Eldarien awakes before the first morning light and sits up on the straw-covered bed. The air is indeed cold, and he pulls the furs tight around his body as his breath floats as a cloud of mist in the air before him. He does not stay like this for long, however, as a mysterious restlessness tugs at his heart and stirs him to move, and he swings his feet off the bed and pulls on his worn leather boots. He then, bringing the warm furs of the bed with him, walks quietly through the house and outside into the icy night air. It is almost dawn, as the first traces of light are visible on the far horizon over the dark and murky sea to the east. But the air is still dark, and even the first hints of light on the very edge of the world are pale and icy in tone, without the warm reds, oranges, or purples of the rising sun. Eldarien knows from experience that the moments before the sun first shows her face are colder than those preceding or following, as if all the warmth in the world is drawn by some mysterious magnetism toward the rising sun only to be cast out again prodigiously upon the world whenever she smiles once again upon it.
After a prolonged moment looking out toward the sky in the east, Eldarien begins to make his way down the path to the beach, careful not to trip or to lose his way anywhere along the darkness-enshrouded landscape. In a short time, he stands on the rocky shore with the soft waves washing up only inches before him, humming their continual song, nonviolent in its gentleness and yet strong in its depth of baritone intensity. The air is lighter now, and subtle streaks of yellow and bluish-purple become visible, glowing through the low-hanging clouds, filling their full-bodied girth with a soft radiance. The painful memories from the previous night still linger in Eldarien's mind, and his heart is heavy. Over the previous months, he had tried to avoid thinking too much about what returning to Telmerion would entail and about the trials and dangers that awaited him. But now as he stands on the very brink of the unknown, and with a past full of suffering, strife, and death, he feels gripped and almost suffocated by trepidation and fear.
It is not that he fears to die; he has stared death in the face for too long and come too close to the brink of death to fear it in that way. But even as the thought crosses his mind, he wonders: Is that really true? Memories of his icy trial in which the ocean almost became his tomb resurface in his mind. He was scared of death then, scared of his life being snuffed out before he had found peace, before he felt, for lack of a better word, ready. He feared, too, the great unknown that death is for every human being. And though he had been spared from that kind of death and given life anew, he stands now looking into the possibility of death in many other ways, whether at the edge of a headsman's axe for desertion, or in the strife of the civil war, or under the violent assault of these mysterious creatures arising from the earth.
But before and beyond the fear of his own death, his heart recoils from the act of death-dealing, recoils in fear of being called upon to kill again. The scenes of the battlefield can never be erased from his mind, though he wishes they could be. And with the scenes always lingers a deep-seated disgust, a disgust with himself. Who is this man, this monster, who is so cruel as to drive a blade deep into the beating heart of another human being or to hack at him and split his tender skin wide open, exposing inner flesh and releasing blood? Can the blood-stained hands and heart of such a man ever be cleansed? Can the filth ever be purged away, leaving pure skin like the flesh of a little child and a heart careless and free like at the first dawn of life? No, of course not, Eldarien thinks, as he looks out at the brilliance of the rising sun now showing her face above the horizon, warm light sending crimson ripples across the sky and sparkles of splendor across the surface of the ocean. His only hope lies now in fighting for goodness in whatever way he may, in standing for all that is beautiful in human life rather than in taking it away. In this manner, perhaps, just perhaps, he can hope to find some freedom from the inner pain. And even if that is not possible, even if for him nothing changes, as long as he is able to do some good, to relieve some suffering, to bring some hope to at least one person, that is and will be worthwhile and good.
To his surprise, he hears a voice calling from behind him, interrupting him and dragging him from the current of his thoughts. He turns around and sees Morlof walking toward him in the dawning morning light.
"Eldarien Illomiel," the old man says, "you will be departing soon, will you not?"
"Not immediately."
"But you do not intend to stay long?"
"No, I do not," Eldarien replies. "There are too many pressing needs ahead of me. I do not know if I could rest were I to linger here for a long time."
"One cannot truly do good unless one can also rest while good still needs to be done."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean simply that you are not the world's savior," Morlof says. "There are many things in this world beyond human ken and capacity. It is our allotted portion only to humbly do what we may...and to rest."
