Hymns, Psalms, and Spiritual Songs

[Sighter Tnailog]

Work stops at sunset. Darkness falls over the building site. The sky is filled with stars. "There is the blueprint," they say.
Italo Calvino, "Cities and the Sky 3," Invisible Cities

((Closed to Ataraxis. My other quest, Sighs Beyond Words, is now inactive and so I'm appropriating its content for this quest; Sighs Beyond Words can now be closed.))

Some truths are known only to 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 robe 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 in this thickness Findelfin reveled, delighting in its glory as he followed the rest of the monks into the refectory, where the elvenhost he had managed to summon from the northern reaches of Daer Taurë waited to break bread.

* * * * *

Findelfin had grown used to simple fare. In lower elevations, the food was richer, thicker. It had the gust of wealthy life in it, no matter its station; thin-sliced potatoes layered on top of duck and quail in fealotë spicesauce were no different than strips of dried beef and hard-tack. Though the former was accustomed to the High Bard's table and the latter was for long journeys and meager budgets, both carried within them the sweat of many hands, the wealth of a world where rivers ran deeper and abundance flourished. That world was not this world.

No true simplicity could be found below, where the thickness of earth bred a thinness of character. Only here, where the thin air did not obscure the stars and where even the clouds were lower against the cliffs, did the star-flowers grow, petals that soaked in the light of the Ainelentari and closed themselves up for protection as the sun rose withering across the sky. Their delicate flesh formed the basis of most daily meals; salads, water sweetened with their simple nectar, only occasionally a yak that had wandered too close to camp. There was more, of course: what they could cultivate in this rocky land, what had been laid down with care during the short growing season, the occasional potato or beet graced the table. And the winter was finally leaving them, and with its departure came new plants and more animals. But still, this was simple fare.

Findelfin had said as much, early in his stay among this community, and the ancient elf that attended his words smiled, his eyes glinting, "Simple?" he had said, "Ah, but how simple! Simple in the Living Prime are the star-flowers."

Findelfin had been befuddled by the statement, but had grown to see more of what it meant. He had only been tangentially introduced to the liturgical mathematics of the Living Prime, Ere'erarimmo -- that is, the seventh digit that contained the essence of the truth of Tel Aina Otso. But there was something in the swirl of the sepals on the star-flowers, the way they opened as the sun dipped beyond the higher cliffs to the east, their three mesmeric pistils and their three anthers arranged with a single stunted thorn in the middle. What this something was Findelfin had not yet been able to describe.

But as he sipped his nectar-sweetened tea and ate the last remains of the mountain goat stewed in a star-flower broth, he could taste, dancing at the edges of his perception, a subtle flavor, something shimmering cold above the earthy flavor of the meat and the mountain freshness in the water. And a fleeting thought occurred to him.

He wondered if this may be the most complex meal of all.

* * * * *

Leaving the refectory, Findelfin stepped across the slow-growing mountain grass and lichen-spattered rock to join the elder, who stood with his back to the west overlooking the gorge. The monk's head was thrown back, a beaming face soaking in the glory of the stars. Findelfin would not have disturbed him, but the monk seemed to intuit his approach and turned to greet him.

"Ah, Hir-Menegil." It was the monks' name for him. Findelfin knew its meaning, and it made him uncomfortable: Lord of a Thousand Stars. It was an occultic name, one that the elder had given him upon his arrival. The elder had not told him what it meant beyond what Findelfin already knew, but it sounded...important. And while he had every intention of leading elves from this place someday to try to reclaim the land of Raiaera, he hoped the day would be long in coming.

Findelfin bowed, and said, "Ainalindstra, my nights are restless. I repeat the words you gave me to say. I have kept track; from the moment I could speak, my father taught me to sing the songs with every new night. And though there were nights when I might have forgotten, I must have said the words 80,000 times at least. But in these past six months...in these months I have spoken words of scripture at least three hundred times a day. In another six...I will have surpassed all the times I spoke them ever in my life prior to coming to this place. Yet still...still I feel as though the holy words are not for me."

The elder turned away, his face again towards the stars. "Perhaps that is because they are not. No! I hear your protest before you say it. Hir-Menegil, you are not a monk. You cannot be. You need to learn more, you must learn more, but sometimes learning must stop. And it will..." he trailed away.

Turning back, he said, "Even now, it has started. Go to bed, Hir-Menegil. Focus your mind on your rosary. Sleep. The stars have told me they are coming for you."

Findelfin did not want to hear that. And this was not the first reference to the stars he had heard, "Ainalindstra, you know I trust your wisdom. But the stars told you? You cannot read that in the stars, the motion of the heavens was laid bare to the astronomers ages ago, it's just physical motion, nothing more."

The elder laughed, "No, dearest Hir-Menegil. No, I did not read that in the stars. Do you not know us well enough yet? We do not read the stars, that is silly superstition. No, we do not read them. But do you not believe in the Star-gods?"

Findelfin did believe in them, so he did not know what to say.

