The chamber in which Eldarien finds himself is ornate, the stone on the pillars and archways carved in various shapes, though none of them beautiful to the eye. This is not because they are crude or poorly made, but rather because the stone is not carved in elegant shapes but in sharp and jagged edges, making the whole castle feel like a weapon pointed menacingly at any intruder. None of this was he able to see before, since torchlight did not fall upon and illumine the stone but was rather absorbed by it, “eaten” up by it, as it were. Only the bluish light glowing from the blade of the lightbringer has been able to bring brilliance into the darkness of the castle and to shine upon the black stone as if it were ordinary coal or obsidian. The room which Eldarien now crosses is a good hundred yards across in both directions and half that in height, and he feels diminutive walking through its center. But then again, the light of the sword in his hand dispels the shadows of darkness even to the furthest corners of the room, and so even if Eldarien himself feels small, he is aware of something much greater just beyond his vision, as it were, enfolding him and flowing through him, passing through the poverty of his heart and into the sanctified artifact in his hand.
An arched doorway lies on the far side of the room at the center of a wall whose every inch is covered with ancient runes far different than those of the Telmeric language and writing. What language could this be? Eldarien inspects them momentarily as he passes and sees that they are similar in character to the architecture of the castle—menacing and unpleasant, all designed to evoke the same sense of terror and threat that seems the only specialty and sole desire of the castle’s maker. But the question remains for Eldarien: why was this castle made, and what is its current purpose? There were little or no structures above ground, or at least as far as Eldarien could discern in the darkness that had engulfed him and Rorlain at that time. But underneath it seems that there is a massive network of rooms and corridors, a veritable palace if one is to judge by the stonework, the various doorways leading off at different angles in every direction, and the sheer size of the space. But what could possibly have created a structure of such a size and have done so underground? For these chambers are not caves hewn out of the earth, by however skilled a hand. No, the stones are fitted together like bricks, tightly and securely, with seams so tight that they are visible only when closely inspected in the clean light of the lightbringer.
Taking all of this in, Eldarien nonetheless does not hesitate in his footsteps nor turn from his purpose, for he feels the presence drawing him, and he does not even have to question which doorway through which to pass in order to proceed closer to his goal. Nonetheless, the terror of the place and of the “master” of the place yet lingers on the edge of his consciousness, and he is afraid that at any moment it shall burst forth to assault him again. His heart aches and recoils at the thought of another such attack. But it is also true that the nature of the force has changed—the eyes looking upon him from the shadows of darkness. Now he feels not so much the mocking laughter that had accompanied him before as rather a vehement anger and hatred. And yet the threat and danger of the latter feels even greater than that of the former, for it would more willingly do him grievous harm out of spite.
As he passes through the doorway, he enters immediately upon a narrow stairway that spirals steeply downward. And as he follows it to its bottom and steps forth from it onto a lower level of the palace, he finds the first hint of an answer to the question of the purpose for which this castle was built. For he steps forth into a massive underground chamber, five or six times the size of the chamber from which he has just come. Here the black stonework reaches its end and its foundation, built into the very rock of the mountain itself. The upper portion of the chamber’s walls are built of the same black stone edifice, whereas the lower half is grayish rock with a porous, jagged face: the very foundations of the mountain. But that is not the only distinguishing feature of this chamber: it is shaped not according to any geometric design but rather according to the organic shape of the mountain, or rather of what appears to have long been a natural cavern at the heart of the mountain, like a hollow pocket of air winding its way from the surface down into the depths of the earth, and here broadening into an echoing cavern hundreds and hundreds of yards across. And the floor that was built into this chamber, of the same black stone as the rest of the castle, descends gradually downward to the center, like steps and seating cascading to the center of an auditorium. And yet the center of this auditorium is neither stage nor podium, but a gaping hole. As Eldarien draws near to it—though considering the distance, this takes quite some time—he sees that it appears to be close to a hundred feet across, a natural fissure in the earth dropping to an unknown depth, and the black stone floor itself ceasing a few yards from the edge, giving way to rough, unpolished rock.