"But how?" Eldarien whispers, "when what is beyond us afflicts us and continually harms those whom we love? How can we not take a stand against it? I am restless for good, and I do not think I could be otherwise."
"I speak not against this restlessness for good of which you speak. Would that we all possessed that in abundant measure. But even restlessness must be held by a deeper rest. And there are many ways to stand. What matters is that we stand in our own place, accepting what is allotted to us."
"And for all the other things?"
"For all the other things...trust."
"You speak as if you know," Eldarien says.
"Forgive me," replies Morlof, quietly. "I speak in folly. It is easy to speak fine words when one wishes to appear wise or to aid another, but it is much harder to live them. And you have been tested far more than me, indeed I imagine more than most men. Forget what I said. The path you walk and will walk as the coming days unfold is far beyond me. But I hope and trust, indeed, that you will find the right path, even if you must walk in some sense alone." Morlof places a hand on Eldarien's shoulder and looks deeply into his eyes. He continues: "Much afflicts you, I know. But you are not truly alone, nor will you be. This much I sense."
Shrugging as if to make light of his own path both in the past and the future, Eldarien replies, "I head first for the hills, probably to the very feet of the mountains, to try to discover something about the stirring of these beasts from the earth."
"A dangerous task. And a long journey."
"I need to know what is happening and to discern, if I can, what may be done about it."
"I fear there may be conflict before the end," Morlof says. "I know you wish not to fight against your own kind. And indeed, the civil war may be the portion of other men, and its conflict pass you by. May you be spared a part in that, any more than you have already tasted. But I do wonder: if you encounter these creatures, these abominations of darkness, will you raise the sword to fight against them?"
"That is yet something within my capacity," Eldarien confirms, "if it is indeed fitting to do. But I need to know what I am up against and whether this is the right course of action."
"And?"
"And I have not a sword any longer. Mine rests at the bottom of the ocean."
"Well," Morlof begins, laughing quietly, "then you are in luck. We have an heirloom passed down for many a year, from generation to generation, from the grandfather of my grandfather."
"An ancient sword is not fit to fight with," Eldarien replies. "It will likely break with the first impact."
"Indeed? Well, not this one. You see, it is forged of the rarest metal, light but strong, which does not wear with the passage of time nor dull with the clash of blades or armor or stone."
"You speak of myellion?"
"Yes," Morlof says, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"I could not receive such a gift," Eldarien protests. "A family heirloom should remain within your family. I could not take it away from you. Pass it on to your son that he in turn may give it to his son after him."
"Mirand shall likely never have cause to wield a sword, as I myself have not. I insist that you take it. Consider it an act of trust in you. Consider it, indeed, as a sign of my wish for you to walk henceforth as you have resolved within yourself."
"Very well. If you speak so strongly, I will accept it, though I do not wish to deprive you."
"Nonsense, you would be doing no such thing," says Morlof. "But come, let us return to the house. The air is cold, and I am sure that Yelía is already busy preparing something for breakfast. After that, I will show you the sword. I only hope that you are adept at wielding with two hands? It is a greatsword."
"I will be capable enough," Eldarien replies. "We fought with sword and shield, primarily, but we were trained also in greataxe and polearm. The greatsword must be similar."
"And yet lighter and more swift, I think. Particularly one crafted of myellion."
† † †
"Do you think you are in good enough health to be leaving?" Yelía asks after Eldarien has finished breakfast.
"I feel quite well, in fact, all things considered."
"Your time in the icy water surely had a negative effect upon you. Perhaps you should stay for a few more days. I fear you will grow ill on the road alone, which is a bad place to be when illness strikes."
"I see your point and I appreciate your care," Eldarien replies, "but I really must be going soon. I would hope to leave tomorrow morning if possible."
"Stay for at least two more days," Morlof says. "Then we can confidently send you away without fear that you will collapse on the road." This statement does not come as a request or even as a suggestion, but more as an imperative. Of course, Eldarien knows that he is free to decide, and that even their strong insistence does not compel him; but why betray their kindness all to gain only two days' time when he does not even know his precise destination or the fullness of his purpose?
