by C S Marks
“If it please you, my lord,” said Rogond. “We are at your service until the spring rains come, and we must then leave for the far southland.”
“Then let us hope for a peaceful winter,” said Hearndin. “May we count on you to aid us in defending the City should need arise?”
“As I said, we are at your service,” said Rogond. “We shall make every effort to earn our keep.”
“Say nothing of earning, for you are our guests. Should enemies threaten, we are pleased that you will stand beside us, but let’s hope it will not come to that. For now, return to your quarters and take rest. Tomorrow night we shall feast, sing, and tell tales. We look forward to our next meeting.”
The Company bowed and took their leave, but as they were escorted from the hall, Gaelen turned back for a moment to look once more into the eyes of the King. She wondered what task he had for the Elves to perform. Ah, well…he said we would find out later. She inclined her head respectfully, turned from him, and thought no more of it.
Rogond, Thorndil, and Fima slept better than they had since leaving the Greatwood. The Elves walked quietly through the empty streets, observed only by the sentinels who manned the tall watchtowers. The wind had risen a bit by midnight, and an early snow began to fall, settling briefly upon their woolen cloaks before their warmth turned it back into rain. Gaelen, who in general disliked tall walls blocking her view of the world, soon stood upon the battlements of the third level, turning her bright eyes homeward. She was taken with a sudden urge to call out to the Greatwood, and though her sweet song did not awaken anyone, those in hearing experienced dreams of tall trees and deep green glimmering forest light. All who were favored with that song were comforted; even the grim sentinels relaxed their vigilance, and felt safely at peace until the dawn.
On the following morning, Hearndin’s folk conducted Rogond and Fima to the Hall of Lore, a storehouse of the written knowledge of the realm of Tuathas with many levels and chambers. Here, also, was the Hall of Records, housing the annals of the citizens of Dûn Bennas. Fima, who was familiar with the organization of such documents, was most helpful.
He and Rogond were both saddened as they turned page after page of names, so many of which bore a red mark indicating death by the Plague. Rogond trembled as he read, for the first time, the name of his father, spouse of Rosalin, taking notice of the red mark beside his name. Diomar had fallen while still in the City.
The records listed four children of Diomar and Rosalin, three sons and a daughter. Hallagond, it seemed, was born to them in the year S.R. 7188. Then there were two who had died when only a few days old—a son, Aranor, born in 7194, and a daughter, Vana, born 7201. The youngest son was born less than four months before the Plague came to the City. Rogond’s eyes grew bright with unshed tears as he learned for the first time the name he was given at his birth; the word swam in his vision for a moment. Ah, Gaelen…you are indeed perceptive, he thought, as he beheld the neat, dark letters upon the parchment: Man-child, born 17 January 7216, given name Thaylon.
The wealth of knowledge held in Dûn Bennas was impressive, and to one such as Fima, it was irresistible. The dwarf was unusual in many ways, the two most noticeable being his appreciation for and tolerance of the Elves, and his insatiable desire to learn and know all things. He fully intended to spend all of his time in the labyrinth of chambers and passages known as the Halls of Lore and Learning, having his meals brought to him so that he would never need to leave it. When his presence was commanded elsewhere, he grumbled under his breath until he was allowed to return to whatever manuscript he had been reviewing. He confided to Rogond that he was envious of the Elves’ ability to forego sleep, for he would waste no time with his eyes closed.
Gaelen laughed when Rogond told her of this, for she loved Fima, though she could not truly understand his obsession with the written word. Gaelen and Nelwyn could read, and enjoyed doing so as opportunity arose, yet they could not imagine preferring constant study indoors to wandering under the sun, or beneath a veil of starlight. They had learned much of what they knew directly from the mouths of wiser and more learned Elves of the Greatwood, for it was their custom to impart knowledge directly from one generation to the next. The study of scrolls and parchments was left to scholars such as Fima, and the lore-masters of Dûn Bennas.
