The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  ‘My chosen lady seem elevated above all the others. Each of her gestures becomes a favour granted. Every word she speaks becomes a blessing,’ he whispered, thinking about Nyriele.

  Breathing heavy with the passion he felt, Curwë now realized how devastatingly powerful that encounter had been. He knew that his life had changed its course forever. Nyriele must have known how she had made him feel. He heard it in her voice, he saw it in her movements, it was written across her face! Curwë wavered where he stood, then staggered around, before he fell forwards, groping his way through the darkness, letting his imagination soar. A powerful and uncontrollable flow of absolute love surged through his veins and flooded his heart. The gentle shock of that exceptional emotion had knocked him to the ground. Curwë smiled, fully enjoying the magic of the moment. Looking at the beauty of his surroundings, he suddenly felt inspired. He raised his voice up into the night.

  “I breathe, I live, on the steps to your door,

  I breathe, I live, more than ever before.”

  Suddenly, flying insects were swarming around him, interrupting the song he had composed for Nyriele. But these creatures were not moths, as might be expected at that late hour, but many-coloured butterflies, visiting him on his lonely watch as they had done since he came to Nyn Ernaly. That night, there were a great many of them; hundreds, far more than before. Curwë watched their beautiful ballet; intrigued to notice that white was the dominant colour among the butterflies. Then he had the strange feeling that their slow dance had a purpose; he gradually distinguished the outline of some design within the swarm. Before he knew it, the beautiful body of an Elvin maiden appeared in front him, floating gently above the ground, her delicate movements full of grace. Curwë was blinded by the glory of the maid; he fell, but the beautiful ghost of butterflies caught him before he hit the ground. She placed her divine mouth on his, eating him up with the intense light in her eyes.

  *

  Sometime later, Curwë slowly regained consciousness. The butterflies were gone. The divine vision had disappeared with them. But, to his astonishment, he was not alone. It was Aewöl who stood in front him, an unforgiving gaze expressing his annoyance.

  “The first shift was your responsibility,” spat the one-eyed Elf. “Your meanderings could have cost us our lives! We must not rest until we escape this evil island. It’s your fault we’re here in the first place, Curwë. I need not remind you that you brought us here. What’s happening with you? You’re not the same anymore.”

  “And so what?” Curwë replied harshly.

  He had raised his voice; the sleeping Roquendagor stirred slightly, turning his head in their direction. But soon, all was quiet once more, and the tall knight resumed his restorative reverie.

  “I sent Gelros off to check all is safe” informed Aewöl, anxious to establish again a friendlier dialog with his companion. “You can speak to me. What’s made you change since we left Llafal? What’s troubling your mind?”

  Aewöl’s only eye was sharp, his gaze deep and piercing. He was trying to determine what was hiding Curwë. The bard knew that, sooner or later, whether he liked it or not, Aewöl would draw the truth from his veins. Suddenly, like a river bursting its banks, he decided to let the emotion that filled him spill out.

  “I have feelings for the young matriarch”, confided Curwë.

  “What does that mean?” asked Aewöl, now intrigued.

  Curwë went on, like he was talking to himself rather than answering the one-eyed Elf’s question.

  “In that moment with her on the temple steps of Llafal… it was like I lived an entire life… like it lasted an eternity. It was a moment of utter perfection. The Green Elves have written songs about this phenomenon. They say that, on very rare occasions during an Elf’s lifetime, the sister Deities can make time itself stop, swell and stretch... I remember verses a bard from Llafal recited aloud in the Halls of Essawylor. The poet was describing a special favour that Eïwele Llyi could grant her followers, if she truly wished to reward them. The Deity of Love would visit her sister, Eïwele Llyo, in her underground hall and beg her to stop time, so that the blessed lovers she had chosen could enjoy a moment of infinite happiness that would remain forever in their memory. I think this is what I experienced that night with Nyriele.”

