Morning dawns still and quiet, yet drenched in white, as both the earth and the sky are covered in a thick sheet of colorless moisture: the earth in snow and the sky in low-hanging clouds. Were the sun not veiled by the clouds, the morning would be blindingly bright, its light reflecting off the snow in brilliant rays, but instead it is dull, almost calm, in a kind of pale half-light, as if the pallor of the snow below is illuminating the landscape in equal measure to the sun and the sky above. All of this makes the hint of rosy hue that surrounds the shadowed sun like a halo even more serene, as if a gentle gaze cast through a veil that covers the face of a bride on her wedding day. Or so it seems to Tilliana as she looks out over the landscape thick with trees, with mountains enfolding them on every side, and shivers in the bitter cold that her garb, her cloak, and her blanket are barely able to withstand. She recalls her own wedding day and the veil that she wore and the song of celebration that followed upon the ceremony and preceded the solitude shared by bridegroom and bride. Unlike the extravagance of other cultures, the weddings of Telmerion are more like her landscape: sober and solemn, yet joyful and full of rugged beauty, like a festival garden, long lost, is nonetheless recalled and celebrated in the austerity of a nation of cold lands and warm hearths, of hard lives full of gladness even as they are marked by pain.
But Tilliana has lost so much of this now, and her heart still aches at the memory of the loss, an ever-present remembrance like a shadow of what had been but is no longer. As one turns from the light for but a moment and notices one's shadow following, so too the shadow of her family and the life that they shared, now gone, haunts her and is there like a heavy weight of loss any time she turns her gaze from the fullness of the present moment. Indeed, it often intrudes on the moment, however occupied with other things she may be, like an encroaching darkness that suffocates the heart and drains it of all energy, courage, and life. And the path that they walk provides little distraction from the grief—in long days of silent walking with little of note and few words exchanged. But worst of all had been her time in the pit of darkness buried under the earth, enchained with no sight nor sound but only the warm air of the hidden cavern and the anguished uncertainty of deliverance. For here she gazed, with naked eye unveiled, into the depths of her loss and her pain, her anguish, and her fear. And her courage had failed, and she had tasted the bitter drink of despair. Only the thinnest thread within her held onto the hope and desire of deliverance. And yet despite it all, deliverance had come.
Yet the scars remain.
Tilliana notices the hunched figure of Eldarien as he sits before the dwindling fire, his arms wrapped around his knees and his hood pulled tight around his face. Gathering up the furs that are wrapped about her, she joins him beside the flames. When he notices her, he looks up at her and smiles softly. "An early dawn, but cold," he says. "We shall soon be off, but I wish to give Rorlain a bit more time for rest before we depart. He was awake most of the night. Indeed, even if sleep is troubled for all of us due to the cold, I think we need to give our bodies whatever time for rest and recovery we may." She nods silently, and then he adds, "How are you holding up? The journey is quite demanding, and I know that it has been a lot for you, not only physically but in the other dimensions of your being as well."
"The hiking is difficult, you are correct," she replies. "Every day feels like more than I can give, and yet every day I am surprised that I remain on my feet until night falls and we stop to make camp. And as for the...other parts...the scars linger, and it feels like, when I was in the pitch-black darkness of that horrible place, they were torn open anew and deepened. Now I wonder," her voice falters and falls silent for a moment before she forces herself to conclude, "now I wonder if they shall ever heal."
Eldarien looks at her with tenderness in his eyes, but he does not reply in words for a long time. Instead, they direct their gaze to the flickering light of the fire as it struggles to remain alight with fuel that is quickly burning to ash. At last, he says simply, "Perhaps, indeed, the scars will never heal. But maybe they can become the occasion for something new, catalysts of the birth of something beautiful."
Shortly after this, the rest of the company begins to stir—whether they were asleep or not in the times preceding—and in only a quarter of an hour, they depart. The day is brighter now, though a veil of pale gray hangs over everything, muting the color of the trees, their pines and leaves peeking out from under a heavy curtain of snow. The ground itself is almost entirely formless except for the rise and fall of the land and a few large boulders or fallen logs that emerge like mounds from the vastness of white, smooth, except for ripples where the wind blew strong against the accumulating snow and caused it to bank in formations almost like waves at sea, frozen in an instant and turned to powder.
