Fire surrounds him, licking at the hem of his garments like poisonous tongues and billowing forth smoke of blackest night, filling his lungs and blinding his eyes. It sweeps across the land, scorching earth and sky, turning the air itself into living flame. He opens his mouth to cry out, but no sound emerges. Instead, he is overwhelmed as the fire engulfs him, and he sinks to the ground and yields himself up to the flames, to pain, to death.
But no…the flames bite and death clamors to consume, but within him lives something else, something deeper, urging him not to yield to despair… Instead, he reaches out beyond the darkness, the utter darkness…or rather, something reaches out within him, and he needs only yield to its movement and its impulse.
A light pierces through the fire that burns and the smoke that suffocates, and before these rays—pure luminescence, pure radiance without violence, pure beauty without force—the flames themselves recede. And he finds himself kneeling against the barren earth in a desolate plain stretching out in all directions. But the light enraptures him and draws his gaze, and he looks—looks up beyond the desolation, beyond the night of loss, and sees the stars twinkling undisturbed above him. And not only this, but they pour forth their gentle light upon the earth, upon the dead carcass of the land, and from its parched soil, seedlings sprout, little green shoots from the blackened soil as if from fertile earth.
† † †
He awakes to the sound of voices.
Half in consciousness and half out of it, he tries listening to the persons converse, even though he cannot make out the distinct words which pass between them nor identify who is speaking. But he grows weary with the effort. And gradually the voices fade, and he hears only silence, punctuated by nothing but his own breathing.
Exhausted from this effort, he fades out of consciousness for an indeterminate amount of time and then wakes again. This time he feels a different awareness stir within him. Even without opening his eyes, he knows that the sun shines full upon his face, warm and bright. But when he tries to open his eyes, he finds himself too weak, and his body does not obey his command, even for such a small thing.
Blackness takes him, and he passes again out of thought and awareness.
“Brother…” he hears, and he moves to answer the voice, but realizes that he cannot.
“Brother!” the voice says more loudly, more insistently.
I am here! he wants to cry.
But nothing.
“Brother…”
S…
“Brother?”
Se…Se…
“Eldarien?”
Selía.
“Can you hear me?”
She is standing in the grass, her long hair dancing in the wind. No, everything dances. Her hair dances; her clothing dances; the grass and flowers all around her dance; and she herself dances. But no…she stands still, the breeze blowing against her thin little body, blowing through it as if it were a sheet hung in the wind. She is reaching out to him with her palm upraised, stretching, as if trying to cross a great distance to touch him, to make contact with him.
“Can you say anything? Can you respond?”
My sister… My Selía… I did not know you were alive. What happened to you? How did you escape? I was so afraid and so sorry…so sorry that I could not protect you.
“Eldarien…” The voice is soft, gentle…hardly more than a whisper. Yet it pierces through the fog, and Selía vanishes. Now he sees only blackness, though his mind begins to emerge from the abyss, from dream and imagination and grief, and he hears her voice, clear and vivid and true. “Eldarien, hold fast.” He feels her hands take his own and hold them, cold hands, and yet they feel so warm.
“I…” he speaks, and the words come from his mouth. They are less than a whisper, but they are words, not imagination. Flesh, not only thought. More than a dream or a memory. Reality and truth.
This…this is communication. Voice echoing voice in the vibration of sound, by which hearts themselves are shared.
He hears her voice sigh in relief, and her hands squeeze his own tightly.
“It has been a long time,” she says.
“Selía?” he asks. His voice sounds strange, as if he has never spoken before. But no…it is his voice, his very own. “Selía?”
“I am sorry…I don’t know who that is,” her voice replies.
That’s right…she is not Selía…she is…
“I’m Elmariyë,” she says, and the lines connect in his mind, and his heart confirms them.
I…I remember, he thinks.
And then he says it, “I remember.”
She does not respond in words, but he hears a sound as of movement. Shuffling. And then something damp touches his forehead. A cloth.
“You are Elmariyë…” he whispers, and his voice cracks from disuse.
“And you are Eldarien,” she whispers in response.
And then he truly remembers, and his heart throbs with a thousand memories pouring in like a torrent.
“She…is she…?”
“Yes?” she asks.
“Is Tilliana…alright?”
She laughs softly.
“Thanks to you, she is well” Elmariyë replies, “and she looks forward to thanking her savior in person.”