Chief among these was a man named Astor, who was of great age, with a white beard as long as Fima’s and deep-set, coal black eyes. He stood tall and strong among his folk, and was greatly respected. He intimidated the lesser lore-masters, gliding silently about in long robes of a dark indigo. He wore no ornament save for a silver seven-rayed star bound to his brow, the mark of his position.
He and Fima barely tolerated one another at first, for Fima was accustomed to having free rein of the libraries of Mountain-home, and Astor was not in the habit of allowing visiting dwarves to take such liberties with his precious parchments. Fima shrugged off Astor’s disapproving glares with nary a second thought—Astor needed to develop a sense of humor, and to accept the fact of Fima’s presence, for the right had been granted to him by the King. Once Astor witnessed the care and reverence with which Fima treated the manuscripts, his opinion changed. They were kindred spirits, after all. As Fima was unique among dwarves, Astor was rare among men.
He reminded Gaelen of a large, upright vulture, with a thin blade of a nose that, while noble and handsome, resembled a beak in her opinion. His eyes bore down without mercy on anyone who, in his estimation, lacked the proper respect for his hallowed domain. Yet Gaelen could see the humor behind them. She, of course, drew his scrutiny immediately as she roamed through the halls searching for Fima, for she was of light and cheerful temperament despite the bitterness of the weather.
The snows had come down from the mountains, and Dûn Bennas was now veiled in white. Gaelen the hunter-scout had taken a practical view of snow in the past; it made tracking at once easier and more difficult, and it made small quarry that were still clad in brown or grey coats easier to see. It dulled the sound of approaching enemies, and made it difficult to see for long distances when it fell heavily. Gaelen the Elf thought it beautiful, loving the feel of the soft, cold caress of the flakes on her upturned face.
She suffered less from the cold than did the people of the City. They would often wonder at her strong, graceful form standing motionless upon some tall battlement in early morning, the wind whipping her hair back from her face, her eyes trained on some distant sight, as a statue of marble impervious to the biting cold and whirling snow. She seemed at such times to give off a sort of inner light, and those of mortal race who beheld her were at once comforted and disquieted, for an ancient power lay within her. Then she would shake the snow from her hair, and draw her cloak about her, and the moment was broken. She was only a Wood-elf, after all.
Said Wood-elf had just availed herself of breakfast, including a rather large portion of toast with honey, and she was in quite a light-hearted demeanor. She moved quickly through the dim, silent halls, her bright eyes reflecting the glow of candles and sconces along the walls, searching for her friend Fima. She found him at a study-table with his head on a great, open volume, snoring softly, candle melted down to the brass holder.
Contrary to his belief, she did not wish to startle him, and she prodded him gently. This did nothing to rouse him, so she tried harder, calling into his ear. He stirred, but his snoring only grew louder, and Gaelen grew impatient. Now was the time for major measures. She drew forth a crockery bowl covered with a cloth, and held it before Fima’s bearded face. Removing the cloth, she revealed several plump, brown sausages on a bed of mashed, buttered turnips, which Fima relished. A nice chunk of hard-crusted bread added its aroma to that of the wonderful sausages, and Gaelen knew that Fima would not long sleep through such promise of pleasure.
He stopped snoring, his nose twitching ever so slightly before drawing in a long, deep breath. One bright blue eye opened, and he smiled at the sight of Gaelen, who then drew his breakfas
t away from under his nose. “A fine awakening,” he said, raising his head from the table and yawning. “I’ll be having that sausage, if you don’t mind.”
“Naturally,” she replied, placing it before him and moving to the nearby window, where she settled contentedly. Fima truly loved a good meal, and he dove into his breakfast with enthusiasm. Gaelen looked out of the leaded-glass window onto the wide courtyard below, where the snow drifted ever deeper, sitting upon the ledge with her feet drawn up before her. Her attention was drawn back to Fima when he suddenly stopped eating, and she looked around to see what had diverted him.