The elder turned back, holding his face upwards towards the sky, and Findelfin could tell that he would get no more from the Ainalindstra this night. He turned and left. As he was almost to the dormitory, he heard the elder call softly to him. "Hir-Menegil?" He turned, and the abbot was still standing with his face towards the sky.

"Yes, Ainalindstra?"

"We listen to them." The elder spoke without altering his pose in the slightest.

And suddenly Findelfin realized what he had been seeing all along. The elder stood there, his face to the stars...

But his eyes were closed.

[Ataraxis]

The wheels of a lone cart whirred along the starlit outskirts of Timbrethinil, drawn shakily by the lethargic trots of an old and emaciated pinto horse. The draught animal would let loose a lazy neigh whenever the iron rims caught an earthen groove or rocky rut, as if mocking the occupants of the load bed as they were jerked up and down, sideways and slantways. The heavyset human astride it would then shush it in caring murmurs, caressing its maneless neck as he apologized to his motley assortment of passengers. If not for his scarcely concealed disdain for the group and the not-so-secretive words of encouragement he whispered into its ears, they might have even been fooled.

Orophin Súrion sat at ease with his legs crossed, back propped against the center panel. His head was thrown back, eyes sealed and shielded from the battering breezes of the night’s nipping air. The High Bard seemed deep in a daydream, but for those who looked closely enough, there was something more to it than a mere escape from these tedious moments of travel. There was a depth of intent in his stillness, as if his senses had extended far beyond the boundaries of flesh and mind, as if he had become the unique confidant of the unseen and the unheard… as if his soul resonated with what memories the stars imparted.

To his right was a younger elf and forger of sound, with flaxen hair much like his but eyes of unfathomable jade. Whereas the song-mage exuded calm and serenity in his communion with the sidereal, Rávion Valdaglerion reeked of stress and high-strung nerves as he studied the written works of his ancestors in the art and profession of Soundsmiths. They were the master artisans working in the shadows of bards and Bladesingers alike, the mystic makers of their instruments, of music and of war. Four hours the yellowed pages turned in flustered hurry under his skittish fingers, the spiderlike scripture aglow with the sorcerous light of a lantern sphere that hovered overhead as courtesy of their resident bard.

To his left sat Lillian Sesthal, a human girl of sixteen with hair like silken ink and eyes of a blue colder than the arctic spheres of northern lands. She rested snugly against a wooden panel, willowy arms wrapped around slender legs that disappeared beneath the warm folds of Orophin’s crimson cloak. The girl had no desire to meditate, nor did she have any need to study: she had committed to memory every book they owned, save for Rávion’s: they were, after all, the repositories of his family’s greatest and most closely guarded secrets. To compensate for these idle hands, however, she let her mind take over, losing herself in reminiscences. At the end of the day, her memory was her greatest weapon.

Three months, two weeks and five days. That was how long she had taken residence in the forest of Timbrethinil, in the corrupted dead lands that had come to be known as the Badorloth. There, she lived the solitary life of a recluse: hiding away in a hillside cave, hunting for rarified quarry and sleeping in constant fear that the undead residents of the forest would wander out of its rotting heart and discover her, that they would turn her into one of their own. Her mind had come close to the breaking point, until the night she stumbled across these two elves. She had known Orophin from a past ordeal near Anebrilith, but Rávion was a new acquaintance that had escaped the fall of Eluriand with the High Bard’s help. In return for her offer of a shelter, they gave her a most welcomed companionship in those dire times.

Alas, two days ago, the undead were made aware of their presence, and no longer could theydwell inthat dank cave, waiting for the day an army would come to annihilate the undead scourge and sanctify the forest into the hallowed grounds they once were. Thus, they threw caution to the wind, casting the safety of their lives away, taking matters into their own hands… They traveled into the heart of the forest, hidden amongst a cartful of corpses meant to swell the ranks of the Black. And, with the concerted effort of song-magic and her strange webs...

They burned the forest down.

The great column of smoke that bridged heaven and earth that fateful night could be seen throughout the country. The wave of corruption that had almost overtaken the forest was turned to ashes by their concerted efforts, and the army that nested in its heart was dealt a second crippling blow, the first having been their defeat at Nenaebreth by the forces of Nalith. Before all of the taint could be purified by fire, the Death Lord and General of these undead, once the High Bard known as Valainistima Lithôniel, summoned a rainstorm empowered by the Necromancer’s boon to douse inferno. Orophin had fought back, delaying the rain as long as he could with the seven simulacrums of a sun he had called upon with his own powers, allowing over two thirds of the infection to be purged before collapsing from exhaustion.

And now, here they were, wandering beneath the starlight as they waited for familiar banners to cross the horizon, waited for friends and allies to find them and bring them to the haven whose name had carried with the winds: Eluceliniel.

But nothing yet.

