"Echoes of an ancient myth
emerge from the mists of time,
vibrating from the silent word before all sounds,
unspoken voice given utterance...
reverberating deep in this heart of mine.
Light from the origin of time
shines forth as rays from the luminosity
deeper than sun and moon...
bathing the inmost recesses of the spirit's eye,
granting, in darkness, the ability to see."
These words I heard when I was a child, on my mother's knee,
too deep for me to understand.
And even as I grew, they remained beyond me,
not in their complexity, but in their simplicity.
It is said that the whole universe was born from music:
a song sung in a silence deeper than we can conceive.
But the echoes of this music, the strains of this song,
where are they now?
The raucous voices of men of power
and of beasts of unearthly wickedness,
and the turmoil of the inner being,
wedded to darkness and blind to light:
these mute the voice that one would wish to hear...
or perhaps rather they deafen the heart that listens,
too close, too loud, too violent
to allow that stillness and silence to echo deep within.
But the echoes of this voice
I wish to hear, reverberating within me.
And this light beyond all light, undimmed,
when shall it shine forth into the darkness, unbroken?
The harmony meeting the cacophony
and the music woven into dissonant noise,
chords and melody interlacing into symphony.
† † †
As consciousness returns to me, my first realization is that icy water surrounds me, suffocating my body like a coiled snake and causing my muscles and my skin to ache and burn. The last thing I remember is sitting in my small chamber in the hold of the ship, leaning back against the wall and feeling the rocking of the waves as we traversed the final few leagues before arriving at last at our destination. Then there came a deafening crash like a trebuchet casting stone against wood, a sound of violence that I know all too well, and I was thrown forward from my seat. A flash of blinding light seared behind my eyelids and a surge of pain through my head, and then, I knew nothing.
And now I awake, and freezing water is my only companion. Water and darkness. The first thought that comes to me is that I never expected to die like this: returning to the land of my youth after so many years away, and only to seek to do good to a hurting people, to a divided nation. And yet it ends so suddenly, so absurdly, with no warning and no chance of escape. Is this my end? I falter and sink in my very return home, drowning even as the coastline has come into view?
Faced with the absurdity of this thought, I turn my body in an involuntary gesture of rebellion—rebellion against death or rebellion for the sake of life, I know not—and feel a cough arise from within as I expel the water that has filled my throat and infiltrated my lungs. And to my surprise, this cough, when followed by a desperate gasp of breath, is answered by air. I am breathing!
With breath filling my lungs, be it even burning cold, icy air, my senses gradually return, and I reach out my hand before me, and I realize that I am floating on my back, water engulfing me on every side but air above me. The water is still, but deadly cold; and the air is hardly more than a few inches still clinging to the pocket of space between me and the plank of wood that I feel, rough against my fingers.
I open my eyes, but it is dark in here--so dark that I cannot see. With my body crying out in pain from the cold and the injury to my head, I force myself into an upright position, and I feel my feet touch a solid surface. Flailing about and feeling for some semblance of recognition, I discern that the ship has turned onto its side, and water has almost completely filled the hull. And soon, I am afraid, the ship is going to be submerged entirely.
Now, relying only on memory and hope and the sense of touch, I begin the tortuous navigation that shall lead me out of this vessel of death, dragging me quickly into the depths of the sea. Knowing that the ship is almost entirely on its side, and that what was up now lies to my left, I realize that I must swim directly under the icy water. At the thought of this, my heart feels a surge of terror: a primal, physical terror of the suffering of icy cold water squeezing about me and suffocating me, and the deep fear of death, of the end of my life before my time has come, before my heart has found true peace.
But I swallow these fears and these thoughts with a lump in my throat, and, knowing that I do not have much time, I inhale deeply whatever air I can and dive under the water. I feel my way forward with my hands and with whatever interior sense of direction I still have in the disorientation that threatens to overtake me entirely and to force me into passivity.
As I swim forward, my right hand pressing against the wooden planked floor which has now become a wall, my chest begins to burn and my limbs to shake. But there is nothing to do but move forward, at the threat of my very life. I pass now through a door, sideways, and find myself in what I know to be a narrow hallway, moving slightly upward. This is a good sign, even as my lungs contract within my breast in a terrible sensation of deprivation and a wave of dizziness for surges over me.