"I will stay," he says at last. "It may be well to rest for a while longer and to prepare."
"That is very good," Morlof says, "and I am sure that it will be good to see my son and daughter-in-law and their children for a while longer. I imagine it has been long since you have had the joy of family life laid before your eyes."
After this, the table is cleared and the kitchen cleaned. (This time Eldarien is allowed to help.) And then Morlof leads him outside to a small workshop behind the house—carpentry and leather-working, by the looks of it.
"Is all of this yours?" Eldarien asks as he looks around.
"Yes, though I have taught Mirand a thing or two and hope to teach the little ones, if they are willing."
"It is quite a workshop to have without the business to support it. You have enough supplies to create quite a collection of items."
"Whoever said there was no business to support it?" Morlof replies with a laugh in his voice. "We are fishermen. That much is obvious. But whenever someone in the area needs someone to work with wood or to craft leather—shoes or a cloak or a saddle, you name it—I am here to help. I am not the only person in town, of course, but the need is enough to give me quite a bit to do. And this kind of work is really a much greater love for me than fishing. To fashion beauty or usefulness with these hands is a marvelous thing. To see the shape take form beneath my fingers, under the touch of my tools...it does a man good. Perhaps it feels something like what the gods felt when they brought the world first into existence."
"Perhaps so," Eldarien says quietly, as he looks around the workshop.
"Speaking of creating," Morlof continues, in another tone, "I imagine you will need something to keep you warm in your travels. You know the death-dealing cold of our land."
"Indeed."
"How would you feel if I turned the furs of your bed into a cloak?"
"You would do that?"
"I hope to do it, if you do not object. The bed is very little used, and the furs can be easily replaced."
"I do not object. It would be a greatly appreciated token, and I imagine quite useful. I wish that I could pay you, but—"
"Nonsense. You can consider it done." Morlof smiles a toothy grin, and Eldarien cannot help smiling back at the kindness of this man who has already done so much for him. "I am going to bind the furs inside stretched and treated leather, seamless as much as I can make it, so that the cloak will be waterproof as well as warm. A hood, too, I will need to attach, with fur. We don't want your ears falling off from the cold while you travel."
"First a plum nose, and now earlessness," laughs Eldarien. "Your imagination is quite vivid, Morlof."
The old man chuckles softly as he looks around wistfully, as if planning the project in his mind. "Oh!" he exclaims, "and I almost forgot."
"Yes?"
"The sword."
With this, he walks to the back of the workshop and pries open the lid of an old wooden chest. From within, buried among what appear to be other old items or tools, he draws a sword, turns, and holds it before Eldarien.
"It looks as it must have on the first day of its creation," Eldarien says in wonder, inspecting it.
"Indeed," Morlof replies. "It is said that myellion does not become worn in even the worst of storms, and that it can cut what no other sword can cut. Here, take it. Hold it. Does it fit well in your hand?"
"I don't know if any sword will now fit well in my hand," Eldarien whispers, but he takes the sword and holds it. The grip is bound with smooth strips of leather which adhere well against the palm, while the pommel, crossguard, and blade are all naked myellion, a soft but clean silver color, with a touch of blue. On the pommel is an emblem that Eldarien does not recognize, and on the crossguard are carved what look to be vines and leaves, coiling around one another and terminating in flowers on either end. The blade itself looks to be about four feet long and the whole sword, blade, hilt, and all is surprisingly light, simple but sturdy.
"It is very light, almost weightless in comparison with the heavy war axes I am used to wielding," Eldarien says. "I will, however, need to adjust to the length. I have never yet wielded a sword this long."
Morlof laughs.
"What is this symbol on the pommel?" Eldarien asks.
"Ah, that," Morlof says, his voice thoughtful and distant. "The sword was crafted, as I said, by my ancestor."
"The craftsmanship is exquisite."
"Indeed," Morlof says, "it is a trade that has been passed down for generations. If only it still lived in us as strong as it did in our forebears. The emblem you ask about, however, is an ancient symbol of the people that once inhabited this area. Though much is lost to us now, it is understood that they had many such symbols, representing the different virtues and qualities of human life. This one stands for the virtue of integrity."