As they walk, Tilliana holds Eldarien's words in her heart, trying to understand how these scars of grief and fear could ever be anything but a burden upon her heart, narrowing and suffocating. She glances for a moment at Eldarien who walks near to her, and, seeing the scars upon his own cheek, closed now but so deep they shall never entirely disappear, she knows that his words sprang from experience and thought. They were not words of empty consolation or a dismissal of her pain and struggle. They were words rather that came from the deep space of his own pained solitude, a fruit of the weight that he himself bears, though he conceals it in silence and in gentleness. Or perhaps, she thinks to herself, his silence and his gentleness reveal this inner pain of his heart most deeply and appropriately, though in a way of which she has been unaware until this moment.
"Eldarien," she says, suddenly, without a thought, and is immediately surprised at herself.
"Yes, Tilliana?" he asks, turning to look at her as they walk.
"I just want you to know that you do not need to walk your path alone," she continues. "I know that there is much that you cannot share with me, perhaps with any of us. Or at least...how can I say it?...we won't necessarily understand it fully. But please, do not be afraid to share anyway. None should carry their pains and sorrows, their hopes and aspirations, alone. I think that, maybe, the gods like to console us not only in the hidden solitude of our hearts, but also through the companionship that we have with one another."
Eldarien smiles softly and nods his head, then he says, "I agree with you, Tilliana. And thank you."
† † †
The temperature rises but little during the day, and they walk continuously almost as much to stay warm as to make progress in their journey, though by evening it feels that they have not done much of either. The spirits of all in the company are burdened when darkness begins to fall—exhausted by the difficulty of trekking in the thick snow and worn down by the continual cold. In addition to this, with the reclining of the sun in the cradle of the western mountains, a swift wind begins to blow from the north, bitingly cold albeit not as strong as the wind of the previous day. As they crest a ridge whose steep ascent they have just, with much effort, climbed, they find themselves looking down upon a wide and densely forested valley in the depression created in the arms of three mountains.
Suddenly, at the sight of the woods cradled by mountains and flecked with snow and ice, a memory rushes upon Eldarien's consciousness so deeply and forcefully that he is unable to resist it. It feels almost as if the very presence of the forest, or something within it, summons forth from deep within him an experience long buried though never forgotten. It plays out now before his mind's eye in its entirety in a matter of moments, and he must tightly shut his eyes in order to keep the tears from escaping from them. Why this here...now? he thinks, trying to get a grasp on his emotions and his mind and to return to the present. Gradually, he does so, standing with his four companions looking out over the forested valley, though this is not due to his own efforts; rather, it is as if the same current that carried the memory into his consciousness also veils it once again in his depths, though now in a way that its veiling does not hide it, but protects it within him and allows him to remain vividly aware of it, to tap into it at any moment. And then Rorlain speaks, and his words draw Eldarien even further from his reverie, and he finds himself fully present again, almost as if the memory had never stirred at all.
"It will likely be warmer among the trees of the wood than anywhere else," says Rorlain. "Shall we not try to find shelter there for the night?"
All immediately agree to this suggestion. And so they descend, for the first time leaving what can be discerned of the path they have been following as it winds its way along an outcropping of the steep mountain slope to their left. Instead, they take the shortest and straightest route through the snow toward the forest until they enter into the embrace of the trees, thick and full. Immediately they are enfolded by a dense silence almost akin to being underwater, and they look at one another in puzzlement—for the stillness that envelops them now is not caused by the trees and the snow alone. The natural hush caused by such landmarks, by the interplay of thick trees and heavy snow, is accentuated, and yet also surpassed, by something else entirely.
"Is this...good or ill?" Elmariyë asks quietly, almost as if afraid to speak and disturb the silence.
"We do all feel it, do we not?" questions Rorlain, looking to the others, who nod in agreement.
Their movement has now been halted as they stand still, listening as if to hear some secret voice echo in the silence of the wood or to see some vestigious figure emerge from the deepening shadows of twilight. But as the minutes pass and nothing occurs, Eldarien, in the lead, begins to move forward again.
