Raiaeran Improvisations, No. 1

((Open thread, to 2 more. First couple to post gets in. This is specifically designed as an improvisation, no planning. We'll see where it goes together. Once a third person -- including me -- has joined in, I'll edit and close the thread. I will keep soloing as I have time if no one joins in.))

"Put your back into it, Breith."

The girl, scarcely older than one and a half yeni, was straining mightily with a bow almost as tall as she was. No arrow was nocked to the string. To the side, a more appropriately-sized bow lay with a small practice arrow strewn across it. A few small target apples, mealy and good for little but the evening's stew, lay in small piles a little father away, nestled in brush and scrub against a small ledge-wall. A few were pierced through; Breith had been practicing, and today's session had gone well. Except for this last part.

They always did this last part, at least for half an hour. The practice bow was for building aim, coordination, eye tracking. The final exercise was for strength. Pull the bow, hold, and release. Pull the bow, hold, release. When she could get it to her ear and hold it for ten seconds before she released, she'd be on her way to hunting with the others.

But Cildorian's shortbow was still too much for Breith. Even though to a human she would seem as a child; to elves she was very young indeed. That she was being trained at all spoke to how far Raiaera had fallen; such arts were normally left to those who had at least passed their second, or even third yeni.

She pouted and would have thrown the bow had it been hers and not Cildorian's. He could see shame on her face, like he had punctured her balloon.

"I'm sorry, Tura. I'm trying!"

He realized from her tone that she had misunderstood him as scolding. He was being literal, but she didn't hear it that way. He came in low, and spoke softly.

"I'm sorry, Breith, I didn't mean to be harsh. I meant what I said, I was not teasing or being cruel: put your back into it. Your whole back." She blinked, not fully following.

Picking up his own longbow, he gestured with it. "Here, like this."

He picked up his own bow, a great longbow, and pulled back on the string. He stood erect, poised with his whole forearm drawn back to just behind his ear. Like a statue he stood, muscles tensing once and then holding firm as stone beneath his loose wool jerkin and light cotton surplice. He looked down at her, barely exerting himself, and said, "See? You know the stance, but perhaps you didn't understand why I teach it. The knowing helps, helps you feel what must shift in your body in order to be strong."

Continuing to hold the pose, no exertion on him, still as a snake coiled in the grass, he continued,

"Standing like this, the strength of the pull is not in your forearm or even your shoulder. It's in your whole body. It's in your back. See how my feet are just so. See how my shoulder pulls down into my body, how the strength of the draw comes from the very center of who I am, rather than just the limb alone."

Breith looked carefully, nodding a bit, observing how he stood. She would be a good archer someday, maybe even someday soon, he thought. She was keen, observant, and not too proud to learn. She turned and pulled, standing firm. She noted what he said, she understood it, and he could see new strength in her as she tried to feel out muscles she had forgotten on her first attempt.

He caught his breath for a moment as the bowstring drew back further than she'd ever gotten it before, swiftly coming to her chest. With a grunt her hand slipped, and the string twanged, but scarcely had it stopped vibrating before she had stilled it and tried again, this time getting the string to her chest, then her cheek, and she wavered, muscles straining, back pulling, trying so hard for that extra inch. That she was doing this well spoke to her determination, surely. But also to raw power. Maybe more than he had first thought.

But it was not to be. She released the string, this time more purposefully, and hang down the bow, only a little dejected. He could tell she had wanted to do it this time, but was still proud of a new personal best. He could also tell she was tired. She'd worked hard today.

Walking over to her, he took the bow and quickly destringed it, and said, "That was good, Breith. You'll get it next week. Come, the day grows short. You can't train with me forever. Your father will need your help finishing supper, and your uncles will want you to dance and sing for them the new song I taught you!"

She hesitated, and he saw in the fading light some uncertainty in her demeanor.

"What is it, child?" He pulled down his head to grasp her chin, bringing her face up to look into his. There were tears on the edges of her eyes, held back, but present.

"It's not enough, is it, Tura?" She asked, lip trembling.

He kneeled to be more on her level. "What do you mean, Breith? What isn't enough?"

