A few days later, Eldárien walks through the fields surrounding the city of Ristfánd, immersed in thought. Scattered homesteads dot the landscape, simple houses of wood or stone with thatched roofs, and here or there a larger estate, smoke spiraling into the clear sky from many a hearth. There are numerous livestock fenced or stabled: horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and chickens. The crop-fields are fewer, and even these lie fallow, the spring harvest having already passed and the early fall planting yet to come. Eldárien is concerned for these people, these innocent people who, when the Empire draws near, will have no protection against blade and fire except the walls of their houses and the tools of their trade. He understands that they have been informed of the coming danger and know to take refuge within the walls of the city when the enemy approaches. He only hopes that they have adequate time to do this and that the enemy does not come in the dark of night while all but the city guards slumber. But there is yet hope that the people shall know long in advance of the Empire's approach, for scouts have been sent westward and northward in fair number, in the hopes of intercepting either the force marching toward Ristfánd or news of their coming.
As he reflects upon these things, however, Eldárien's mind is drawn inexorably toward the events that have followed upon his coming to Ristfánd: his encounter with Cirien, Elmáriyë, and Tilliána, the fire and subsequent "bearing," and Rórlain's concern and preoccupation with the affairs of the hæras and their estrangement due to this. He feels torn in so many directions and by so many different feelings. A tenderness he has rarely known stirs within his heart when he thinks of Elmáriyë and Tilliána, and he wishes to protect each of them always to the utmost of his ability, whatever may come. But regarding Rórlain, he feels great grief and frustration of heart, not so much with Rórlain himself and what seems to be his unnecessary concerns and interest in the leadership of Ristfánd, but even more so with himself. His friend's words weigh heavy upon his heart, and they touch fears that he has carried within himself for a long time. It is true that in the moment that he was faced with the choice to save Tilliána's life—as earlier with rescuing as many from the fire as he was able—he did not hesitate. When standing face to face with pain, suffering, and loss, he did not think, did not reflect, but followed the spontaneous and deep impulse of his heart: to give everything that he had within him, everything in his power, and even his very self, to save those who needed to be saved.
But now he wonders at himself and begins to doubt. Is not Rórlain perhaps right in his accusation? Who is Eldárien, after all, to imagine that he can bear the pain of others and somehow mediate freedom to them? But no...that is not the question. It is obvious that he has done so and that, if necessary, he could do so again, though in his weakened state it may cost him his life. He does not doubt the gift, so evident is it and so strongly impressed now upon his consciousness that he feels like a new man. Rather, he doubts himself and his fittingness to accept what has so evidently been entrusted to him. For to bear the suffering of others, to mediate life to those afflicted by pain and death, requires a heart that is pure and transparent, like a pane of glass clear of all filth and obstruction which allows the light to shine freely through. And this he cannot believe that he is. The blood has stained his hands so deeply that he fears it shall never be washed clean. And even now his heart is frail and blind, weak and wavering. The way that he failed to meet Rórlain in his time of need is proof of that. How can he claim to be worthy of this gift, to live it truly, when he cannot even listen to a friend with true presence and offer him counsel that illumines the matters that so obviously concern him?
With these things occupying his mind and heart, Eldárien makes his way back into the city and walks as far as the courtyard of the temple when he sees Cirien coming down the steps.
"Ah, Eldárien," the grandmaster says, "it is good to see you moving about. I assume you are back to normal?"
"As normal as I can be, I think," he replies. "But I don't know if I will ever be the way that I was before. The weakness has all but passed, though somewhere deep in my heart and my flesh it lingers. Yet I feel much of my old strength returning, and, if the need arises, I feel capable of wielding the sword once again."
Their eyes lock for a moment, and Cirien nods knowingly.
"I pray only that I may wield it in service of truth and good, no matter what pressure comes upon me to wield it otherwise," Eldárien adds softly.
"Do you fear that you shall go back on your resolve?" asks Cirien.
"I fear many things. I know my weakness and frailty—and I speak not of body but of spirit, of mind and will—and cannot trust in myself. And now, I..." his voice falters, as he tries to express something until now unspoken.
