and the feats of man. The streets are paved with stone, a maze of lanes crisscrossing this way and that and all a-bustle with people going to or from market or home or work or any of the other hundred possibilities in a city of this size, dwelling for sixty-five thousand people. A young man stands taking it all in, as much as can be seen from his vantage point atop one of the watchtowers on the periphery, a tower built at the very precipice of a rocky outcropping, functioning both as a place of watchfulness and of warning and a beacon for approaching ships: a watchtower, a bell-tower, and a lighthouse. The young man wonders whose decision it was to join all three functions together in a single tower—for elsewhere in the city there are all three of these, yet separate, each with its own single function. But this is, as is colloquially called, "the great watchtower," not that this explains its original construction. But it does stand high above all else in the city of Brug'hil, save for the citadel itself at the center of the city, and it is much nearer the sea, at the end of a long grassy slope climbing the side of a shelf that almost appears to be reaching out to forge its way among the waves like some vanguard in battle or vagabond in adventure.
The grassy slope, of course, is paved now, or at least some of it is, with slant and steps climbing up to the massive stone columns of which the edifice is built and the heavy wooden doors carved with intricate designs of ships upon a crashing sea with a moon shining brightly above them. The Mariner's Mural, they call it, though it is not a mural, or, less frequently, it goes by the name of Hiliana's Boon. For the moon represents Hiliana, goddess of the seas and thus of mariners, watching over their trials and travails as they navigate the treacherous waters. But what is most touching about the design is the captain—at least to the man who now stands atop the watchtower and only moments before had contemplated the door's intricate detail for as many minutes as the city guards would allow him. For the captain, if such he truly is, stands at the prow of the largest ship, the one taking the lead. Rather than cowering from the storm in fear, he stands firm, his feet planted upon the deck and his face raised to the wind and the sky, a sword in his hand lifted up as if to pierce the very air and to commune with the moon. A beam of light, etched in the wood, passes between the blade in the hand of the man and the moon that shines above him—barely noticeable among the rest of the etchings and yet clear to the perceptive eye. And many perceptive eyes there are, and in the decades, or rather centuries, since this door was carved, the mariner at the prow has come to be called the King. Why he is called king when he wears no crown and has no courtiers, it is unclear, but long has this figure—and indeed the entire mural-in-wood—been seen as a portrayal of the people of Telmerion and their journey through the tempests of history, led by the great king of their kin and protector of their people.
The young man thinks of all of this now as he stands looking out over the city of Brug'hil and the ocean that extends beyond it, the two in a ceaseless interplay: the ever churning tides of time and the striving of society for stability. But from whence does the threat to such stability arise—from the crashing waves that carry the boats forward even as endangering them, or from the heart of man himself and from his inclination to evil, his lust for power? Hence the moon, the moon is really the only thing—or rather the moon and the stars—which remains unmoving, unchanging, and thus totally secure, in the mural as in life. While young Eldarien thinks of all these things, his mind returns to his hometown, from which he was forced to flee, and to the barrow of the ancient king, Sera Galaptes. So many centuries have passed since the days of that legendary ruler, and the very face of Telmerion has changed. But in places and times so far from the origin, human hearts still long and dream for a kingship to unite them in a kingdom of peace, in a people made one, captained by the mariner of light who charts his course by the heavens rather than by the earth or the seas.
† † †
Eldarien awakes suddenly in the darkness and sits up, the dream that was more a memory than anything else swiftly fleeing away from his consciousness into the depths of his heart. He looks around and sees the form of his slumbering companions, their bodies no more than darker spots upon the ground, and then the figure of Cirien, who sits upright, keeping watch, an old and wizened man silhouetted in the dim radiance of the moon and the stars that illumine even the darkness of night, cloudless and clear, but cold. The company has ascended now almost another week into the mountains without incident either from weather or from beast, though the temperature grows steadily colder with each passing day. He rubs his eyes to remove the last lingering sleep and turns his gaze upward to the sky, the stars brilliant and undimmed overhead. As he does so, the last fragment of the dream begins to fade away. Yet he does not cling to it but rather simply thinks how grateful he is that the nightmares have now stopped for all of them. Whatever happened in the castle of darkness and in the forge that resides in its depths, the Lord of Mæres haunts them no longer, at least not in the manner that he once did. Though this latter is not necessarily a comforting thought, since it is not likely that he has been either defeated or pacified. It is more likely, rather, that he simply bides his time and prepares a plan of greater ferocity and effectiveness and likely at the cost of a great loss of human life and much suffering.
