I.
At the beginning of time, before the aeons of aeons, there was the One, who is called Eldaru, the Giver of all. From him all things that exist came to be; and they came to be as gift, born from the bosom of his eternal love, which is ceaseless delight and everlasting play. Thus, being the one through whose gift all has come to be, is he called Eldaru. But those whom he created before all others, the first recipients of his gift, call him by another name, which it has not yet been given to our race to utter. It was these, whom we call the Anaion, the pure spirits of light, who knew the One most intimately from the earliest age before the ages of the world and participated in his thought and his desire.
But unlike Eldaru, they did not always exist but came from him at the moment appointed by him, though he needed them not. In the beginning, before this world came to be, they were made and were thus with him in mystery; and it is said that the substance of their life in such a state was pure and inexpressible joy. It is also said that such a life was a consummate intermingling of silence and song, of stillness and movement, of rest and activity. How this is known by the mortal human heart is a matter deeply embedded in the history of our kind, a memory of sorts of that deepest origin from which our own race has sprung. And spring from this mystery it did, for Eldaru, who had granted the Anaion a taste of his own inner life and who had shared with them his thought and desire, wished for them to participate in his own creative generosity and in the tenderness of his care for the fruit of his creation. But Eldaru did not immediately and from the first moment share all his intentions with them. Only in stages did he reveal to them his plan for the creation of a world, which in common speech has come to be called Ierendal, but has also at times been known as Niraniel. Some have even come to believe that the name Niraniel refers to one of the Anaion, the spirits of light, who in later ages have been deemed gods by the human race. This supposition, and the true nature of Niraniel, insofar as humankind may know it during this era of the world, will be cleared up in due course.
Let it be said that, although Eldaru surpasses all things in majesty and beauty and in the depth and breadth of his wisdom, he has yet willed to make known what is precious to him to those whom he loves. He made it known to his Anaion, the first offspring of his thought and his will, and he has made it known to our own kind, also, from our beginning. And it is prophesied, in many places and in diverse ways throughout Eldaru's dealings with this world, that a definitive unveiling of his mind and heart is yet to come. The nature of this unveiling still remains shrouded in mystery, but perhaps some of its character may be known by looking deeply at the history of humankind and at the impress of the Creator's touch upon all that he has made.
Eternal song was the nature of the life of the Anaion, the song which is not noise or the mere intonation of notes but the very life of the spirit poured out in vital essence. And it was in this song, sung by the One at the heart of his own life, eternal and without end, and also intoned by Eldaru into his servants and sung by them back to the original Singer, that the world too came to be. The words of such a song are not known, if there were any words, or perhaps all words that are or will be were contained within it. However, it is known that Eldaru kept secret melodies to himself, to be revealed in the latter days, a hymn yet to be sung. Indeed, the One kept the most precious part of this song to be intoned by our own race, humankind, which is known in the ancient tongue as the lænin, the latter-born, and at times also as the sekanin, the chosen.
Eldaru made known to his Anaion his will to bring creation into existence and to fashion within it, as a special inhabitant, the sekanin. And the Anaion loved them, loved them in some measure as Eldaru himself loved them—and this is why the word chosen, sekanin, is so close to the word beloved, seikani. But some of the Anaion, moved by jealousy and pride, hated them. The deepest origins of this hatred arose from the recesses of the heart of the highest of the Anaion, who was known before his hatred as Melandia, the one-who-stands-beside, and afterwards came to be known as Igrandsil, the one-who-opposes, the one-who-stands-against. It was the nature of the sovereign will of Eldaru, who poured out his gifts without reserve and invited his Anaion to participate in his act of giving, that Melandia despised. It has long been said that he did not want to share, if not with the Anaion, even less with the sekanin. And he came to hate them, to hate our race, as the most visible fruit of the love of Eldaru; and he has hated and opposed the sekanin ever since, as an expression of his even deeper hatred of Eldaru, whom he had once, in the beginning, loved.
But Melandia, named Igrandsil, has set himself against love, as from the depths of his knowledge of the mind of Eldaru and the freedom of his choice turned to perversion, he has espoused himself to darkness and become its perpetrator through the ages of the world. Hearing the celestial song of the One and of the first-created who were with him at the beginning, he chose not to put in his portion with the rest, to rejoice in creating harmony in the sight of Eldaru, nor in bestowing this harmony upon the world that was to come to be, but rather to appropriate his own portion to himself. And this he did receive as he was cast out from the presence of Eldaru—or it is better said that he fled from the presence of the Giver in hatred and arrogance—and in doing so, to the great grief of the whole of the heavens, he brought a large portion of the Anaion with him. These rebellious spirits of light, become spirits of darkness, have come to be called the Draion, and they ever lurk about the world seeking to do ill to the creatures of Eldaru.
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The song of the Anaion resounded in the halls of the heavenly court as Eldaru inclined his ear to listen to the voices of his first-created, delighting to hear in them the echo of his own creative act and the beauty of his eternal song, which has resounded before even the Anaion came to be. To each he allotted a portion of the song, a gift, which they took, each his or her own, and wove into melody according to his heart's inclination and desire. And in this desire, Eldaru was content and glad, not wishing that his creatures were mere slaves but that they freely sang their part in the great symphony of his life. And even as they sang their part—the note or melody or harmony that was uniquely theirs to sing and to expound upon—in each one of the Anaia was also a deeper desire to listen to the great music of the whole and to be immersed in ceaseless contemplation in the very ineffable origin of the music, in the one, the Giver of all, Eldaru himself. And in this singing and in this contemplation consisted their perfect joy and happiness.
The Anaion were seven (though there are in fact many more, unnamed by our race, only known to their Maker), each singularly expressing the mind of Eldaru in resplendent, sevenfold light. Highest of them all was Melandia, come to be known in his fall as Igrandsil; he was asked to manifest the greatest trait of the One, the love of the All-Giver, which is ever communicating itself and pouring itself out, and yet he came to express the very opposite, the pursuit of power and domination. After Melandia is Nerethion, who took the latter's place after his defection. He manifests this place with fidelity and truth, though in a way not according to the Giver's original intention, which was meant to be a radiance of pure love (though this intention will someday be restored, weaving even the brokenness into a greater beauty). Rather, this habitation has now been marked by strife, and Nerethion is forever at war with the rebel and his minions, until the end of time. Nerethion, thus, manifests the might, power, and justice of the almighty Giver and his wrath against the forces of evil at work in both the heavens and the earth, until, at the end of all ends, strife will be no more and love will reign supreme and the peace that love has restored.
