Since the day is already inclining towards evening, Rodric suggests that Eldarien wait until the morning to set out in search of Rorlain. And, though Eldarien is anxious to begin the search, fearing that, if it is not too late already, it will be soon, he understands the prudence of the recommendation. If anything, whatever tracks there are that could give him a hint of Rorlain's location would be almost certainly missed during the darkness of night. Therefore, he accepts waiting but insists that he will leave at first light, before the sun even crests the horizon in the east. Rodric provides Eldarien a hearty meal that evening, after darkness has already fallen and the forest sleeps in deep silence, punctuated only by the call of nocturnal birds—owls and doves—the occasional howling of wolves, and the almost inaudible music of a light wind caressing the trees. After they have both eaten, Rodric replenishes Eldarien's provisions with dry food goods and also refills his waterskin, promising more upon his return.
"I hope to be gone no more than a day or two, but I will do whatever is required," Eldarien says, receiving the provisions and squatting down next to his pack, beside which his traveling cloak is rolled up. He begins fitting them into the bag, rearranging the other objects already within it, and then ties it closed again.
"I appreciate your willingness to help," Rodric replies quietly, almost shyly, "but do not let yourself be excessively put out by me."
"Currently, our intentions align, and helping you is the best way to continue on my own course," explains Eldarien, tying the waterskin, now filled, to his pack. "But even if they did not, a human life is at stake here. I could not pass this by without doing the little that I can do."
"If only more men of our time were like you, perhaps Telmerion would be in a very different state."
"Like me?" Eldarien looks up at Rodric, and his eyes speak of deep hurt, an abyss of pain that keeps him from receiving Rodric's words as a compliment, but which also shields him from the slightest thought of vainglory. He stands under an infinite debt that he can never repay, such that even if he were to spend an eternity doing good to make up for it, he could never fill in the slightest portion of what is owed. No amount of his own goodness could ever atone for the evil that he had previously committed. This he knows.
While the two men look at one another in silence, Rodric startled and confused by the depth of pain in Eldarien's eyes, the latter becomes aware of what he is feeling and, with a sigh, asks, "Am I only doing good in the attempt to equalize my balance sheet, or even with the presumption of turning the scales towards goodness?"
"Pardon?" Rodric asks, not following the train of thought, since he was unable to discern what occurred beneath the murky surface of those eyes, in the depths within.
"Forgive me. It is nothing," says Eldarien and lowers his eyes again. "I did not even mean to speak that aloud." There is another moment of dense silence, and then Eldarien rises to his feet and says, "Tell me about your life here. How is it that you sustain your living alone in the woods like this?"
"It is quite simple, actually," replies Rodric, relieved for the change of topic and the easing of the heavy atmosphere that had descended upon them. "Rorlain and I make our living hunting and trapping, mostly, with a bit of gardening on the side. And you already saw the spring. As I already said, the water is excellent; and as long as we do not over fish, it provides us also with some supplemental fish every year."
"What about your other needs, those beyond basic nourishment?"
"Both of us can sew and weave well enough to make or mend our own clothes, though my wife was far better," answers Rodric, and now it is his turn for his eyes to reveal a hidden depth, this time of the deep intermingling of love, grief, and nostalgia: the experience of missing someone who was so close as to be woven into the fabric of one's own heart but now is gone. "Yes, she made little masterpieces. At least, that is what I always told her and what I have always believed. It was her joy to do it, to participate in our lives not only in a 'woman's work'—which Rorlain and I both do now on our own and are no less men for it—but above all in providing for us something beautiful, were it only a pair of gloves or a belt or a cloak."
Eldarien smiles at this and watches as Rodric pauses and lets memories carry him in their train for a few moments. Then he stirs himself back to the present, "Ah, I was telling you about our way of life. Sorry, I got carried away."
"It is no problem. Please, continue."
"Well," says Rodric, trying to pick up on the thread he had lost, "it is a simple life, if a hard one, particularly during the winter months. We stock up as much as we can before the first snow, since, depending on the year, that snow may well last, at least in its substance, until the first thaw four or five months later. But I assume you know that well enough. After all, you grew up higher in the mountains than we are now."