I pass through another doorway and I find my head breaking through into air. My ears are suddenly filled with the chorus of surging waves that replaces the murky muffledness of being underwater, and I gasp deeply to draw in breath with these starving lungs. I pause for a moment to gather myself again, treading water to stay afloat even as I lean my shoulder again the wood of the ship even as it recedes from me as it continues to sink. My sopping hair has come partially loose from its tie, and it clings to my forehead and my face. I brush it away and realize that my eyes are still closed, whether from shock or from a simple lack of the realization that I haven't opened them yet, I don't know. I open them now, and, to my delight, I see a pale and dim light filtering through a narrow slit ahead of me—a passage to the deck—and, beyond that, stars.
The sight of the stars twinkling and shining in their places in the nocturnal sky smites my heart with a surprising intensity, and I find myself laughing aloud without thought—a short but deep laugh—followed by profuse tears from my eyes. Life. Life! I may yet live. Moving forward again, toward the alluring light of the stars awaiting me in the sky, my heart rises within me in a flicker of hope. I fly, up from the murky waters, up from the sinking ship, up from death and loss in the depth of this wreckage of life and this domain of death, and seek to join my song with theirs: the song of the stars, sung silently since the beginning of time, in eternal harmony.
But the songs of old also tell of ancient strife, of conflict in the heavens, of stars rebelling against stars, of gods against gods, and of an earth plunged into chaos. With this sobering thought, my flight is halted, and I feel viscerally again that I am still in the icy water, wading slowly toward the sliver of night sky that is before me, with my heavy, burdened heart, and my hands covered with blood.
But I press on, and soon the sliver of the sky turns to a wide expanse blanketed overhead, an expanse of stars that is reflected on the waters that surround me in ever-shifting hues like a garment of celestial light cloaked about the earth and undulating in the wind and dancing for the moon. The great night-mist, the auroreal ribbon, burns green and purple, and the family of countless stars in the cloudy banner of Nerethion stretches vivid and brilliant on this late spring night. And closer to us than this, the three-pointed garment of the goddess Niraniel, among the greater constellations of the other gods, the Seven. She is peace and love, the harmony of unity and radiant fecundity, smallest of the divinities and lowest and yet most revered of them all. These thoughts flash across my mind now as I pause in the icy water, my body exhausted, the wide expanse of open sky above me. And my heart spontaneously reaches out, not to the great-presider, Nerethion, god of might and justice, but to the mother of mercy, Niraniel, and I remember a song that my own mother sang to me from my youth, from the days at the beginnings of memory, when I was but too small to speak. Eldarien, remember to sing always to the tender mother in your heart, and, when you can, with your voice. And never betray her kindness.
But it has been long since I sang to her, in silence or in words. And it has been even longer since I repaid her kindness with the fidelity that it deserves. But the words and their sense come spontaneously now, and I let my heart sing silently as I begin to swim again, toward what I know to be a mass of land in the distance, black shapes of mountain peaks against the darkened horizon, and, at their base, shores awaiting me.
Sweet mother, save your children when they cry,
for to you we turn in our desperate plight,
crying out with voices directed to you,
in unison among ourselves, full and true.
Hear us, and do not ignore, lest we despair,
for we need your light, your loving care,
we need it more than we need the air.
So come, great mother, give us your sweet bosom,
this bosom that once suckled the twin stars,
and gave birth to the torrent of life on the land of Ierendal.
Sweet mother, sweet mother, Niraniel,
beloved of the Ancient One, yet new,
you shine out, for us, above the rest,
for in your mercy and goodness we seek rest.
Despise us not, but be kind to us, putting us not to the test,
but welcoming us amid the storm, amid the raging seas,
to the abode of your goodness, amid the realms of Midalest,
from whence once humanity came as from your womb,
and to whence it will return beyond the grave, the tomb,
when the last sun has set and your star burns forever,
brightest among the celestial ones, among the very gods.
With these words burning in my heart and keeping me warm amid the death-dealing waters surrounding me, I push forward toward the land of my youth, my ancient home. Will I die here in the ocean, forgotten and unmourned, or shall I, by some miracle, survive this ordeal and come to the land that awaits me? It is a land riven by strife and war and by a plague even deeper, and which I come to aid, in whatever small way I may.