Standing a few yards from the edge of the abyss, Eldarien remains silent and still, listening for any sounds in the chamber, but even more deeply listening for the silent tugging on his heart that will direct him to Tilliana’s location. Externally all is profoundly silent, as only caves deep within the earth can be. The only sound seems to be the whistling of air rising up from the depths of the hole, an air that is surprisingly warm, much warmer than the coolness of the air in the rest of the underground palace. As for the deeper voice of the heart, to his surprise, he realizes that he can no longer clearly sense Tilliana nor the direction of her presence. It is not, as it was but a short time earlier, that he feels all bonds of communication cut by the oppression that assails him, but rather that there is another “presence” interfering with the attunement of their hearts. At first, Eldarien tries to push beyond this presence, reaching out with his spirit to Tilliana, who lies beyond it, but as he does so, it only grows more intense. So instead, he confronts it directly, projecting his attention out to it. And as he does this, he immediately realizes that the presence lies within the abyss below him, a presence so multifaceted, so ambivalent, that he knows not whether it is one person or many, or even a person at all. All he knows is that it is malevolent and dangerous.
Suddenly a voice inundates his mind: Come to me. Only through me can you hope to reach her. The voice, however, sounds like a multitude of voices and yet like none at all—a cacophony of noise pouring into Eldarien’s mind as a cascade of snow loosed upon the mountainside. For a moment all of his thoughts are bound, overwhelmed by the intensity of the presence that floods into him. But then the presence subsides enough that he is able to reply: Who are you? In response to his question comes the familiar laughter, though it is touched now by something different, a different tenor than before, which Eldarien cannot seem to name.
Are we not at least acquaintances by now? says the voice in response.
Why do you speak to me in this way only now, when earlier you were silent? asks Eldarien.
The laughter ceases, and Eldarien feels a wave of fury wash through him. And then the voice says, I am the terror of the night. I am the multiplicity. I am the cacophony that becomes harmony through the single thread of unified rule—the scepter of ultimate power in the hands of the greatest of kings. They call me the Lord of Mæres, the King of Night, or, as frail humanity has become accustomed to saying, the Nightmare.
And what do you want from me? What do you want from us? asks Eldarien.
I want to stop you from what you intend to do. Or rather, from what you are destined to do. Then the sick laughter returns, filled with hatred. Destiny. What a pitiful word. The gods write the lines of the stories that men are to walk, and yet man in his blindness thinks that such a destiny is desirable, that such a destiny is freedom. No, destiny is slavery. Who would not wish to throw off the yoke of a life not one’s own in order to discover the freedom for which the heart longs. And the gods, they think the lines of destiny that they write are indestructible. But it is my joy to destroy those lines and to rebuild them as I please, so that what the gods intend becomes instead a twisted image, a broken mirror, a shattered masterpiece singing not to the original owner but to the possessor…to me. Yes…for I am the one who takes possession. And I wish to take possession of you as well, frail human, and to grant you a share in the freedom that is mine. Choose me as your master rather than the petty gods and their destiny. Otherwise I shall have no choice but to break you and the threads to which you so feebly cling.
Break me you may, with great ease, Eldarien replies, for a weak mortal cannot possibly stand against what you are. But a man may not be possessed against his will, and that I refuse to offer you.
We shall see when it comes to the point, says the voice, how strong your resolve truly is.
I have found in the path of the gods a freedom you cannot comprehend, though I would not give it the name destiny. That word is of your own choosing, and not one with which the gods deal with the children of men. No, rather, their plan is something so much more than that, so much wider and deeper than fate, and so much more free, even if every step of my path is seen and marked out by a greater love, unseen but true.
Come to me, and we shall see, the voice echoes for a final time, and fades away.
After these words, the ground begins to shake violently, and Eldarien is forced to back away from the edge of the abyss as the black stone upon which he had previously been standing now shifts from its original position, the massive slabs all around the hole lifting and sliding toward the abyss, circling and descending one upon another. Eldarien watches from a distance as this happens, but he does not move until all is silent. Then he walks cautiously to the edge of the hole and looks down, seeing that the stones have now created a staircase spiraling downward into the darkness below. Seeing this, he sighs with exhaustion and tries to restrain the fear that wells up within him. His mind is now stretched far beyond its limit, his willpower and spirit and very heart extended out and assaulted beyond their capacity; he feels like a fabric now totally unwoven until it is no more than strands of unbound thread, frayed to the point of breaking.