"Indeed." replies Eldarien. "We were at the base of the three greatest peaks in Telmerion, and oft the entire valley in which my village lay was buried under a thick layer of snow from early winter to the first weeks of spring."
"I have never been to Falstead. What is it like? Or, I apologize, what was it like?"
"The area is forested quite heavily, much like here if a little less. But travel even less than a day out, and the elevation rises quite quickly. As you crest the hills, you come to the taiga, sloping up the sides of the mountains, until the trees themselves are left behind, unable to endure the cold, and are replaced first by sparse grasses and heather, and then by rugged stone. That, at least, is the landscape of Falstead and its surrounds. The climate was frigid during the winter, as I said, but in fact the valley was usually spared the bitterest of winds and even, at least as I imagined to myself, kept warm by the embrace of the land. Perhaps I was just equating the warmth of the earth with the warmth of home, or rather, letting this latter warmth color and saturate my experience."
"Not such a bad thing to do, I suppose," Rodric says, with a glint in his eye.
"I suppose not," Eldarien agrees, smiling slightly in response. And then, changing the subject, "But that is long passed now. What about you? What was your reason for departing from home?"
Rodric lowers his gaze and remains silent for a moment, and Eldarien quickly interjects, saying, "I do not insist! If you wish to share, then I happily receive. But I don't want you to say anything you wish not to say."
"You are kind," Rodric replies, but then he proceeds to speak. "I need not say much, as some things need only a few words, and much is said by these few. I left because I was fleeing from danger—or fleeing from myself, or fleeing from the law, whichever best expresses it. I grew up in poverty and fell in with a gang who fancied themselves brigands. Bandits. Relihim. To pass from loneliness to a group of people sharing a common life day in and day out; to pass from hunger and poverty to sustenance, even at times to wealth, however ill-gotten; it was a welcome change for me, and I relished it. I was young then. Young and stupid. When I became a little older and a little wiser, it became clear that the only way out was to leave entirely, beyond the borders of our lands. The Relihim do not take kindly to those who wish to part from them. I had met Gnissa while in the group, and we fled together. It was not long before we were wed and made our home here. That is the story in short."
"And many years have passed," Eldarien replies with tenderness in his voice, "and you have not gone back on that choice."
"Sometimes, in the beginning, I had twisted thoughts of returning, of going back to all the gains to be had in such a life," Rodric admits, slightly embarrassed. "But that was only in the beginning. Not only did love for Gnissa carry me through and a growing love for our land—and then before too long a love for our son—but also an encounter with those very ones with whom I had identified myself. Or rather, with more of their kind, since these were not the same group with whom I had joined."
"They came here?" Eldarien asks. "I had wondered how you could live in the woods without being troubled by those who make raiding in the wild their profession."
"A small homestead such as this is usually left alone, as they go for finer pickings," replies Rodric. "We have been untroubled all these years, save once." He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, before continuing. "That was the first and only time that I killed. Two men. Before the rest fled. And I am glad that they did, for, though there were only five of them, I could not have taken them all. Rorlain was still young at the time, and I could not expect either he or Gnissa to stand up against these men of the wild. I suppose it was this awareness that set a fire deep within me. I protected them, and that is the only time I have been called on to protect those I love in such a way."
Eldarien nods silently as he receives these words, and a moment of mute recognition passes between the two men, before he says, "I will do all I can to bring your son back, Rodric. If he is beyond your power now to protect, I will try to make your reach a little longer and a bit stronger with my own."
Rodric smiles a heavy smile, mixed more with sadness than with gladness, though marked with true gratitude, and then he presses his hands together as if in decision. "What say you to calling it a night? You shall rise early, before the sun, and I wish to see you off. Let us both get some rest."