"Shall we find a place to sit down and speak, Eldárien?" Cirien asks.
"Oh, I have begun to share with you without asking whether you have the time!" cries Eldárien. "Surely you are going somewhere, are you not? That is why you are walking?"
"Actually, no. I only stepped outside for some fresh air, and sometimes I prefer the courtyard out here to the courtyard within the cloister. It allows me to see the townspeople as they pass."
"Then we could walk together, if you wish," says Eldárien. "I am happy to either sit or walk, as you please."
Cirien strokes his beard absentmindedly for a moment as he considers this and then replies, "No, let us sit. Often times conversation is better sitting, facing one another, than walking side by side. There are less distractions that way, and it allows one to see the many ways that the other speaks without using words."
"Very well," Eldárien answers.
The two men find a bench nearby in the courtyard, under the shade of a large aspen tree, and sit upon it, turning to face one another. Then Cirien says, "Please continue in what you wish to tell me."
"I do not know if I have words for it yet," Eldárien begins. "But I shall try. I was saying that I cannot trust myself, that I doubt my capacity not only to walk in integrity the path marked out before me, but also to avoid the fear and compromise that before led me to hurt others. I also simply fear my limitations, my mistakes, for I have experienced firsthand how oversights on my part, my blind spots, have caused others pain, even death. That is a burden that I wish not to carry. But it seems as if I am being drawn uncontrollably back into a position similar to the one I left—a position in which human life is in my hands."
"It is indeed a great burden to carry the lives of others in one's hands, all the greater the more people there are and the more precious these persons are to you," Cirien responds in a quiet voice. "But in truth, it is not you who hold power over life and death. It is not in your hands that lies the fate of each man, each woman. You are but a custodian, and even your custodianship only expresses itself according to certain limits. It is but a spark in the firmament of a million stars; it is but a line in the palm of the One who holds all life, theirs, mine, and your own, in his hands."
"But what about my mistakes, my failures, that lead to harm for others?" Eldárien asks.
"Perhaps if the full picture were known, Eldárien, you would see that even these things work for ultimate good for all persons. You are not the one writing the story, and it is not up to you to ensure its happy conclusion. Your very limitations—as you call them—are given to you by another; they are part of your nature, essential to who you are. To try to surpass these limitations, to be more than what you are, either through pride or through fearful control, will only cause you great pain and anguish of heart."
After he has finished speaking, Cirien looks deeply and tenderly at Eldárien, and the latter returns his gaze for a long moment of pregnant silence. At last Eldárien says, "It is hard. It is very hard..."
"Indeed it is," Cirien replies, "for the world is not what it once was. It has been marred by a great evil and is now plagued by forces of darkness. You have a right to grieve, to lament, and even to question. This is not only acceptable. It is necessary. But I implore you not to lose faith."
"I do have faith," Eldárien whispers, "though it is even more difficult now, when I feel my frailty so deeply. Indeed, I feel so much smaller now than I used to, so much littler. It is hard to explain, but it is as if, when I bore the pain of Tilliána and Elmáriyë, I also found the very foundations of my being dilated and expanded to the breadth and depth of human misery and pain. It is like standing before an abyss of evil that threatens to engulf me. Or indeed like standing in its very midst."
"And that is where you have been placed, my dear friend," Cirien says. "But this abyss of evil can only be overcome by an abyss of good. Solely by tapping into this latter and deeper abyss, by letting it live in you, can you hope to withstand the assault of darkness and even to stand victorious over it, for the good of all."
† † †
A cold rain blows in that evening and, pouring from heavy gray clouds hanging low in the sky, drenches the city and causes the streets to run with water. Eldárien is sitting in the inner courtyard when the clouds loose the burden that they carry, and he runs inside to avoid getting soaked himself. As he enters the corridor, he runs into Elmáriyë—literally—and knocks her off her feet. Only just in time does he extend his hand and catch her, exclaiming, "I'm so sorry!"