But Tilliana’s face flashes before his mind’s eye in this moment, and he sees her as he saw her before in moments of her vulnerability and her beauty: anguished and on the point of death, weeping in sorrow and loss, worried and filled with fear, looking into his eyes in gratitude and in love. Indeed, he almost feels her warmth again under his hand as he had consoled her in the camp on their journey into the mountains, and he feels the pain and loss of her heart against his own as he had embraced her when he first bore her from death into life. All of these images and feelings coalesce together into a strong sense of her mystery, her presence, and immediately he knows not only that she is to be found somewhere in the abyss below, but that she is not far away. “Tilliana,” he sighs, “I am coming.”
After this, he adds interiorly, And Rorlain, wherever you may be, I shall not leave you either. I led you here, and, even if it costs me my life, I shall bring you out once again. But I cannot feel you as I feel her…I have not borne you so I cannot yet feel you, at least not with the same depth and clarity. So please return to me. If you are still in the darkness, may you be safe, and may our paths cross in the weaving greater than our own. Carrying both of his companions in the affection of his heart, and feeling the weight of both pain and desire interlocking inseparably in the awareness of entrustment, he draws near to the edge. He allows his heart to reach out, as if pushing against its limits to try and make contact with them, to assure them of his care, to draw them to him across the distance that separates them. But now he feels no response. His only light is the sense of Tilliana’s presence on the edge of his consciousness, drawing him on.
With this, he begins to descend the stairs, the lightbringer still held tightly in his hands as the only source of light in this place of utter darkness. The chasm all around him remains narrow for a good twenty or so yards, but then it falls away, and he finds the spiral staircase descending into empty space, another large cavern still deeper in the earth and still larger than those through which he has now passed. And as he looks around, he sees that this cavern is entirely natural, its shape formed by no artifice but that of the one who first created it. And the lower he descends, the brighter and warmer the air becomes, for, as he soon realizes, he descends toward a burning lake of fire. In the center of the lake stands an island, ridged round with pillars of black stone and silvery metal, though Eldarien can see no more than this. In the distance, in every direction surrounding the lake, are other shelves of uncut stone, and upon them stand shapes that he cannot quite make out from this distance, though they look not like natural rock formations but like the work of another hand. This cavern, if it is a work of nature and primordial design, has nonetheless become home to another, to one who has left his mark upon it.
When he comes to the base of the stairs, Eldarien steps out onto the center of the island and looks around. Hot air rises and twists in wisps of steam from the burning lake, whistling and moaning as it seeks an escape into the upper levels. And the liquid itself, like molten metal, bubbles and churns softly. Other than this all is still and silent. “Where are you?” Eldarien calls out. “I see no one here, nor any path to proceed further.” There is no audible response, but, instead, shapes and symbols which he had not noticed before begin to glow bright red upon the pillars that encircle the island; as Eldarien inspects them he sees that they are runes in the unknown language. And yet under his very gaze they begin to change, as if being etched anew by an invisible hand, into the runes of ancient Telmeric. And these Eldarien understands. And so, going from pillar to pillar as the runes glow and change under his eyes, he reads:
In the year 546 of the 1st Era I built my forge.
After the Anaion resisted our plans to spite us
I saw the weakness of my companions, my leaders,
and I chose to separate myself from them,
for only in this way, I realized, could I
create a host such that the spite would be mine alone.
They came from the deep, from the bowels of the earth,
an artifice from me alone, touched by no will but mine.
They were my pride and my joy, my mindless tools.
But I gave them mind, in a fashion, fashioned from me.
Where I think, they think; where I will, they will;
where I extend my act and my power, so they act with might.
And I sent them forth for war.
Yet Eigroch came unto me and asked for my aid.
Far beyond aiding another had I grown,
but I agreed to yield my creatures to his command,
though but for a time, and thus tricked him in oath
that in response he would be my slave forever.
Now we see the fruits of such wisdom and foresight,
that the armies that marched forth and conquered,
even in times where the beauty of war flourished not,
are now hidden throughout lands both near and far,
the eötenga of my making, waiting only for the chance to kill.