Hiliana is the Anaia who stands nearest to Nerethion; she is known as the mother of air and water and their intermingling, and in her part in the great song, she was primarily fascinated by the seas, the clouds, and the seasons. Her breath has long been known to bring refreshment, and peace, and tenderness, most of all, to those who are afflicted. It is also said that the milk of every mother finds its origin in the spiritual breast of Hiliana, though she is now invoked primarily as the custodian of the weather and the changing of the seasons. Her wonder toward this visible world lies above all with the vigor and liveliness of the its celestial foundations, and she has these in large part in hand, for good and beauty, even though Igrandsil would seek to sway them to his own evil end. Hiliana is revered deeply by the people on the seacoasts, though everywhere suffering hearts cry out for liberation, she is not far from the voice of the lips. She is oft portrayed in the guise of an aged woman, wrapped in flowing robes, and yet with breast bared and still abundant, suckling a child on her knees.
Beside Hiliana is the Anaia whose wonder-filled song was most deeply wedded to the earth, both the deep recesses of hidden caverns and the sprawling mountain peaks, and the nourishing and life-giving soil constituting everything in between, and whose name is Telmoth. It is from him that the continent of Telmerion derives its name, as the people of that land have long been close to the earth, farmers and caretakers of the land, which in its ruggedness and harsh and cold climate nonetheless does not fail to bear abundant fruit. He is worshiped by them under the guise of a laborer with a plow, capable of bearing the weight of twenty oxen, and with a scythe in his hand, promising a fruitful reaping and abundant harvest.
The fifth of the Anaion is Melengthar, the god of birth and death, the two doorways of existence for all living things that inhabit the earth. All blood is thought to belong to him, as well as the seed of man. He is understood as near in the presence of suffering and pain and is invoked in the burial liturgies of many peoples. Indeed, a custom deeply revealing his nature is that of recalling the birth of children on the death of parents, remembering the day that life was given to live on, when even now it is lost in its temporal dimension. "You go, patra, matra, and yet you continue to live in me," the verses recite. These insights come from the wisdom of Melengthar. It is even thought, in fact, that this Anaia, great in birth and death, shall be present when the two are mysteriously brought together, as a death becomes greatest birth, and a birth also becomes the end of all death. He awaits this with vigilance, standing as he does at the conclusion of the week, Melengthya, only one day before the cycle turns anew, through Niranya, to the first-day, Eldaridya.
Mornwyn is the Anaia devoted especially to the intricacies of human life, though she has many other interests besides, many tender loves for which she cares deeply. She is a lover of all that lives, from the lowliest of insects to the tallest of trees. But long history attests that the greatest pleasure of her eyes and the deepest delight of her heart is the life of humankind, and in particular the love of human hearts. It is said that she loves this most because this, more than anything else, reflects the nature of the inner life of Eldaru, who has created all things and apart from whom nothing can be that is.
The seventh and final of the Anaion is named Toroas, who is the custodian, most especially, of rest, and leisure, and play. It is this dimension of the life of Eldaru which captured his contemplation the most and which stirred in him the deepest joy. And rightly so, for it is, as it were, that aspect of the eternal Song of the Uncreated which harmonizes all the others, somewhat as the atmosphere of air in this created world allows both light to be seen and sound to be heard. In all the labor of the Creator and of his first-created, indeed, Toroas was fascinated by the mystery by which work remained play and play became work, just as restful contemplation birthed creative action and creative action flowed into contemplative rest. And he watches over this same mystery in the lives of each and all, until such playful work and restful action is our endless life in the ages of ages to come.
Finally, let us turn to the last of those revered as gods by humankind, one different from the rest but in wisdom deserving of reverence still, perhaps more than all the others. In the repercussions following upon the fall of Igrandsil and his interference in the world—which is still to be recounted in depth—humankind, out of a deep sense of a mystery hidden for all eternity in the mind of Eldaru, has come to revere and to pray to Niraniel. She is understood as the icon of feminine purity and integrity, and yet also of maternal fecundity and overflowing compassion and love. She, however, is not one of the Anaion nor of the divine and spiritual order. What and who she may be is yet to be revealed. It is uncertain what intuition was given to mankind to birth this idea and longing in the human heart, but there is a legend of ages long past before words such as these were put to tablet or scroll: a legend that the humblest of the servants of Eldaru will restore to good all the evil wrought by the fall of Melandia, untwisting the distorted threads that his rebellion caused. In her, the dissonance of the song of the Anaion, which has echoed in the heart of every creature made throughout the history of the world, will be shown to be ultimate harmony and beauty, not by the work of the hands of human or Anaion alone, but by the guiding will of Eldaru, who sings into all notes a single note, pure and holy, which brings all to order anew and indeed brings about even greater beauty for all that was threatened with loss.
II.
The Anaion dwelt in the land that was fashioned by the love of Eldaru and by his song, into which they sang their own melodies, in fidelity and in freedom. Yet they were not of this land, bearing not in themselves corporeal form, surpassing it in their spiritual nature, which was to sing the everlasting song in its divine origin, even as by love they spread their affections to the visible world born from such music. Therefore they dwelt in this creation, Ierendal, through act, care, and will, and not through bodily confine, as is the case among his latter creations, the sekanin, commonly known as humankind. The Anaion had not the body, passing through all things that exist in a manner more like unto their Maker: through the movement of knowledge which is bound not by time, through the movement of love which is bound not by space. But it is also said that the Anaion are free, through this freedom, to take the guise of bodily form as they desire, in order to act within this visible creation and to make themselves known unto material creatures, thus to fashion the fate of the world. Yet such bodies are of appearance only, not of essence, unlike the latter children, whose bodies are of the substance of man and of woman and no mere external appendage, no mere vessel.
But for humankind, spirit communes with spirit through the body, as is the intention of Eldaru in fashioning man and woman in the midst of the material universe. This is a marvel of his creative work, which, as has been said, the Creator reserved unto himself: the sekanin were his own special elect, his own chosen beloved, dearest to him of all because born most deeply from the intimate secret of his own life and love. The Anaion thus had no part in the making of man and woman, even by way of mediation, whereas in the lesser works, though finding their origin in Eldaru, the Anaion were also present and operative, melding their voices with the voice of the great Intoner. The All-Giver, in a word, designed the sekanin from the depths of his own secret and hidden wisdom and made their very corporeal flesh to be a reflection of his own nature, his own life, made present in the world fashioned from the same wisdom, and, by the integrity of humankind, by the love of their hearts returning in piety to their Maker, meant to carry this creation back to the selfsame One.