"What says your heart?" Cirien whispers, in answer to Elmariyë's prior question about the good or ill of the "something" that has welcomed them upon their arrival.
She turns and glances at him for a moment and says, "I do not know yet."
"I feel," comes the voice of Eldarien ahead of them, "I feel that all of my heaviness is being drawn out of me like affection from the heart or poison from a wound. Yet for what purpose, I do not know. It is just being...elicited."
Elmariyë closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath, leaning back her head slightly as if listening. Only a moment later, she opens her eyes again and says, "Yes, that is exactly it. Something or someone here wants our pain, our struggle, our loss...and I do not think to use it as a tool against us. No, rather, this force feels almost—"
"The inverse of the Lord of Nightmares," concludes Rorlain.
Elmariyë looks at him and laughs. "Precisely," she says with a smile. "I do not think we have anything to fear."
"I do not think so either," Tilliana says, but then adds, "yet it is difficult to trust when one walks into the unknown. Should we proceed deeper into the forest, or make camp here, or even stay on the outskirts of the wood?"
"What do you think, Tilliana?" Eldarien asks, turning back, though the air has now deepened into a darkness so rich that it is almost impossible for them to see one another's faces.
"I..." she begins, but pauses. "I feel safe here. This darkness and this silence, both, are welcoming, not dangerous."
"Then let us proceed."
And so the company continues deeper into the woods, dense trees surrounding them tightly on either side but leaving just enough space ahead for them to progress. As night fully descends, the forest sinks into complete nocturnal darkness, not a pitch-blackness but rather a subtle veiledness that feels more like a full saturation of color deeper than the eyes can take in rather than a lack of color, as if all the essences of color in the world were poured together into a single hue of utmost intensity. And thus through the darkness, they sense light, almost like, if their eyes were keen enough and their hearts alive enough, they would be able to see in the dark and through it to a deeper light that never ceases to shine and to illumine all things—like a center-point of white-hot intensity from which all colors find their origin and to which they return, and in which, indeed, they exist in their eminent fullness beyond the partial, imperfect expressions with which they are encountered in this world.
After about ten minutes, they come to a clearing into which the light of the full moon shines bright, reflecting off of the snow and illumining the trunks and branches of the trees in a vivid light. Here they stop and begin to set up camp, still held by the all-pervading silence and by a stillness so deep that the slightest rustle in the canopy of the trees draws their attention. But whatever breeze blows across the mountainous valley does not reach into the woods, rustling only its exterior, and the clearing slumbers, cradled in the quietude of the trees, inviting those who dwell in its midst also into repose.
Before they have finished preparing for sleep, and as Eldarien and Rorlain gather logs and branches for a fire, something else happens. From within the trees, emerging from knotted holes or cracks in bark and wood, appear tiny little creatures—they look to be moths—whose wings and bodies glow in the light of the moon. This glowing is not a reflection, like moonlight on water or firelight upon glass, but a true luminosity coming from within: the creatures emit light themselves, each like a little glowing spark of light with a pale and yet welcoming radiance. The moths soon fill the air all around them, in the hundreds, darting among the trees and circling about in the clearing, many rising up high into the canopy, as if seeking to join their light with the light of the moon or to sing back to the moon the same light which they once received from it, tiny sparks seeking to immerse themselves again in the burning furnace of nocturnal radiance.
Cirien sighs in awe and whispers something so softly that they can hardly hear him, "Symbelyia..."
"What was that?" Elmariyë asks him, as she looks around at the moths that encircle her and dance about her body as if seeking to enfold her in light. "Do you know what these are?"
"Yes," he replies. "Sorry I spoke so softly. I was just so taken... These are called 'symbelyia,' moon moths. But until now I did not know if they were real or just a legend."
"They are..." Tilliana begins, holding her arms out and watching in wonder as a few moths land upon them, their wings folding and unfolding slowly, "they are...warm."
"They come out only during a full moon," Cirien explains, "or so it is said. Our circumstances seem to lend credence to that. They once filled the forests of Telmerion with their light, and festivals were held at each full moon across the continent. But little by little, due to encroaching darkness, they retreated into uninhabited places, where they went into hiding or, we thought perhaps, disappeared entirely. But," he laughs softly, "here they are."