Finishing the words on the final pillar, Eldarien steps back, disturbed and deeply unsettled. If this is truly the place in which the eötenga were first born, what power does this “Lord of Mæres” truly possess that he cannot only oppress the minds of his victims but fashion creatures from the very molten rock of the earth? And knowing that Eldarien bears a light within him that can destroy his creations, certainly this power will not allow him to depart unscathed. At whatever cost, it shall crush him. The pieces of this mystery fall into place now, and he understands not only that all the events since Tilliana’s disappearance have been a trap (this he has already long intuited), but he also grasps the motivations of the Lord of Mæres and why his malevolent gaze fell so specially upon Eldarien and his companions. What misfortune that we chose to travel this way! he thinks with a surge of despondency. Hardly would it have been possible to meet a more dangerous enemy or to more swiftly bring an end to our journey…almost before it has even begun.
Even as he thinks this, the earth on which he stands begins to rumble with a deep, almost anguished groan, and this spreads to permeate the entire cavern. Before him and around him the lake of fire begins to bubble and swell like water boiling in a pot. He takes a step back, afraid, watching the molten lava surge violently. But what emerges before him is not anything to bring harm, but a line of narrow stones not unlike the one upon which, in his nightmare, he had stood. They form a bridge across the lake to the shelf of rock on the other side, as if inviting him to continue in his pursuit of Tilliana and of the one who holds her captive.
† † †
Rorlain finds himself in a narrow chamber with a low ceiling, hardly high enough for him to stand without striking his head against rock. Behind him, he hears the sound of stone grinding against stone and turns back to see the source of the sound, forgetting for a moment that in the pitch-blackness it is impossible to see anything at all. Nonetheless, he has no doubt about what has just occurred and where he is: he is in a side passage off the main trail upon which he and Eldarien trod, and his friend stands on the other side, a thick wall of stone between them. He pushes against the wall, but it does not budge; he runs his hands along it in the darkness, looking for some ridge, some crevice that would indicate a doorway that could be opened, but there is nothing. Only when he has tried everything that he can think of does the dire nature of their situation fully dawn upon him. He strikes his hand against the stone in frustration and in fear, though the sound of it is muffled, only adding to the sense of suffocation, of being trapped, which grows in Rorlain with every passing moment.
The terror that has been gripping him ever more deeply since coming into the precincts of the castle now swells over him like a crashing wave at sea, and he finds it difficult to breath. He steadies himself by leaning against the wall and runs his hand over his eyes, as if trying to brush away a heavy cloud. Suddenly, to his surprise, a voice reverberates through the chamber—or perhaps it reverberates only in the corridors of his own mind, he knows not. It says unto him only three words: Be my shadowborn.
Immediately Rorlain feels inclined to answer, to inquire as to the meaning of these words and the nature of this voice. But even as he begins to formulate an answer, he resolves instead to ignore the address and, with a strong effort of the will, begins walking ahead into the darkness.
You cannot ignore me, the voice says again, its voice surprisingly meek and kind. A willingness to heed and obey this voice is almost forced upon Rorlain, and to his surprise, he finds both curiosity and hesitation spring up within himself, though whether they are his own or come from without, he does not know. “I am not interested in what you have to say,” Rorlain says out loud.
You cannot know whether you are interested or not until you have heard my proposal, the voice continues. I have arranged things such that I might speak with you. For I have long desired you and the unique gifts that you bear. Worry not, I will not force you to consent to anything that you do not desire. Shall you not at least hear me out?
“I am not interested,” Rorlain says again.
Does fear truly rule you so deeply that you cannot even hear what I have to say?
“Fear does not rule me.”
Indeed?
“Leave me alone, please,” says Rorlain, his voice now a whisper.
If that is what you wish, says the voice, and it is gone.
Rorlain stands for a moment in the pitch-black darkness, breathing heavily, waiting. But nothing happens, not a single whisper of air blowing through the chamber nor the slightest hint of a sound without or within. All that remains is the sense of desperate fright that grips at his throat and constricts it like a firm and unwelcome hand. He continues forward, walking slowly so as not to trip, though he does not know why he walks. Perhaps it is simply because to stay still would be to sink into the paralysis of despair. He cannot go back, for the way is closed, and only ahead lies any hope of finding Eldarien or Tilliana or of escaping from the blackness of this horrid castle.