“Galonan,” the carter exclaimed from his saddle, dark eyes swollen with unshed tears. He was a gravedigger that had escaped the city to trade corpses with the undead in exchange for the safety of his family. Though he knew his sins could never be forgiven, the sight of his home after these days of madness brought him joy like he had never felt before. The sight of the besieging undead army that camped a mile outside its walls, however, quickly broke his spirits.

“Can you sneak into the city, Maurice?” Lillian asked the carter, having noted his hesitance. “Do you think they noticed you were gone?”

“This wasn’t the first time I’ve left the city during the siege for this… heinous business.” His bald head sunk deep into his shoulders, and the girl knew he thought of what punishment would befall him, had his treason been discovered during his last absence. “If I live, then I shall cherish my life in Galonan, and stand with it no matter what. If I am hung… then that is what I deserve.”

He dismounted the horse, weak knees almost buckling under his own weight. “I can walk the rest of the way,” he said with a wan smile, turning to face the faint lights from the walled town. He turned to the horse, comfortingly brushing his hand one last time upon its neck. “Take care of Bellsulion. He’s old, but he hasn’t put his early years as a heavy warmblood behind him yet.”

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Lillian went on. “We could tell them how you helped…” Her heart sank when he only kept smiling, saying nothing.

“Remember to give my letter to the family of Manwë Arphenion,” Orophin asked to carter, to their surprise; he had spoken nary a word in the last five hours. The High Bard was referring to the undead soldier that had long ago fallen as a soldier of Galonan. His corpse had been dug out by a gravedigger much like Maurice, and was brought to the heart of Timbrethinil, where his flesh and soul had been perverted into an abomination. Yet even so, he fought against his curse until it consumed him from within like an infectious fire, revealing to the three all he knew about the undead army he had become a part of before his final demise. “I gave him my word that I would tell them of his sacrifice.” It shamed him that he could not tell them in person, but he knew that once inside, there would be no leaving those walls.

Patting the lumped parchment in his breast pocket, Maurice only nodded. With that, he turned away and hared down the grassy hill until he was out of sight. Though Lillian could not forgive a man such sins, she felt concerned by his departure, knowing full well she would likely never seen him again - dead or alive. What troubled her most, however, was how se was the only amongst the three to seemingly worry about the portly old man.

“Where to?” Rávion asked, only now deigning to look up from his books.

Orophin drew himself to a stand before hopping off the side of the cart. He padded along the dry grass towards Bellsulion. In one fluid motion, he mounted the horse, and when he was certain the beast would not buck and toss him to the cold, hard ground.

With a kick of his heels did he spur Bellsulion to a canter, and he answered with but a single word. “Nenaebreth.”

[Sighter Tnailog]

In Coiameth, even sleep was sacred.

Findelfin, eyes closed, sat on a bench in the dormitory. The dormitory felt alive; three generations of elves, a full fifteen thousand years worth of history, had sanctified this place with their prayers and supplications, sitting just as Findelfin did, asleep but awake.

Before tonight, Findelfin had been confused by what this sleep was to achieve. Normally, elves kept their eyes open during sleep, blending all that was around them into a living dream. And like almost everyone else, elves generally laid themselves down on a bed. But sacred sleep was different. One sat, and focused themselves on nothing but a mantra, or a devotional object. In Findelfin's case, it was his rosary. The beads clacked through his fingers softly; he had reached the metal section, and his devotions had turned to fervent, earnest prayers, prayers for victory, yet earnest meditation on the realities of that victory; the death it would cause, the woundedness of the world. Prayer was teaching Findelfin slowly.

But he had not, before tonight, been aware of what sacred sleep was for. His first few nights had been difficult; on more than a few occasions his eyes had snapped open as he drifted into the normal sleep of a tired elf. But he had grown, and now he realized that he was to stay awake that he might listen, but sleep that he might shut off all that interfered with that listening. It was, as was so much in this world of prayer and meditation, worship and liturgy, a paradox. He was summoning into his life forces of tension and unity, poles of being that existed as the soul hung suspended in air and as the body remained rooted in earth. He did not know how to deal with it. Not yet, but he was learning.

As his fingers completed the rounds of the Spirital Swords of Megillion, they moved to touch the shimmering crystal of the Seven Graces of Selana. And Findelfin's mind was suddenly focused on someone he had not seen in a long time.

These memories formed him, and he saw them again in focus, events that he had forgotten, dull memories stirred to life in the spring, as the coming of rain and the melting snow stirred the roots of oak trees far below. This is why he slept the sacred sleep, that he might be awake to something else, a voice, a whisper in the vaulted arches of the firmament, a memory still descending to earth as faint echo, consolation, a promise.

* * * * *

The luster in the room changed imperceptibly, but change it did, and as Findelfin sat steeped in the devotions of the Ainelenari he slowly realized that the starlight had seeped from the room, replaced by the otherworldly space that existed when the sun was driving the stars from the sky but had not yet poured forth its light in full across the world.

And it was at this time that he arose, removing his clothes and bathing in the stream that ran from the rocks behind the dormitory, dressing again, and then standing to bid the night a good-bye. It was an ancient Raiaeran practice, long forgotten; where others greeted the day, Raiaerans would bade farewell to the Ainelenari, and pray that they might live to see them once more.