† † †
"The fish are reticent this morning, eh?" old man Morlof says, as he leans back on the ancient stump on which his father and his grandfather used to sit and which was passed down to him, if things such as stumps can be passed down.
"What's that, father?" asks Mirand, his son, who sits beside him on the ground, idly holding his fishing rod without much thought. The boy was never much of a fisherman. Well, and now he is not much of a boy anymore, now is he, with a wife and three children of his own? It is a good thing that fishing is not the only business around here and that the carriages come frequently on their way between this little town of Igny, a small port to the east and a hub of the lumber and woodworking trade, and cities across Telmerion to the north and the west.
"I said that the fish aren't coming," Morlof repeats, with a hint of impatience in his voice. "Something must have stirred them up."
"Wonder what it could be," the son says softly. "It's a quiet day, and the waves are hardly moving."
"The whispers of Hiliana, that's what they are. Her soft caresses on the cheek of the land."
"Aye, father, I suppose they are."
Morlof pauses absentmindedly as he switches his rod from his right hand to his left and, with his free hand, scratches the stubble on his wrinkled chin. "Wasn't there supposed to be a ship coming in from Elsedor today?"
"Indeed, a cargo ship full of supplies for the war effort," Mirand says. "But it should have already arrived. It was expected early this morning or even last night. Though it's never quite predictable how quickly the waves and the wind will bring the ships in to port."
"Maybe the boat is still out there, then," the father muses, "delayed on the waves."
"I'm going to walk out to the pier," says the younger, eager for a chance to stretch his legs and do something other than fish. "Perhaps I'll catch a glimpse of the boat, and we can watch it coming in to port."
"If you insist, son," Morlof says quietly, "I guess there's no arguing. But remember there are only so many hours in the day."
"I'll be back soon."
With this, Mirand hurries away along the shoreline to the south, where the mooring for boats lies, a small wharf with only space for one large barge and a few small boats. Not far inland along the shore, looking out over the wharf, is a stone hut that has for centuries been battered by the winds off the ocean, and for just as long, as far as Mirand knows, has been home and shelter to the caretaker of the pier and his family. Some trees just as ancient, gnarled and wrinkled in their old age not unlike elderly men, lean over the hut, sheltering it in their broad canopy. But Miranda pays no attention to this now, setting his course rather for the wharf. The morning air is cold, but the sun peeks through the clouds over the ocean to the east and shows her warm and consoling face, sending countless glimmers of singing light over the face of the sea, glimmers too brilliant for Mirand to take in with his frail vision. Shielding his eyes from the light, he picks his way over the rocks littering the beach and around the logs that have washed up during the currents of numerous days and nights, obeying the ceaseless rhythm of the sea. It takes him a few moments to notice that there are a few more logs than usual, more than there were the previous day. No, he realizes, these are not logs; they are planks of hewn, formed, sanded, and treated wood, albeit now broken and littered about the beach.
What is this? Mirand thinks to himself as he looks about the beach for anything that would give him an indication of what happened. But he does not have long to think, and he follows with his eyes more than he follows with his mind. Clearly there are signs of a shipwreck: bottles floating in the shallows between hills of gray, rocky sand, clothing and other miscellaneous items jumbled about as if tossed off by a careless man ready to throw himself into sleep and unwilling to arrange his belongings in an orderly way. But among all the signs of wreckage, Mirand's eyes are drawn to one sight: a human figure lying almost face down in the sand and rock, with a slab of wood clutched tightly in unmoving arms.
"Oh, by the seven divinities!" cries the fisherman, leaping forward to the figure. Without second thought, he turns the body over and looks upon it. He finds himself gazing into the face of a middle-aged man with worn features, visibly having weathered many sorrows and much strife, and yet also bearing, even without consciousness, a touch of softness. His face is wide with a sharp jaw and angular chin, prominent cheekbones framing tight cheeks, and a nose elegantly arched. But most significantly for the moment, the figure is breathing, air whistling lightly through slightly open lips and moving the hair of a short but thick brown beard. Mirand, still without thinking, pries the life-saving bark of wood from the man's arms and hoists him onto his back.