  “Everything you’re saying leads me to believe that you have ‘fallen under the spell of Eïwele Llyi,’ as the Green Elves would put it… Curwë, my unfortunate friend, you must immediately extinguish this flame that consumes you, while you still can.”

  “You’re right. A ravaging fire is burning in my heart. I fought it with all my strength, but my will cannot triumph. A higher power is rendering my efforts futile. I would not be surprised if I have become the victim of what poets call ‘Hamel’… How is it that, since that night in Llafal under the stars, all I have cared about is her fate? I had met her many times before without coming to any harm. But my life changed dramatically after that magical instant in Temples Square.”

  “You must put an end to this dream,” insisted Aewöl, now with all the persuasion he could muster. “Friendship might be possible... maybe... but love... it cannot be. High Elves are blessed with the gift of immortality; Green Elves are simple beings doomed to die. I believe that what the Gods made different cannot become alike. Your destiny is to dwell with us until the end, whereas Nyriele will one day leave us. Even nobles among the Green Elves, despite their divine blood, must die. So think better of it. Forget this love.”

  Curwë grew heavy at these words. He reacted passionately, for his mind was tainted with the poison of absolute love; the venom of that all-pervasive feeling was subtle, yet strong.

  “What is an eternal life of nothingness compared to a mortal life full of passion? I would rather die six times than renounce my dreams. If it had been possible, I would have already eradicated this folly. I would have cured myself of this madness. But an overwhelming upheaval is besieging my heart, my very soul. I can feel it, and, in the depths of my being, I want it. It’s an uncontrollable passion that’s driven me to this impasse.”

  “But why would you want to love a stranger, who does not belong to our world, the descendant of a queen no less? Her family at the very least despise us. Most Green Elves hate what the High Elves represent. Your own kin may well find you a lady worthy of your love. The fate of this young matriarch is not yours to bear.”

  “But I want this great love to live! I want to make this blessing from the sky last! What crime have I committed? These are noble sentiments; who would dare tell me otherwise? I cannot help it. I have fallen deeply in love with her fragile beauty, her youth, her noble origins, her brave heart and the purity of her soul!”

  “There is no such thing as a ‘pure soul,’ Curwë! You are talking nonsense! The one thing we can be sure of is that this everlasting bond you dream about will end as quickly as it began. Nyriele’s supposed passion for you will wane over time; she will soon turn her eyes to someone else.”

  “Never! She might as well throw herself into a river to find cover from the rain,” cried Curwë, his gaze consumed by violent passion.

  “These are the ways of the Green Elves,” insisted Aewöl, “above all their most powerful matriarchs. You must have heard, as I have, that their high priestesses select their consorts according to their mood. Some even choose their partners as part of their strategy. I’ve heard common gossip that Nyriele herself was born from an arranged union without love, when two clans wanted an heir with a rare bloodline.”

  “I’ve had enough of your deceitful advice. My fate has not been set by any power, and it will never be. I will be whoever I wish to be. Hear me, Aewöl! Curwë follows his own path. Curwë chooses his destiny. Nyriele’s kindness towards me is living proof that Eïwele Llyi has blessed my coming to these Islands. She is the incarnation of tenderness. Nothing can compare to her smile. One day, I will offer her my silver ring… then we will see how she responds.”

  “Beware, Curwë! You’ve talked in
such extreme terms since we started this conversation. Your obsession is turning into a sickness of the mind. I can well believe you’ve been bewitched by her power. I read all the myths about her. Eïwele Llyi might well be the divinity of arts and beauty, but she’s also the great spirit of lust. Those who operate by seducing others will often resort to all artifices in order to gain an advantage. My view is that Eïwele Llyi’s influence, like the powers wielded by her high priestess, encompasses all these attributes: seduction but also lies; charm but also vanity; love but then the inevitable jealousy that follows. The irrational passion she ignites within minds also gives way to deceit. Though you might not think it, love and strife go hand in hand.”