He had been transported that night through strange memories, memories that even he had long put out of his mind. They had been memories of Timbrethinil Forest, his birthplace, the place that had raised him.

He remembered his father teaching him to trap a fox and catch a fish, and trying against Findelfin's desires to make him into a merchant. It was a trade Findelfin despised, but in the veil of his memory he saw the offices of love to which his father had long suffered, the hopes he had harbored for his son even if he did not know how to speak those hopes in words. And in the memory of his father's discipline and his mother's smiles, Findelfin had realized something that shamed him, something that made the prayers of the morning farewell a bitter business.

He had not once been to visit his parents since the day he had left them, on an errand for his father. He had not even considered their worry, that they might have feared him dead. He had been so enlivened by the world he had discovered, the city of Radasanth, the friends he made in the Purifiers and the men he had led in battle, that his mind had been turned from them. And even when he had finally returned to Raiaera with Devon Starslayer, even when he began the long work for his homeland that characterized his most recent endeavors, even then he had not taken the time to visit his family.

They must have known. How could word not have reached them, even in a sleepy fishing-and-trapping village on the outskirts of Timbrethinil, that their son was the General of Raiaera? But the word should have come to him from his mouth, in his tongue. Perhaps his father would not begrudge him the loss of cargo in his joy over his son's survival and high station. Perhaps his mother would finally be happy, knowing the son she had cared for had achieved some small measure of his boyhood dreams.

And it was while mulling over these memories and this shame that Findelfin completed the Liturgy of the Star-Gods. The conclusion of the liturgy bespoke the ideology of those who held to the cult of Tel Ainelenari: he turned his back to the east, so as not to honor the sun at its rising and so impugn the gifts of the holy seven stars.

And as his face turned west, from the mountainside on which he stood he beheld Raiaera spread before him, and he was horrified by what he saw. A plume of black, roiling smoke was pouring across the horizon, where Timbrethinil would be were its trees not obscured by the breadth of the plain and the curve of the earth.

Timbrethinil was burning.

* * * * *

"Hir-Menegil, if you are so concerned, why not leave?"

The question caught Findelfin by surprise. He had been in the chapel all morning, deep in prayer, rosary clutched in his hands, his mind focused on one supplication: that the star-gods might see the carnage of Timbrethinil, and that the people of Raiaera might be spared the burning. The prayer had been on Findelfin's lips for months, ever since Khal-Jaren had shown him the vision of Kilya Gorge flowing with liquid flame, but he had not yet spoken it, not yet felt himself of spiritual perfection to offer such a powerful prayer. But now his thoughts of his own lack of ability had fled, and all he had was prayer; a thousand miles from anywhere, locked in a monastery-fortress part of his making and part of his desire to learn magic from before the construction of Eluriand, unable to be of any good to anyone. He had been praying, but he cursed himself in bitterness that prayer was all he could do.

So when his prayer was interrupted by the elder, who reached out his wizened hand to rest on Findelfin's shoulder, he was surprised. The elder had never interrupted a prayer before. Findelfin remained in his position, prostrate before the altar of Earlon and suddenly he had no prayers anymore, only sobs.

He had been praying at the altar of Earlon that rains might come and wash away the burning, but it was in that space that his prayer was answered, for the rains came, they came pouring from his eyes and onto his hands, they wet his cheeks, they splashed across the stones of the altar as if by their sacrifice Timbrethinil may be saved. And the elder did not remove his hand from Findelfin's back, but waited that the general of the elves might have his fill of sorrow.

And when Findelfin's weeping had subsided, the elder repeated his simple question. "Hir-Menegil, why not leave?"

Findelfin was numb to the question, but he lifted himself out of his prostrate position and sat down on the dais steps where the elder was also resting. "Ainalindstra..." He could not even find the words to ask what in the world the elder was talking about. But the elder stared into Findelfin's eyes for a moment, and then said, "Findelfin ap Fingolfin, you know why we call you Hir-Menegil, do you not?"

Findelfin did not want to have this conversation. "I know what it means, Ainalindstra. But can the Lord of a Thousand Stars command fire to cease its devouring of my people? I am here because a strange deity that I do not love told me to pray to those deities that I do love. And even then...they may speak to you, but not to me."

The elder's gaze held Findelfin firm, and he said, "They will, Hir-Menegil. We knew of you on the day you were born; the stars knew that the land and the people they love were in danger from the dark powers of the anger of the Durklans even then. But we call you the Lord of a Thousand Stars, because of a proverb. May I tell it?"

Findelfin could not see why not, "Go ahead, elder, you will tell it whether I wish to hear it or not."

The elder laughed, and said, "Yes, that is true, you know me well enough after just a few months. This is part of why we name you Hir-Menegil, for you learn quickly and speed is needed in a world that has fallen from the paths of righteousness. But the Thousand Stars, that is the proverb, which is in a more esoteric part of Tel Aina Parma, I do not expect you to know it..."