"No, no, it is quite alright," she replies, laughter in her voice. "We were both running, I think. But I should know better."
"And I shouldn't?" asks Eldárien.
"That's not what I meant," Elmáriyë says, and, seeing the smile on his face, she adds, "Stop teasing me!"
"Teasing you? How could I? We have only just met."
"You know as well as I that we are far past that stage by now."
"It is...unusual...isn't it?" Eldárien says, his tone now becoming serious, though no less playful for that reason.
"That's not the word I would have chosen, but yes," she agrees. "I think we should..." Her voice fades.
"What is it?"
"Well, I was wondering if we could speak again. I have some things that I would like to discuss with you...to 'catch up' in words where the heart has gone before, as it were. I hope you understand what I mean."
"Perfectly."
"Then?"
"Just say the word."
"Is this evening a good time for you?" Elmáriyë asks. "I will be out in the city most of the day tomorrow, so that won't be possible for me. Or we could speak another evening, perhaps."
"It seems that I am the only person who is not occupied during the days," Eldárien says quietly, "and that too feels unusual. Though I suppose that will change in a short amount of time, and then I will miss this time of leisure and recuperation and feel that it departed too soon."
"Sometimes the hardest work is to do nothing at all," Elmáriyë comments. "That is what Cirien once told me. For nothing is never just nothing. Waiting, learning, listening, receiving, abiding...often I think that such things are really the deepest activities of the human person."
"Indeed," Eldárien replies. "I came to discover that deeply, albeit with great pain, in the forests of Tel-Velfána."
"In Tel-Velfána?" Elmáriyë asks.
"Ah, yes..." Eldárien sighs, realizing now just how deeply the heart has gone ahead of words. "I suppose you should learn all of those things as well."
"We do indeed have a great deal to speak about."
"Then let us begin tonight."
"Dinner begins shortly, but perhaps immediately afterwards?" Elmáriyë suggests.
After dinner has concluded, Eldárien and Elmáriyë return to the courtyard and sit under the eave of the roof, watching the rain pour from the sky, run off the roof, and flow past them down the stone gutters built into the courtyard to prevent it from flooding. The rain has lessened somewhat, and the noise now is but a calm rhythm of pitter-patters against wood and stone and the splashing of water as it trickles into the puddles that persist in the dips and crevices of the earth.
Elmáriyë draws in a deep breath, as if to gather up something deep within her before trying to express it in speech, and Eldárien waits for her to begin. But she exhales without saying anything, and it is then that he senses—under the obvious comfort that she has come to feel in his presence—a certain anxiety or hesitation. He thinks that perhaps it is fear. But fear of what? Of speaking the word of the heart only to have it misunderstood or ignored? Or a fear of something else?
"Eldárien," she begins softly.
He remains silent, waiting.
"My entire life," she says, beginning at last, "I have been alone. I do not mean, however, a negative form of aloneness, such as that born of loneliness or loss. It is difficult to explain in words. I simply mean that I have lived in a place of aloneness, of solitude. It is like there is a secret chamber deep within the recesses of my own heart where none dwell nor are granted access but myself alone. But only upon coming here to Ristfánd and living at the temple have I discovered fully what lives within this inner chamber, even if before there were intuitions, and that 'knowledge beyond words' that lives in all of us from the beginning. It is here at the temple that I came to name what my heart has always known: that this chamber of the heart is not empty, but is occupied, and not by myself alone. It is a space of encounter both with the divine presence and with the hearts of my brothers and sisters, who are welcomed into my heart as into a home. Since then I have been offering to all a kind of invisible hospitality, taking them into the secret spaces of my heart and there holding all that is theirs in love, gratitude, and compassion."
She turns and looks at Eldárien for a moment before continuing, "Something new, however, happened when I met you. It was small at first, only a hint or a spark. Yet when you drew Tilliána and myself from the flames, and when you stepped into her pain and took mine to yourself in the same moment...then I knew. I knew that you occupy this same space. I did not even need to welcome you in: you were already there, living and welcoming. For you live in this chamber of solitude, and you are the first and only person I have ever met who is—how can I express it?—on the 'inside' and not on the 'outside.' And to be honest, that frightens me. For I hardly know you."