He opens his eyes and sees her face bent over him, the golden sun glimmering in her hair. Her eyes radiate with color and depth as they meet his own, and she smiles.
“Welcome back,” she says.
“Can you help me sit up?” Eldarien asks. “I feel too weak still to do it on my own, but I don’t want to slip from consciousness again.”
She nods, and, putting her arms underneath him, helps to lift him into a sitting position and then places pillows behind him to hold him up. After she has done this, she pulls a wicker chair close to the bed and sits in it.
“The fire…was it extinguished? Has it harmed many people?” he asks.
“After you left, a concerted effort by the townsfolk was able to put out the flames,” Elmariyë answers. “And most of the people living in the ghetto escaped the fire, though their homes are ruined.”
“How many died?”
“We are unsure, since some of the houses collapsed, but we have report of twenty-five persons missing—who likely did not survive the fire—while only sixteen bodies have been found and confirmed dead. What happened to the other nine, we cannot prove, though it is most likely that they are…buried under the rubble and yet to be discovered.” Her voice is strained with pain and compassion, but hope burns gently in her eyes. “I have spoken much with those who have suffered because of this and those who have lost family and friends.”
“You have…spoken much… How long was I out of consciousness?” he asks.
“A little more than a week,” Elmariyë replies, looking almost guilty.
“I was lost. I was burning,” Eldarien whispers. “But then the light came.”
“I know.”
He looks at her, and their eyes meet for a long moment, pouring out thought and speech beyond words.
“But it worked…whatever it was?” he asks after the silent speech has faded.
“Yes,” she confirms. “You ‘bore’ her, Eldarien. You have probably done it many times in your life without being aware of it. But this was the first time you have done so deliberately and fully. And what you bore was great indeed—deep and wide and profound. We all feared that you would not be able to pull through.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘pull through,’ however,” he sighs and is surprised at himself, for even as he speaks, it is as if a deeper awareness dawns upon his mind and his heart. “It is rather,” he continues, discovering the truth even as he gives voice to it, “it is rather as if my being has expanded. It has dilated like a pupil in the sun, like lungs drawing in more breath than they have ever drawn in before.”
“That is precisely it,” she responds. “But it is a dangerous affair. For before the dilation, there is a weight, almost like a crushing. We were afraid you would be narrowed, even lost. We were afraid that you would lose yourself.” She pauses, and then she smiles again, and her smile is like silent laughter. “But you did not. No, rather, you found yourself again.”
“And not only myself,” Eldarien says. “I found her. It is like she is here inside of me…and…and…”
“And what?”
“And you, too.”
“Me?” Elmariyë asks.
“Yes. You were drawn from the flames, and you allowed me to see your need, your pain…and now you live in me.”
Elmariyë lowers her gaze, abashed, and now it is her turn to awaken to a deeper awareness. She has in fact felt different—she knows no better word for it at the moment—since the events following the fire.
“I did not know until this moment,” she says, “that you received not only Tilliana, but me as well.”
“It wasn’t my conscious intention,” Eldarien says, “but I must have wished for it.”
“You must have wished for it deeply,” she says.
“You were scared and hurting…and she was at the point of being lost,” Eldarien continues, the words forming simultaneously in his mind and on his lips. “When I opened myself to bear her, to carry her, I opened myself also to you.”
“And you did, and we owe you more for it than we shall ever be able to repay,” says Elmariyë.
Eldarien chuckles softly at this and says to her, “You should speak to Rorlain. He knows that there are certain debts that are not debts, but gifts. Bonds of the heart, of the spirit, drawing together into one those who before were two. How could there even be a ‘balance of accounts’ for such a debt?”
Elmariyë simply looks at Eldarien, at a loss for words with which to respond. In turn, he sees her face full of emotion so deep, so genuine, and so authentic, that he has no words to describe it.
And then his mind jumps back to the time immediately preceding the fire and sees again, in his mind’s eye, Rorlain pushing open the door to the hæras’ palace and shutting it again behind him. “Is Rorlain here? Is he alright? What happened at the palace?”
“Hush,” Elmariyë says. “He is safe. Regarding the rest, we will speak soon enough. But it is still too early. You need to recover.”
He nods silently, and, almost as if her words gave him permission, he feels fatigue engulf him again.