The elder paused for a moment, considering, "But if I may paraphrase...at those time when night appears bleakest, only a thousand stars are needed to provide light to the paths of the blind. But should storm-clouds or foul perils of war threaten to choke off those stars, well, someone is needed to dispel that veil of shade that those who struggle alone. And the Lord of a Thousand Stars does not rule the stars; this you know, the most basic maxim of our order, The Stars are Rulers Unto Themselves. But mayhaps the one who clears the smoke, who can dispel those clouds, perhaps that person may not guide the fates of many, but may at least give those who seek the light of the stars enough light that they may continue to fumble forward."

Findelfin fell into silence. So this was the secret? It meant nothing. He recalled something Letho Ravenheart had said to him once, when Findelfin was equally as fervent as the elder now trying to comfort and guide him. Mystic mumbo-jumbo. It felt useless to him now.

"Elder...elder, I appreciate that you see me in this way. But I do not see the value. What Raiaera needs is warriors to cleave its enemies; Timbrethinil burns! My fami..." he paused, for tears threatened to strike him again. Taking command of himself, he said, "My family may have burned with it, a family I have not seen in years."

The elder smiled, "Ah, but is that not justice?"

Findelfin frowned. "Justice? The murder, the ravaging of thousands of people?"

The elder laughed, a harsh, grating sound to Findelfin's ears, and said, "No, no, Findelfin, you hear me wrong. There is no justice in the death of innocents nor even in the death of the guilty. No, I merely suggest that there is justice here; you, who did not return to your family when they thought you dead, now are forced to wonder in agony if they are not dead. Consider, Findelfin, that justice may come from the solidarity you now feel with those you have long sought to ignore, to make invisible."

Findelfin glowered; he did not see the justice in that at all. But he responded, "Elder, you know more than you let on; and more of my mind and my secrets than I trust. But you asked why I should not leave, and I ask you why I should. What is done is done, Timbrethinil has burned, and if I was to do anything about it, well, I should have left a long time ago. As it stands, I only see one task before me here: mastering this song, this Ainalin school so long forgotten, that I might one day bring it back to Raiaera as its master, not merely its minor prophet."

The elder paused for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. Findelfin was getting a bit angry at this elf's humor, but he was still the elder. It would not do to offend him. After a moment, the elder said, "Well, Findelfin, consider this. You think your place is here; I have an inkling in my mind it should be otherwise. So I have a spell that just might do the trick."

Findelfin's eyebrows raised; he had not yet seen any magic done with Ainalin. It had been liturgy and prayer for months, but only when the starlight struck the center of the main altar each night and the heavenly hum filled the chapel had he seen any evidence of Ainalin being a magical school. So now his interest was piqued. "Explain, elder, I will listen."

"Our magic comes at the will of something other than us; we do not control it. But it is not chance or luck; it is in the wisdom of those wills that move in spheres above us and teach us to love ourselves and see the light of the stars in the faces of those we encounter. Our magic trusts ourselves to them, and this spell is no different.

"Once I cast it, your soul will be in the hands of the Ainelenari. You may see visions, you may have a revelation of the divine mystery, you may merely feel the momentary chill that is the spheres of the stars ruminating on your soul. But when that subsides, you will find yourself where you most need to be. That may be standing here; in which case, I will admit my fault and begin educating you in earnest on the mysteries of the spheres. You may find yourself standing in the midst of the immolation of Timbrethinil, where you may perish or succeed depending on your wits. Or you may find yourself somewhere else entirely. But wherever you go, it will be...where you need to be. I cannot explain it any better than that." The elder stopped, the obvious question hanging pregnant in the air.

Findelfin appeared to consider, but had already made up his mind. Some ages ago he had encountered a magic like this; he had pressed a button which sent a message to that person which, in the cosmic order of things, most needed to receive it. And moments later his friend Legeliwyn had showed up to free him from his chains in the Haidian Labyrinth. And Varalad had done something very similar to him after the battle of Eluriand; he had learned to trust these mysteries. He was still not sure about anything else the elder had said, still not sure if he wanted to be Hir-Menegil. But he was sure enough about this.

"Yes, Ainalindstra. I will take the risk."

The elder was done with pleasantries. He placed his hand square against Findelfin's forehead and spoke a word, a word that Findelfin's ears could not quite grasp. And suddenly, the world was changed.

[Ataraxis]

Nenaebreth’s liberation was Raiaera’s first true victory against the bane of the undead, and the trade city had since then become a major command post for the military; as such, the probability that troops were amassing there at this very moment was high, especially after their small stint as large-scale arsonists in the forest of Timbrethinil. Lillian was thus convinced that by heading toward the town, the heart of what used a thriving trade line, the likeliness of encountering one such army en route toward the forest was by far greater than their chances of doing the same while erring the outskirts of the forest.