† † †
Despite his exhaustion, Eldarien does not rest well and passes in and out of sleep until, in the early hours of the morning, he rises from bed and sits staring into the fire, on which he tosses a few small logs and tends until it burns brightly again. Try as he might, he cannot cause his mind to stop traveling in circles, inspecting and re-inspecting the events of the previous weeks, and in particular the conversation of last night, trying to find some hint or clue about the path before him or about the precise nature of the mysterious burden weighing so heavily upon his heart. Ever since returning to Telmerion, it has been as if a yoke has been placed on the shoulders of his heart, as if some great evil has settled upon him, not his own but felt as if it were his own. Or perhaps it is his own, entirely his own, the deep awareness of the blood on his hands and the pollution in his heart. He cannot tell, and no amount of thought seems able to sort it out in the least. He knows that thinking in circles will not bring an answer, but he knows equally well, from long experience, that he cannot simply stop thinking. He has always been pensive to a fault, his father used to affectionately joke (with the emphasis on the affection), and though such thoughtfulness has served him well many a time, it has also made him experience the crises of life, the dilemmas, choices, and turning-points with more anxiety and fear than they warrant. He cannot seem to learn the lesson—in his heart of hearts and in his mind—that only living itself can solve the questions raised by living, even if thought has a place in discerning the path ahead. Sometimes only the next step can be seen, or even a half step, a quarter step. Or indeed sometimes one simply walks in trust, and it is only after the fact that one sees the beauty and meaning in the path, inscribed far beyond one's expectation or hope.
The only way to gain more light, then, is to take another step, and then another, and another, in the trust that truth lies not in one's own making or control, or even in one's own comprehension; rather, truth enfolds and permeates life without ceasing, and one's own personal history is inscribed on its fabric and written within its folds. Realizing that his thoughts have carried him this far, Eldarien smiles to himself. So he actually broke the circle after all, if only for a moment? Just as he feels his heart surge in eagerness to take the next step—a step into the unknown—he hears a voice behind him. "You are up already?"
"I am," he replies. "I could not sleep."
"I hope you will not tire on the journey," Rodric says and, appearing at his side, sits down.
"I hope the journey will be a short one and I will find Rorlain quickly."
"Hope not too much," Rodric whispers, "or hope may turn to folly."
"If hope becomes too much, then perhaps what is being called 'hope' is hope no more, but its counterfeit. I know not if it is possible to hope too much, if hope is rightly placed."
"Perhaps..."
After this short exchange, the two men sit silently side by side, gazing into the dancing flames of the fire, orange and red touched with yellow, with a blazing center of blue, and listen to it crackling and popping as it consumes the wood and transforms it into living flame. Time passes quickly in this way, and in what seems like only a few moments (though it is actually over half an hour), Rodric stirs and rises to his feet. He walks to one of the windows and opens the shutters.
"Look," he says, directing his gaze out of the window, "the first light appears on the horizon. A pale and grim dawn awaits."
Without delay, Eldarien puts on his outer clothing, pulls on his boots, and wraps his cloak tightly around his shoulders. After securing his pack, he turns to Rodric, assuring him, "I will make all haste."
Rodric nods and says, "But you forget this," and turns and lifts Eldarien's greatsword from where it rests against the wall.
"I hope that I shall not need it," Eldarien replies, receiving the sword and securing it in its place on his back.
"You have the look of a seasoned warrior," Rodric observes, not knowing the hidden truth of his words. "Many carry swords in our world and many die at the edge of them. Though you are the former, may you not be the latter."
"Thank you," says Eldarien, "but it would also please me more than anything that the blade I carry never knows what it is to be stained by blood."
"What about the blood of the beast that has taken my son, if that is what it comes to?"
"Another asked me a similar question not long ago. And my answer to you is the same: that, I would not hesitate to do if I discern it to be right."
Rodric lingers a moment longer, looking at Eldarien, a subtly veiled anxiety in his eyes, as if by his gaze he wishes to impart unto Eldarien a secret favor or blessing by which his endeavor may not go ill but come to a good conclusion. "Actually," he says at last, stirred from his thoughts, "it may be good to take this with you. It is not our only one, so keep it with you wherever you go as one of your own possessions."
With these words, he takes a short hunting bow from where it hangs on the wall and, with a quiver full of arrows, gives it to Eldarien, who receives it with a gentle bow of his head, and then turns and steps out the door into the cold morning air.