The Anaion live in the One, in continual contemplation and delight; and from this fullness they turn their gaze and affection to the world, acting within it for its good. And the sekanin live in the world, in work and activity and all the needs and cares of life, and from this they continually turn to the One who made them, in longing and desire to return unto their Source and Fulfillment. This is the origin of all piety and religion, which is the heart of man, his true measure. But it is said, too, that at the end of days—or rather at history's center, where all lines converge upon a single point—man's aspiration unto the One will be revealed as the aspiration of the One unto man. Religion and piety thus will be revealed not so much as the longing of man and woman for their Fashioner but as the longing of Eldaru for his beloved children, who are his precious and chosen and in whom he delights.
Certainly the Anaion, too, in their likeness to Eldaru, take delight in the sekanin; assuredly they rejoice in those who are their younger siblings, as it were, though likeness and difference persist, both, in the radically unique manner of the being of each creature: spiritual and incorporeal, the Anaion, and humankind, the sekanin, an inseparable union of body and spirit. But as has been indicated in the record of the earliest beginnings before the beginnings of the world, not all of the Anaion persisted in the love of their foundation. In arrogance consisted their fall, and the height of their being became the very excuse of their degradation. Indeed, the defection of Melandia, become Igrandsil, was born precisely of his envy and hatred of Eldaru's delight in the material world, and especially of his love for his sekanin. For it is said from the deepest of our memories, from the wellspring before time, that Eldaru called together his Anaion in a council around himself, and spoke unto them his plan to fashion humankind within the visible world, and told the council that he had special delight in the sekanin, reserving them as a portion unto himself. And he said also that the fate of the whole universe—the entirety of the music born from eternal song—would be tied unto their salvation and their life, which would one day be taken, all, into the inmost life and love of Eldaru, to be as he is in the inner embrace of his own being and affection.
Delight filled the Anaion at the revelation of such a mystery, and they placed themselves at the service of the One, glad to minister unto the sekanin on their journey through what would become temporality, through the richness of the confines of both time and space. But Melandia, who concealed arrogance within himself (though nothing could be hidden from his Maker), wished for the creation of such marvels to be his own—or perhaps especially, he wished for the undivided power of Eldaru, not in the humility of gratuitous acceptance but in possessive control. And the wish to own the all-surpassing divine mystery of Eldaru, to claim it as his possession, corrupted him; he no longer accepted his portion, partial and yet mysteriously bearing in itself the fullness of the whole, and instead reached out to take possession of all, and not only of what was created but even of the very act of creation itself. Corrupted thus in heart, he wished to fashion alone, with his own song and his own will, without guiding and directing such action—indeed, allowing it to take its origin, course, and completion—in the gift of the One. He therefore came to hate not only humankind, the sekanin of Eldaru's heart, but the other Anaion as well, and indeed the Origin of all more than every thing else. He came to brood over his own portion and wished for more. He wished even to have the portion of Eldaru unto himself. And he went unto many Anaion, whoever would hearken unto him, and sought to gather them together unto his cause, deceiving them with freedom and power, whereas what awaited them, in such defection, was only subjection to a corrupt will rather than the freedom found in the will of the Giver.
And thus it was that Melandia gathered unto himself an army, a legion of Anaion, turning away from the intentions and love of the One, with which Melandia desired to create a universe, and a course of history, of his own wishes and desires. But he knew that he could not create but only change, alter, and direct, and so he waited, in secret as it were, until the intention of Eldaru was fully manifest, so that he could take it unto himself as if it were his own. He intended to appropriate it, to own it, and to make of the sekanin his slaves, to make of the visible universe his own particular domain, where he would be lord and master without question, like Eldaru is lord and master of all things that are, were, or ever shall be unto the everlasting ages.
But in this he erred, for he failed to understand that the reign of Eldaru is not one of lord and master but of pure benevolence and love, and that he treats no creature, whether Anaia or sekani, as slave. His reign is not of power but of gift; his guidance and care not of authority imposed but of generosity given, of heart exposed. In turning unto himself and refusing to direct his gaze unto his Maker, Melandia lost the ability to see, as well, the intentions and designs of the One and of his brethren, the Anaion. He conceived of jealousy and conflict, of a struggle of power and a clash of wills, where none existed. And through this conception, he himself brought this very conflict about. Thus began warfare in the heavens, a conflict before even the world was made. The Anaion who defected with Melandia waged war against the Anaion faithful to Eldaru, and the latter fought back with the sword of the spirit, until the song of the celestial heights was filled with the clamor of war—though Eldaru dwelt always in peaceful stillness, eternal life in abundance of joy, granted unto all who remained faithful to him. But from this fullness of peace and life, he allowed himself to be moved, to be pained, as it were, by the discord among his precious creatures and companions in love, and he himself sang a song of judgment into the clamor of this war. Thus were Melandia and his minions cast out, allotted a portion far from the serenity of the abode of the Anaion. Eldaru extended his righteous rule, his benevolent intent, and limited the influence of Melandia—whom in this act he renamed Igrandsil—to bounds that it could not transgress.
Thus the song of the Anaion was restored, and, through the very melody of the One which was sung into it, found harmony once again. And precisely in this moment, Eldaru began to create the world and deigned to enter into it himself in order to lift up from the earth, as it were, the body of man and to impart unto him his own hidden life. Thus the life of man is the life of Eldaru, and only in Eldaru does he live truly. And man became two, as woman from man was brought, not two halves of a whole, or two pieces incomplete, but two wholes, two completes, that nonetheless enriched one another in a reciprocity that reflected something of the life of the One who was fashioner of both. More shall be told of this great mystery of Eldaru's gift in and to the sekanin in the second account of the origins of all, which shall soon follow—a different poem but the same meaning, a different emphasis but the same song, a different thread but the same weave.