"It is something bigger than either of us, Elmáriyë," Eldárien replies after she has fallen back into silence. "For clearly I have had a similar experience, though I grant that I am less attuned to such things than you are. Rather, it is like in meeting you, and in your words to me the day of the fire, a whole new world was opened up to me. Yet I always knew it was there. Indeed, I had been in contact with it even without fully understanding. I had felt it, dwelt within it, and indeed often betrayed it. But it was always within me. And here you dwelt and beckoned me. Seeing you has shown me what is within, and has opened up pathways into the mystery of my own heart and the love to which it is invited."
"Are you not frightened?" she asks, clearly meaning a great deal by such a short question.
"I am," Eldárien says. "I cannot wear armor to protect against a person who lives in the inner chamber of my solitude, as you have named it. For good or ill, I can no longer take anything away from you to be hidden as merely my own. Nor can I go on my way and act as if I do not know you—know you in a knowledge deeper than all words or awareness—forgetting that I have met you and encountered you here."
"Certainly it is for good and not for ill," Elmáriyë says enthusiastically. "It is frightening, yes, but not all the gifts of the gods are immediately comforting, even if they are wellsprings of deep peace and joy that nothing can tear asunder."
"But I fear nonetheless," whispers Eldárien.
"You fear the exposure, the closeness?"
"It is not that, so much as..." he begins, but then he allows his voice to fade.
"What do you fear, Eldárien?" Elmáriyë asks gently, placing a hand on his arm.
"I fear only hurting you," he says.
"I...I can bear being hurt," she says, after a moment's reflection, though her voice is quiet. "Certainly you would not willingly harm me."
"You do not know who I am, Elmáriyë," he says, looking at her intently for a moment before lowering his eyes again.
"I have felt you."
"But that is just a beginning. Even with such an encounter, true knowing comes only with time, with fidelity, with the unfolding of life by a thousand experiences that make up a whole like threads of a single tapestry."
"You speak of fear," Elmáriyë replies, "and yet I find myself incapable of fearing you. Not after what I have seen and what I have felt."
"But if you knew where I came from and the kind of man I was—the kind of man that I still am—you would judge me very differently," he says.
"Then tell me, and I shall judge for myself!"
He raises his eyes and watches the rain fall for a long time in silence, and Elmáriyë does not press him, does not repeat the request. She simply sits with him in silence and waits.
"You are right," Eldárien begins at last. "You are right in speaking to me as you do. I am not the man that I used to be, though much that I was remains with me still. I am neither the same nor wholly different. For I was a man lost, driven by fear more than by any other motive. I became a knight of the Vælírian Empire not primarily through adherence to the Empire but through the fear of my own weakness. I became a knight so that I could prevent any harm befalling those whom I loved, as had happened when I was young. My loss drove me forward; it fueled my actions and my desires, and not wholly for good." He then proceeds to recount for her, in detail, the destruction of Fálstead and the slaughter of his entire village, including his mother, father, and sister.
"The name of your sister...it was Selía?" Elmáriyë asks, when his account has concluded.
"Yes."
"You spoke her name much when you were in the place of darkness."
"I remember speaking it to you when I awoke," Eldárien says.
"That is true, but you also murmured her name in your sleep...if sleep it may be called."
"What else did I say in this state?" he asks.
"Eldárien," she says delicately, "I learned a great deal about you. At times, it was almost like watching your life unfold before my eyes—not by witnessing the events that you witnessed nor going through what you went through, but by hearing your own reactions to these events while, in this state, you relived them. I witnessed your own pains, your own wounds and fears and desires, echo forth from these events. And I so wished that I could be there with you to feel with you what you felt! To be a companion with you in the path of pain that you have walked."
"I wish that you did not have to witness my pain," he answers, "nor do I desire you to participate in it."
"What would you tell me if I said those same words to you?" Elmáriyë asks. "If I told you that I wanted you to have no part in my pain, to leave me alone on my journey of life, what would you say?"