  Listening to these words, anger was growing within Curwë’s mind. He now regretted confiding in his companion. Aewöl embodied the figure of the councillor, which was so different from that of the priest. He did not draw his authority from any secrets that the Gods had divulged to him, but rather from truths which he had come to himself having considered and tested them. Aewöl made his points without the support of occult mysteries; rather, his arguments were based on rational, verifiable reasoning. He would never oppose someone head-on. Rather, he would reinterpret and repurpose the beliefs of others to his own advantage. He knew the art of reusing the words of those he was persuading, to divert their meaning and offer new perspectives.

  Aewöl looked into Curwë’s eyes and immediately knew that he had gone too far in his opposition, and that any further attempts would prove counterproductive. The two Elves sat silent for a while. Finally, Aewöl offered to take the watch, which the exhausted bard gratefully accepted. Soon after, Curwë had plunged back into a profound sleep, his mind’s eye filled with the image of beautiful Nyriele.

  *

  The next day, as a red strip of sun emerged over the mountains, they searched everywhere for any sign of the clan Ernaly unit’s trail. But all was still, quiet and insubstantial. Colour was gradually returning to the waking woodland. To the west, the meadows of Nyn Ernaly, from where they stood all the way down to the sea, were shimmering with green. To the east, the unlit peaks of Moka Kirini stood blue and purple. The highest mountains at the heart of the Arob Chanun, however, already flushed with the orange of morning. After searching for some hours, Gelros finally admitted,

  “Finding this trail is beyond my capabilities.”

  “Let us continue northwest and find shelter somewhere on the edge of the forest of Mentolewin’s border. We can then head to the wild beaches of Nyn Ernaly’s northern coast. Perhaps we will see the fleet of Llymar,” proposed Aewöl, looking in the direction they must take.

  The ridge on which they stood descended steeply downwards in a rugged slope before it ended in a dangerous cliff. This was where the Chanun Mountains ended. Half a dozen leagues away, the green forest of Mentolewin stretched away beyond the edge of sight. All afternoon, the four Elves hardly stopped moving. At times running, at times marching, they followed an invisible track which led straight on, northwest towards the forest. They were constantly vigilant for any sign of beast or Man. Dwellings of barbarian tribes were close by, on the western coast of Nyn Ernaly, and those herdsmen were known to keep flocks in that region. But no movement could be seen in this, the easternmost part of the barbarians’ dominion. The land was surprisingly empty. The calm that reigned was not the quiet calm of serenity.

  “The barbarians have deserted their meadows and gathered their herds, all along the coastland, as if they feared a large-scale invasion,” said Curwë.

  “Druids are chiefs of those tribes,” advised Aewöl. “They are wise in the ways of the Mother of the Island. They can foresee such threats.”

  A couple of hours after noon, Gelros suddenly stopped. At his feet, the ground, though still uneven, had become soft, like an unpaved road.

  “This must be the old gravel track of the High Elves,” the scout said, “which led from the city that was once Mentobraglin to the great fortress of Mentolewin. The path is barely ten feet wide. But see how it snakes through the thickets of ferns.”

  The ever-encroaching army of brambles and nettles, which would normally have made the path almost invisible, had been pushed back and trampled. The full width of the track, it seemed, had been recently reclaimed by a large group passing through. Soil had been turned up and stones dislodged by a great many feet and hooves. The wheels of heavy carriages had left their own distinctive marks. From where they were standing, they could see the trail continuing northeast towards the dry foothills of the Arob Chanun. Gelros kneeled and examined the tracks with great care.

  “Nellos troops from Tar Andevar travelled this path not long ago… I estimate they would have been here just yesterday. The army is large: several hundred strong at least, with cavalry and well-armed infantry. They are carrying significant supplies with them, for their chariots are heavily loaded. They were progressing slowly. If they kept going at this same pace, they will probably still be very close.”

  “Then we have no choice,” said Aewöl. “We must hurry to the borders of Mentolewin forest and seek cover.”