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Here begins the second account of the origin of all things, the springing forth of time and space, and all the multiplicity of what exists, from a single creative act, and which, by this act, is guided and fulfilled. Eldaru is the Singer of the great song, in fact, the Song itself, but so too is he the Weaver of lives and destinies—not as impersonal fate but as provident care. At the origin of all things, therefore, or rather before their origin, at that moment beyond moments before any moment of time had yet come to be, Eldaru took from himself a thread, as if a blade of grass or a string of cloth, and then another, and he began to weave them together in interlocking shape. And after this, he drew forth and wove yet another, and another, as delighted him, until before him was a tapestry of richly interlaced threads.
The thread came from him but stood before him, and he wove it after the pattern that he always knew. But it was not enough for him simply to weave, Artisan of time and space—as the vertical weave is space, spread out for the contemplative eye to take in, and time the horizontal weave, progressing as his work unfolds and as the gaze proceeds along the course of wonder and amazement and desire to behold. Rather, Eldaru also wished to weave weavers, to thread threaders into the thread of his own creation. And so he wove first the fabric of the first-created, the Anaion, and taught them how to weave according to his own weaving. And so they wove, learning from him how to take in their hands the rich fabric and, respecting its nature, this nature only to enhance, dignify, and exalt. And thus they did, all across the expanse of the breadth and depth of the tapestry of creation, the masterpiece of Eldaru.
He wove first the light, illumining the darkness of the void, of nothingness, and making to be what before was naught. Indeed, his threads were pure light, and pure light always remain. And from this fabric of pure light, he wove the Anaion, who are custodians of light and creatures of light. Then, with them as witnesses—and as the work progressed as companions—he fashioned the world. He created the great star in the sky to rule and guide the progressing of days and to witness to the light that has its origin in him, and he created the lesser orb of the night, nearer but dimmer, to illumine the world even when darkness descends, in order to awaken the thirst for his light.
After this primal work was done, Eldaru then fashioned the earth, down to its deep invisible foundations to its highest peaks, and reposed it within the realm of light, allotting its place within the dance of the two lights he had created, the greater light and the lesser light, both important in their way, though distinct. He wove the world, as it were, into the very fabric of light and at its very heart. And gazing upon it, he was delighted. He turned and invited his Anaion to gaze with him upon the tapestry, with light and light cradling a world of light. They too were delighted, and he entrusted unto them each a handful of minor lights, as it were, ornaments of beauty to be embedded in the nascent cosmos. And they went forth, the great Seven and all the unnamed Anaion as well, and scattered these small and yet splendorous lights throughout the tapestry of the Maker, which thus became their tapestry too.
Thus were fashioned the heavens and the earth, the heavens with all their glorious immensity of lights, and the earth a realm bathed in these lights, abiding at the very heart of the All-Giver's intent and remaining always in the center of his gaze and his will. But the earth as yet had not come to completion and the fabric was unfinished, the pattern incomplete. And so Eldaru wove in the beauty of living things, starting from the least and proceeding to the greatest, from the simplest of things consisting of few parts, to the most rich and complex, whose unity and simplicity remained, however, on a higher level, in the depth of their being and in the immensity of their significance, unified and whole. He wove the grasses on the hillsides and the plains, dipping their roots into the fabric of the earth, and the trees too, in all their variety. And as he worked, the Anaion watched, awestruck and amazed, and filled with gratitude to have such a Creator and to be allowed to witness such a work.
And beholding their awe, Eldaru turned again to them and said unto them: "I see that thou delightest in mine creation. Come, then, and impart into this work thine own desire as garnish to enhance and beautify what I have made and to draw thine own presence near to it, as thy heart may wish." But the Anaion replied: "Naught can we create but what comest from thee, Giver of all. How then shall we createst from ourselves, to enhance what from thee is consummate?" And in response, he spoke: "I have left space for thine own weaving, deliberately in mine love, for I wish thee to delight also in the act of creating, be it only the threading together, according to thine ingenuity, what has already come from me." And the Anaion understood and rejoiced and, in this joy, began to weave according to the plan of the Weaver, which they were granted to see and in which they freely shared.
Hiliana, for example, beheld the growing things upon the earth and the way that they drank from the lights of the sky, living on the light as from light they came. And she wished too that they would live also on the threads of this light as distilled into liquid form. Did water, therefore, come forth from her by her own devising, or did she only discover it, inscribed into the fabric by Eldaru, for her unsealing? Clearly it is the latter, for the conversation that they had shared made this radiantly apparent. And so Hiliana rejoiced still more, and her delight was multiplied threefold: not only to witness the work of creation, and not only to fashion within it according to what she had received, but also to recognize within it secrets planted by the Maker, and to unseal these secrets which he had willed precisely for her, that through her they may fully be as he intended them to be.
Telmoth, too, for his part, took a special delight in the earth, in the abundance of the soil, and in the life that flowed through the hidden interior of each living plant, from the smallest of grasses or flowers to the largest of trees. And there awaited him, not unlike for Hiliana, a discovery. For by his creative intuition and desire, he found that many of the trees and plants began to bear fruit, to distill their life, as it were, into succulent artifacts which were not only sweet and beautiful but also carried in them seed, the essence of life, to bring forth yet more living things from those that already live.
And in this cycle of growth and birth, Melengthar began to delight, and he took this deeply to heart, though his dearest creation and the predilection of his eyes was yet to come. For him the passage of time, the cycles of life, held special interest, and he consulted with Hiliana concerning the beauty of her fashioning. "I seest the beauty which thou hast unsealed, my sister," he said unto her. "Thou hast joined the intangible rays of light together such that they distilleth into substance, poured out tangibly as drink for living things. I wish also to see this same substance, and the life of these things to cycle forth, not only in the seed given from the fruit but in the very living endurance of each thing." And so, at Melengthar's suggestion, and with his counsel, Hiliana discovered—and thus unsealed—the cycle of the seasons, from Spring, to Summer, to Fall, and finally to Winter, and thus unto Spring again. An extension of Eldaru's creation of the two lights in the sky, in their perpetual dance of day and night, the seasons further marked the passage of time, the weaving of the tapestry of the cosmos as it progressed forward to the joy of all.