"Well, this is the catch of a lifetime, eh, isn't it?" Mirand says to himself and then is surprised at his own disrespect. Or his humor? "It's the catch of your lifetime, friend. Let us only pray that you survive. It's a wonder you're still breathing. The water must have been terribly frigid..."
The unnamed man remains unconscious for the entirety of the trip, along the shoreline to Morlof, and then as the two fisherman together climb the craggy, grass-laden hill a good three hundred yards to the edge of the village and their homestead. The latter consists simply of two timber cabins facing one another at a forty-five degree angle and sharing a yard with a low plank fence and a little vegetation, but only what can grow in this cold region with a short spring and summer followed by a harsh autumn and a harsher winter: snow-blossoms, merry-weather heath, and targ root, with a row or two of potatoes. The nearest house is another hundred yards or so off, peeking through the trees—spruce and alder and oak—that stretch out even to the edge of the rocky sloping crags that lead down to the beach below, outliers of the dense forest to the west.
Inside the house of the younger fisherman, they lay the man on a straw-matressed, fur-laden bed and kindle a roaring fire in the hearth near him. His clothing had already dried by the time Mirand found him on the beach, and it looks to be in mostly good condition besides the usual wear and tear: a tunic and gameson covering his torso and linen breeches and leather boots upon his legs and feet. So there is little for them to do at the moment than to help him recover the warmth he had lost, and with warmth, hopefully strength. And this does not take long, for within a matter of minutes they hear a sharp intake of breath, followed by a groan.
Without opening his eyes, the man begins to speak, not in a clear voice, but in almost indecipherable mumbles, "Meléndia na elen Niranyë, tu dan melen. Hasia ti."
The fishermen look at one another in confusion. Perhaps if the mumbles were more audible they would be able to make a guess as to the language, but they are confident that it is not their own.
"A foreigner, perhaps?" Morlof whispers, again scratching his stubbly chin.
"I don't recognize the language," says the son. "It doesn't sound like any language I've ever heard, though some of the words are reminescent of our speech."
"Well, you've never even left this town, my boy."
"That's not true," replies the former, indignant. "I've been to Brug'hil on business and, to receive my betrothed, to Sillion, and then there was that time that little Elsë needed the doctor, and we brought her, remember?"
"Hush, son," says Morlof.
"What?"
"Our guest is awake."
Mirand turns to look at the man and finds him silently looking up at his rescuers. His eyes are a deep and rich blue, sober yet kind, and difficult to look into for long. Mirand soon turns his gaze away.
"Welcome," Mirand says. "Looks like the gods were watching over you and fished you right from the sea."
"Well, in truth my son here fished you from the sea," Morlof interjects, "and he carried you all the way here, at that."
"Thank you," the man on the bed whispers. "I take it I am in Igny?"
"Yes, indeed," replies the younger fisherman. "And you are welcome...for the saving, I mean. And I expect for other things besides. You are in our home, after all."
Shrugging his shoulders at his son's unclear speech, Morlof clarifies, "What my son means to say is that we are glad you are here, and you are most welcome. Are you injured in any way?"
"I struck my head," the man replies, "but the wound does not seem to me to be of a grievous nature." As if overtaken by exhaustion, he then closes his eyes again.
There is a moment of pregnant silence, in which the two fishermen are uncertain of what to do, either to tend to the man or to give him space to rest. This silence is broken only by the presence of a woman who steps in through the doorway.
"Ah, my dear," Mirand says, hurrying to his wife, a woman with long hair the color of lightly baked bread framing a narrow face at the moment when youthfulness is replaced by age and its smooth freshness replaced by the lines and wrinkles of time and care. "Alíja, we found this man lying unconscious on the beach. You see, the ship that was supposed to come in last night seems to have fallen afoul and came only in pieces."
"Yes, word has reached the village," the woman replies. "Your feat carrying him here did not go unnoticed. I was at the market to purchase a few supplies after escorting the children to their tutor, and word reached me like a ripple on the water. Well, is he injured or in need?"
"He seems well. He has only just awakened."
