The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  “Without their assistance, I would not have made it out of Nargrond Valley. Aewöl’s support was invaluable. He has servants to do his bidding and possesses knowledge that no one else has.

  Gelros, Roquendagor and Curwë defended me with their lives. One day I will tell you what we went through in the ruins of Yslla. There dwell beings even more evil than the Gnomes or Giants of Nargrond Valley. Elves who survive such perils together forge close ties. That bond cannot be broken, and I am grateful to have them at my side. They have pledged to help me, though they know nothing of my quest. Such loyalty is rare.”

  Arwela was dispirited by what she was hearing. It seemed as if her brother’s ties to his friends were now stronger than those to his family. A deep concern was etched across her face. She made one final attempt to convince him to stay put.

  “You do not have to go to Cumberae. You do not need to command the great swanship. No one asked you to participate in this war,” were the only words the seer of the clan of Filweni could muster. “There is…” she continued, but suddenly lost confidence.

  She did not finish her sentence, knowing it would be of no use. Angry and worried for what the future would hold, Arwela ordered her small boat to fetch her.

  “I am returning to shore,” Arwela commanded her guards. “There is nothing more I can do here,” she added, with a touch of provocation.

  The beautiful lady of the clan of Filweni left the deck without a backward glance to her brother.

  The tethers and lines of the ship billowed in the light morning wind. Gradually, the Halwyfal’s waters were turning blue as the sun climbed in the sky. The northern breeze was driving away the last of the thin clouds.

  *

  Llafal, the same evening

  The sun faded and sank towards the western shores. Darkness came creeping down from the forest. The daylight was slowly dying.

  In the lowest parts of Llafal, by the shores of the Halwyfal, there was a large cedar tree overlooking the great basin. Its long branches kept the isolated beach cool.

  Nyriele, the young matriarch of clan Llyvary, was lying down in the shade of the giant tree. Her robe was white as the clouded heavens on a summer’s day. Her diadem was sewn with azure flowers, which contrasted beautifully with her blond hair.

  She was busy weaving a necklace of Lleùty; the exquisite flower gave off both jasmine and lilac scents. The beach was rich with others like it, which perfumed the air around. As she breathed in the delicate evening scents, it felt like tasting the delights of Eïwele Llyi’s gardens.

  Night time around the Halwyfal was splendid at this time of year; deep tones from the sky and water would converge as the sun set, creating wonderful colours and moving patterns that even the most skilful illusionist could not hope to recreate. The moon’s silvery rays reflected upon the great basin, shading its faint light on a group of swans taking flight.

  The ocean breeze shook the branches around Nyriele. It was as if the cedar tree were trembling from its highest leaf to the depths of its roots. The young Elf had been lying silently in this pleasant spot for hours. She was deliberately staying away from Llafal’s streets; the crews of departing warships had been invited to take part in the city’s celebrations, and she did not feel like joining the festivities.

  Nyriele was dreaming, looking at the shores and the sea.

  The wild coast extended towards Penlla in the east. It was a vast plateau, with rows of ancient elms, twisted and gnawed by the constant sea wind. The young Elf was staring at the small waves rolling endlessly under the stars, when she saw him, walking under the moon’s rays. Nyriele shuddered. The object of her thoughts had materialized before her eyes.

  First, she recognized his gait, which expressed his gentle temperament so well, then saw his long curly, light-brown hair. At last, her gaze was drawn in by his green eyes, hopelessly attracted by their unbelievable colour.

  “Curwë!” she whispered.

  After slipping through the gigantic stones of the deserted beach, the bard came up to Nyriele. He was wearing a long azure cloak, like those worn by Irawenti sailors.

  When she rose to her feet to embrace him, every trace of her heartache deserted her, and she fell into a warm trance as memories of their time together flooded back. After a long, much-awaited kiss, their lips parted to catch their breath, and she uttered a few words with a reproachful tone.

  “What happened? How could you? You vanished, and I have heard nothing since. All this time you never replied to the letters I sent to Mentollà.”

  “I have come at last… Fendrya knew you would be here,” he murmured back.

  But Curwë lowered his eyes, and she understood that he had been helpless. His evident sadness made her care for him even more.

  She noticed he was feeling pain in his cheek. When Nyriele examined him more closely, she made out the almost imperceptible red marks left by a rune. Its power was at work even as they spoke, hurting Curwë badly, almost to the point of making him faint. Despite his suffering, the bard apologized as best as he could.

  “I regret my absence with all my soul, my lady. I was not well. I was away… I had no choice.”

  Nyriele could feel his distress. She worried that the great effort Curwë was making to visit her might prove fatal, such was the deadly influence of the rune upon him. Already his gaze was confused, and his spirit appeared troubled. He then murmured what sounded like his last wishes, as if he could drop down dead at any moment.

  “When we are apart, I feel a lack, a great emptiness. I feel as if we are two halves of the same being, which fate once deigned to separate.

  I have fought to come back to you; I have fought with all my heart.

  But a powerful spell seizes my soul whenever I try to bridge the gap between us. It tortures me. Every time I imagined ways of coming back, it was agony.

  But here I am before you, almost dead, but very much your servant.”