Astor had approached in silence, and now stood beside the table where the dwarf was sitting, looking with some disapproval on the remains of his meal. Fima had moved every parchment out of harm’s way, yet there were a few crumbs on the table, and his fingers were oily from the sausages. The dwarf shrugged, brushing the crumbs back into his now-empty bowl, wiping his hands on the cloth that had covered it. Astor then turned his piercing gaze to Gaelen, staring rather pointedly at her feet, which were drawn up before her on the window-ledge. She bowed her head in acknowledgment, and courteously placed them back on the floor.
Astor then sat down opposite Fima, and they began to discuss some matter of debate that had no doubt begun long before, as Gaelen regarded them curiously. She thought it somewhat rude that neither had deigned to involve her in the conversation; perhaps they thought such matters were too weighty for her comprehension.
Well, that might be true, thought Gaelen, who considered herself unlearned, but at least they could acknowledge my existence before dismissing me. She trained her attention to their discussion, and after a time she managed to catch the gist of it, or so she thought. In fact, she was drawn in before she realized it, and when Fima and Astor had reached an impasse on a point of disagreement, she suddenly spoke up without really meaning to, offering her own viewpoint.
They turned to her as though only just aware of her presence, surprise on their faces. Astor spoke first to her. “I was not aware that you were learned in such matters, Gaelen Taldin,” he said, “or I would not have excluded you from our debate. Come, then, and join us if you would.” Fima winced, for Gaelen was not learned in the matter of their debate, and she would no doubt resent having to admit it. But she simply cocked her head to one side and regarded Astor with a raised eyebrow.
“If being learned is necessary to join the debate, then I shall forego it,” she said. “I should not have forgotten my place before such scholars as yourselves. It just seemed to me that, if the Asari had wanted to involve themselves more directly in the affairs of men, they would have traveled more widely, and not relied upon others to spread their teachings for them.” Here, she paused and looked away as though chagrined. “Of course, had Shandor not left Monadh-talam, all would have…been lost…” Her voice trailed away as she realized that this discussion was quite over her head.
“How know you of such things? Have you read the accounting of the First Reckoning?” Astor’s face was stern, but his voice was kindly. He rose and moved to a tall shelf, reaching up to take a large, heavy volume bound in worn, scarlet leather. He invited Gaelen to sit beside him, and placed the volume before her, opening it to a beautiful engraving showing the artist’s depiction of the twelve Asari as they might have appeared when first they were sent to Alterra.
“You can read?” asked Astor, for it was not so with all the citizens of Dûn Bennas. Gaelen nodded; she was not offended by the question, and looked upon the book with wonder. “Then I will leave you to enjoy this wonderful way of passing time, Gaelen of Greatwood. You will be certain to let me know if any of this accounting does not agree with what you have been told, won’t you?”
Gaelen nodded, turning the page carefully to reveal yet another beautiful engraving. She then began to read the words, falling into a deep realm of learning and mind-pictures. The story was timeless, the words poetry, and they captured her utterly. The tales and recordings of Elves and men were laid before her, and, though she would never pursue them with such fervor as Astor and Fima, she would always remember her sojourns and explorations in the Halls of Learning.
King Hearndin summoned Rogond and the Elves on the following afternoon. “It seems you have all settled in nicely,” he said. “Now I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you—and it may well turn out to be a difficult one to grant. My people will conduct you.” With very little explanation, they were taken deep into the Healing Halls to a quiet chamber. The attendants unlocked the door, shaking their heads. “We need your aid,” they said. “Our scouts found her and brought her here…she has been here a long time. We have not been able to reach her. She has spoken no word, and has never allowed any but the most minimal care. She is wasting away…we have no doubt that she’ll die unless someone can draw her out. Please, if you will, try to aid her.”
To the astonishment of the Company, they beheld a strange She-elf cowering on her bed inside the chamber. Her blue eyes held no light, yet they were bright with the terror that comes of madness. Her hair, a dark, warm brown, was matted and tangled. She had been in Dûn Bennas for over a year, and in that time had spoken not a word.