Alíja walks to the side of the bed and bends down to inspect the stranger in her home. After a long moment, in which the two standing men look on uncomprehending of her feminine ways—though the man lying on the bed, opening his eyes and looking up at her, senses much more than they—she rises again and says, "Well, have you offered him anything to eat, or drink?"
"Aye, er, well... No, we were about to do so," Mirand cries. "Recall he only just awoke a moment before you came in!"
"Yes, then I shall fix him some hot soup and warm him some bread, if he is up for it," Alíja says. And then, to the man: "What say you to that?"
"I would appreciate it greatly," whispers the man lying on the bed. "I would also like to know the names of my kind hosts."
"Of course, that is only fitting," Morlof replies. "Our apologies, sir, as we are not accustomed to hosting strangers, and certainly not people saved from the ocean, mind you. We are but simple village folk who spend most of our days fishing and tending to the other affairs of our small homestead and family. My name is Morlof, son of Nimfel, and this here is my only son, Mirand."
"What is your surname?" asks the stranger.
"Feskar," Mirand replies. "Not a very creative surname but chosen by my great-great grandfather. It's an old Telmeric word for fisherman."
"I am accustomed with the word, though I have yet to meet any who use it as a surname," responds the man, "and this must be your wife."
"My name is Alíja," she says with a gesture that is something between a bow and a curtsy. "Know that you are most welcome in our home for as long as you find it fitting or necessary."
"Again, I thank you, but perhaps you should question what kind of man you have received into your home before you offer him such an unconditional welcome."
"Your eyes tell me enough, sir," she replies simply.
To this the man has no response except to lower these eyes and absentmindedly stare at his hands laid across his abdomen.
"As for us, we would be happy to know more about you, for your sake as well as ours," Morlof says. "By what name are you called?"
"My name is Eldarien. I am the son of Bierand of Falstead, and our surname is Illomiel."
"Eldarien Illomiel," says Alíja, "your name has a beautiful ring to it."
"Thank you, madam."
At this, the woman laughs.
"Madam? I have not been called that in ages. Perhaps never. People do not much speak like that around these parts, but only in the great cities, unless they think themselves addressing some great personage. I assume it is none of our business to inquire if you are from such a place or a person of such a standing."
"You may ask anything you wish, as I am your guest and likely indebted to you for my life. But I assure you that I am neither nor think myself to be."
"Well then," begins Mirand, "I would like to—" but he is cut off by his wife's gentle touch on his arm.
"Hush, Mirand. Let the man eat and recover first, and then there will be time for conversation."
"It is alright," Eldarien says. "I feel my energy returning already."
"Yes? And that energy will be gone in a few minutes at this rate. Rest, I tell you!" With this she turns away, beckoning for her husband to follow her into the kitchen.
"What is it, dear?" Mirand asks quietly, as his wife sets about gathering vegetables for the soup and filling a pot with water and setting it over the hearth to boil.
"This man is no ordinary traveler," Alíja says.
"Indeed?"
"You have heard the way he speaks."
"Many speak that way, just not here."
"You may be right, but you have surely seen the nature of his clothing and his arms and the knots in his hair?"
"The what?"
"The knots, you fool!"
"Don't call me a fool!"
"...You're right. I am sorry," she says with a sigh. "But he has the marks all over him."
"The marks of what, exactly?" Mirand asks, trying not to reveal the degree of his ignorance.
"The clothing he wears was designed to go under a suit of plate armor and it also covers a chain shirt, which he wears even now. And his arms have not the shape of an ordinary laborer's. It is not brute muscle he has, but toned strength."
"So you are saying he's a warrior or soldier of some kind?"
"Yes. And not just of some kind," Alíja replies. "Ordinary guards and infantry fighters do not wear plate mail."
"I see... And his hair? The braids?"
"Not just the braids, but the knots at the end. But I'll let him inform you of their meaning soon enough. For now, let's get to work preparing him something to eat."
"Aye...but do you think perhaps—perhaps he's dangerous?"
"I wouldn't suppose so. We will be cautious regardless. I imagine it is best if he stay at your parents' house tonight. We will let him in here, around the children and ourselves, only during the day. I suspect he won't want to stay long."
"It seems you are in on so many secrets!"
"Not really. And you will know all soon enough... I just have a bit more experience in this regard, considering my upbringing."