As logical as the analysis was, however, the girl knew that Orophin had made the decision in impatience rather than with reason. While the High Bard was unconscious after their blazing ordeal, Rávion had told her of the old fool’s high esteem for Nalith, and of the truth that his wandering of the country had been a quest for forgiveness and salvation. When Eluriand was besieged, he had stayed behind in Istien to protect the students and the inner city, but with every growing day his guilt for letting Nalith leave on her own only worsened, until the day he told his fellow colleagues that he would seek out the woman so as to ensure her safety.

None of them had known at that time, none of them believed that Eluriand could truly fall, and so they did not think to question his decision. High Bard Súrion was best suited for field combat, they would tell themselves; after all, he had come to be known as the Urulócë, and the Dragon of Flames never hid behind rampart walls, nor did it burden its mind with thoughts of protection. Whether or not they regretted his departure, now that Istien had become the only enduring bastion against the undead that assailed their fair city, Lillian had to wonder… “Surely they must”, the bard had told her. “I am a lócë no more, only the outlaw that deserted them – only a hecilo.”

When he heard that Nalith had become the Lady General, his resolve to rejoin her ranks flared even higher with his sinking need for redemption. Unknowingly or not, he had abandoned his brothers and sisters to their miserable fates, and he had done nothing to redeem himself, for he was still hopelessly searching for a trail that could lead to the only woman he had ever seen as more than a potential conquest. While he had not known this until Rávion revealed him the truth as if he were a foolish, he was now certain of it. Nalith Celiniel, in spite of her burning ambition, her haughty affectations and her love for condescension – perhaps even because of them, for he was the proud owner of all these qualities as well – was the only woman he had ever loved.

The cartwheels clicked with an indolence mirroring that of summer’s noontime, the haze of heat smothering the two elves as the sun’s hammering rays beat upon their heads. Lillian, however, still covered herself with the High Bard’s cloak, finding the temperature rather mild compared to her home of Fallien. With a wistful smile, she looked at Orophin’s back, her heart softened by the notion that this highfalutin male was capable of such honest emotions.

Her unusual gaze of affection for the elf had not gone unnoticed from his keen senses, and he had turned to face her with a curious hook in his brow. “Are there words you wish to share with me?”

“Oh, nothing much,” the girl crooned in a singsong voice as she playfully stretched her arms with fingers knit. “I was actually thinking of practicing a bit of song-magic. Do you remember saying that you were going to teach me how to call upon a new elemental affinity?”

Lillian was referring to the virtual infinity of elemental manifestations that songs could take in the School of Ost’Dagorlin. While most students would discover through the Melody of the First Revelation a prime affinity to one of the basic elements, such as fire, water, earth and wind, others could manifest something far more obscure. Lillian herself had found through the Melody her empathic link to shadows, and during their stay in Timbrethinil, she had mastered a song of lightning under Orophin’s expert supervision.

“Oh, I would not bother: not when I have you to remind me of my many words of wisdom.” There was that malicious grin again, glimpsed as he turned to face the rutted path ahead. “While my full attention is otherwise occupied, I believe I can spare you a few magisterial lessons. No doubt will you find this familiar to one of your first classes in the Empirical Major.”

“You’re not going to teach me the Melody of the Second Revelation?” There was a clear note of disappointment lacing her remark.

“My dear girl, are you daft? The Second Revelation is reserved for those with a Doctor of Mysteries Degree!” the High Bard exclaimed as his arms threshed every which way in deliberate expressiveness. “If a lowly student could have not one, but two revelations in the first year of their studies, why bother even calling them Revelations? Why, one might as well refer to them as melodies of ‘Oh, Would You Look At That, How Very Mildly Interesting But Not Exactly Life-Changing’, for the sake of Aurient!

“Such gifts do not merely fall upon your– ” He stopped, eyes quizzical. In this midday haze, he saw a great shadow cast upon his being, and he found the physicality of the matter oddly mind-boggling. The sun, he knew, was at its zenith, and for such shades to befall him, the source would need to be…

Orophin looked, directly above him. That was all the time he had before a flutter of cloth struck his face and blinded him in a muffle of screams. The elf, however, demonstrated a strength that belied his lithe frame, for his whole body tensed to avoid being thrown off the horse’s saddle. His arms were taut as he caught the falling mass, grunting under the inordinate strain. He spat an oath in High Elven, just as he felt the thing he was holding struggle, righting itself in his grip.

“Star-Mother, it lives!” His arms sprung up like a catapult cut loose, and he sent the shrouded body flying backwards. He realized too late that he had thrown it directly into the cart itself, and spun to watch in horror as the mass fell flat against the dusty wood, the iron rims of the wheels groaning under the sudden stress.

“Did I kill it?” Orophin asked with a mixture of worry and guilt, but also relief that the living projectile had not harmed his companions. “Wait... that face…”

“You recognize him too?” Lillian asked, both hands covering her mouth as she gaped in both wonder suprise. Rávion, jade eyes darting up from one of his books, suddenly felt his jaw drop just as low.

“Well yes. He is clearly an elf.”