"What time is it?" Eldarien asks quietly, and Cirien stirs for a moment and turns to look at him, though there is little to see in the darkness.
"I did not know that you were awake," replies Cirien. "The night is far spent, and the day draws near. I suspect we have no more than an hour or two until the sky begins to brighten."
"I can watch for what remains, if you wish to attempt some more sleep," Eldarien says.
"I sleep less and less these days, even than the little that I did before departing from Ristfand," Cirien explains. "But I notice that you also sleep little. Why is that?"
"I suppose it is just an acquired habit. The years I spent in the midst of the threat of battle and bloodshed, cautious of ambush or danger every night, have affected me permanently. And also just the scars...the scars of everything I did and witnessed during that time."
"Does the shame still haunt you?" Cirien asks with sensitivity in his voice.
"Aye, but not as it did," answers Eldarien. "I do not know that I shall ever cease to regret what I have done nor to feel the bitter pain in my heart for it. But I would not wish for that, after all, for the inability to regret the past is not a benefit but a loss."
"But a man can also be made new," says Cirien, "and can cease to live as a slave to his past mistakes and prior infidelities."
"Perhaps so," replies Eldarien, "but I do not know that anything can set right the ill that such actions have set in motion. Nor can anything restore what they have destroyed."
"The latter may be true, in a fashion, but I question the former," Cirien says, and with this, he rises to his feet and, pulling the thick fur in which he has been wrapped, moves to a more sheltered location and lies down, drawing it tight around him. A few moments pass silently between them, and then he adds, "As I think about it, perhaps even what has been destroyed can be restored, though we know not how."
Eldarien sits reflecting upon these words for a while, his eyes looking out into the darkness. At last he replies, and all that he says is, "It still seems that the darkness is so much stronger than the light, and the forces of darkness so much more numerous. It is simply hard to believe that such a degree of destruction and loss could ever be remedied."
"Not by any power that we possess," Cirien replies. "And I suppose our part now is simply to stand against the darkness as best we can and to wield what light is given to us, what light we bear within us. No more can we do than this."
After these words, complete silence descends, and soon the heavy breathing of Cirien joins in with the chorus of the rest of the company, bringing Eldarien deep consolation in the serenity of their slumber, a vestige of repose on the verge of encroaching chaos.
† † †
Pale light begins to glow on the horizon in the east, silhouetting the mountains and outlining the forms of trees and stones and sleeping figures cradled in the valley between them. Eldarien sits, alert to his surroundings but also deep in thought, his breath a mist before him with each exhale. A soft breeze whistles down from the peaks, gentle but cold, and he shivers even though wearing multiple layers of clothing and wrapped in thick fur. The three scars upon his left cheek—inflicted by the claws of the beast called Maggot—sting in the bitter air, but he ignores this, occupied rather with thinking and listening. He has also become accustomed to pain, as accustomed as anyone can be, for under his garments he wears many stripes, not from whips or blades—though war scars too he bears—but from the torturous pleasure in which Maggot indulged by cutting open his bare flesh with claws as sharp as those of any hunting animal. The wounds have closed now, and they no more than ache after a long day's walking carrying the burdens of travel, but at first they made all movement and activity difficult and painful. But the cold does something too: it makes Eldarien stiff, as if his whole body is covered in scabs or dried blood, or as if his skin has begun to turn to stiff leather, and in order to move he must break the stiffness by an effort of the will.
But as he sits as sentinel over the camp, the day dawning after a bitterly cold night, he does not dwell on these things. Rather, he simply listens: listens not so much for any sound of danger as to the gentle song that is carried to him over the cold expanse. It is the song of a dove cooing in a distant tree, barely audible, and which would certainly be drowned out in any other location, but which, in the wide space between the mountains, echoes across a great distance. Suddenly his listening is interrupted—or rather, it welcomes another voice: the voice of Elmariyë, sounding suddenly and softly, barely audible but contrasting with the distant echo of the dove, since it is so near, only a few feet away.
His name is all that she says—"Eldarien"—in a voice that indicates that she has long been awake and yet has said nothing.
He turns his head slightly toward her, though he cannot see any more than the outline of her figure in the darkness, and replies, "What keeps you awake at night?"
"You know?" she asks.
"I think Cirien and I both know," says Eldarien. "We sleep little, each for our own reasons. And, being awake much of the night, it is impossible to fail to notice that your 'sleep' sounds much different than that of the others. Were it only the three of us, I suppose we could walk through much of the night to progress our journey—ignoring, of course, the danger of walking in mountainous terrain in the dark of night."