"Hældari," says Elmariyë.
"What did you say?" Eldarien asks, turning to her, and he sees her face illumined by the light of the symbelyia that dance around her, her eyes twinkling in their glow.
"I don't...know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I don't know what it means or where it came from," explains Elmariyë. "While I looked at them, the word came spontaneously to me. Perhaps some forgotten memory?"
"It means 'Hiliana's gift' in the ancient tongue," says Eldarien.
"You have knowledge of ancient Telmeric?" Cirien asks, stepping closer and joining their conversation.
"Not perfectly," Eldarien answers, "but the mentor of my youth, a man named Aedin, taught it to me."
"Fascinating," replies Cirien. "And from whence did this Aedin learn ancient Telmeric?"
"I do not know," says Eldarien. "He never told me."
"So what does symbelyia mean?" Cirien asks. "I know much of the language myself, but it seems not as much as you, and I do not recognize the etymology of the word."
"I do not recognize it either. Perhaps it has a different origin."
At this moment, the moon crests the tops of the trees and shows her face clear and full above the clearing, bathing those within its embrace in her cool light. Joined with the luminescence of the symbelyia, the dense forest now glows in a light bright enough for any activity. It is a night full of radiance. But as the dancing moths, glowing and emitting warmth, receive the full light of the moon, something even more incredible happens. They begin to sing—or, at least, music emerges from them, like vibrations from the bow of a fiddle, or sound from a flute filled with air, or reverberations from the plucked strings of a lyre or harp. And indeed, the sound that washes over the company as they stand in the midst of the dancing and singing moths is unlike anything that they have heard before, and yet also like everything that they have ever heard, only richer, fuller, and more beautiful.
Swelling like waves against the shore and yet gentle like a caress upon the cheek, the sound engulfs them and permeates their being, touching the tension and fear within them and easing it spontaneously, easing it so gently and so subtly that the change within them is almost imperceptible, even though so radical and so evident.
"I think we have found the force that was inviting us," whispers Eldarien, and as he speaks, all of the companions realize that his voice echoes not as a disturbance of the music, but rather is taken up into it and woven into its fabric, enhancing and deepening it, even while being ennobled by it. And so he continues, with awe but also with confidence, "She wished for our vulnerability so that she could serenade us with her sweetness and give us rest. Warmth, solace, light—we shall be safe here until the morning."
† † †
As they all recline for sleep, forsaking for the first time since departing from Ristfand both a campfire and the night watch, Eldarien looks up at the starry sky visible in the space between the trees above them. The moon moths continue to dance and sing softly, and the air surrounding the company of travelers is comfortable, not cold, despite the bitterness of night that falls upon the mountains. Surrounded by the gentle light of the symbelyia, all the while looking at the distant stars glimmering in the sky, Eldarien has the sensation that he is not only observing stars but surrounded by them—that the moths are like a firmament come from heaven to earth to enfold the heart and flesh of man. Only one other time has he had a similar experience, though to call it similar is inaccurate, as it was far different in its nature and its origin than being surrounded by the gifts of Hiliana. During his time in the city of Brug'hil, he had visited the great observatory, a large complex that was advanced in the science of astronomy. Through the use of specialized optical devices, a theory had been developed that the earth, Ierendal, was not indeed a flat surface but a round orb, circling in an immense space filled with stars. And the center of this perpetual movement was the sun, which was called of old Elda (perhaps Eldarien was indeed named after the sun, though this he does not know for sure). From the little that they had discovered, the astronomers at the great observatory had built a model of what they called the "harmony," a device that, run by a simple water mill, caused orbs and stars to orbit around a brilliant torchlight in the center, Elda, the sun.
On his visit, he had been given a tour not only of the precincts but of the harmony. All lights had been extinguished and windows heavily curtained, and the "stars" and the "sun" ignited until the room itself was filled with the flickering lights of model stars and with orbs circling ceaselessly around a burning light that remained unmoving in the center, illumining all. This small model, born of a frail and budding science, had stirred profound wonder in Eldarien's heart, and he had realized that, though he had assumed that Ierendal was the center of the circle of stars and sun, he now came to believe that the center of all was Elda, whose face nonetheless shone upon all, giving warmth and light.