"Integrity?"
"Unity of mind and heart. Oneness of purpose in the truth. That, at least, is the way we have understood it since it was first passed down from father to son," Morlof says wistfully, "a long memory that has endured many generations. I am not a wise man, but I know certain truths when I hear them. And my ancestors, I feel, had much more wisdom than I. This has the ring of truth to it, if I may say so myself."
"I would say so," Eldarien agrees. "Then may I wield it with integrity." And, after a moment of silence between the two men, he continues, "To be honest, I am still surprised to find a work of such art and fine craftsmanship in a small hamlet such as this."
"Why is that?"
"Well, I am not sure, exactly. I just never supposed it. Craftsmen tend to seek out the cities."
"When they desire wealth and fame," says Morlof. "I think my ancestors were quite different. Too bad so much of their nobility has dwindled, in myself too. I feel it and know it. Not the wealth and fame, mind you. I care not about such things. But I do often feel that my life is somehow petty in comparison with what they were and with the great things that occupied their minds and hearts."
"I think you have little reason to feel that way, Morlof," Eldarien says, looking up from the sword. "Just because something is small does not mean that it is insignificant. Indeed, I think the truth of the matter is often quite the opposite. I wish I could occupy myself only with small things, but the 'great' things seem to always seek me out. I cherish the humble life that your family lives here, and it has been a gift to me to witness and share in it, for however short a time." He pauses for a moment, as if growing self-conscious of his own words, before he concludes, "All of this is to say, I suppose, that I wish to thank you."
"You are most welcome, Eldarien," Morlof replies, looking Eldarien in the eyes. "I trust that you have a good path before you yet. Big or little, I think that true depth and beauty hides in different places than we ordinarily expect."
"You have shown me that, at least, today," Eldarien says quietly. "Perhaps if I ever need arms or armor, I will now think first to look to the villages before turning to the cities."
"But I suspect you will find none to rival my grandfather's grandfather," Morlof smiles subtly, with a sparkle in his eyes.
"No, I suspect that I will not. But I do not think I will need to if the sword is as sturdy as you make it out to be."
"In that, I trust, you will not be disappointed."
† † †
Yelía's concern is proved right, as that night Eldarien retires to bed early feeling ill and wakes in the morning with a high fever. For two days, he sleeps much and eats very little. They nourish him on vegetable and bone broth and a bit of goat's milk, though the latter he finds to be too much. But on the morning of the third day, he awakes feeling refreshed, with the fever gone.
"A bizarre sickness, strong but quickly gone," he says to Morlof, who comes in to check on him about an hour after dawn. "I felt fine ever since being recovered from the beach. But I guess the trauma of the cold and the shock at last caught up with me."
"I think you are stronger willed than you realize, Eldarien," Morlof replies. "You have endured much in both flesh and heart. And your body could not keep up and demanded rest."
"I think I'll wait another day to depart."
"Good. I was hoping you would say that."
That afternoon, the air is unusually warm, and the sun shines unobstructed in the sky, glistening brightly off the surface of the ocean and illumining trees and grass and the rocks of the beach. Mirand and Alíja's children play outside in the yard while the adults sit and watch, talking quietly between themselves.
"I hope this warm weather will continue for your journey," Mirand says.
"Even for a day, it would be a blessing," Eldarien says. "We never expect it for more than a day, thought, or at most a couple days, at a time; but I will be glad to have it as long as it remains. Regardless, you know how the saying goes."
"Yes. A Telmerin without cold is like a fish without water."
"A saying not totally precise," Alíja observes, "but it is true in more ways than one."
"Hey, Papa!" cries little Ylinia. "Watch me." The little girl, with braids of blond hair down her back and a face red from play, looks at her parents, jumping up and down with seemingly boundless energy.
"I am watching, dear," Mirand replies.
"Mama, you too!"
"What do you want to show us?"
"I fwip," the girl says. And with this she throws herself forward and plants her hands on the ground, while her body doubles over. And she almost makes it full circle to put her feet on the ground again—almost, but instead she falls on her back, her face even more red and huffing from the effort.
"Oops," she says. "So cwose."
"Try it again," Morlof encourages her. "I bet you can get it."