"What I have. What we have. Poppa said the elves from downriver were here this morning. To reclaim the city. To join the guard. Lessons next week? I need to be ready. Soon. Poppa says they might not be back for many more lemnari. If I'm not ready soon, they might come back and the never come back, they said they might be too busy. What if I'm too weak? What if I can't aim right or shoot straight or even fire a bow? I want to reclaim what is ours!"

She was starting to snowball, and he saw it, her words coming out in a continuing rush, her anxieties about her place in this world out of control. And she spit out the last word with a fire, a fire that was burning far too hot for one so young. It scared him, a little. Another sign of what had been lost, who had been hurt, the echoing disaster of the past decade written in the very emotions of the children borne in those dreadful times.

Reaching out quickly to cup her face, he held his hand to her cheek and spoke gently.

"Listen, Breith. Listen to me!" She stopped suddenly, choking back her words.

"Listen." He said, moving his hand to gesture at the world below them, beyond the cliffs down in the valley below. In the far distance, just at the edge of the horizon, close to where the mountain drew a firm line of shadow across the plains, there was a glint of a tower in the far distance, about to cease its shining when the sun finally sank below the Mountains of Dusk.

"Do you see that tower, shining sentinel in the gathering dusk?"

She nodded, listening, wiping tears from her cheeks.

"That tower, that is not Eluriand. That is but the pinnacle of Tirinost, now called Eluciniel. But even if your eyes could see the City of Music clear from here, Atanamir's most splendid jewel, see it bright and shining on a cloudless day with the sun overhead, watch as her banners fly in the wind, resplendent and rebuilt, hear her people rejoicing, and the rubble torn down and rebuilt with all the glamour of the bard-regencies of the ancient days, that would not be Eluriand. This..."

He moved his hand to cover his heart. "This is where Eluriand is." He could see the confusion in her eyes. She did not understand, she was too young.

With kind eyes, he said, "I know this doesn't make sense to you now, but I know better than anyone. We lost that battle because we lost sight of what we are. Warriors? Archers? Horseback riders? Fancy wizards?"

He shook his head, then wiped the hair back that had fallen in front of his face. He fixed her with another long stare, and said, "No, child. No. These were never what protected us. We were arrogant, and sought empire where we should have sought joy. Domination where we were better off seeking wisdom. We thought warfare would save us, and, well, in seeking our salvation in warfare, warfare certainly found us.

He could tell he was getting nowhere. But he still had to try. Wisdom was sometimes built, not on words understood at the time they were spoken, but on memories of advice given long before you were old enough to respect it. "But no matter. Know this: those elves may come back. They may not. You may go when your Poppa says you're ready, if you want to. You may go to Eluriand yourself, without waiting for Nalith's riders to come collect you and pay you whatever paltry commission they are offering this Astarna.

"But if you ever set out to see Eluriand one day, child, make sure you are ready to see it with eyes that know what beauty is. Learn to hear a tale that is told, and tell the good one from the bad. When a note is sung in your hearing, learn to know if it has been sung aright, or missed its tone. Because when you are in Eluriand, and see or hear these things done, you'll be able to know if they are done properly. If they are, I will rejoice with you, and sing along myself. If not, well..."

He reached out and tapped her right in her chest, where her heart was, "Well, if they aren't done right, you'll at least have the comfort of knowing that the true Eluriand, where all things are done in beauty and holiness, lives right here. You'll know it's time to move on, to keep looking for the city that is coming, the city in your heart."

She nodded. She had been listening raptly, and she could tell her confusion had melted into that receptive attention children get when they have no idea what is happening, but sense it is important enough to be quiet and try to understand. Good. That's the best he could hope for, in sharing something so real with one so unaware of reality.

"Now. Think no more of these things. Get to your poppa and your uncles. Sing them that song I taught you, and eat well! You'll need every bite after all your training, especially if you want to draw my bow next week! Good job today, little one. Run along"

Yelling her thanks, she scampered away down the slope, stopping only to collect a few of the target apples before rushing back to the village. She knew the way, and would not get lost.

Atana would appreciate him sending her back this early. Last time it was well past dark when she finally returned, dejected and sore from too many attempts at a bow too big for her. At least this time, dusk was still barely started, and would not be too deep by the time she returned.

He smiled, too, to think that it would not be too long before he was having to give her a bigger bow.