It does not take Eldárien long to answer. "I would tell you that I could wish for nothing else. My love seeks only to participate in everything that belongs to you. And it cannot do otherwise, for only in this way can such love be of service to you."
"You speak of love," she replies, "and I know exactly what you mean. So please allow me to love you. You know that I have been invited to, invited by something bigger than either you or I."
The only response he can offer to this is a gaze of kindness and gratitude and a gentle nod. After this they both fall into silence again and are enveloped in stillness and quietude. The sound of the rain itself serves only to deepen this silence, to create a sense of holding, as if the water that drips from the roof as a thin sheet is a veil encompassing and protecting something both hidden and sacred.
"You are like the sister that I lost," Eldárien says when he finds words arising within him again. "You are a few years her junior, but in looking upon you, it almost feels like she lives again. But no...that is not entirely accurate. For you are not her. You are...you are simply you. There is no other way to express it."
"Why would you need to express it any differently?" she asks.
"I suppose I wouldn't..." he concludes, with a deep breath.
"Will you tell me," Elmáriyë then asks, "about what happened during your time in Tel-Velfána?"
"You have heard much of it already, have you not?" Eldárien asks.
"I heard your pain and fear and regret," she says, "but I know not the source."
"Is it really necessary?"
"I think you know the answer."
"Of course," he says. "I want you to know, and it would be wrong to hide from you the truth the pain of which you already feel."
"Speak as your heart dictates," says Elmáriyë. "Know that I wish to be nothing but safety for you in this place of your greatest sorrow."
"Greatest sorrow?" Eldárien asks, thinking immediately of the destruction of his village. But then he realizes that she is right. The loss of his family and his hometown is sorrow indeed. But the loss of his integrity has wounded him far more deeply. The first is the sorrow of grief and loss, a crucible of pain that is also a place of growth and an impetus for change. Yet the second is like a tear in the very fabric of his life, a wound that he himself inflicted on his own being, and through which darkness creeps in to accuse him in his weakness, to haunt him in his dreams, and to chain him in his aspiration to goodness.
"Eldárien," says Elmáriyë when he does not continue, "I know that you yearn for the light. A recognition of the darkness within you is not a betrayal of this light. It is only a part of standing with the light. Please allow me to be there with you, if for no other reason than that this wound needs to breathe in order to heal."
And so he begins. "Emperor Maríndas IV is a man of many paradoxes. I met him once, after I had already become a knight and yet before my departure to the lands in the east. I acted in my capacity as a knight within Telmérion itself for years, close to a decade, before being sent to Tel-Velfána. And the one who sent us on our way was none other than the emperor himself. He came to congratulate us on the great achievement that we were about to undertake: the conquering of the very lands that had once put a stop to the Empire's expansion two-hundred years earlier. But his speech and his manner were not of virtue and honor; they were of power and glory and the desire for domination. I should have known then that the path before me was not a good one. But I was vowed to fidelity to the Empire and to the commands of the emperor above all else. I told myself at the time that the situation was surely more complex, more nuanced, than I knew. I told myself that I should trust the judgment of my superiors and should not question the wisdom of the commands of the emperor. And while trust is indeed necessary in many things, in obedience included, this does not dispense with listening to the conviction of one's own heart and following the deeper voice that even the highest leader of men has no right to violate.
"Suffice it to say, however, that I departed as commanded. We sailed for many weeks until coming to the coast of Caróch, not far from the city of Elsedór. Tel-Velfána lay before us, a land that we thought was ripe for the taking. We looked forward to a swift victory and a rich gain, receiving all the benefits of joining Tel-Velfána to ourselves in the unity of a single Empire—without realizing that many of us were nothing more than the conquered who had now become conquerors." Eldárien sighs deeply and falls silent for a long moment, lost in thought. When he speaks again, he says, "For if unity is indeed possible within this world, I am certain that it is not achieved by military force, nor even by political rule. It is achieved only by goodness and truth. For the truth is one and undivided. And only in this truth can human hearts, indeed nations themselves, be united in a way that is fitting to this world and to our place within it."