He looks about the clearing, on which a deep mist lingers, curling and whispering among the trees which stand stark as dark silhouettes against the gradually increasing light of day. The upper parts of the mist glow gray in the early morning light while the lower parts are veiled in deep shadow, untouched yet by the coming of day. The grass is wet with dew, and the trees themselves drip with moisture, an audible plopping of heavy drops of water from leaf to blade, from canopy to earth. There is not even the slightest hint of wind, not a sigh among the trees, not a whisper among the plants of the woods. Eldarien draws in a deep breath of the fresh morning air, cold but not quite freezing, and starts his journey to the northwest.
Why is everyone placing weapons into my hands, he thinks to himself as he walks, when what I desire most is to leave them all behind?
In only a matter of minutes, the first rays of the sun crest the horizon in the east and cast shimmers of light through the dense fog, turning the gray and colorless wall into a sheet of white and crystal. Eldarien walks quickly but attentively, scanning the ground and the trees as he passes, looking for any clue or hint which would direct his hunt. The fog hinders him, as he can see no more than ten or fifteen feet in front of him, and the trees appear before him like ancient sentinels stepping forth from the gloom. But it is he who approaches them while they stand unmoving for ages, rooted in the silent earth while reaching their branches to the sky, abiding, as all trees do, in the wordless watch of ceaseless vigilance, which is also a dance of wind and sky and earth, of growth and fruit-bearing and slumber, in a continual cycle.
As Eldarien walks like this, first light passes to dawn, and dawn to day. Soon it is midmorning, and the sun is high in the sky behind his back. The mist has almost entirely dissipated, consumed by the rays of the sun, though the grass is still damp, hidden under the canopy of trees and rooted in the wet earth. The air remains cold, even though the sky is almost entirely cloudless, with only a few wisps painted pale against a canvas of deep blue. The forest is unchanging, the trees thick, the foliage full in the first blossoming of the late spring, and the land undulating gently as the hills rise and fall. The first change Eldarien comes upon is a narrow river threading its way through the woods, the water fast and gurgling against the rocks of its bed. It would be easy to cross, as in most places the stream is only three or four feet across, and relatively shallow too, in places even having boulders breaking the surface and creating billowing trails of white foam across the surface of the water. But rather than doing this, he follows along beside it, since it flows forth from the northwest, the direction in which he wishes to travel.
He continues like this past midday, keeping the river to his right, closer or nearer as may be, as it weaves back and forth along the path it has carved out over the course of time. Only when the sun is high overhead and beginning to dip westward does the landscape begin to change. The density of the trees begins to lessen, and the undulating rise and fall of the hills gives way to a steady upward slope, quite steep though marked with numerous crevices rutted into its surface, with rocks littering its sides. Eldarien follows the slope for a good ways, perhaps half an hour, until it crests and reveals a wide expanse of rugged plain before him. He stands now at the meeting of the hills and the highlands, the edge of the forest and the start of the tundra. This tundra, at least this time of year, is not icy or snow-laden but rather cloaked in brown and gray heather and also just budding forth with varied flowers of yellow, blue, and white, some of which first peek from the earth underneath the snow and appear from it as it melts in the great thaw of spring. With the prolonged cold of a long-clinging winter, however, the richness of the springtime is subdued, and the flowers are few, some in full bloom and some still buds yet to open, even after the snow has bid its farewell
Here Eldarien pauses in his trek to the northwest and explores his surroundings for any clue that would aid him. And such is not long in coming, as only a couple hundred yards to the south he finds the carcass of an elk lying among the grass, with an arrow still embedded in its flesh. Eldarien removes the arrow and inspects it; it is of the same kind as those he has in his own quiver. Rorlain must have shot the elk, but did it flee from him and die without him finding it, or was it here that Rorlain was led aside from his hunt, whether through force or curiosity? It is not likely that the elk fled, Eldarien notes to himself, since the location of the puncture would have killed it quickly, if not instantly. What then? He rises and scans the landscape surrounding, in a circle within many yards of the elk, then down on the hillside to the east and north and south along the plains, until at last, returning closer to the elk, he finds markings in the grass shortly to the west, which he had missed upon first inspection. The grass is trampled and the earth kicked up, as if here some sort of confrontation occurred. The marks of boots are visible, whereas until this point in his journey he has seen none. This is because the grass itself in places is torn up and the soil exposed. With this, Eldarien's heart sinks. The fears of Rodric and himself seem to have been realized, as whatever beast had torn up the earth to remove the carcass of the bear also seems to have found Rorlain and, judging from the markings in the earth, to have attacked him. But where has he gone now?