"Are things really that different in the larger settlements?" Mirand asks.
"Yes, and no," Alíja answers. "They shouldn't be. But there are a lot of things that we build up around ourselves which shouldn't be there. It seems to me that this man is running away from some of those...or perhaps even from all of them."
† † †
Eldarien eats the soup which is brought to him very slowly, cradling the bowl in his hands and sipping on it, as if its very proximity to him and the warmth flowing from it is permeating and loosening his frozen bones and bringing life to his body. His hosts refrain from asking questions as long as there is still something in the bowl. The two fishermen try to act occupied with something meaningful, though they do not fail to give the impression of "hovering" around their guest in anxious expectation; Alíja has gone out to receive the children and accompany them on their way back from the tutor. When they have returned, their young and enthusiastic voices can be heard as they play noisily in the yard, filtering dimly through the walls and windows of the house. Presumably she has told them of the man in their house and of the proper manners, caution, and kindliness that is called for in such a situation.
When at last she comes in again, Eldarien is finishing up the final bit of food in his bowl, which he then hands to her with a deep bow of the head—an unspoken thank you.
"It is time, I presume, that we talk?" he then says, looking at those present in the room with him.
"If you feel up to it," Morlof replies, "it would be a comfort to us knowing who and what kind of man is staying with our family. As you yourself said."
"Of course. First, I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, any more than you would fear from any man. What I intend to say, rather," Eldarien adds, as if struggling for words, "is that I mean you no harm."
"Tell us from whence our guest hails," Alíja says kindly, though with a natural authority that seems to emanate always, and unknowingly, from her person.
"Originally, or in the immediate present?"
"You are from Telmerion, are you not?"
"That much is clear, given my lack of an accident much different than your own," Eldarien answers. "My speech and my manner is the same as yours, and I expect that my upbringing was not far different either. I was, in fact, raised in a village not unlike this one and in a humble home much like this."
"The name?" Mirand inquires.
"I think I mentioned it before, though only in passing. It was Falstead, though it exists no more."
The others do not say anything in response to this, apparently uncertain of if a response is called for or what an appropriate one might be, and so Eldarien continues.
"I was raised in toil and in play and taught the ways of manner, nobility, and responsibility both by my parents and by a dear acquaintance of the family, whom I also considered a personal friend. It was this man, too, who first instructed me in the ways of combat, teaching me both swordplay and archery, for in these my father had little skill, though to him I am indebted for many other things besides."
Mirand suppresses the desire to look at his wife to see her reaction.
"When the days of my youth found conclusion, I moved on, leaving the village of my birth, and soon began to make my living with the blade."
"You were a mercenary?" Morlof asks.
"I suppose this is not exactly a clear way to put the matter," Eldarien says gently, with a subtle expression which conceals innumerable emotions. "But no, I was not, nor am I, a mercenary."
"What then? A soldier?" Mirand suggests.
"I was employed in the service of the Imperial army and eventually, after many years, found myself stationed in the Hinterlands of Tel-Velfana. That is the immediate place from which I now hail."
Eldarien is quite aware that these words could have made his hosts uncomfortable, and so he adds, "I no longer align myself with the Imperial army. You can see me now as any other man."
"Worry not, friend," Alíja says, "we do not stand in resistance to the Empire, whatever our own thoughts may be in that regard. The strife that rends at the heart of our nation does not leave us untouched, but in this place you need not fear us, nor do we fear you."
"Well, if you knew the true depth and extent of the evils perpetrated by the agents of the Empire, perhaps you would speak differently," Eldarien sighs. "We did terrible things there...in..." His voice falters and Mirand speaks instead, filling the pause with words.
"We have heard distant echoes of the wars on distant soil, but little has reached us, as occupied as we are with the ill here at home. But let me say: just be glad that you were only following orders."
"I was in fact a captain..." Eldarien answers, involuntarily lowering his eyes. There is a moment of dense silence as the import of these words is weighed by each of those in the room. "But yes," Eldarien continues at last, breaking the silence, "I was only following orders. Yet sometimes orders must be disobeyed in order to follow the deeper certainty inscribed in the heart. And this I failed to do."
"Aye, but here you are now," Morlof observes.