"I do sleep," Elmariyë answers, "only..."
"Something keeps you awake," he concludes for her.
"I also feel no need for more," she explains, "as if my body has fully recovered in but a few hours."
"I feel the same," Eldarien says. "But there is also something that draws you?" he then asks, turning to face her even though he cannot see her more deeply than with the eyes of the heart.
"Yes," she answers in a whisper, in which he can detect something akin to embarrassment or bashfulness. "I am too restless to sleep long when there is so much life to live...and when I am always longing for that which lies..." Her voice fades out before she finishes the thought.
But Eldarien again provides an answer: "Beyond?"
"Beyond," she agrees. "But also so close. It is like my heart is a wound crying out for healing or a fragment of a great mosaic yearning to be fitted again into the whole." She sighs. "But no, it is more than that: it is like I am a betrothed maiden yearning for her wedding day."
Eldarien receives her words in silence but does not reply in spoken voice. He understands something of what she means to say. And she does not need him to speak in order to feel his response resounding in the silence. But at last, he does give voice to his thoughts and feelings: "To be awakened by longing and hope rather than by shame and fear. That is a beautiful thing, and something that I never thought I would experience. But here I have been given a portion of what you bear within you, something so unexpected and so new."
"But it is your own, Eldarien," Elmariyë replies, "and not merely mine."
"I...I suppose you are right, though I fear to make it my own, to accept it as mine."
"You eagerly and without hesitation bear what belongs to others," says Elmariyë, "but you hesitate to embrace what is your own. Yet how can you carry the joys and pains of others unless you—you, Eldarien—are fully present, alive and vibrant, to carry them?"
"Until now it has come with hardly a thought," he says.
"But if the burden increases?" she asks.
"I doubt not that it shall increase," he says.
"Then you must root yourself more deeply if you are not to be submerged by what you bear." Her words echo within him, and he bows his head for a moment, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he realizes that Elmariyë now sits beside him, facing in the same direction as he, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, as if trying to keep in as much warmth as she can.
"Shall we watch the sunrise together?" she asks.
He looks at her, her youthful, kind, and wise face now visible in the gradually lightening air of the early morning, and he nods.
† † †
They depart within an hour after sunrise, a bitter wind beginning to sweep over the mountains, rustling in the trees and whistling among the hollows and crevices of stone. They continue on the path that they have been following now for close to a week; it is a trail long forgotten by human feet but kept still by many creatures of the wilderness, though from whence they come and whither they go is uncertain. There are the tracks of deer and elk, of wolves and bears, and even the tiny print-marks of hares and foxes. The trail is clearly a thoroughfare for the animals that call the mountains their home, as simple as it may be, hedged tightly left and right with brambles and bushes and overshadowed often by towering cedars and aspens. It is worn down by so much life, and thus made only more evident, a narrow furrow of packed earth clearly visible against the grasses and fallen pine needles and various leaves that cover the earth like a blanket.
After the company had departed from the valley of the dark castle, climbing the steep slope that rose behind it, they had soon found themselves in the midst of rugged terrain, more steep and difficult of ascent and navigation than anything they had yet encountered on their journey. Were it not for the trails trod by the animals, their progress would have been slowed to a pace such as almost to negate any progress they hoped to make by passing through the mountains rather than by traveling around them. But, even if such trails as they now follow are not very amenable to human feet, the animals have tended to carve out the straightest ways, and thus the difficulty of their passage is balanced by its swiftness.
The chill wind continues to bite at them throughout the morning, and the trees that surround them—and their own cloaks—are poor protection against its cold. The placid and clear sky of dawn gradually changes—through the wind blowing in from the west—to one overcast with low-hanging and fast-moving clouds of bluish-gray, whose lower portions threaten to release their moisture at any moment. When the companions have paused for respite around midday, sitting together in a clearing a few yards off the trail and eating a light meal of what remains of their quickly dwindling rations, the clouds finally break. Yet they loose not rain but snow, thick and full like a sheet of white blowing heavily in the wind and almost entirely obscuring sight. By the time they have finished their meal, the earth has already begun to clothe itself in garments of white, though more like garb haphazardly donned than elegantly dressed coverage; for the driving winds continue to move the snow and scatter it about until it finds a resting place in which to cling—a hollow among the crook of branch, root, or trunk, or the clefts of rocks, or the tangle of grass, there to find repose.