And as he walks, the fear tears at his soul, threatening to force him into passivity. All of his self-doubts come rushing in upon him and all of the guilt he bears for his past acts of stupidity, dishonesty, and infidelity to what is good. Unlike the others, who seem to cling to goodness with ease and with joy, he feels now in this moment almost like a different creature from them altogether. The lightness of Elmariyë, the simplicity of Tilliana, the ardent integrity of Eldarien, the unassuming wisdom of Cirien: they are all unattainable to him. Their gifts are radiant before him, and these simply prove to unveil his own darkness and mediocrity. What gift does he have? What is beautiful in him like these traits are beautiful in others? Perhaps he has simply not found it yet—that one thing that he can offer which no one else can.
And with this thought he comes to realize something. Does fear truly rule you so deeply? the voice had asked. Yes, it does. He is in fact afraid, terribly afraid, but he is simply unwilling to admit it. He is terrified…and more so of his own weakness and inadequacy than he is even of the suffocating terrors that surround him in this place of darkness. At this, his heart stings with shame, for he realizes that, at least in some ways, he fears his own failure more than he fears the failure of their quest. He fears being irrelevant, being left here in the darkness alone—yes, mourned and missed, but eventually forgotten—while the others continue on their journey without him. His heart recoils against this thought even as it accuses itself for selfishness and apathy. Should he not care rather for the good of the people of Telmerion and for the accomplishment of the task that it has fallen upon the shoulders of Eldarien to bear? What does his own petty desire to be important have to do with all of this?
Then the words come to him again: I have long desired you and the unique gifts that you bear.
Perhaps indeed there is a gift that is rightly his own, a gift that he could put at the service of the good of all. And in this gift, at last, he could find his purpose and his rest. And without another thought, the words form in his mind: What did you mean by my gifts? Is there something you see that I do not?
Immediately, the voice returns and addresses him: There are many things that I see that you do not. But I do not hold it against you. Rather, I want to show it to you, to unveil to you all that you do not see.
What do you want to show me? Rorlain asks.
The shadow that always complements the light, the voice softly explains, as if teaching a little child that sits upon one’s knee. You wish to aid your friends, do you not? And yet you feel useless, unnecessary? Well, let me tell you something: you are the most important of all.
Rorlain asks, hesitantly, What do you mean by that?
I mean that you carry something so unique and profound that none of the others will even recognize as important and precious. But that is precisely why it is so necessary for you to recognize it and to accept it. They will not see. Their sight, true as far as it goes, is nonetheless narrow. There are things that they exclude and reject, which nonetheless will be necessary for the fulfillment of their task.
“I…” Rorlain begins, speaking out loud, and he is startled by the sound of his own voice. “I…what do you mean?”
It is as I said, continues the voice, the gentleness of its tone deepening even as it presses on into an emphatic intensity. The shadow is the companion of the light. You cannot have one without the other. Your companions will fail—the lightborn will fail—if he is not accompanied and supported by the shadow. You are that shadow. You are the shadowborn who will uphold the lightborn when he needs you. And when he falters and falls short, when the light reaches its end, then you will know that darkness is much greater than light and extends much further. You will be able to go where he cannot. You shall be the savior where all others have failed. But you must have courage to face up against the darkness. To look into its depths rather than fleeing from it. To be united to the shadows that you bear, that all things bear…the very darkness that upholds the world and cradles the cosmos. Only then can you tap into the strength that you need, that all need. They need you. Will you not have the courage to be the one whom they need…the one to whom all look when every light fails?
Rorlain remains silent in response, continuing to walk slowly in the darkness, ever onward, as if drawn by some mysterious force. Many minutes pass, and he proceeds from chamber to chamber, down stairs and through passageways, though all of this leaves hardly an impression upon his consciousness at all. He is caught up in an interior battle as if trying to give birth to something—whether clarity or conviction or resolution or willpower—something that he cannot even name to himself.
At long last he says softly, “I cannot see in the darkness. Will you show me the way to my friends?”