But the science went only so far and only revealed so much beauty; the living lights that now surround him and dance with radiance reveal a deeper truth, which the material image only reflects and seeks to unveil in the little way that it may. For the entirety of the visible universe is modeled on the invisible reality, though without encompassing it all or being able to be the sole criterion of its truth. No, the judgment passes in the opposite direction: though the visible world, judged with the eyes, ears, and other senses, and discerned with the tools of science and art, is true and discoverable in its own right, radiant with meaning, its truest significance and profoundest truth is discovered not with this alone but with the hidden eyes and ears of the heart, attuned to spiritual reality, from which all has been born and to which it remains always indebted for its very being. And the symbelyia that surround Eldarien now seem almost like a meeting-place between that invisible world and this visible world—two worlds and yet only one, the visible contained within the invisible, and manifesting it, like a city contained in a nation or a house in a city, or better, as a child in the womb of a mother or affection in the heart of a man.
The light with which the symbelyia glow is somehow unearthly, from beyond, just as, Eldarien realizes, is the light that bursts forth from the lightbringer and from his own hands—Hiliana's gift, and something that he can channel not by his own power or authority but only as a vessel whose poverty and openness of heart allow something so far beyond him to pour through. And this mysterious light is consoling, welcoming, almost as if it is cherishing him and his companions, or as if someone is cherishing them through it, giving them solace and security in the midst of the vulnerability and anguish of their journey and their struggle with the forces of darkness.
And now, this experience of being enfolded in light gives way to another memory, the same that had stirred in him but a couple hours earlier when he had first laid his eyes on the forest cradled between the mountains. And now, he allows it to come, though it pains his heart still, for he feels held enough to endure it, to let it come to the light, to enter into the orbit of the dance of all things around the one light, and there to find healing.
He stands in another forest, dense and full, as the evening twilight quickly darkens into night. But this is not a forest of serenity and peace but of war and bloodshed. Breathing heavily, he holds a sword limply in his right hand, though he allows the shield in his left to fall to the earth and instead runs his hand across his brow, wiping away sweat, but more as if to wipe away the memory of the battle that now dwindles to a few remaining warriors. But the memory is too near and the threat is too real: it is not possible to forget what is still present, for the "now" is always a companion, whether welcome or unwelcome. He wants to turn and to run away, to forget it all, to leave behind the pain and the death, the anguish and the loss. And yet his men still need him. If the clash of blades still echoes through the forest, this means that men still stand who can fight; and they need their captain. And so, gaining a grip on himself again, albeit with an effort, he picks up his shield and rushes toward the nearby sounds of battle, all the while trying to turn his gaze from the many bodies that lay strewn about him to the left and the right and under his very own feet.
To his dismay, there are but a score of his own soldiers still standing, a handful of men ringed about by three or four times as many warriors of Tel-Velfana. This is the last of his company, now pushed to utter destruction by continuous guerrilla warfare in the beautiful woodlands that have now become a place of ceaseless torment and constant fear. Without a thought, he rushes into the fray, cutting his way to his men and joining them, and then he raises his voice in the secret signs for flight: with no hope of victory, they are to attempt escape in order to join with another company of soldiers and to enter the battle anew under more favorable circumstances. But shall it even be possible to escape when so deeply outnumbered and when ringed about by the very proximity of the enemy? No, Eldarien does not think that it is possible, yet there is no other choice. It is precarious flight or certain death, for the people of Tel-Velfana are not in the practice of taking prisoners, and surrender is frowned upon among the forces of the Empire of Væliria. But if they try to flee, they shall certainly all be slain, shall they not? It matters not, for there is no time for thought or deliberation. With a shout of intermingled courage and fear, Eldarien thrusts his way forward in the same direction from which he has just come, but in which enemy warriors are quickly closing about them.