"Should we take refuge until the snow has passed?" Cirien asks, pulling the hood of his cloak tight around his face and looking out at the boughs of the trees as they sway almost violently in the wind.
"I think it would be easier to stay warm were we to keep moving," replies Eldarien. "Building a fire would be almost impossible in this weather, and yet if we stay still, I fear that the chill shall bite right into us."
"I agree," adds Rorlain. "I do not look forward to sitting here under the buffeting of wind and cold until I turn into a pile of snow or an ice sculpture. Best we keep on the path and let our efforts warm us."
Cirien nods and, looking at the others, asks, "We are all agreed then?"
They all nod in harmony, and, without another word, they gather together their belongings, steel themselves against the storm, and return to the trail.
The snow accompanies them for the rest of the day and continues even when the dull white light of day fades into the dark of night—a darkness that, due to the amount of snow that swirls about them and now also cloaks the land, is more a grayish half-light than the full black of nighttime. The moon and stars, they know, shine somewhere above them, but all is shielded from sight, both above and around, and they can make out no more than a few yards ahead of them. With the coming of night, however, despite the radiance provided by the whiteness of the snow, the last vestige of the path—gradually covered during the hours of the day—is now hidden from sight.
"We cannot go any further without risking losing our way," Eldarien says, turning back from his position in the lead to look at his companions. Their faces—as much as they are visible beneath their cloaks and heavy scarves—are red with cold, and their eyes gleam even now, both with glossy moisture as they try to look out through the dark and the cold, as well as with exhaustion, perhaps even with fear and anxiety.
"Would a torch perhaps help?" Elmariyë asks. "Granting that we could manage to light one..."
"I fear that we are nearing the point where only the full light of day—and the calming of this storm—will allow us to discern the contours of the path with certainty," Eldarien replies.
"I for one am so exhausted that I can hardly keep walking," Tilliana voices softly, "and yet I fear stopping for the cold."
"The wind has lessened a little," Rorlain says, "so perhaps we could try to build a campfire. I have done it before in weather not unlike this. And there is also enough snow now that we can enclose ourselves in it to block out the wind and even to keep in some of our native body heat."
"I think it is worth the effort," says Eldarien. "Regardless, we have little choice."
"Very well," Cirien sighs, turning about and looking around them, though little is visible beyond the blowing snow except a few nearby trees. "I had hoped that we would avoid any snows, considering it is only the beginning of autumn. Yet the terrain is against us, for we are now so high in the mountains that snow could well fall even in the height of summer."
"There is nothing we can do about it now, and there is no fruit in lamenting a decision long made," Rorlain says, turning to Cirien. "I do not think that any of us blame you nor even think that your judgment was ill made. Who knows what we would have encountered on the alternate path?"
Nods and affirmations ripple throughout the group, some more enthusiastic than others, but all honest and heartfelt.
And so they take a few minutes to search the area until they identify a small space, perhaps ten feet across, that is protected among trees and yet provides enough room for them to attempt a fire and to build a makeshift shelter. Working together, they take another half hour to build up walls and outcroppings of snow deep enough to protect all of them from the worst of the wind and snowfall and also to get a fire to light, though it continues to sputter and dance in its struggle to stay aflame in the threatening weather. By the time they huddle together in their temporary abode, each of them is shivering with cold and trying all they can to bring some warmth into their limbs which sting and burn in the frigid air.
"Stay close to one another," Rorlain says, "and let your body heat keep one another warm. The temperature is going to drop, and I fear it shall soon be deadly. I shall tend the fire to keep it alight for as long as the fuel shall allow. And...sleep, if you can."
† † †
Around midnight, the storm breaks and the snow ceases to fall. Rorlain sits near the fire, which sputters in the cold but continues to burn strong, as the clouds roll away to the east in the remaining breeze and reveal the firmament above. And as if a rainbow after a rainstorm, he sees the night-mist, the aurora, dancing in ribbons of green and purple light weaving about the mountain peaks. He leans his head back and ignores the cold that bites at his face as he watches the play of the celestial lights, so tender and so pure, and so different, in their immensity cradling the very earth, than the flickering of the tiny fire fighting to stay alive directly before him.
The darkness is naught but expectancy for the light, he thinks, or the light's rejection. May I ever abide in the first while always avoiding the second.