And so she does. It takes five tries, but eventually she is able to land on her feet again and looks with up a smile wide across her face, to the applause of her adult audience.
"Where do you intend to go?" Mirand asks, turning to Eldarien after a few moments.
"I am not entirely sure what course of action would be best. But I would like to learn more about these denizens of darkness arising from the earth."
"A dangerous task."
"Morlof said the same. But it is perhaps no more dangerous than standing face to face with an opposing army on the battlefield, or even much less so."
"Except this time you will not have comrades in arms at your side."
At this, Eldarien bows his head, pausing in respect for the fallen, before responding, "Yes, you are right. Nonetheless, I have no choice. Running from this threat is not something I can bring my heart to do."
"So do you have any ideas, then, of what precisely you intend to do?" Mirand asks again.
"I intend to visit a cavern that stood in the hills above my hometown, called the Barrow of Sera Galaptes. It is over a hundred leagues from here, so it shall take a great deal of traveling. But it is the nearest place I know that might give me a lead."
"So you will be able to visit your home?" Alíja asks, overhearing their conversation. "That is a wonderful thing."
"I wish it were so," Eldarien says softly. "I intended to remain silent about it, but as you have referred to my home a number of times, I think you deserve to know the full truth. As I hinted before, my hometown is no more, nor has it existed since I was young."
"Oh, I am so sorry," Alíja replies. "Now that you say so, I do remember you gesturing to such a thing. But at the time I did not understand, and lack of understanding led to forgetfulness."
"It was not likely that you would know of it beforehand, and, additionally, I gave you very little indication. Falstead was a small village, insignificant in the eyes of the world. It suffered a fate similar to so many other small villages and hamlets during that period, crushed under the cruel and restless roaming of brigands. In fact, this is one area in which the Empire has been of great help to us. Even before that time, the amount and severity of the raids had greatly diminished thanks to Imperial measures and might. I believe that our village was one of that last to be attacked in such a manner."
"How many survivors were there? Did the community rebuild elsewhere?" Mirand asks.
Alíja turns to her husband with a look of indignation, "Mirand! Be more considerate. Do you know what these men were capable of, and what they did?"
"Aye, I do. But..." Mirand sighs, absentmindedly and shamefacedly scratching his head.
"As far as I know, I was the only survivor," Eldarien says, breaking the awkward silence, but making it heavier and more sorrowful still.
Eldarien wonders to himself why he is sharing these painful memories with the Feskar family, whom he has only known for a matter of days. Even a subtle gesture to those fateful events of his life feels like a spear to the heart, and he wants to pull the veil over it again. He desire to let it abide always in the depths of his heart, where he burns a candle of vigilant sorrow and loving remembrance at the tombs of his unburied parents and sister and before the very life and beauty of the village of Falstead, extinguished in the matter of a single night.
He is stirred from these thoughts by another question. "Have you visited the barrow before?" Morlof asks.
"One does not usually visit ancient burial caves, I suppose," Eldarien answers, "even though they were first built to honor our ancestors. But yes, in fact, I have been not only nearby but inside, though it was not by choice."
And then Eldarien begins to share another memory, in more detail this time, as it does not concern the deep bleeding place of his loss, even though following directly upon it.
† † †
Eldarien awakes on the morning after the attack, his whole body aching and his face pressed against cold stone. He rolls over onto his back and sees brilliant daylight streaming in through the sinkhole above, motes of dust floating in the shaft of golden light as it pours forth onto the face of the pool of water into which he had fallen, stirring up countless glistening shimmers. After a few moments, he sits up, memories of the night before flooding through his mind. He buries his head in his hands and tries to shake them away. But even as he does so, he wonders rather if he should linger with them, trying to reverence and mourn those who were lost. But at present he feels both too overwhelmed and too numb, and he rises to his feet and seeks to move in order to distract himself. The air is also damp and cold, and he does not wish to linger long in this place.