Pushing one man to the ground with his shield and burying his sword into the torso of another, Eldarien opens a space for his men to move, and together they press this small advantage. Wujik is immediately at his side, his second-in-command, his notched sword in one hand and a spear of the enemy, which he must have taken from the ground, in his other. His face is bloodied and a deep gash cuts across his forehead, but he nods quickly to Eldarien as together they press forward at the vanguard of their men. But cries of pain sound from behind them, and they know that the forces of Tel-Velfana are closing in from that side. "I shall cover our rear, Eldarien," Wujik cries. "Continue pressing ahead. Perhaps some of us shall break free and find refuge in the wilderness." Before Eldarien can open his mouth, the man leaps back, weapons a flurry of movement before him, and he tries to carve his way to the rear of their small company. But Eldarien is unable to see whether Wujik even makes it to his intended place, as his attention is locked ahead, where four men still stand between him and the open woods, where flight shall be a real—though slim—possibility.
But should they really flee? Should they not rather try to stand and fight to the death? Yet even as the question comes to Eldarien, so does another: But why? For glory or honor? For the privilege of dying in valor rather than fleeing in cowardice? Is it really cowardice to try to safeguard one's life and the lives of the men entrusted to one's care, especially in a war of attrition whose only goal is political expansion and material gain? No, the most precious commodity in this war, and the one being trodden underfoot, is the life and well-being of innocent men, even the men who are forced to do unspeakable things in the name of an Empire whose lust for power knows no bounds.
Just as Eldarien breaks free of the last stranglehold and makes ready to lead his men into the forest, he turns and sees the remaining four of his men standing close to him—but five feet away, having followed him this far—yet held too tightly on either side by the warriors of Tel-Velfana to follow him easily into the space that he has created. They are occupied with deflecting the many blows directed at them and are unable to move. Quickly, indeed, whatever opening Eldarien had cleared now vanishes as the enemy fighters close about his men. Even as he seeks to charge back into the fray to liberate them, he witnesses the last of his companions quickly hewn down by Tel-Velfanan blades. The weight of his loss and the profoundest sense of guilt and failure wash over him now and thrust him to his knees. The desire to escape departs from him, and he wishes only now to die with his companions, to at last let go of the ceaseless and fruitless struggle for life in the face of unrelenting loss and destruction. And he receives what he wishes, with no pause for further deliberation and no words exchanged between the slayer and the slain—as is the case in battle—as a mace collides with the side of his helmed head and sends all spiraling into blackness.
But to his surprise, with intermingled relief and regret, he awakens later, in the pitch-black of night, his head throbbing with pain and his body weak beyond endurance. The forest is silent now, utterly silent but for the whisper of wind in the trees, and he knows that he is alone in a battlefield littered with the bodies of the slain. As he tries to rise, his flesh cries out in anguish and resists his attempts. Instead, he immediately sinks back to the earth, his back squelching in the grass wet with his own blood if not also with the blood of others. As he looks up through the trees, he is able to discern the barest hint of stars twinkling through the branches, though they feel infinitely far away and apathetic to his pain and loss, and the loss of all the men who have found their graves on the battlefield this day or in the whole of this terrible and fruitless war. With the anguish of his heart colliding with the brokenness of his body, consciousness slips from him again, and he lets go, expecting death.
This was only a few months before his departure from Tel-Velfana and his return to Telmerion—the loss of his entire company, whom he had expended himself for years trying to keep safe. Waking the next morning to the light of the sun filtering in through the trees and casting long shadows across the forest floor, Eldarien had struggled to his feet and made his way back to the coastal city of Elsedor. Here, after a short time of recovery, he was given lead of another company and sent back into the crucible of the forests of a nation which fought only to defend itself against a foreign aggressor—an aggressor whom Eldarien himself had become.
With this, the memory fades, and Eldarien feels the pain, sorrow, and regret of it wash over him now as he lies on his back, staring up at the starry sky as the symbelyia dance and shine around him. And as he does so, the lingering wounds that have not ceased to ache and bleed since those terrible years begin to close and to heal—as if the mysterious light that shines through these creatures, yet also beyond them, touches those places so long buried within him and brings an answer that is too deep for words or expression, and offers wholeness despite brokenness, or rather, wholeness through brokenness, and beyond it.