He turns his gaze down for a moment, and, seeing that the fuel feeding the fire is gradually being consumed, he sets the last remaining log on it, eliciting a shower of sparks as the burning logs and embers shift to accommodate the new weight placed upon them. He watches as the flames lick up around the new log, flickering and waving as they dry it out and prepare it for burning, until it, too, shall be turned into living flame. Hopefully that will be sufficient to provide adequate warmth until the coming of morning, for Rorlain does not wish to search for more wood while the night is still in her full blackness. But he knows that it will not be enough, and that within another couple hours, what burns bright now will be dwindling down to embers and ash.
With a sigh, he rises to his feet and, pulling his cloak tight around his body, steps away from the fire and from the companions' shelter, hoping in its remaining light to find more fuel. But the trees surrounding their camp are little more than black shapes in the darkness, and so he finds it necessary to search more by feeling than by sight—until, that is, he thinks to make a torch. He takes a newfound branch and lets its end catch in the campfire and uses it—in a fire that quickly flickers down to only a frail and flickering flame—to light his search. He finds five or six thick branches before the makeshift torch burns out. Shivering now with cold, he repeats this two more times, lighting the torch and hurriedly scouring the surrounding area for fallen or loose branches until the flame burns to nothing. At last, he has a sizable collection of branches, small and quick burning, admittedly, but much better than nothing.
And so he sits again, so near to the fire that his feet are almost in it, and tries to warm his face, his hands, and his body. Even the remaining breeze has now hushed to a whisper, and the land is silent, so silent that he feels that he can hear the very air breathe. The crackling and purring of the fire and the heavy breathing of his sleeping companions join in with this deeper, more enfolding breathing of the air, as if the land itself is cloaked in a living force, invisible and yet permeating, that inhales and exhales forever across her surface, echoing silently between her mountain peaks and in her valleys, taking refuge in her dells and her plains, and sweeping out indeed even across the expanses of the ocean and upward to the very brink of the heavens.
Yet Rorlain feels more than this as well, more than the breathing of the air and the presence of his companions and the warmth and light of the fire. He feels more. Ever since the light first touched him, first poured through him in the depths of the caverns beneath the castle of darkness, he has begun to feel things that he has never felt before. And while he tries to name something of this to himself, tries to get a feel, however inchoate, of the contours of this newfound reality, he realizes that the experience is twofold. On the one hand, he feels harnessed by something so much deeper and wider than he is, so much more immense, not only than his frail and little existence, but than he has ever known or been able to imagine of anything at all. And yet, by this greater reality he does not feel snuffed out, diminished, but rather simply held—held like the forest holds and sustains the lives of all the animals that call it home, or the sea is the very atmosphere in which all the creatures of the deep live and without which they would die. On the other hand, contrasting with this consoling sense of holding, and yet somehow within it, he also feels a mysterious weight, like the pain of grieving or loss or the lament of a heart that cries out at evil or injustice. These two very different realities somehow meet in his own heart and experience, as if he is meant to bridge between the two, or rather to reconcile the second with the first, to somehow let the light that holds him and all things and pours through him as through a hollow vessel, to penetrate and permeate the darkness, and in doing so, to heal it and transform it into light.
With these thoughts in his mind and heart, Rorlain drifts off to sleep, only to be stirred awake shortly by the bitter cold. He opens his eyes and sees the last lingering flames in the campfire flicker and threaten to go out. As he reaches for a branch to place on the fire, he hears a soft voice beside him, "I will tend the fire until morning. Please, get some rest." Then Eldarien's hand is placed upon his arm, and he emerges from the darkness, his face kind and clear in the dancing light from the remaining fire.
"Have you slept enough?" asks Rorlain.
"I think none of us have slept well, you least of all," says Eldarien. "But I have rested enough, and I think that I could sleep no more even if I tried."
"Then please, have a seat," offers Rorlain, with a gesture to the ground beside him. "There is something that I wanted to ask you, and then I shall attempt to sleep."
"Let us save this dying fire first," Eldarien says with a chuckle.
"My apologies about that. I fell asleep."
"It is no matter. I am glad you were able to rest, even if but a little."
After the two men have managed to rekindle the fire until it burns bright and warm before them, illumining their faces with its reddish-orange hue, Rorlain turns his gaze to Eldarien and speaks. "I do not really know how to phrase this as a question, but I wanted to talk more with you about what happened underneath the castle."
"Of course," replies Eldarien. "It need not be a question. Just speak."
Rorlain sighs, as if reaching inside to pull out the words that elude his thought and expression. "I know we agreed that it seems apparent that I have received some share in the power entrusted to you—or the light, rather. Sorry, I forget that you prefer not to speak of it as a 'power'."