He looks around the rocky chamber. The walls and ceiling create a shape somewhat like at inverted bowl, with the sinkhole at the center. The stone is worn smooth by many years of trickling water, though there are numerous rivulets cut through it like veins, giving it a corrugated appearance. Inspecting his surroundings, he knows that climbing back out the way he had fallen is an impossibility. But he surmises that there must be another way out. This is not just a natural cavern but the barrow of an ancient king. For a moment, a surge of fear arises in Eldarien, as the thought crosses his mind that perhaps this is not the barrow, but in fact nothing other than a large hole in the earth, here to swallow him up and never let him go. However, even as the fear surges in him, he sees a passage in the wall, hardly visible in the shadows but tall and wide enough for a few men to walk side by side through it. Above the entrance, etched into the stone, are runes in the ancient tongue, almost unintelligible now, after the passage of many centuries. Drawing near to them, Eldarien is just able to make them out:
Among the shadows lie
the many fallen under blade of foe
or by illness smitten, or age's plight,
awaiting day's coming, dispelling night.
His knowledge of the ancient tongue is quite thorough, albeit imperfect, learned from his tutor, Aedin. Another surge of sorrow washes over him as the face of this man, noble and peaceful, sober and yet joyful, comes before his mind's eye. How had he not thought of him before now? The loss of his family had been enough to suffocate out all other thoughts; but Aedin, too, is family, or as close as one can be to family who shares not the bond of blood. It was he who taught Eldarien to read the language of their forebears and to work at the smithy in both metal and leather, and to wield the sword and the bow (and many other things besides). There was a little, but wholly peaceful, disagreement between Aedin and his father about the teaching the boy in swordplay and melee combat, as his father wished him only to be proficient in the bow—in which he himself also had a role in his son's education—thinking the sword to be the weapon of murderers and brigands. But he had tolerated and accepted the training, understanding also that one must know how to defend oneself and one's kin from the violence that may threaten them. He understood and accepted that his son would have the ability to defend against the sword with the sword.
Eldarien wishes now, with a vehemence, that there were another way! For now they all lie dead, their blood staining the earth, their corpses burned by fire, and Eldarien's sword lies unused, buried deep in the chest in his room. Had Aedin perhaps fought the brigands, standing strong to protect the village, with his own expert art of swordsmanship? Or had the simple number and ferocity of the brigands snuffed him out as easily as it had everyone else? Noticing that he is lingering now on painful thoughts, Eldarien pushes them away and forces himself to walk toward the narrow passage. As he enters and follows it deeper into the womb of the earth, the thoughts of death which he had pushed away are once again laid before him. What had he expected? This is a barrow, after all, a burial place for men and women of the past.
Tombs line the walls, long and narrow cuttings from the rock like shelves, in which are visible human figures, wrapped in cloth, though the desiccated skin, tight around sunken eyes and bone, is visible upon some, for whom the cloth has either fallen away or decayed with the passage of time. But even more than the decaying human figure, or in addition to it, what creates in Eldarien an eerie sense, an uncanny feeling of not being alone, is that before each corpse burns a candle. The deeper he walks into the passage, which soon branches off into more passages of a similar width—all lined with burial places—the more he feels that he is standing among the stars, which surround him on all sides, glistening and flickering gently as they feed on a wick unconsumed and wax which does not deplete. What mystery is this, that candles lit in homage hundreds of years ago have not yet burned out, and that bodies laid to rest centuries ago have not yet been reduced to dust?
Indeed, as Eldarien traverses the passages, he feels as if he is walking the passage of time to centuries of old and visiting his forefathers in their eternal rest, as they repose in the bosom of the earth and in the quiet of the subterranean cavern. The peaceful tranquility of their ceaseless vigil enfolds him, and he finds some rest in it; but as he walks, he wonders if there is not more to what he experiences than this, more to what awaits after death than corpses with ever-burning candles. Is all human flesh really destined to an eternal vigil without a homecoming, to forever abide in a lifeless existence of eternal waiting in the depths of the earth, without hope for a dawn of new life? The legends here are obscure, marked by shadows and contradictions. Some tales tell of the repose in the abode of Midalest that all human spirits find while their bodies decay in the earth; others speak of the spirit resting with the body—as the candle burning in vigil unspent—for ages and ages. Eldarien thinks that there must be some truth in the latter, without neglecting the former, and that these mysterious candles are indeed the unspent spirits of his fathers' fathers. Or perhaps the candles are but symbols of the spirit which has taken flight to another place, but awaits the time it may be reunited with the body once again, after the fractures of time have passed. But what are they waiting for, if they are waiting at all? What can bring about in the unity of life what death has torn asunder?