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The interweaving fabric of creation thus progressed, following upon the making of living plants, trees, and vegetation of all kinds, to the glorious blossoming of the cycle of seasons, and of the falling of rain and the rising up of water from the earth, and of the mystery of life-begetting-life in the fruitfulness that springs from the abundance that all living things bear within. After this, Eldaru again took the initiative in the work of creation and brought forth by his own activity, his own weaving—by reaching deep within himself and drawing forth from the beauty of his own life—the living creatures that walk upon the ground or fly in the sky or swim in the depths of water. Thus came to be the animate creatures that move within the richness of creation, living things both great and small, each manifesting beauty in its own way, each reflecting some part of the glory of their Maker. From the majestic freedom of the eagle's flight, to the elegance and strength of the horse, to the radiant beauty of the butterfly, to the humility of the rabbit, the wonders of Eldaru were made visible in the living creatures born of his act.
And yet this alone was not enough for the All-Giver, for such creatures, while manifesting his beauty in themselves, each uniquely, nonetheless could not enter into knowing, enter into loving, which is proper to persons alone, and thus could not fully experience the joy of their Creator and enter into his life in the manner that Eldaru, in his generosity, wished to bestow. For he wished to grant participation in his inner life not only unto the Anaion, first fruit of his thought and his love, but also unto creatures, persons, who would be in the body—enfleshed within the world nestled in the fabric of light—and yet would be in themselves spirit too, living spirit in the flesh, and flesh joined to spirit, and precisely as such to share consciously, freely, in the life of the One, and in the joy that is his. For this joy, this endless life that has been proper to Eldaru from eternity to eternity without end, is both their origin and their goal, their source and their destiny.
To do this, Eldaru took up the strands that were to be found in the created world, the threads of all things—the earthiness of the soil, the elegance of the celestial lights, the hardiness of the trees, the splendor of the mountains, the dance of the flowers, the procreative capacity of seed, the heartbeat and breath of living animals—and wove it into something that came from himself alone, something, indeed, deeper and more interior to himself than anything else that he had yet given. And by this gift, this thread of his inmost love, he gathered the entirety of the created universe and caused it to converge upon a single point, to be woven as into a single thread: in the beauty and life of our own race, the sekanin, the chosen and beloved, in whom and through whom the fullness of creation shall return at last, at the end of the ages, into the life of the One, the All-Giver, once again.
And thus man awakened upon the earth, bearing the very impress of Eldaru and made like unto him—made like unto him by the very intentions of the One who imparted himself in the gift of his creative love, in the gift of life and existence. And though it is true that Eldaru gave himself in every act of his creation, that every thing that exists became a manifestation of his gift, nonetheless the sekanin became the greatest of his gifts, the center of his visible creation. All gifts, as it were, became summed up in this one gift, and it was man's part to allow all things to be summed up in himself, and in this way to be carried thus, in him and through him, back into the loving embrace of their Creator, the Creator of all.
And it was precisely this predilection—this divine delight, this intention of Eldaru to sum up all things in man—that stirred Igrandsil, the highest of the Anaion fallen to the lowest, to envy and hate, as has been said in the first account of the origins of all. He thus intended to tear the threads from the heart of man, to rip him to pieces, so that he was no longer unity but rather division, no longer harmony but rather discord, no longer integrity but rather dissolution. Rather than being the convergence of all things, the weaving together of diverse strands into a harmonious fabric of love, Igrandsil intended rather to make of man the point at which fissure entered into the cosmos, the point at which the first tear in the seamless tapestry of beauty was made. And he could only do this by tearing man from his Creator, by seeking to sunder that one thread upon which all the others depended and without which all would come apart, until torn utterly to pieces.
But there is yet another dimension of the life of the sekanin that has yet to be touched upon before coming to the moment at the beginning of our own history—the tragic moment—that has scarred not only our race but the entirety of the cosmos. For what was that ineffable mystery at the heart of the life of Eldaru that was granted unto the sekanin to live, born of his predilection for them and sealing this love upon their very being, such that the Anaion themselves inclined unto humanity in reverence and awe, as to siblings entrusted with a special gift, by which they were stirred to love and care, custodians of something sacred? In this age of the world, we know not the fullness of such a gift, lost as it was, in its purity, at the origins of our history, even as we bear the remnants of it still, crying out within us for wholeness and restoration. But it was, as indicated earlier, an inmost thread of the very everlasting life of Eldaru granted unto man as the center of his own life, creating a unique bond between creature and Creator, a special relation, whose nature is yet to be rediscovered by us and even further yet to be restored.
But we know that man was, of all creatures, restless. He was full of longing and aspiration, even in the paradisic existence granted unto him; he was full of expectation for something still more—and this longing was but a correspondence, in him, of a promise of Eldaru made in the very act of his creation. Unlike the Anaion, who were granted the fullness of being and life from the beginning of their fashioning, in utter abundance, and from this fullness freely turned unto the visible creation in love and affection, and unlike all creatures lower than man, content to live and exist in their own sphere, manifesting that part of the mind of Eldaru from which each was formed, man stood in the visible world and yet yearned beyond it; he stood in himself and yet aspired to be more than himself, or rather, to find himself fulfilled in what could only come from beyond him.
Thus he was a promise that the tapestry of the world woven by the great Weaver would return hence unto the Weaver again, not to be dissolved, to be unspun, but rather to be woven into the very fabric of the Weaver of all, who has never been woven, nor can be unwoven, but who weaves all things. The whole world was thus unto the sekanin as a home, and yet not a definitive home; it was unto him as a gift, but also a hope, a gift of hope stirring in him the desire to weave as he is woven, to weave within his own weaving, as the Anaion themselves had been spontaneously and freely awakened to song before the origins of all, in the experience of their own selves being sung forth from Eldaru and hearkening unto the sweetness and beauty of his eternal song.
And indeed the sekani, man, being whole within himself, alone, and longing unto his Fashioner, was also not made to be alone in the world. To the delight of Eldaru and by his will, man was opened in his inmost flesh such that from one came two, and in two, unity. For from man was fashioned woman, her threads woven of the same substance as he, like unto man and yet distinct from him: sekani still, beloved and chosen, like man in every way and yet different. Thus was constituted, in its earliest origins, what has come to be called the human race, two threads each unique, whole and entire in themselves before the Maker of all, and yet also intertwined with one another, and aspiring ever upward together in a ceaseless dance until finding rest in the home of their Origin and Consummation.