“Tilliana will come see you in the morning,” Elmariyë says. “And Rorlain is anxious to speak with you as well, though his business many people are currently attending to, and your presence is not needed. Mainly, I think, he wishes to see that his friend and companion is well.”
“Tell him that I am,” Eldarien requests.
“I will,” replies Elmariyë, and she rises to her feet. “Now rest.”
“Thank you,” he says to her. “Thank you…Elmariyë.” And then, closing his eyes, he whispers, “I just wish that I was able to save them all.”
He feels her hand upon his head, as if an unspoken sign of understanding, of shared grief, but also a word of gratitude. Before turning away, she says to him, “I understand, and I wish it were so too. But you have done what you could. Try to rest in that knowledge, even as you mourn. Yes, mourn, but mourn in hope. Not all rests upon the shoulders of one man, and we know not the plans that lie hidden in the fabric of life and history for each person. All may yet be for good, beyond our knowledge or comprehension.”
† † †
As morning dawns on the following day, Eldarien rises with renewed vigor and sits up of his own accord. The first rays of dawn filter in through the slightly parted curtain of the window of his room and play on the opposite wall. He watches the dancing light for a while, simply present, simply abiding, with hardly a thought, and sees it pass from the reddish orange of early dawn to the golden-white of full day. And then he rises to his feet and tests his strength. He finds that he has no trouble standing or walking and so dresses himself in attire that has clearly been arranged for him, lying over the back of a chair beside the bed. These greatly resemble his previous clothing (now worn by much travel and pervaded by smoke and flame), but they are new, as if recently made for precisely this purpose. He pulls on the trousers and boots and then a woolen undershirt and, over this, a linen gambeson. His mail hauberk hangs against the wall, but for now he omits it and instead pulls on his tunic and overshirt.
Just as he is about to push open the door and step out into the corridor, he realizes for the first time the extent to which he is famished: with a stomach twisted by pangs, a mouth parched, and lips dry and cracked. More than a week indeed must have passed in which he consumed very little water and almost no food, perhaps none solid. This awareness only makes him more grateful for those who cared for him, thus preserving his very life, during this time. He intends to thank them and reaches for the door, when he hears footsteps approaching in the corridor outside. Then, a moment later, the door opens, and a face appears in the doorway.
“Good morning, sir,” the young cleric says, with a bow. “Cirien told me to come wake you. But, as I see, you are already awake. No matter. He himself shall be by shortly with breakfast, and he wishes to sit with you for a while, if you are well enough.”
“I would be glad to see him,” Eldarien says. “Thank you for coming and for your message.”
“I am at your service.” And with this, he departs.
Eldarien then eases himself into one of the chairs in the room—the narrow wicker one in which Elmariyë had sat the day before—and waits for Cirien’s arrival. In about a quarter of an hour, there is a gentle knock at the door, and, after Eldarien’s invitation, it swings open and reveals the kind face of the grandmaster. He enters with a tray of food and drink balanced on his hand and says, “Our dear friend awakes at last. Your recovery brings a joy both deep and pure to many, Eldarien.”
“I want to thank all those who cared for me in my need,” Eldarien says. “And I would like to do so in person.”
“That can certainly be arranged,” Cirien replies, and then, with a glimmer in his eyes, he adds, “though you know already the three who remained with you the most. You were graced by one or other of them by your bedside almost without ceasing. Tilliana most of all. She has lost those dearest to her, but you gave her another chance at life. And, as if to give back the time that you gave to her, the life you returned to her, she has remained by you with ardent devotion and tender care.”
“Then I will express my gratitude according to the measure of her devotion,” Eldarien says. “And that shall not be difficult, as I certainly feel it.”
“Well, you shall be able to do that soon enough,” Cirien says. “She will come about midmorning to see you.”
“Elmariyë told me as much yesterday.”
“Ah, Elmariyë…” Cirien sighs with a loving smile. “But here, you need to eat. I am sure that you are hungrier than perhaps you have ever been.”
Moments from his past return to Eldarien now, moments of near starvation in the wilderness of Tel-Velfana, in which he and his men hid from enemy troops, all the while trying to hunt or trap animals or gather vegetation to sustain their life long after their provisions had run out. But “I am hungry indeed” is all that he says in response. He receives the tray and takes a drink of water and then begins to eat—slowly at first, for he knows the state of the stomach after many days without solid food.
