Some truths are known only to candlelight and silence. They are fragile, like the dead petals of a hydrangea resting delicately on a paved street, crumbling to dust under the boots and wagon wheels of busy-ness. And there are some realities too thick, too true for the thinness of the world. In the fabric of time, stretched taut by the wounds of ten thousand years, such truths have settled like generations of silt into the mouth of a river, building up quiet formations, new ground, structure, formation. The land we stand upon is such a reality, thick, taken for granted, ignored.
In the same way, some songs are too soft to hear above the rumbles of war, yet they are the only songs worth hearing.
And now in the candlelight a central dais stood illuminated, and a circle of seven hooded figures faced inwards towards an altar in the shape of a seven-pointed star. Though the silence was the same as it always was, an onlooker might have guessed that a change came across the group, and without any motion, without any outward sign or sigil, something deepened through the group. The silence became real, manifest, and in it words spoke, and music arose.
And the onlooker would be right, for music was springing up in this circle, a strange music that seemed to reside in the very rock of the chapel, emanate from each form, a music that manifested itself without vibrations of the air. It sounded like nothing, and everything was contained within it.
And then the music suddenly moved into embodiment as the figures threw back their hoods, and began humming into its frequencies, absorbing their voices into its gentle rhythm as a single beam of light shot from the tip of the chapel to strike the altar. A crystal placed there glowed with brilliance and the space was illuminated, glowing. One could see that it had seven sides, with strange letterings and symbols written on the walls, images of what must be saints, the bygone communion of a forgotten world.
And then the light faded, and the figures ceased their wordless chant, and the music that was silence faded into mere silence again. One of the figures stepped towards the altar and leaned forward, and there slipped from the folds of his rove the strand of a magnificent rosary. Quickly slipping the rosary back into his grasp, he blew out the candle with one quick breath.
They exited the chapel into the starlight, surrounded by cliffs, the night air bracing, the darkness sultry and meaningful. There was truth in it, and thickness. And as Findelfin ap Fingolfin followed the other Hinrim into the refectory, he knew there was an even more important truth than darkness and starlight.
While he was here, he would not be found.
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