And Igrandsil despised the sekanin with a complete hatred; he recoiled before what man and woman were, and he hated the dependence, the longing, and the aspiration that they bore within themselves, which he saw as weakness, a fault in the Maker's plan, not understanding that it was but a promise of greater works still to come. Or perhaps it was precisely these works which, when glimpsed, Igrandsil despised more than all else and which stirred him to such a frenzy of envy and such a lust for power and control that he conceived a plot of unutterable wickedness, the likes of which have already in part been seen.
† † †
The Anaion looked upon the majestic tapestry of creation woven so perfectly, so fittingly, and in joy joined their song to the song of Eldaru. And the sekanin, too, shared in this delight, in this song, in the beauty of this weaving. Delighting in them who delighted in creation and delighted too in their Maker, Eldaru gave them a special home in the heart of an island of beauty, a land cradled between shimmering seas, with roots reaching deep into the subterranean earth and glistening peaks reaching up toward the sky. And Telmoth, beholding the craftsmanship of Eldaru in fashioning this island as a special home of the sekanin, rejoiced, and spoke unto Eldaru: "I beseech thee that I may come and dwell near unto thine chosen and may watch over them in thy name, all who come to live upon this land." And the All-Giver replied: "This request delighteth me, and it is my wish too. Thou shalt be a special guardian of all that occurs upon this island throughout the ages of history, from now and henceforth. But I shall always be near too, both through thee and with thee, for they are, after all, my creation, mine own chosen and beloved."
The other Anaion heard this conversation and wished too to care for the sekanin in a manner not unlike Telmoth; but they bore not the particular love for this land that was granted uniquely unto him. Thus they offered themselves in different manners with diverse consequence and fascination, but all together with one intent. Thus Melengthar cared for the fruitfulness of man and woman and delighted in their capacity to bring to birth new life—which as yet, nonetheless, was a capacity still in seed, and which had not come to full expression and realization. He awaited this with joyful expectation, gazing with rapt attention upon both Eldaru and the sekanin, until the word, spoken from the Maker, would stir man and woman to their own most profound participation in the work of creation, in the weaving of new children in the womb of a mother by the seed of man. So too Hiliana saw the breasts of woman and knew what purpose they would serve: she saw the beauty of this mystery of life pouring unto life and life nourishing. For her, it was not unlike the fascination she knew in the outpouring of the heavens to nourish the growing earth, and yet was even more profound.
In like manner, the other Anaion cherished the tapestry of beauty, with the world at its heart, and at the center of this world that island of harmony and life made as a dwelling-place for the sekanin. But Melandia too, named Igrandsil, also beheld the work unfolding and knew from prior councils—in which the Anaion sat together in the presence of Eldaru and listened unto his plan of creation, insofar as revealed to them—the intentions of the Maker regarding his chosen. And he carried a plan of his own devising hidden deep within his heart, until the moment came for him to enact it. Already he had fallen from the grace of the One and from the harmony of the Anaion, and he dwelt in an abode apart, and from this place he looked upon the work of creation, upon the tapestry woven, though he was forbidden any part in its making. This only stirred his hatred still more, and a fire burned within him: the desire to take as his own what he was not allowed even to touch and, once it was his, to corrupt it and turn it to his own twisted ends.
But Eldaru abode in patience, and he continued undeterred along the path that he had chosen in his infinite wisdom and love. Thus he drew near to man and woman, the sekanin, who lived joyfully—without aging, pain, or death, and in radiant clarity and harmony of mind and body—in the midst of the land that he had given unto them, and he entrusted unto them a gift. He took a thread of pure and uncreated light and wove it into a glittering gem of magnificent beauty, a crystal that shined from within a holy radiance, which he named the Illustra. "I entrust this gift unto thee, my chosen," he said unto them. "It is thine to cherish and protect, thine to love. Indeed, it is a vessel of sacred beauty which contains within it all that thy heart desires and which is allotted to thee as thy portion. Or rather, it contains within it thy longing, thy vigilant expectation, which shall keep thee alert, filled with wonder, play, and hope, unto that fulfillment of all desire, that long-expected gift which thy heart awaits, and which shall come unto thee at the proper time.
"Do not, therefore," he continued, "seek to open the vessel until it unseals itself of its own accord. Thou art to wait in patient longing—free of pain and strife and yet reaching out to what is to come—until I myself shall come to thee, in my visitation, and definitively reveal the light unto thee." Man and woman received these words and accepted them, seeing the wisdom of Eldaru and his goodness, and they longed with ardent yet peaceful expectation for the moment that the gift would be fully revealed. And they gratefully received this precious entrustment, this gem housing uncreated light, and placed it within the recesses of a living tree, large and glorious, which had a space in the trunk as if designed precisely to be a fitting resting place for such a sacred thing. When so held within the living embrace of the great tree, the gem poured forth beauty, until the entire forest surrounding became bathed in light unknown to man and woman until that moment. And in this light, they rejoiced.
But here Igrandsil's plan reached its time of commencement, for which he had long waited. He came unto them, his horrendous nature hidden under a pleasing guise, and spoke to them. He told them glorious things about the life of the Anaion, about their proximity to Eldaru and their governance over the whole tapestry of creation. Being unable to lead them astray through their pure and holy wonder about the gifts that Eldaru had given them, he instead tried to stir their desire for things that had not been given. He gradually led them, through subtle insinuations, along the path to a desire for things which were not meant for them, to a desire for the life that was proper to the Anaion, a life which came to seem to them enviable beyond all things. But not only this—no, not only this—for he told them that the life of an Anaia was enviable only because it was like unto the life of Eldaru, and yet Eldaru wished not for them to be fully like unto him, withholding from them his most precious secrets. And had he not withheld even more in regard to themselves, the sekanin? For if he had withheld from the Anaion, he withheld tenfold more from the sekanin, who were given such a pitiful gift: a gift of longing and of hope, whereas they should have been given utter abundance from the start, if Eldaru were such a giver of all good things, as they had imagined him to be.
"It is a mockery of gift," Igrandsil said unto them. "See ye not? He giveth only to indebt ye unto himself. He giveth that ye mayest be his slaves, and so that he may require from ye the homage which otherwise ye wouldst be free from giving. What good doest it unto ye? See ye not? Never shall this precious thing be thine. No, it is a feign hope, a hope which shall never reach fulfillment, but which shall keep ye ever in thrall to one who insists on having power over ye." They hesitated in response to his words, uncertain of their truth. And so he spoke still further: "If ye need an illustration of this truth, it is not far from hand. For many of his Anaion came to the same realization. Together we turned away from his unjust yoke, and waged war to free ourselves from his illegitimate dominion. I come to you now only to warn ye, to grant you the same freedom that I myself have come to know. Shalt ye refuse me? Shalt ye decline the greatest of gifts simply because it comes second in place to the mock-gift of the supposed All-Giver?"