  Nyriele was deeply distressed at this. She also felt guilty for being angry and not enquiring about Curwë’s fate with more insistence. Tears of regret and repentance ran down her face. She embraced Curwë again, and wept over his scorching cheek, kissing it with tenderness, until it burnt no more. The young matriarch was graced with special skills. She took her amulet in her hands and invoked her deity.

  “May the power of Eïwele Llyi ease your pain. May the mark unjustly laid upon you be removed,” she prayed. “I am the high priestess of the deity of love, and I demand that you be healed of your woes.”

  For some time, the two Elves remained in each other’s arms. The young matriarch entered into a struggle against an unknown force, unleashing her innermost power to fight the curse haunting her lover.

  At last, Curwë felt relieved, as if he had been touched by divine grace.

  “My lady, the pain seems to have left me.”

  Curwë winked at Nyriele and they hugged each other tight, their bodies trembling with joy. The two Elves let time pass slowly and silently, simply enjoying the deep relief they felt at their reunion. At last, Curwë gathered his thoughts and spoke.

  “During my time away from Llafal, I walked the paths of the mountains. I was alone without you but, in truth, I could not have been closer to you. Memories of our time together came back to me constantly. I remembered everything you taught me, everything you gave me. You have such a mind… your knowledge is remarkable, as if you have memorized all you had ever read. You can quote the songs of so many bards. Your great learning has made you a virtuous and spiritual lady. To my mind, you are perfection.”

  Nyriele blushed with pleasure at these words and, with a mocking air, she immediately replied with a smile, “Are you trying to seduce me with your sweet words, stranger from a distant land?”

  Curwë laughed. “I know I could never achieve such a feat. How could a common Elf like me find favour in the eyes of the demi-goddess of charm, the descendant of a deity no less?”

  Seeing his spirits revived, Nyriele could not resist drawing out
this little game of seduction. Assuming the role of the sad and lonely princess, she turned to him with an adorable pout.

  “Where do you think my charms have got me with eligible suitors? Nowhere. All contemplate me from afar, and many give me praise, but nobody is bold enough to seduce me. All I can do is stay in the temple of Eïwele Llyi and cry, alone and unloved.”

  Her charming act triggered an even greater reaction than she had anticipated. Curwë burst into a passionate declaration of love.

  “Nyriele, I alone know that your unmatched outer beauty is but the reflection of your soul within.”

  Visibly enjoying the situation, the young lady improvised further. “In truth, I sometimes hate this beauty you admire so much. You are looking at me now, but all you see is soul. I have a body, too. I must confess, I have prayed to my deity with all my heart to send me a lover, full of desire. And in all my dreams, he had green eyes.”

  At these words, Curwë lost all measure. He let himself wander into the twisted maze of blind passion.

  “At your touch, I forget myself, I no longer worry about my fate, I simply seek your happiness, I seek only to bring you joy. I would give everything for you,” he declared breathlessly, and he kissed her with passion.

  “You would give me Eawa, that great love the High Elves celebrate in their songs?”

  “I came to offer it to you, beloved Nyriele, the flame that warms rather than burns, the everlasting bond which provides more than it consumes. By watching over you, I will sanctify my own existence. I will make us one.”

  Nyriele shivered, suddenly afraid by the force of her lover’s passion.

  But Curwë insisted, “I am speaking to you of undying love: a love that changes everything, ignites the hearts, leads the spirit and sometimes demands acting radically.”

  The young lady felt uncomfortable at these words, intuitively sensing the tragedy such an eternal oath could provoke. For the first time, she understood that, despite his lightness, despite the ease of his manners, despite his charming sense of humour, Curwë was an immortal High Elf. Her lover also was subject to what the Llewenti called the curse of undying love.

  Breaking free from Curwë, Nyriele stood like a matriarch before her apprentice. With a tone as soft as she could manage, she started to explain.

  “Curwë, life does not work in the way you were taught by Hawenti scholars. It is more complex, subtler, with ever-changing nuance… One cannot simply declare to a lover that one’s passion will be eternal.”

  “I can,” he countered boldly. “Do not forget, my lady, you are speaking to the green-eyed Curwë!”

  Half-conquered by this impertinent boast, Nyriele could not resist smiling. She nevertheless continued to try reasoning with him.

  “Eïwele Llyi told her priestesses: ‘when love has taken its course, then comes quiet. The reason is simple: the end of desire’. The deity teaches us pleasure and pain; those seemingly contradictory combinations of emptiness and fullness, want and satisfaction, absence and presence. She talked of how fully satisfying one’s desire is very dangerous. It can lead to coldness in the future.”

  Curwë listened, smiling, but he would not hear nor understand Eïwele Llyi’s wisdom. Self-confident as ever, he committed himself further.

  “Beyond even the eternity of the High Elves’ existence, I promise you the infinity of my love. I believe a single Llewenti life filled with passion will be far nobler than an endless existence without your love.”

  Curwë had just hit upon one of Nyriele’s deepest anxieties about their relationship. Her mother had first warned her about this inescapable bind, and her father had since berated her for ignoring its implications. This question had haunted her since the first time she and Curwë kissed. Anguish was now etched on her delicate features. She could not suppress a shiver. Her voice now less assured, Nyriele explained.