He looks deeply in Elmáriyë's eyes for a moment, as if searching within them for the courage to continue with his account. "We took Elsedór without great effort, for we caught them entirely unawares. It was a slaughter and the first time that I took human life not in defense of the innocent but in service of a political goal. After occupying the city and securing it as our base of operations, many smaller companies were sent into the thick woodlands to the east with the command to take and occupy any and all settlements that we came upon. I went forth, the captain of a company of a hundred men, unsure of what I would do and what I would command my men to do when we happened upon such settlements. But in truth, for years this question remained unresolved because it remained untested. For many villages, hearing of our approach, sent messengers ahead of them to surrender and to plead for peace. Thus bloodshed was averted. For this my heart was relieved, though I grieved that these peaceful people—not unlike the people of my own hometown—had to face such fear and to yield to a foreign Empire simply because of our superior military might.
"And then everything changed. Word had reached the cities to the east, across the mountains, of our invasion. And they marched out in force to meet us. Thus began years of brutal warfare in the forests and hills of Tel-Velfána. The invasion for all intents and purposes was stopped, and we entered a state of survival, a game of cat-and-mouse, with one side being the cat one week and then, the next, being the mouse. It meant terror. It meant sleepless nights. It meant frequent deaths of soldiers on both sides and continual reinforcements supplied from the reserves to replenish this apparently never-ending absurdity of death.
"But these years began to change me. I was changed by what I witnessed, by what I was called upon to do to protect my men, to somehow safeguard their lives so that they could return home to the families whom they loved and who awaited them... I killed many men and ordered many more killed. And I watched as many soldiers whom I cared about were slain, or I found their bodies butchered upon the battlefield. I lost count of how many men I buried in unmarked graves in the woods. The number was great.
"Eventually, the forces of the Empire were able to gain an advantage, and we were commanded to push this advantage to the east, into the mountains, and further, to the great cities at the heart of Tel-Velfána. Part of this command was to show no mercy to any village, even if they asked for peace. Considering the combat in which we had been engaged for so long, no further risks were possible. That is what we were told. The enemy forces would hide among the villagers, and they would catch us when we least expected it. We were to raze to the ground every village that we crossed and to either chase the citizens from their homes or to slaughter them where they stood.
"I do not know if I would have followed through with such a command in the months shortly after our arrival in Tel-Velfána. I truly hope not. But now, after everything that I had witnessed over the previous years, after the pain that I had borne and seen others bear, it was impossible for me to accept these orders. I thus sought to resign from my position as a captain and, with those of my men who were willing, sailed back to Telmérion."
After these words Eldárien falls silent, visibly exhausted. His face betrays immense pain, a pain so deep and so wide that Elmáriyë has never seen its like before. But his expression is also marked by relief and by gratitude. He knows that he has given his greatest sorrow to her, and that, even in her silence—especially in her silence—she has received it. And the effect that her receiving has in the depths of his heart is far different, far deeper, than what he had experienced when he spoke of these matters with the Feskar family or even with Rórlain. It is true that he has spoken far more deeply, and from a deeper place of the heart, than he did then. But this alone does not explain what he feels in this moment. Only the very nature of her presence and the kind of union between them explains the meeting that now occurs within Eldárien's heart between the shame and anguish of his past and the love that marks out for him a future: a future of light and hope.
"Elmáriyë," he says, not expecting a response from her in words, for her eyes, her presence, and her heart have already said enough, said everything that it is possible to say.
"Eldárien," she says in turn, and this mutual pronunciation of names is for both a shared recognition, a sealing of their meeting, and an acknowledgment of the sense that they both bear that each has been entrusted into the care of the other.
Eldárien then draws Elmáriyë into an embrace, and their hearts, apart for so long, are united. At this moment, the rain breaks and the clouds in the west lessen, allowing the rays of the setting sun, radiantly visible in the air, to bathe the city in light and to fill the inner courtyard with their vibrancy and color.