“She is dear to you, isn’t she?” Eldarien asks. “Elmariyë, I mean.”
“She is,” Cirien replies, “though she has only been with us for two years.”
“There is something special about her,” Eldarien remarks, “though that is a word I am loathe to use about anyone, since each person is special in their own way.”
“I understand what, nonetheless, you are trying to say,” Cirien responds. “Perhaps the word you are looking for is sacred…or mysterious. There is something mysterious about her.”
“Something mysterious that lives within her,” Eldarien proffers.
“Precisely.” And Cirien looks at Eldarien deeply, his eyes speaking more deeply than his words. “But,” he begins, trying to give voice to what his eyes have attempted to say, “she recognizes in you what she has long known and experienced within herself, even if she does not fully know what it is.”
“And I see it in her, even if I am also, in a way, recognizing it for the very first time also in myself.”
After these words, there is a lull in the conversation, during which Eldarien continues to eat and drink in silence. The food is plain but nourishing: rye bread, cheese, and a bit of fruit, and a cup of water and milk each.
“I wanted to ask about what happened with the fire,” Eldarien says, at last. “I expect that I will speak of it with Tilliana and also with the others. But perhaps you can enlighten me on some things beforehand. It feels…unusual…to have been away from the world, as it were, for over a week right after so many pressing occurrences.”
“Unusual indeed,” Cirien agrees. “So many events were set in motion, and yet you were not able to witness their unfolding. But worry not, they continue to do so, and there is much yet for you to witness, and much that calls for action and discernment. But let me say immediately: not all is for ill, and certain things are even hopeful.”
“What do you mean?” Eldarien asks.
“Suffice it to say that, as we speak, hæras Glendas harnesses all his authority in preparing the people of Ristfand to defend themselves against the coming attack. And the Imperial counselor himself can no longer stand in the way of such actions. But I wish to leave the telling of such things to Rorlain, in particular, as he will do it far more justice than I. You were right to trust him in speaking with Glendas. It seems that he acted with great prudence and tact.” Cirien then rises to his feet and takes the now empty tray from Eldarien. He says by way of conclusion, “But I must take my leave now. I wish not to drown you in conversation on your first day, and I also have many matters awaiting my attention. Please, I encourage you to speak simply with Tilliana in the joy of new life. The other matters about which you have questions can wait until other days and are more appropriate conversations with other persons.”
“I understand,” replies Eldarien, “and that I shall do.”
After Cirien has gone, Eldarien pulls open the curtain and looks out the window. The day is bright, and the sun shines full in a clear sky. He guesses it to be about eight in the morning, maybe a little later—enough time for a short walk in the courtyard before Tilliana arrives. The corridors are quiet as he walks through them, and the courtyard too is silent; the temple is always quiet, it seems, a haven of peace and serenity and stillness even in a city wrought by conflict and fear. As he steps out onto the stone pathway that circles the courtyard, a breeze breathes through it, whistling gently against the walls and rustling in the boughs of the trees whose leaves glisten in the light. Shadows play against the stone and the earth, against the thick and yet well-tended grasses and flowers, and Eldarien contemplates the interplay of light and shadow as he walks slowly through the courtyard, head slightly bowed.
As the path curves with the shape of the courtyard and Eldarien follows it, he is surprised to hear a voice gently singing—so softly that until now, blocked by the trees, he was unable to hear it. It is a woman’s voice, in hardly more than a whisper, and yet full and rich, if not of sound, at least of emotion and meaning and purpose:
The child sang a song of lightness,
taking leave of sadness’ suffocation,
bidding farewell to fears and frustration
and resting secure in love’s consolation.
“I sing of you, my friend, my caregiver,
for you have given me more than I ever knew
in giving me the one thing necessary: in giving you.
How then can I respond but with me, full and true?”
And she danced upon the blades of grass, unbending,
and she alighted upon each flower, each petal,
like the dew of morning soft and, in sun’s light, glistening,
and all the while, with joy in her heart, singing.
The day was hers to love and cherish, her heart’s home,
but the night was hers as well, soft and still,
as every morning she would dance and roam
through every field and valley, mountain and hill,
and every night she would come back anew
to the place which she had never left,
for her home was in her heart, where love she knew,
and where she remained always with the one who knew her
and gave her life.