  “All Llewenti must accept the condition of our kin: to live a life which has a beginning and an end. Eïwele Llyo alone decides when it begins, and when it ends. Neither I, nor any of my people, can escape that fate. The deity of dreams’ decisions are final.

  There is no return from that path…

  The immortal High Elves want love to prevail over death. They will exchange gold rings and commit themselves to unbreakable bonds which last millennia. Sadly, it is also another sign of their dangerous and arrogant beliefs because death always triumphs in the end.

  You must understand that my life will one day have an end and that I will return as a spirit into the forest. The day you lose me, you will be inconsolable. There will be just you and your Irawenti lyre left to mourn the love you have lost. You will cry again and again, until even your marvellous voice will be inaudible. Your lively, joyous Muswab will transform into a lament. Is that really what you want for yourself? I do not think it is.”

  At this conclusion, which sounded rather like a condemnation, Curwë felt his tumultuous blood rushing to his heart and to his temples. Without even thinking, he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a jewel box. The swelling dam of excess love, which had driven him to find Nyriele that evening, was unleashed. In a surge of passion, Curwë kneeled like a knight before his liege.

  "I accept this destiny,” he solemnly declared. “I'm grateful that fate has chosen this one for me.

  I am only a common Elf, but I have a noble heart. When I read about the exploits of ancient heroes in books, I know I could match them all,” he claimed, his pale, haggard gaze trying to fix the object of his desire.

  “To resist love, when the sky, the stars, the very air, push you to it is like swimming against the rising tide. I understood I would not emerge victorious from that struggle. So, I have decided to love you… while I can.

  To my eyes, you are a living and luminous demi-goddess... You are like this jewel I offer you, the symbol of my eternal bond to you…

  I give this pearl to you, to the purest heart in the Islands.”

  Nyriele opened the jewel box to reveal the treasure inside. She almost lost her balance when she saw it, before her gaze fixed steadily on the mysterious crystalline substance, glowing with unnatural light.

  “Such absolute purity, such perfection, I have never seen anything more beautiful!” Nyriele exclaimed.

  The desire for carnal union rushed through her; she needed them to immortalize this moment of perfect spiritual communion. She came closer to Curwë and embraced him.

  Pressed close together, they could hear their hearts beating. She put her arms around him, kissing Curwë passionately. On her lips, she felt the strangest sensation that almost made her faint: as if she had felt the breath of a deity.

  A nightingale’s song rained down from the heights of the cedar tree. It started out faint, but then grew bolder, vibrant, joyful.

  Curwë lifted his head and closed his eyes. An intense joy, and infinite awe at the splendour of things, drowned his heart, which seemed suspended in time. It was the beginning of his life, the dawn of all his hopes. Curwë wanted to speak, or even sing to celebrate the sheer beauty of it all, but he could not utter a word. Only then, as he sensed the ephemeral nature of that exquisite moment, did he notice his eyes were full of tears.

  *

  Nyn Llyvary, Llafal, five days after the fleet’s departure

  The nave of Eïwal Vars’ temple teemed with many lively conversations. The white swan of clan Llyvary was spreading its wings above the monumental fireplace. Chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling, and the tables were adorned with large candelabra. The large vaulted hall was decorated with colourful tapestries. A crowd of more than two hundred Elves was packed around buffet tables, which were generously laden with fresh fish, smoked eels, sweet-smelling fruits and spicy oysters. Servants were carrying round wooden trays of delicate little appetisers. Young Elves circulated between the tables, refilling the partygoers’ glasses with their pots of cider and jugs of wine.

  Nyriele made her entrance into the deity of war’s temple. A simple, light, white dress wi
th shimmering coloured patterns moulded her slim body, from her bare shoulders to her ankles. Ignoring her admirers’ compliments and the wave of praise which accompanied her arrival, the young matriarch of clan Llyvary marched straight through the throng of jubilant Elves.

  A moment later, as if he had been waiting for her, the warlord of Tios Halabron appeared below the arches at the other end of the hall. His cloak, green as per clan Ernaly’s colours, was a dark stain among the bright party outfits of Llafal’s elite class.

  A feverish rumour was spreading throughout the temple, rippling through the crowd from the temple’s entrance to the besieged buffets, like a gust of wind among the quivering treetops. One name was on everybody’s lips:

  "Mynar dyl!"

  Amazed by such a warm reception, Nyriele tried to get lost in the crowd and make herself invisible. Curiosity had driven her to the temple of Eïwal Vars, but she now regretted following that impulse. The crowd’s excitement was making her uncomfortable.

  ‘I do not like the powerful charm that seems to be affecting the audience,’ she thought.

  The city had brimmed with news of Mynar dyl’s return since a swanship arrived at dawn. The wharf of Llafal had been packed by a crowd of Elves, eager to hear the warlord of Tios Halabron’s tale. Yet Mynar dyl had been discreet, and few had even seen him. Gossips now whispered that he was there, inside the temple of Eïwal Vars, and some felt sure he would address the selected audience within.