III.
The sekanin turned their gaze unto the gem of light, the Illustra, and were struck by its beauty, by its desirability. Yes, how could a thing of such beauty be withheld from them? They realized the absurdity of the command given unto them by Eldaru, in which he spoke of the Illustra as a gift of longing and of hope. But was it not all there before them, the fulfillment of all their desires, if only they would reach out and take it for themselves? And so man and woman were persuaded, and they approached the tree in which the Illustra was embedded. They pulled it forth and held it in their hands. But the holding was not enough, for it was only within the glowing gem, hidden within it, forbidden unto them, that what they wished for was concealed. And they thought to smite it against rock, to fashion some tool, some device, that would break it open. Yet while they debated between themselves how to achieve this, they heard the voice of Eldaru echo through the woods: "Why seekest thou to appropriate a gift which was freely given? It is not locked. It is not sealed. If you wish to take it, nothing is hindering thee. But beware! The gift cannot be had in such a way."
They took to heart that part of his words which they wished to hear and ignored the rest, and they laid hold of the gem and tore it open effortlessly, and the light burst forth. Or rather the light fled. It fled from the Illustra; it fled from the forest; it fled away to the furthest reaches beyond their grasp, and immediately man and woman realized their mistake, and the deception of Igrandsil was laid bare. And at this realization, they turned upon one another in argument; man blamed the woman for the fault, for not seeing through the deception, and woman in turn blamed the man. But their argument was halted as darkness descended upon the land far different than had ever been before—not the darkness of pure and holy night radiant with moon and stars and innumerable nocturnal sounds, but darkness of terror and fear and loss. And yet this darkness was less even than the darkness that fell like a black curtain upon their own hearts and which estranged them from one another and from all that was beautiful, or good, or true.
They fled in terror from the wood and sought refuge in the mountains, even as Eldaru sought them out. He appeared to them as they fled, and he spoke to them of the consequence of their foolishness, or rather of their infidelity, but they heeded him not, their hearts being filled with such fear of his splendor and glory. Pained by their choice and yet not discouraged, Eldaru did not withhold from them what his plan had allotted, and even as they fled, he unsealed within them that final part of their nature, which until now he had held in himself until the proper moment. Thus as they came into the mountains, they began to bring forth children like unto themselves. In this manner, under a dark shadow and the pain of loss, the race of the sekanin was begun.
And grow it did, from generation to generation, until a large part of the island was inhabited. All of those born of woman retained a memory, deeper than memory, of what the island had been before the Illustra had been forced open, and yet all bore, too, the profound weight of darkness that had fallen upon the land and upon the very depths of the heart. And the Illustra, now bereft of light, still remained enshrined in the great tree, in a grove that was considered sacred and forbidden, one of the last remaining vestiges of reverence for Eldaru when all else had turned to darkness. As the decades and centuries passed, groups began to make pilgrimage to the forest and to draw near to the tree, not to touch it, not to enter into the sacred grove, but as it were to reach back, through proximity, to that memory deeper than memory. One of them, however, who went by the name of Galrid, drew nearer than the others, even unto glimpsing the dimmed Illustra embedded in the trunk of the great tree. And he thought that perhaps there may yet be some semblance of light left, hidden deep within the stone. Yet remembering the prohibition made by his people, he withdrew and departed from the wood. But this was only for a time, as thence he returned again in a year, with a large company of men. And he passed through the wood like a searing fire that burns what stands in its path: for those who witnessed him saw the fierce determination in his eyes and they feared what would come of the hunger that burned within them.
There was a wise old sage, one of the earliest children of the first man and woman, the parents of the human race, whose life had endured beyond the limits of ordinary sekani, though they had long since died. This sage had witnessed Galrid and his company as they passed into and through the wood. Stirred at once by what he beheld, this sage, whose name was Ilionis, took to following them, and he hid among the trees as the company entered into the sacred grove. "What I understand not," the sage heard Galrid say in a loud voice to those who accompanied him, "is why we have gone back on the way of our ancestors. Do you not see that our race was begun with an act of freedom? It was begun with a rebellion against the unjust prohibition placed upon us, the knowledge of which has been passed down to us throughout the years. And yet look what has become of us! Now we are enslaved not to prohibitions of creatures that would wish to be our superior; no, we are enslaved to prohibitions of our own making. And I declare: no more of this!"
And thus Galrid turned unto the Illustra, and he reached forth his hand, not knowing that, truly, nothing good awaited him in such an act. Witnessing this and dreading such an act of disrespect and desecration, Ilionis leapt forward from the trees and revealed himself. "Stay your hand!" he cried, and he sought to prevent Galrid. But the flame burning in Galrid's eyes only flared forth, and he pounced upon Ilionis and pinned him to the ground. When the old sage resisted and sought to speak words of wisdom to sway him from his folly, Galrid only became enraged, and he grasped the sage's throat, hindering his breath, until, at last, he was no more. Thus occurred the first loss of human life at the hands of another. By man was the life of man taken for the first time, though it would be far from the last. And yet Galrid cared not, and rose to his feet with a growl, and grasped the Illustra in his hands, seeking to tear it from its place in the tree.
But try as he might, he was unable to dislodge the Illustra from its place. Enraged, he turned to his companions, and after a moment, he spoke: "Brethren, hearken to my words. If we cannot take the Illustra for ourselves, we shall instead take the forest, and the tree, and the crystal within it. No matter what comes, we shall not renounce it to anyone. We shall stand our ground, and fight if we must, to the end." And so it was, for stirred by Galrid's lust for power—veiled as a desire for the light supposedly still contained in the Illustra—other tribes gathered and waged war against the company of Galrid. Four tribes there were in all: the Galridi, the Hyreli, the Erulari, and the Silioni. The Hyreli and the Erulari waged vicious war against the Galridi, and the latter fought back with even more violence, falling into a frenzy of bloodlust that augmented, deepened, and expressed their lust for power. The Silioni, however, drew back and took refuge in the mountains, not out of fear of death or unwillingness to face conflict, but rather out of reverence for the Illustra and refusal to engage in a war of such a kind and for such a purpose.