  Curwë challenged this conclusion, his emerald eyes flashing.

  “What if this army is heading towards the units of Llymar? You believe we should move in the opposite direction?”

  “I would rather not see that happen. Come, Curwë, in the forest we will have an impassable barrier protecting us. It will give us time to find the information we need. We must first understand the strange events occurring in this land,” warned the one-eyed Elf.

  Roquendagor gave Curwë a cold glance. “Aewöl is right. The course he suggests is wise. We head to the forest.”

  His feet were firmly planted on the ground and his hands gripped the hilt of his fearsome two-handed sword: clear signs that his decision had been made. The four Elves set off immediately. They progressed quickly, but stayed stooped low, cautious to remain unseen in the wilderness. They marched without rest for several more hours. Gelros ran ahead, grim and cautious. Aewöl followed; the one-eyed Elf looked weary, perhaps more in heart than body. Curwë, however, showed no signs of fatigue. His pace was light and fast. It looked as if the bard were drawing his energy from a continuous, exquisite daydream, his mind brimming happily with eroticism and beauty. Roquendagor marched at the rear, as tireless and unshakable as stone. The long journey seemed to affect neither his strength nor his will. The sun was sinking when they finally reached the first trees of Mentolewin forest.

  *

  The next day, the four Elves were marching north along the tree-clad borders of the forest. They saw no sign of fresh trails, within the woods or in the great spaces of Nyn Ernaly’s northern plain. The weather was overcast, with low clouds shrouding the sun. At last, they decided to halt in an open glade, just within the edge of the forest. They made their camp beneath a maritime pine. The tree looked isolated in that large forest of chestnuts but, looking at it, the four Elves knew they were not far from the sea, which now lay barely a few leagues to the west. It somehow reminded them of their own situation.

  The four companions stood below the isolated pine, feeling troubled by all their ill fortune since setting foot on Nyn Ernaly. Many leagues separated them from the fleet of Llymar, their only hope of returning to their home. They could still find no trace of the clan Ernaly’s expedition, their only potential ally in this wild and dangerous part of the island.

  Another night passed. Curwë, once again, took the first shift on night-watch. When Aewöl later got up to replace him, the two close friends exchanged only a few words. Gelros took the watch next, before Roquendagor stood on duty until dawn. Like he did every night during those rare few hours of tranquillity, the tall knight performed the ritual of shaving his head. The three others awoke to find a hot sun shining beyond the Chanun Mountains. A morning wind had swept away the last shreds of clouds, which were now retreating towards the south. Curwë, seeing that his companions’ moods had turned gloomy, decided to try to cheer them up.


  “Crossing the wood of Silver Leaves has proven beneficial in some ways. Several nights have now passed without our mysterious Elvin spy showing so much as a shadow again.”

  Failing to notice the irony in Curwë’s words, Roquendagor spat back a reply harshly.

  “We need to stay vigilant if we are to see more of that scout while our voyage lasts.”

  The first part of the day was dedicated to working on their weaponry. Gelros knew the art of making arrows and bolts, and Aewöl always carried with him a spare supply of arrow heads made with the best alloy. Leaving their other companions to speculation and conjecture, the two Elves focussed on the making a fresh stock of projectiles. Their work was efficient, and, after a couple of hours, their quivers were loaded with a new supply of expertly made arrows. Then, Curwë unexpectedly interrupted their careful work.

  “Look at that high mountain, I think it’s Eïwal Vars Lepsy!” he cried, pointing up into the pale eastern sky. “I mean the peak that looks like the finger of a God pointing to the heavens. Birds of prey are flocking in huge numbers above it. They are very high in the sky, moving with great speed from the north towards the Chanun Mountains.”

  “The last time I saw such impressive gathering was the day before the battle of Mentollà,” remembered Aewöl.

  “Yes. Hawks protected the army of Llymar’s approach before it charged and broke the siege of the tower. I wonder what their errand is this time,” said Roquendagor.