At this moment, as he turns another corner in the tunnel and sees a wider hallway spread out before him, lights flickering on all sides and creating a warm and inviting hue in the air, he remembers a story that Pa had once told him. It was years ago, when he was but a boy, yet the memory has remained with him ever since—little thought of, almost entirely asleep, but present within him to be awakened when called upon. The story told of a day centuries ago, millennia ago, before the very foundations of Telmerion had yet been firmly set. And on this day, the great god Melengthar—lord of birth and death—entrusted to the human race an undying flame, to be lit in the room of a woman upon learning that she has conceived and to be kept burning until she has brought forth. This candle is to burn at the bedside of the mother while she is in labor until her child is birthed into the world. And, again, when she and her child die, even be it eighty years later, and with an entire generation between them, each is to bear a unique flame before their resting flesh. And this flame awaits, as they await, the coming of one who will be the Dawnbringer, the hearth-flame which illumines all candles and gathers them together into a single flame that will never lessen in intensity and heat—a single flame, yet in which the unique warmth and beauty of each person's candle will not be lost but rather kept alive forevermore. On that day, even the body, resting in the earth, will rise to burn like a flame forever, alive anew as it once was and yet never to know death or corruption again.
Eldarien thinks of this story now, and despite the candles that burn undying before him, he struggles to believe that it could be true. Most likely these candles will burn forever, as the world goes on as it has always gone until all light is extinguished in eternal darkness. At the moment that this thought crosses his mind, he is startled by it. Where has such a thought of despair come from, such a rejection of the hope for life? But the answer is evident, drowning his heart, as all those whom he has known and loved in life lie slaughtered upon the earth—and no candle stands beside them to await a new kindling of life. While he grapples with his own despair, the candles still silently speaking around him, Eldarien comes to yet another turn in the passage and, following it, finds himself entering into a wide cavern, like the room of a great hall, with daylight filtering in through crevices in the walls and a high window at the back of the chamber, a window naturally formed in the earth and yet carved about with runes and symbols centuries past.
He traverses the hall, his footsteps sounding from the stone and echoing against the walls of the great cavern. This creates an odd sensation following immediately as it does after the narrow stillness of the passageway leading here, and Eldarien feels exposed and unprotected, as if standing naked before forces far beyond his understanding. At the back of the chamber lies a large and ornate stone tomb, erected from the earth, with runes almost entirely worn away by time though still partly legible.
Here lies,
glorious in might and steadfast in honor,
Sera Galaptes,
high king of Telmerion and father of the Galapteä
Eldarien hesitantly steps forward and sees, in the space between two slabs of stone that at some point cracked and split apart from one another, the corpse of the ancient king, hair still upon his skull, and fingers still intact, though they are little more than bone and skin. Held within his grasp is a sword, now covered in black rust, and around his neck a pendant, worn and rusted, and yet with a red gem still glistening within it, in which are etched, in runes, the letters Arecha, Ta, Ya, Sera. To his surprise, Eldarien knows what the inscription means, having heard it in stories of his childhood. It had been the symbol of kings for centuries upon centuries, since the founding of Telmerion in the 1st Era.
Aïn Telmerië ya suría.
For Telmerion and her people.
Eldarien looks upon the figure and upon pendant for a long moment, as if reaching back with his heart to those ancient days of heroism and conflict, of life and death, and then he turns to leave. As he does so, he sees a stairway to his right, along the wall, which appears to lead outside. But before he is able to move, he hears something speak deep within him in words that require no words and in voice deeper than speech. He is startled by the communication and yet also comforted by it in the same moment. And he understands immediately what is being asked of him. He is to take the amulet and to wear it for the good of Telmerion and her people. And so he does, with homage to the ancient king and with anxious trepidation, held by a newfound comfort and trust before what the future may bring, like a tiny flower breaking through snow and beginning, against all odds, to blossom.