Eldarien finds no body, so he allows himself to still cling to hope that he may yet be alive. Stirred by this hope, Eldarien tries to follow the tracks away from the site of the tussle and realizes, gratefully, that it is not difficult to accomplish. The grass is bent and broken under heavy footsteps trailing almost directly to the west. But what kind of creature would have trampled the earth so easily? Something large and without delicacy or lightness in its walk or its bearing. This is a creature that—unlike the other creatures living in the region, which respect the environment that feeds them and leave almost no trace behind them of their passing—crushes and mars what it touches.
After following the trail for the better part of an hour, Eldarien comes to a great rift in the earth, looking as if it were cut open with a massive blade wielded by giants or split by an earthquake ages ago. The crevice appears unnatural, not because of the texture of the rippling stone walls or the floor, but because there is no clear indication as to how such a rift came to be; it certainly was not carved out by the flow of water, as there is no point of outflow. It appears rather like a monstrous mouth gaping open on the surface of the earth. The path of enigmatic footprints and torn earth that he has been following leads him into the ravine, and it is not difficult to enter, as the land slopes gradually down until rock walls dressed in tufts of grass and clinging vines stand tall to his right and his left. The air is dense in here and still and deathly quiet—not with the silence that sings, with the silence that opens up a space in which the heart can dilate and expand, but with a silence that is oppressive, even suffocating. Unbidden and almost unconsciously, the thought comes to Eldarien, and he finds himself whispering, "This is a place of death." But the sound of his voice dies on his lips, as if snuffed out or consumed by the oppressive air around him.
Fear stirs in his heart and he tries to suppress it, but he cannot help that his pulse quickens and a knot forms in his stomach and a lump in his throat. Cautiously he moves forward along the floor of the ravine, staying close to the wall on his right in case anything is looking along the narrow passage created by the crevice to see signs of movement. As he walks, bones of various animals begin to litter the floor—those animals that were unlucky enough to be the food of whatever beast lives in this rift in the earth. Eldarien tries to shake off the thought flooding his imagination of a human body lying among the other creatures, lifeless or even reduced, like the animals, to nothing but skeletal remains.
The air is dark now, as if even the normal amount of sunlight that would filter into the ravine between the fissure of rock above him is hindered, forbidden from entering this dark and cheerless place. But Eldarien continues to move forward in the dim half-light, as if walking through a land in which all is shadow, all is shade, with no substance. He keeps one hand on the wall, taking courage from the cold and solid stone under his touch, proof that this is not a world of shadow and illusion but of truth, even if the darkness seeks to veil it. Moving forward like this, he at last comes to a place where the wall to his right gives way, and he almost falls over as he reaches forward and clutches nothing but air. But he catches his balance and stands still, listening and looking, trying to discern shapes in this gloom and to hear any sounds that will give form to his disorientation. An uncanny and unnatural wind blows upon his face from somewhere to his right, where he had expected a wall to be. Perhaps it finds its source in an underground cavern? Even if that is what awaits him in that direction, how could he navigate in this twilight of light and form without getting utterly lost? Then a thought comes to him, and he kneels on the ground for a moment and loosens his pack from his shoulders. He removes the oil and cloth from the bundle that was given to him by Morlof and feels around on the ground for a stick, a fallen branch, or something that he could use to make a torch. But even as he does so he knows that it is not a feasible search. There are no trees in the ravine, nor even on the surface above it.
After kneeling in the silence thinking for a long moment, with the chill wind blowing against his face, Eldarien stirs and quietly unsheathes his sword. At the end of the blade he ties the cloth, tightly so it will not slip away, and douses it in the oil. It will work for a time, but since there is no wood to serve as extra fuel and to sustain the flame, this sword-torch will not last long. He then, as quietly as he can, strikes stones together until sparks fall on the cloth and ignite it. The end of the sword then bursts into flame. He rises and hurries ahead, the sword extended in front of him. The shadowy, formless darkness still hems him in on every side, and the light of the torch seems frail and weak as it tries in vain to dispel the impenetrable gloom. But the touch gives him just enough light to navigate by—at least four, perhaps six feet in front of him, though beyond that is shadow, like a fog of death. He stays close to the wall now, more for navigation than for secrecy, and finds the ground beneath him descending rapidly. Having turned to the right from the main body of the ravine, he is now, he suspects, entering some kind of side passage or a cave carved out of the earth either by nature or by beast. He cannot tell which, as when he looks up he sees neither roof nor sky, but only shadow, a lifeless gray quickly descening into blackness.