The war was fought for three-hundred days before the land was drenched in blood, and the woods surrounding the Illustra, and the nearby lands, were covered in burial mounds of the fallen dead. There was so much death for a race so young! During a lull in the fighting, Galrid turned to his closest companion, Arunis, who had a heart almost as black as his own, and said: "I suspect the Silioni. They have withdrawn beyond our reach and hide themselves in the mountains. And their reason is clear. They wait until the three armies are in a weakened state—and especially our own—and then they shall attack and take the crystal for themselves. But the crystal is ours, and the woods, and so shall be the rule." To this Arunis replied: "What is your suggestion, my lord? Or wish you to hear what I think?" "I suspect," Galrid said, "that our plan would be much the same. Take three-hundred men tomorrow and make for the mountains. When you have found the hiding place of the Silioni, encamp in concealment through the depths of night, and with the first light of day, slaughter all without mercy." "As you wish," was Arunis' response, with a nod of the head. "It is as I would have wished as well."
And so the company of slaughter set forth, with intent of great sacrilege against human life and against the Creator of life. But Eldaru saw the pure intent of the Silioni, and especially of Silion the Wise, leader of the tribe and oldest living of the sekanin. And he saw the evil in the hearts of the other tribes, and their twisted will, and their terrible deeds. Thus he spoke unto Nerethion and Hiliana, the highest of the Anaion, and said unto them: "I send thee this very night unto the abode of those who call themselves the Silioni. For tomorrow awaits for them a great and awful slaughter, and yet I wish not for it to be. Rather, I have plans for them of great importance and beauty, not only in the present but for ages to come." The two Anaion replied in one accord: "What thou wishest, we wish as well, for the wisdom of your words is truth indeed and deepest benevolence." "Go then and shield them as the sun rises over the earth. Lead them out, and they shall escape." "Where shall we lead them?" Hiliana asked. "Lead them into the sacred grove," Eldaru explained, "to the very place that has become the center of so much strife. It is my will that they inherit it, and that it be their special habitation for the rest of their days, from generation to generation."
"What shall we do with the company that yet remains in the grove?" asked Nerethion. "I know that I have fought much against the armies of Igrandsil, and I fear not to fight in thy name. But this is different, as human life, since its fall from your grace, endures not forever, but is ruptured upon death, and the body goes to the dust while the spirit goes to rest until the appointed time." "Thou speakest with great understanding and compassion, Nerethion," Eldaru said. "I wish not for any of my Anaion to slay my chosen children. No, simply bring to the grove those who are faithful to me, and I shall arrange all things for their protection and their inheritance." "As thou sayest," said both, with gladness in their faces in gazing upon Eldaru and with compassion in their hearts for the strife fallen upon the race of the sekanin. And they went forth with haste and appeared unto the Silioni, who looked with rapt amazement and grateful awe upon the glorious faces of Nerethion and Hiliana—incorporeal persons made visible in some manner to mortal eyes. "We come unto thee in warning and in care," spoke Hiliana. "For this very morning, at the rising of the sun, comes a force seeking thy destruction. But fear not! We have been sent, and we have come with desire, to protect thee from all who would harm thee. We shall hide thee in the shadow of our presence, and then we shall lead thee forth to the place appointed for thee by the wisdom of the All-Giver."
"The All-Giver!" cried Silion. "All praise be unto the highest of highest and the origin of all. He has not forsaken his children!" "Indeed not," Nerethion said. "Never has he, nor shall he ever do so. It is not in his nature to withdraw his love once it is given, and it is given freely to all that exists. Thy part is only to trust in him and to walk in the path he marks out for thee with simplicity and joy." "We do not walk unto death?" a companion of Silion asked. "Assuredly not," affirmed Hiliana. "Thou walkest unto life." "Without hesitation," Silion said, and with emphasis, "we shall trust and walk."
And so it happened. The Silioni were veiled from the presence of those who would destroy them, and were led by Nerethion and Hiliana through the mountain trails and into the woods, unto the very sanctuary of the sacred grove. As they approached, they saw the remaining company of Galrid encamped near to the Illustra. But as they looked on, the very earth began to groan and shift, and the tribe fell into a panic, and they began to flee to the east, out of the grove, and even further, to the plains that lay beyond the woods. And as they fled, a wide chasm opened, separating them from the grove and from the Illustra within it, a rift in the earth to henceforth unable to be crossed except by those chosen by the heavens.
"Now, the All-Giver saith unto thee," began Hiliana, "that this place, this sacred grove, shall henceforth be thine habitation, until the end of your ages upon the earth." In this manner, the Anaia addressed the sekanin, speaking to them all simultaneously and yet using a singular pronoun, as if singling out each with incomparable attention and unique responsibility, born of an irreplaceable love. She continued: "Thou art now called, for all the time before you, not the Silioni, but the Velasi, the 'veiled ones,' and also 'the ones who veil.' Loved and protected as thou art, thou shalt also love and protect. Thou shalt be the custodians of the sacred stone and of the lands which its presence hath hallowed. Indeed, Eldaru grants unto thee a special gift fitting to thy fidelity, but born of his own boundless and preordained generosity: he grants unto thee life in the face of death. Whereas other men shall come to the grave in short expanse of time, thou shalt live on for many years. This is his gift, and it shall also be thy joy and thy pain; for it is thy part to keep perpetual vigil in this place, awaiting, as man and woman were meant in the beginning, the time of visitation. For the promise Eldaru made at the origin of your race has not, on his part, been broken, even if from his children he found betrayal. So stand then, all of ye, in the joy of his love, in the hope of his coming, and in the expectation of his countenance."
"Yea," Nerethion said, taking up with his voice the train of her discourse, "not only shalt thou live for ages in expectation of the Giver's visitation, the fulfillment of his promise—and only at this time find your life come to peaceful and joyous conclusion—but thou shalt also feel and know more than other men do. Thou shalt feel the darkness in the heart of every man as if it was thine own, and thou shalt suffer for it, but thou shalt also feel all the rays of light woven into this world with ardent intensity. Thou shalt know and hurt for the ugliness of a fallen world, and thou shalt know and rejoice at the beauty of the goodness that still liveth within it. Thou art henceforth custodians of the light, keeping vigil in the darkness of this world until the dawning of the definitive day, when the Dawnbringer shall come unto the earth."