"I suppose it just depends on how you use that word," explains Eldarien. "It is not a power in the sese of an ability to impose one's will or strength on another is a power. Nor is it even a power as is skill with bow or sword, or even, for example, as is the ability to read a book. Though it is more like the latter... It is a capacity, an ability that one simply did not possess before and then...suddenly...there it is. But it is different since it comes wholly from beyond oneself. It is not one's own—not in the possessive sense of that term. One is merely a vessel, as it were."
"You mean for the channeling of the light?" asks Rorlain.
"For the channeling of the light and the bearing of the darkness, both."
"I suppose that is what I am grappling to understand and to live," Rorlain says. "I feel so much more power, energy, flowing through me, and yet at the same time, I feel...poorer, more destitute. And it is as though I am being invited to become even poorer as time passes. All that I would call my 'possessions' can only get in the way of the flow of this light and its meeting with the darkness."
"That is precisely it," Eldarien agrees. "I am learning the same. For this reality remains as new for me as it does for you. Perhaps it shall always be new, as if rediscovered every day until the end of our lives."
"So it takes everything from our hands in the same moment as it gives us everything?" Rorlain asks, tentatively.
"That feels true, deep in here," says Eldarien, putting a hand momentarily to his heart. "And precisely because it takes everything can it give everything, and because it gives everything does it not leave us empty, though empty we shall forevermore remain. For if every possession obstructs the flow of the gift, every positive desire, choice, and act, as humble as it may be, facilitates it. That is, as long as it springs forth in docility to that inner mystery surging deep within. And so love, hope, courage, longing, compassion, these all flow from that deep inner wellspring, as its overflowing, and as vessels of its expansion."
"It is a painful joy and a joyful pain," Rorlain observes in a whisper.
"Aye," says Eldarien. "And it has only just begun for us. Elmariyë, despite her youth, has lived in the orbit of this reality for many years. This explains, I believe, why she appears as transparent as a clean pane of glass in the light of a brilliant sunrise."
"Or as transparent as the air itself on a clear morning," Rorlain offers, and Eldarien nods. "But I wonder what shall be asked of us in coming times."
"To know that would be a possession," answers Eldarien. "I think only love, trust, and hope can keep the heart open and poor enough to receive and live in the truth of the gift at every moment, including when that future time becomes the present."
'I believe you are right," says Rorlain. "But what about knowing what it means that I am called 'the squire of the knight'?"
"That it would do no harm to know, I suppose," Eldarien answers with a smile. "Indeed, I feel that we are being asked—yes, drawn—to know more deeply and truly than we have ever known before. From that knowledge alone springs the courage and serenity to live and to act."
"But the knowledge is poor, a knowledge borne in poverty," adds Rorlain, "like standing before the sunrise and trying to be transparent to its light, not like trying to contain all of its glory and beauty in the palm of one's hand."
"Precisely."
After these words, the two lapse into silence for a few long minutes, listening to the crackle of the fire and to the echoing stillness of the snow-covered, nocturnal landscape. At last Eldarien speaks, saying simply, "The squire of the knight... That is what you were told?"
"Yes," says Rorlain. "Clearly you are the knight, since I know none other, and since it is in your gift that I share."
"I would not call it mine. It belongs equally to both of us, to all of us, and yet it can be claimed by none of us."
"And yet I feel, even in the silence of my heart, that what I experience is a share in what has been entrusted to you," Rorlain explains. "I feel the truth of the words. It is as if their meaning was instilled along with their very enunciation. I am your 'squire.' Your companion and your protector. Your right hand, as it were."
"I suppose so," says Eldarien, "and I am glad to have you as such. But this does not mean that we are not equals. I hope you know that."
"Of course I do, my friend," Rorlain says. "The difference in our roles springs forth within the equality of our friendship and does not negate it. Indeed, this is precisely what I wish to be for you and what I feel you to be for me. It is as if the impress of this future gift was already there from the first moment of our meeting."
"I feel so as well," Eldarien agrees. "And only the unfolding of our path shall show the significance of this mystery that has touched us and now grips us so strongly. Then we shall know fully, I suspect, what it means that I am 'knight' and you are 'squire'."
"And even there the friendship, the bond of equality, shall carry everything," says Rorlain. "For whatever gift springs forth in the heart, and through it, the heart itself remains. It is the bearer...and, even more, it is borne. It is held by that which holds all things and from which all giving springs."