The light of the makeshift torch flickers as the cloth is gradually consumed, but it keeps burning, and Eldarien presses on. Soon the ground beneath him levels out. Then the wall he has been using to aid in his progress once again falls away beneath his hand. He takes a hesitant step forward and raises the sword high, scanning the shadows with his eyes. The distinct sense comes to him that he has stepped into a wide chamber, in which lies also the source of the shadows that surround him. He pauses, holds his breath, and listens, and beyond the sound of the torch he hears another sound that constricts his throat: breathing, deep, raspy breathing as of a creature much larger than a man, larger indeed than any creature that Eldarien has ever encountered.
He feels an urge to turn back, to flee back to the realm of light from which he came, but he resists it, hoping that nearby is to be found one—still living—who also wishes to return to the light and cannot do so on his own. So, mustering all the courage that he can find within himself, slim and frail though it may be, Eldarien begins walking again. But his walk now is more like creeping, with as little sound as possible, towards the sound of breathing. But the torch! What good will sneaking be if he is carrying a burning light that will immediately reveal his location? But he cannot extinguish the torch, for then he will be left defenseless against whatever makes the cavern its home, a creature which most likely can see in the dark. And yet he has no choice but to leave the light he holds so as to avoid detection, and he kicks the burning cloth from the tip of the blade and lets it fall to the ground, where it continues to burn. It emits a little light, but not enough that Eldarien does not walk now into complete darkness: an atmosphere, mysteriously, both of safety and of terror. But without hesitating any more, and with naked blade held before him in both hands, Eldarien moves forward, eyes squinted in the effort to see and ears attentive to the slightest sound.
The creature sleeps. This is the awareness that comes to him immediately as he approaches a massive shape in the darkness, a shape that takes form before him in the dim light flickering from the flames behind him, with thick skin wrinkled and dark, hard like reinforced leather. The shape rises and falls to the sound of the breathing, which is now loud in the enveloping stillness. The thought stirs in Eldarien's mind of plunging his sword deep into the flesh of the sleeping beast and doing so repeatedly until the breath is no more. But he instead draws back and makes his way quietly around the creature, searching for the one whom he came to find and, if possible, to save. As he walks and searches, the word forms unbidden in his mind: eöten. Could this creature really be an eöten, one of the ancient monsters of old, fashioned of the very darkness in the time before memory, and bane of mortal existence upon the earth? Trolls they have often been called in the common tongue, though there are many kinds, from twisted mockeries of the human figure, greater in size and twisted in disproportionate shape, to creatures resembling the animals but morphed beyond recognition and yet, in this alteration made stronger, more deadly, and more difficult to slay. Eldarien does not know if one of these monstrosities can even be permanently slain, though there are rumors of terrible wars in the past where men fought against great numbers of these beasts. At this thought, Eldarien is glad that he has stayed his hand and withheld the desire to strike. And another thought immediately follows this: he realizes how immeasurably fortunate it was for him to happen upon the beast while it slept, rather than in its waking moments.
Encouraged by this thought, he explores the cavern and, after only a little time, comes upon the figure of a man slumped against a great boulder, chin resting against his chest, which rises and falls softly. He is breathing! Reaching out and placing his hands upon the man, trying to raise him up, Eldarien realizes, to his grief, that he is tied by the wrists with large, rough ropes to the boulder against which he leans. Setting down his sword, Eldarien tries to untie the knots that bind the man, but they are too tight, obviously fastened by hands of inhuman strength. So he picks up his blade again and tries cutting the rope, pulling at it, sawing at it, anything to loose its hold on the man he came to save, if Rorlain this truly be. But it is of no avail, and just as Eldarien begins to lose hope, he hears a voice speak. He knows not whether it comes from within him, from within his own mind and heart, or whether it resounds in the air around him. But the voice causes no fear, stirs no anxiety. Rather, it reverberates through him like a wave of calm, and Eldarien finds his heart ease into an unexpected peace and relaxation, born of a trust that springs up spontaneously within him from an unknown source.