† † †
Elmariyë and Cirien clamber up the slope through the darkness, seeking to put distance between themselves and the castle. The star-laden sky is wide and clear above them, an abyss of light in boundless space contrasting vividly with the light-eating darkness of the castle below. They come to a ledge of stone jutting out from the side of the mountain, a few ancient trees nearby, and here they sit, extinguishing their torch and wrapping themselves in their cloaks and blankets to stay warm against the bitter chill of the night. It is still a while until sunrise but neither of them tries to sleep, so concerned are they with the well-being of their companions. As they had moved further away from the castle, the sense of an evil presence had also receded until it remained only on the fringe of their consciousness, almost like it was preoccupied with somewhere else, someone else, and did not wish even to spare a thought for them. This, obviously, was very little comfort.
“This ‘presence’…what is it?” Elmariyë asks softly after a long time in silence.
“What do you mean?” Cirien says. “Do you have a specific question that is preoccupying you, or do you simply wish to know the nature of this being that assails us and our friends?”
“Both, I suppose,” replies Elmariyë. “But aren’t they related or even the same question? What I mean is…I wonder about the nature of its ‘consciousness.’ It seemed earlier to be able to focus on all of us at once, or at least some of us, and to oppress us simultaneously. But now I get the sense that it is preoccupied, absorbed in something that it finds more important than you and me.”
“Your sense is probably correct, and I feel it too,” answers Cirien, looking out over the valley and the open sky above it, his figure hardly moving and his voice barely above a whisper.
Elmariyë waits for him to continue, but when a few minutes pass without him speaking, she asks, “Is there more you could say?”
“Ah…yes,” he answers, as if being stirred awake.
“Are you alright?” Elmariyë asks.
“Yes, yes. I am just thinking,” Cirien replies. “I am thinking…and I am troubled. Or better said: I am praying. Perhaps only prayer has the capacity to aid our companions now, for they are in a place far beyond our reach or the reach of any mortal.”
“You are right,” Elmariyë whispers. “I have been so caught up in my anxiety and my desire for an answer to these questions that…”
“You have not ceased praying, Elmariyë,” Cirien says tenderly, turning now to look at her. “Your whole life is a prayer, carried by the ardent desire of your heart and by your boundless, childlike trust in the goodness of the gods.”
“Perhaps, yes…but I wish I would have at least…” She does not finish the thought.
“You see the One beyond, do you not?” Cirien asks. The question surprises her, as it seems to come entirely unprovoked.
“I… He is very little taught or recognized anywhere in our sacred texts,” she answers. “He is more like a distant memory, as if a child were somehow recalling the womb or the breasts of her mother. She knows that everything started there, but she cannot seem to lay her hands or her heart upon it.” Elmariyë falls silent, as if the words are not expressing what she means to communicate. Cirien waits for her to continue, returning to his statue-like stillness. “Let me say it a different way,” she begins again, after a while. “For the memory of him is not distant, but immediate, as if he lies at the origin of every moment, at the origin of my own being, here and now. He is like the air that we breathe, like the wind that we feel, like the love and affection and compassion and hope within us. He is there, the very lifeblood of our existence, and yet ungraspable…holding all things, and yet he cannot be held. He is benevolence, predilection, and unbending, unerring presence, and yet ungraspable. I cannot be present to him as he is to me, nor can I experience his presence as I would desire. So you ask if I ‘see’ this One, this ‘Light behind the stars,’ as I would call him. And the answer is ‘no.’ I do not think he can be seen unless he somehow wishes to show himself, to make himself—who is invisible—visible before our eyes. But my heart reaches out to him, and there is a contact…mysterious, but…”
“But real,” Cirien finishes for her.
“Yes, exactly.” Elmariyë feels out of breath after saying these things, as if it took all she had just to put it into words, or rather to bring it out from that deep hidden place in her heart. It is probably also simply because she had stopped breathing, so occupied was she to enunciate what is deep within her heart—somewhat like a nervous cantor on her first day singing in public or a young woman at her wedding.
“He is invisible,” Cirien says, “and yet you wish to see him, do you not?”
Elmariyë thinks about this for a moment, but the answer is obvious, emblazoned like a burning seal upon her heart. “I cannot help but desire that… I hope that such a thing is acceptable…”
Cirien’s response is even more immediate: “I believe it is the healthiest and purest thing there can possibly be.”