The scouts of Dûn Bennas had found her wandering in late autumn, shivering and senseless. They knew her to be at least partly Elven, for her features were Elven, yet they had not seen one of immortal race so beleaguered, and her trials showed upon her face and body. She had aged, as Elves will appear to do only when they endure tribulation so great that their very spirit is diminished. Though that spirit may be recovered with time and healing, the mark left behind fades but slowly, and she would never again appear as she had before her time of trial.
The hearts of the scouts went out to her, and though they dreaded whatever seed had been planted in her, they could not leave her to her fate. They brought her back to the City, where the people tended her with difficulty. She would not eat, and was terrified in the dark, but quailed and wept at the sight of open fires such as those used for heat and light during the winter months. She cowered in a corner of her chamber as the healers tried to comfort her, noting the myriad of scars upon her body with dismay.
The Company now gazed upon her with a mixture of pity and horror. “Who has done this to her, Galador?” whispered Nelwyn, who had never before seen an Elf so degraded.
A tiny spark flickered in the She-elf’s eyes. She turned slowly toward Galador, making a small, strangled sound in her throat as though trying to speak.
Nelwyn took a step back. “Galador…”
The mad She-elf struggled to her feet, to the astonishment of everyone in the room. She took a few tottering steps toward Galador, her arms outstretched, tears of pain mixed with relief standing in her eyes. The strength went out of her legs, and Galador caught her as she sank to the floor, whereupon she wrapped both arms around his neck, clinging to him as though she were drowning and he could pull her from the waters of terror and despair. “Can it be that you have come for me? I have forgotten my name, but I remember yours, my beloved. Can it be that you have come? Take me home, oh, please, please take me home.”
“What is your name? Where is your home?” Galador asked her, but she would only weep and cling to him. At last she stopped weeping, seeming exhausted. Galador gently freed himself from her embrace. “Help me get her back to her bed,” he asked Gaelen and Nelwyn, who stepped up to assist him, whereupon the mad Elf lashed out at both of them with surprising strength, knocking Nelwyn to the floor and cutting Gaelen’s cheek with one of her long nails.
“Keep away from me,” she spat at them. “You will not take me from Galdor. None of you shall lock me away from him. Keep away!”
Despite her obvious weakness, she looked quite capable of defending herself, and they backed away. Galador did not know what to do, and he said to her, “Come, come, do not lash out at these good Elves, who only wish to aid you. They are my friends and companions, and will do you no harm.”
The feral Elf’s eyes narrowed
as she looked over at Nelwyn, who had regained her feet and was now staring wide-eyed at her cousin Gaelen, slowly shaking her head. Gaelen’s cheek was bleeding, and her bright eyes glittered.
“This one is fey, and no mistaking it. She has obviously taken you for one of her own folk. See if you can calm her, and then perhaps she will have peace for a while. It seems only you will be able to approach her safely.”
The mad Elf had gone back into her shell, sitting on her bed, arms wrapped about herself, rocking slowly back and forth. “Take me home, Galdor, please take me home,” she muttered, over and over, in the voice of a small child. Her haunted blue eyes filled with tears that spilled down her pale, scarred face, as Galador sat beside her and gently wiped them away. She leaned against his side, still rocking. Galador looked helplessly up at Rogond, who had stood aghast through the entire confrontation.
When next he stood before the King, Rogond told of the encounter. Hearndin shook his head. “It is as we suspected—the She-elf will find healing only among her own people. It would seem that Galador is the only person who can comfort her, at least for now. If she has not come to herself by the time the spring rains fall, it may be that you will need to take her with you. Her survival in Dûn Bennas is unlikely. I would beg you—do not make us responsible for her death.”
Rogond’s heart was in conflict. One should not refuse such a heartfelt, well-meaning request of the King, particularly when one is standing before him, yet can we give this mad Elf the aid and comfort she requires? “Let’s see how things progress, my lord,” he said. “The decision must rest with Galador, for he will bear the greatest responsibility, and the greatest burden.” He bowed and took his leave, his friends in tow, wondering whether they would end up being saddled with this strange, sad little soul, and what her fate would be.