He approaches her. She sits on a bench with her back to him, the shadows of the trees playing upon her as if tenderly caressing her, and the light painting her golden hues of radiance and warmth.
“Tilliana?” he says softly so as not to startle her.
She turns and looks at him.
“Eldarien.”
“I did not expect to find you here.”
She smiles.
“Are you staying in the temple as well?” he asks.
“I am.”
“What about your home?”
“We lost it when my husband left the service of the hæras,” she replies. “Since then, these previous years, we made our home in the ghetto.”
“From service to the hæras to life in poverty,” Eldarien says, “it must have been a great change.”
“Yes, but it is one that I never regretted, nor regret even today. The hardships of these last five or six years have taught me more than I learned in the rest of my life.”
Eldarien takes a step toward her and opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him, “And yes, I mean the losses of the recent weeks as well. They still burn my heart more than fire and at times drown me more than an ocean of tumultuous water, but…”
“I am so sorry,” he says. “You have lost almost everything it is possible for a person to lose.”
“But not everything,” she whispers, and then she asks, patting the bench at her side, “Will you sit with me?”
He nods and sits and then responds, “I reverence the pain of loss in you, as well as the hope for life.”
“The loss you have felt and known,” she says quietly, looking at him, and for the first time he senses something in her voice and her demeanor, something that he can only recognize as vulnerability, like the vulnerability of a person whose deepest secret has just been revealed, and they stand exposed before another awaiting their judgment, their response. “But the life you have also given,” she concludes, and she looks away from him.
“I don’t know if I would put it that way,” Eldarien says. “I cannot give life. It is not within my power to do so.”
“But with your compassion, your suffering, you opened the way for it,” Tilliana says, “and for that I must thank you.”
“If I did not have this ‘gift,’ this capacity, there is nothing I could have done for you,” he says. “I am grateful with you, therefore, for it. And I don’t even know what it means yet to have it…not in full. How can I do such a thing? And why me, of all people?”
“I don’t know the answer to such questions, but at least for me, they do not matter. All that matters is that you are you. All that matters is that you do have this gift. It is a part of you; it is yours. And it was given to you for a reason. For such a gift of love can be manifested only in a person with the love to embrace it and to give it—to bear it—as a gift for others.” She turns and looks at him again, as if exerting an effort to overcome her vulnerability and to meet his gaze. “Perhaps you don’t know it, but when you received all that was mine, when you felt it within you, I too felt all that was yours, your very heart. And never before in my life have I encountered something so beautiful.”
“Tilliana…” Eldarien says, at a loss for words. “I… This is all so new for me. For so long I sought to help others with the strength of my arm and my skill with the blade. I had no idea that I could offer them protection, help, and healing from a place so much deeper, a place where the law of being is not power or strength but the weakness and exposure of the heart to embrace, to hurt, and to love.”
“And you stepped into that place without hesitation,” Tilliana says. “Doing thus, you have been for me the kindest and best of friends. I can only hope to give some return for what you have given to me. Yet there is little that I can offer. I am not like Rorlain, who can be your protector and your companion in journeys and in battle. Nor am I wise and learned, a guide and giver of counsel like Cirien. I am not even like Elmariyë, whose heart so obviously and so deeply understands your own and supports you with this understanding. No, I am weak and poor. But what I am and what I have is yours, and I shall stay by your side to the end.”
“I fear that we walk into danger and even unto death,” Eldarien replies. “How can I allow you to join your destiny with mine if that is what it means?”
“Whether you wish it or not,” answers Tilliana, “you have already done so. Forevermore, my life is bound up with yours, and as you fare, so must I.”
“That is not true. The life that was given to you is yours. It is yours to live as you wish. There are no conditions placed upon it.”
“I speak not of conditions,” says Tilliana. “I speak of something else. Of something as freely given as you first gave the very substance of your life to rehabilitate my own.”
Eldarien is silenced, as much by her words as by the intensity within her voice, an intensity of tenderness, of gratitude, and—the tenor is unmistakable—of love. He knows not how to respond, for though he wishes to protect her, to spare her from harm, he cannot deny that her response to him now in this moment and the intentions of her heart move him deeply and align with unspoken wishes within his own.
At last he finds his voice and says to her, “If that is the decision of your heart, then I receive you with gratitude, humbled before the gift. And I promise you today that I shall protect and care for you to the utmost of my power and even of my weakness, henceforth until the end.”