After these words, they both fall into silence again, feeling the weight of their conversation settle between them. As a campfire keeps away the darkness and chill of night, so the weight of their words acts as a warmth and light that keeps away the other weight, the weight of evil, fear, and oppression that lies just beyond them in the darkness, threatening to encroach into their minds and hearts at any moment.
Many minutes pass like this, probably hours, before either of them speaks. It is Cirien who breaks the silence. “You asked about the nature of this evil being and its consciousness,” he says, and then he clears his throat, which has grown hoarse from the night air. “I fear that we have forgotten many things that our race knew at the beginning, when our land was still young. It is my hope that, granted we make it to our destination, we shall learn there much that has been lost. Nonetheless, I will say this: I suspect that this creature is of the same order as the ‘Maggot’ that you encountered in Ristfand.”
“But he had a body and spoke directly to us,” Elmariyë says. “And his ways felt much more…crude…than the work of this other being.”
“Yes, it does seem that they are different in disposition and perhaps also in form,” explains Cirien, “but even among ourselves our dispositions are varied and our manners unique. The matter about the body, on the other hand—that is something else entirely. I do not suspect that these beings are native to a body, nor is a body native to them. To speak of them as ‘consciousness,’ as ‘mind’ or ‘communication,’ seems more adequate. They are spiritual beings only, and the semblance of a body they take on only as they see fit in order to interact with the mortal realm. This much I have been able to discern in the texts that we still have from ages past.”
“So they are…like the gods?” Elmariyë asks with a great deal of hesitation.
“This is one of the reasons I asked you about the One, whom you so beautifully spoke of as the ‘Light behind the stars.’ The gods, as great as they may be, yet owe their existence to another, as do all beings. Yet if there were not some absolute Being who stands at the origin of all things, sustaining them in existence, while himself being everlasting plenitude of being, nothing at all would exist. Without the One, there cannot be the many; and the many find life and meaning in the One. This One whom you intuit and know in your depths, therefore, is not one being among many; he is not one kind of being, one creature in the world of creatures, however exalted, who owes his existence to another. He is life itself, and all beauty, goodness, and truth spring from him and manifest him; they are, because he is. He is the ground of all that exists, its very foundation, and yet…”
“And yet he is also infinitely beyond.”
“Yes. He simply is,” Cirien concludes, and Elmariyë nods silently to this. Then he continues with his explanation, “The gods, however, are lesser beings, dependent upon him, upon the One, and are mediators of his grace and care for us. These other beings, however…these forces of evil, I do believe that they are not unlike the gods. But rather than being forces of benevolence—a gaze of love and care directed upon our joys and pains, our hopes and miseries—they are pure malevolence. What could possibly have made them so, I do not know. But they are far beyond our destroying. There is no way, indeed, that we can bring any harm to them at all. We simply cannot stand against them.”
“But what about the sword of Eldarien?” asks Elmariyë.
“From whence does its light come?”
“From Hiliana,” she replies, and then she understands. “Our hope lies far beyond us,” she adds, as if by way of conclusion. “But I suppose it has always been that way. All of this is just so difficult, so…frightening. It is terribly frightening to see pure evil so visibly manifest, destroying so much that is good and beautiful in our world.”
“Indeed it is,” answers Cirien, placing a hand upon Elmariyë’s knee. “It crushes the heart far beyond all the hopes that it has known and stirs in it an awareness of mourning and loss that is…well, that is beyond life and death, beyond human capacity. I speak like a fool. I simply do not know any adequate words for this.” He rubs his forehead absentmindedly with his free hand while keeping his other hand on Elmariyë’s knee. “What I mean to say is that I believe we come to the great drama of our time. And, beyond all of our planning or expectation, we find ourselves caught up right into its midst.”
“And we are much too small to do anything to overcome it, and are asked rather to walk in the way of trust beyond seeing, and of hope beyond despair?” Elmariyë asks, drawing the words out for him and offering them back. As she says this, she places her hands over Cirien’s hands and looks deep into his eyes.
He nods silently and takes her hands in his own, cradling them gently in his rough, aged palms and fingers that nonetheless are warm and welcoming. Nothing more need be said than this.