Grabbing up a few apples of his own, he turned and loped off up the hill, taking an easy pace despite the incline. With darkness not far off, he had other business: supper, and sleep.

As Cildorian rounded the last smooth bluff in these distant highlands, his cottage appeared. It was almost magical the way he saw nothing at first, then suddenly the structure emerged into sight. But it wasn't magic, just the craft of elves applied to a careful reading of the natural landscape and an equally careful choosing of their style of construction. Why hide something with song when you could just carefully select a spot where no one from the plains below could easily see the structure? In much the same way, the settlement of Coiameth had been carefully hidden from the eyes of random wanderers set back from the gorgeside and scattered among the hillocks on either side, with only a few narrow bridges, carefully concealed as natural rock formations, to connect each side.

While not exactly a secret, it was better for everyone if the village's location was protected from the eyes of anyone who happened to be walking below. The name was right there in plain sight: Coiameth, the Last Stand. Designed not as a fortress, but a hiding-place, where the careful craft of the elves had been preserved, crafts that had even been forgotten by the elves themselves. Where Eluriand had forgotten, Coiameth had remembered.

One of the arts they remembered here was song, and a different kind of song than the ones traditionally proclaimed by bards. No, this was the song in the air, the song of reality itself. As he opened the cottage door, he could hear the basso continuo of crickets thrumming in the brush, different kinds and orders of the arthropodal chorus singing at different rhythms and tenors and pitches to together create a wordless universal thrum. On top was layered the birdsongs and the calls, punctuated by the occasional cry of a distant panther or the wild yips of a fox.

That song was not just produced by the wildlife. That song was the creak of the door as Cildorian shouldered it open. It was his own heartbeat, his own breath, the sound of apples falling from his fingertips, the lap of water against the ladle as he splashed a bit from his rain-catchment cistern into a deep cooking pot. The song was everywhere and in all things, in the scrape of his knife against the core of the old apples as he carved off the soft spots and broke them down into chunks, the papery rasp of onion skins as he peeled them off and tossed them into a small wooden bin, the tchuk tchuk tchuk as he split carrots into chunks.

And the longer an elf committed to the slow songs that the people of Coiameth listened to, the more he could hear. Tonight, for instance, Cildorian could hear the notes of the breeze wafting down from the cold mountain. He could hear the tongue of the old whipsnake who lived in his cottage rafters as it tasted the air for its next meal. He could hear the sun as it finally dropped below the horizon. He could hear the stars as their chorus of voices came alive.

That was the true glory of this place, this sanctuary of the elves. It was here that those who listened, those who tuned their ears to the living song, could hear most clearly the voices of the stars singing the night into its glory.

He opened up a small wooden box, and a blast of chill came out. A useful trick, that; his friend from Coiameth, an accomplished bard named Lomal, had shown him that trick. The bard had woven a simple song of Ostalin right into a charm in the woodwork. As long as Cildorian recharged the box a few times a week with his own repetition of the song, and took it back to Lomal a few times a year for tune-up, the box would keep a package or two of meat cold enough to resist spoilage. Pulling out about a pound of goat he'd butchered, cubed, and seasoned the week before, sharing the surplus amongst the villagers, he unwrapped the twine from the parcel and tossed it into the pot.

Setting the simple stew to boil with a sprinkle of the precious salt he purchased dearly every time a Kachuck trader was in town, and a few pinches of herbs from his pouch. As each one entered the pot, he could hear their sighing songs create a chorus of new thanksgiving. They were exulting with the glory would now transform in this simmering into a new form and find new purpose in improving and enriching the savory reality known as life itself.

Crossing to a nearby bookshelf, he shifted a simple silver statue of a fox to the side, where it had been holding a few books upright. As they leaned over, he scanned them quickly, selecting a thick volume and pulling it out. He'd read it before, The Collected Songs of Linwë, but it always rewarded a careful re-reading. Pushing the books back up and pressing the fox back in place, he sat down in a sturdy rocking chair near the stoked fire and the stew, and set about to reading.

Around him, the song grew and fell, crackled with the fire, bubbled with the stew, creaked with the wood chair rocking against the cottage floor, as the stars and the night and the world around him sang the nighttime song. As he read, he listened.

It was the only way to learn.