They both looked at him with bewildered eyes, but as the gears in their minds worked furiously to discover how a High Bard could be so clueless… they recalled the lecher had clearly stated his disinterest in remembering the faces of unattractive – or in this case, male – colleagues.

“Phin,” Lillian said in a whisper as she helped the elf up, supporting his neck. His face had been etched into her memory, since the day she had seen him ride out of Eluriand, to be at the helm of countless soldiers he would lead into battle. “This is Findelfin ap Fingolfin… the previous General of Raiaera.”

Orophin blinked, his expression carved in bland stone. There was the glimmer of possible recognition in his eyes, and he spoke.

“Ah.”

[Sighter Tnailog]

((A note to the moderator: I am not quite done with this quest (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=19949), which takes place in the mystical moment between his being touched by the monk and sent here. There is a spoil I intend to have from this quest, which I won't elaborate here; Findelfin will have it with him and notice it, but he will not use it, I swear, until such time as that spoil is officially approved AND a new thread has been started with a postdate after the time of spoil approval.))

The light was already fading from his eyes, the light of a world he had seen in a dream. He had been gone ages; was it ages? He could feel the world of matter and space pulsating about him, a newness, an air that pressed upon him, that welled up about him. He crashed into something moving and felt it as one entertains an academic proposition, or as one feels the pillow on the back of one's head in a fever, as though it resides in some faraway country and your sensation of it exists only in metaphor and misdirection.

He vaguely sensed pain then, for he hurtled again and smashed onto something hard, and he began to move, to sense the voices around him, the speaking. And he felt, grasped against his thigh, something long and slender, with a metallic point and a feathery fletching, and without realizing what he was doing he slipped it underneath his robes, he remembered it was important somehow.

Then there were people in his face, above him, a girl whose face he did not know, but who seemed to know who he was, for she kept saying his name, that she had seen him once; an elf looking at him with disdain, maybe apathy? and the girl with incredulity, and another with mild surprise bordering on suspicion on his face. Who were these people? He did not recognize them. But the girl seemed to know him even though he knew nothing of her.

Blinking, he sat up and the people drew back from him, and he suddenly felt his tongue in his mouth again, and he moved it as though he had forgotten it existed. Slowly, he managed to speak. "Whh....ww....where am...I? Huh, huh, Whoo are yuh you?"

Shaking his head, he began to see clearly, to remember what he was seeing and had heard since returning to this place, where he had been. His vision was fading fast, though something in him told him to grasp it and file it away; But he remembered too why he came; to see what had happened to his family. But he needed something else!

Looking up again, he spoke to the people surrounding him, trying to command his tongue. "Puh...pl...please. I am Findelfin ap Fingolfin, I do n..nuh...not know where I am, b...but Timbreth...ethinil. Timbrethinil burns...is M...is Mirdan Timbreth safe?"

But he was quickly pushing on to new things, "I nneed a puh...pen! I need a pen, a quill, do you have it? And a journal, yes, a journal." He stood up quickly, almost fell, then righted himself and stooped to the ground, and began writing in the ground with his finger -- Aurient is language, Galatirion is religion, Arddunwë is Mathematics, -- then snarled and smashed it up, and began writing in quicker shorthand, Aurlangliss Galreltur Ardmataglar Megilphydagor, a stream of neologisms that had some power in his mind. As he did he muttered..."Yes, the connections are plain, Megillion is devouring us all, Earlon resents us and his children fulminate against all, we must reunite with Selana's banner, remember, remember!"

Findelfin ap Fingolfin had returned.

But he was stark raving mad.

[Ataraxis]

That stone cold mask of indifference upon Orophin’s face was shifting towards mild interest, the kind one harbors for displays of public humiliation and accidents that spiraled into pure and utter disaster. The once General of Raiaera, whom he had presumed dead after his loss in the defense of Eluriand, had instead become a raving lunatic. A bell of alarm rang in his head, and he squinted an ashen eye to verify that the madman bore no signs of festering corruption. Other than his disheveled state from being tossed about like a rag doll, however, the elf seemed well-groomed and his were unsoiled looked unsoiled. Finally, the determining proof of that his was a beating heart: his face was rubicund, saturated as it was with pumping blood.

“W-What do I do?” the teenage girl asked, almost falling to the side as Findelfin rocked the cart in his unhinged thrashing. She did all she could to follow the winding tracks of his speech, to parse the slurred words and to find the answers that would satiate the unsound queries of a demented mind. “Tim-Timbrethinil is… Mirdan what? Do you mean the s-small town at… a pen? Uhm, I-I might…” The elf had lunged halfway up in during his unintelligible rants, throwing all his weight as he clung to her shoulders with fingers that dug too deep. “You… you’re hurting me…”

At that, Rávion tossed his book aside, hurling himself bodily upon the general in hopes of separating the lunatic from Lillian. It worked, but Findelfin had honed what few senses remained on his assailant. The retaliation was fierce, his sharp knuckles threading blood from the younger elf’s lips with every violent backhand. Rávion reeled back, dazed from one too many a hit, and the general capitalized on this to coil his legs before letting the taut muscles loosen in an explosive spring. The soundsmith flew over the cart’s wall, and they could hear the thud and skid as he rolled across the tall grass in painful groans.