"Lightborn, fear not. Your path has been seen and marked out."
"Who...who addresses me?" Eldarien finds himself whispering in response.
"My name is Hiliana, guardian of things that live and compassionate guide and companion."
"Hiliana..." Eldarien unconsciously looks around, as if he expects a woman to approach him out of the shadows, glowing with mysterious light. But he sees nothing, even as a light burns brighter within him.
"You wish to free this man, and you have risked much to come to him, facing the fear that would hold you back. And he will be freed. Be certain of this. But also know that fear much deeper and darkness much darker await you on your path. But I shall be with you."
Eldarien stands silently for a long moment, his sword held loosely at his side, letting these words echo and take up their home within him, as if time no longer has any importance or, in this conversation, has ceased to exist. But at last he is stirred by the voice arising again and addressing him, "Raise your blade and cut the ropes. They will fall away easily now. For this sword is henceforth blessed and shall be called the lightbringer, for it will be a scourge of darkness and a servant of light. For the darkness of night is heavy now, descending unto midnight, and even the stars seem to humanity to have grown dim, though they never cease to shine for those who have eyes to see." The voice pauses, as if giving these words sink time to sink deep, and then continues, "You are to stand for the light, little one, for it has chosen you. And know that, however dark it may seem, the promised dawn shall come. Your small part is to be a harbinger of the light in the midst of the night."
With this the voice fades away, and Eldarien feels the sword vibrate in his hand, and suddenly it is shot through with a bluish light, the blade thoroughly illumined and casting a subtle but penetrating light through the surrounding darkness. He raises the sword and with ease cuts away the ropes from the wrists of the man whom he can now see in the dim light. Kneeling down beside the man, he looks into his face and sees features strikingly resembling those of Rodric, albeit younger. The man has thick, dark hair curling around his ears and a beard of a few inches bristling against his chest, against a leather hunting shirt now torn and streaked with blood. Then Eldarien lifts him on his back and turns to leave the chamber. But as he raises his eyes, the shadows lessen, as if fleeing to the corners of the room, and he sees before him the sleeping figure of a great beast, humanoid but twisted, with ugly and distorted features, as if evil itself were made flesh and tried to take the guise of a man, though thrice his size and misshapen beyond recognition. And Eldarien knows in this moment, knows that unless he smites this evil, it will continue to plague the land, killing the animals of the forest and the tundra and taking even human life and bringing it to an anguished end in much suffering in a place of darkness and shadow.
And so he steps cautiously forward, Rorlain on his back and the lightbringer in his hands. But he takes only a few steps closer before the beast stirs. A low groan escapes from its body, and it rises from slumber, stretching and shifting until standing to its full height. The air flees from Eldarien's body, and he feels faint, as if about to collapse and slip from consciousness. He squats and allows Rorlain to slide softly to the floor before forcing himself back to his feet and raising his sword before him. I cannot do this... he thinks involuntarily, but then, gritting his teeth, No, I must.
Evil eyes are laid upon him, and the creature roars with fury. It leaps upon him with incredible agility and strength, and Eldarien is knocked backwards onto the cold stone, with Rorlain beside him. The beast raises its hand to bash Eldarien, to crush him into death, but without the need for thought, and thanks to his years of training and experience, Eldarien thrusts the greatsword upward into the torso of the beast with both hands, pushing with all the strength he can muster. And to his surprise it slides smoothly through the rough and hardened flesh, deep into its chest, and dark blood blacker than the blackest of night streams out of the wound. And Eldarien looks on as the beast recoils, a single scream of anguish escaping from its lips, and then collapses, not into a heap upon the floor but into dust, as if its very body disintegrates and turns to nothingness upon contact with the light. Witnessing this, Eldarien sighs deeply and sinks again to the earth, his eyes closing as he slips from consciousness.