"Yes, and I resolve to never disobey that deeper truth again, no matter the cost."
"Are you safe?" Alíja asks, as if the meaning of the question, and its cause, is evident.
Eldarien raises his eyes and looks at her. She is moved by the impact of his gaze, which bears in it a sadness perhaps deeper than she has ever seen.
"Are any of us safe?" he says at last. "Grievous are the days in which we live. But if you ask whether I defected from my station, the answer is no. At least, I submitted my formal letter of resignation. But after six months without an answer, I departed from my post, unable to abide by the orders that were coming from the general, passed down to him, I believe, from above. I asked my men to come with me, but most refused. And the few who did..." a shadow passes over Eldarien's face, "found their tomb in the depths of the ocean."
"I am sorry to hear that," Alíja remarks kindly.
"And I am sorry that it is so."
"If this is too painful for you," Mirand suggests, "we can continue this conversation later."
"No, let us continue," Eldarien replies. "I have already witnessed too much death for one lifetime, but speaking of it shall cause no more pain that what I have already come to know. But please, let us turn to other matters."
The others nod silently.
"Despite what I have told you, I return to my homeland not in flight, but in response. There is great need here, and I wish to be of assistance in whatever small way I may." After a short pause, he adds, "And I hope not with the blade."
"But we are in a civil war," Morlof retorts. "And you are a soldier, a commander-in-arms. Do you expect to sit by and refuse to take sides?"
"I do intend to refuse to take sides," Eldarien replies, "but I hope to do more than sit idly by. Surely there is some service I can render to the people of this land, as humble as this service may be."
"Your sword may be needed yet," Alíja says, "though not in the way that you fear."
"Indeed? What do you mean?"
"There is a threat to life arising greater than that of civil war, or at least akin to it. Perhaps indeed it shall prove more death-dealing than either the Imperial or rebel armies. Stirring into life and action around us are hordes of a different force and a danger much more unpredictable. This, at least, is what the rumors, now widespread, claim."
Eldarien nods his head silently in understanding and says softly, "I think I know of what you speak, though in Tel-Velfana we knew little of this, no more than scattered rumors even weaker than what I imagine you have heard. And most of these were either dismissed in doubt or exaggerated in fear. Please, tell me the truth, as much as you know."
"We have taken to calling them the druadach," Morlof begins. "If I understand correctly, this is a name mined from ancient texts by one who knows about such things, and the name has spread to become something of an official denomination. Yet even if they have become a household name in Igny, not yet has our village had a direct encounter with them, though hint of them stirs in the mountains to the west."
"It is like something out of the deepest of nightmares, the darkest of fears, they say," Mirand explains, "the forces of darkness crawling out of the shadowed holes and crevices of the earth, seeking to devour the light."
"That may be a little much," Morlof says to his son. "We are uncertain of how much they are willing to venture from their caves and even more uncertain of their motivations, if any motivations they have. Whether they are our forefather's fathers brought to life or whether they are some new abomination spawned in the earth, I do not know. But they feed, and to do this they must indeed reach out to what lives to devour it with their own deadness. The foothills of the Teldren mountains have been all but emptied of their former inhabitants, farms left desolate by the departure of their owners whose livestock were taken in the night or left in a bloody mess."
"Do you know any more of what is occurring further west, across the mountains?" Eldarien asks.
"Very little, I am afraid," Morlof answers.
"Do you have any suggestions of whom I might ask? This is a matter of great importance, and one for which I returned to this land."
"I fear what you will need more than information is a sword," Mirand says. "Whatever these druadach are, they are vicious beasts."
"They are perhaps no more than beasts," Alíja responds, "vicious but mindless nonetheless. Nonetheless it is well to be informed if you wish to do anything about this crisis."
"It is always well to have information before wielding the sword," Eldarien agrees. "Indeed, more deeply than information, one must have understanding, otherwise the sword will be guided ill and will not strike true, even if it reaches its target. To slay a living thing is always a serious action, and to kill without understanding is a grievous thing. This I know from my own experience."
The dense atmosphere following these words is interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Ah, perhaps it will be necessary to finish this conversation later," Alíja says. "I think dear Yelía is here, rounding up the children, and the little ones shall be clamoring for dinner soon."