Lillian heard a deafening clap, sounding oddly dry and muted. A second clap, and again it lacked that reverberating harmonic, as if all natural distortions had been swallowed by the arcing motion of Orophin’s hands. The interest on his face was gone, now: there was only cold rage, and no mercy. She cursed, seeing the air crackle and warp as something sembled into existence right above the general, and she dallied no longer.

One of the wooden panels exploded, and in that instant Findelfin had been carried from the cart to the grassy ground, still wet from lingering dewdrops of a previous downpour. Lillian was upon him, her once blue eyes now fuming a sanguine red as she sat astride his belly, her hands pinning him down by the elbows with a strength that could tear them apart without her practiced control. Just then, a third clap resounded from behind.

A spire of gold and vermillion flames rose from nothingness, spewing raging sparks like water from a geyser. It had avoided the cart, redirected to the damp ground where the dew sizzled into steam and the blades of grass into smoke and ashes. The High Bard closed his hands into fists, and the blazing tower vanished, leaving only a deep, foreboding crater in its stead, still smoldering with tongues of dying flames. Had Lillian waited another second, the rumors of Findelfin’s death might have finally become fact.

“Listen to me, and listen well: Timbrethinil no longer burns,” Lillian began, her voice made as soothing as she could. “Though the fire did raze a few unspoiled trees, it was the corruption that nested within its heart that truly suffered from the flames. Moreover, the undead army that had made it their home was also dealt a great blow by that very wildfire. By burning a portion of the forest, we have made it so that all of it can be saved.”

Though Findelfin had been trying to wrestle out of her grip, she had felt his body slacken at the mention of Timbrethinil’s safety. “Mirdan Timbreth lies in the far northwestern quadrant of the forest, and it is my belief that neither the corruption nor the fires have reached that far yet. While I cannot vouch for the wellbeing of her townspeople, I believe it is likely that they still live.” His struggle was weaker now, and she felt the muscles in his arms lose their tautness and tone, but a certain wave of relief was now washing away the harsh features of his face.

“Lastly, I carry a fountain pen and a diar– a journal, in my bag. It is mostly empty, and so I believe there is enough space for you to make use of it. Now,” she said at last, letting her sapphire gaze meet his eyes of emerald for the first time since their meeting. “May I let go and escort you back to the cart, or will my friend the High Bard need to resume his attempts at cremating you?”

His mutterings stopped, and she could feel in the loosening of his body the equivalent of a white flag. The girl let go of his arms in his surrender, drawing herself to a stand as the crimson rings around her eyes receded like fading mists of blood. As if presenting an olive branch, she extended her arm, and she felt his tentative hand grasp hers. She could feel in his trembling the urge to hurry, and so she pulled him off the ground and scurried with him back to the cart.

Rummaging through her bag, she produced a leather-bound journal and a typical fountain pen, black with silver linings. Findelfin grabbed onto them as if they were his lifeline and clambered clumsily onto the load bed. He crawled on all fours to the only remaining corner where he sat hunched and bunched and began his jotting down the words of his madness.

“We’re not… bringing him with us, are we?” Rávion said with repressed agony as he rubbed at his midpoint, tiptoeing back toward their vehicle. Lillian walked to him, a worried smile on her lips as she pressed a gentle hand on his abdomen. There was sorcery in that touch, sucking away the pain like dust in the wind, but he secretly believed that the greatest ointment had been those precious, caring eyes looking up directly into his.

“All better?” she asked innocently, head askance as she maintained their gaze.

“Oh… better than ever,” was his only, troubled answer.

“Good. Then if you two can get past the awkwardness of the meeting, maybe you can accept that a general we all thought dead has returned hale and hearty, and is now in our care?”

Rávion felt words of protest run from his heart to the tip of his tongue, but he remained quiet. With a grunt of compliance, he climbed up the cart, taking seat as far from the madman as he could. Orophin’s vicious glare had faltered slightly, but his doubts and suspicious still kept him in high alert. There were still to many questions unanswered, and Findelfin did not seem to possess the composure to provide them any measure of enlightenment.

“If his mind does not recover by the time we arrive at Nenaebreth, then we leave him there to live his second childhood,” the High Bard admonished with the sway of his index finger. He turned back on his saddle to face forward as he worded his final caveat. “And he does not come along with us, should we be granted audience with Nalith. Understood?”

“Yes, Orophin.” Lillian grinned despite herself, hopping onto the cart before the song-mage rasped his boots against the horse’s sides. She gave Findelfin one last worried look, wondering what devilry had sent him down this spiral of madness – and why it had sent him to them. Alas, Orophin was right: for now, no matter what the question, there would be no answer.

The wheels clicked, Bellsulion neighed, and they were off again.